His hands trembled. Before, I would have mistaken it for worry. Now I recognized it for what it was: the kind of trembling that came from barely contained excitement.
"Don't overthink it. You're just exhausted."
He helped me to the couch, then went to the kitchen to make soup.
But the imported squab I usually ate had been swapped out for cheap chicken, and the smell that drifted out was rank and greasy.
He stopped trying.
That evening, Clement didn't bother warming my milk. He just stood there, irritation written across his face.
"I've been working all day. You can't heat it yourself?"
Before I could say a word, he disappeared into the basement. Seconds later, that familiar sweet, coppery smell drifted up through the floorboards.
I didn't lose my temper. I stuck to the plan and kept acting.
By the next morning, I was too weak to get out of bed.
That afternoon, Clement didn't even come into the bedroom. I could hear him pacing the hallway, making call after call, his voice bright with barely contained excitement as he schemed.
I didn't ask a single question. I just watched the gleam of his new watch catch the light and let myself smile.