Chapter Forty-Four
Andrew lay on the couch, wide awake. He threw and caught a snowball above his head.
Tonight, Isla would open the first memory he had written that wasn’t rooted in the present.
Would she think he’d gone barmy—lost the plot, off his trolley, stark raving mad, away with the fairies?
The phrases swarmed his mind, circling restlessly.
In some ways he was glad she was close, here in his apartment.
But in others, he longed to hide. Had he revealed their history too soon?
He’d only given her a few entries before he hit her with the truth.
Would she shrink from it, close herself off, abandon the fragile thread of what was growing between them?
She couldn’t remember their previous lives.
She might not even want forever with him.
He sat up and pushed his glasses into place. The room was dark and cold. A life without Isla would be the same: dark and cold. Her mind, her smile—they lit his world. It was after midnight. Had she read it already?
A door creaked. Andrew snapped his head toward his bedroom.
Isla stood there, barefoot in her dressing gown.
She looked at him in silence, her expression unreadable.
You’d think that after centuries of being married to her, of living beside her year after year, he would know how to read her silence. But he didn’t.
He rose slowly from the couch, careful not to startle her. The snowball splatted on the floor as terror coiled in his chest. Had he ruined everything? Was this the end before they had even begun? He faced her, waiting, but still she said nothing. He couldn’t take not knowing anymore; he had to ask.
“Isla, I...” His voice faltered, fear clamping his throat. “I’m sorry. I never meant to overwhelm you. If you need space, I’ll understand, I—”
She cut him off. “Your words. Your memories. Did you mean them? I can’t believe you want me still after all this time.”
His answer came rough, hoarse. “I am nothing if I don’t have you.”
She ran and flew into his arms before he could draw breath, colliding with such force that he nearly stumbled. Her lips found his, urgent, searching, as though she too remembered the lives they had shared. Tears spilled down his cheeks, and he tasted salt just before she drew back.
“Andrew ...”
He wiped at his face with a trembling hand and cupped her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Isla. I feared you’d read that passage tonight and that my words would drive you away.
” A sob broke loose in his chest. “I remember your last death, Isla. I remember the terror of losing you, the hollow fear I wouldn’t find you again.
I feel it every time we part—and every time, when I do find you, I’m afraid you might not want me in this life.
Your kiss, your touch—I don’t have words for what it means to hold you again, now that you know our history. ”
Her eyes shone. “I don’t remember our past lives the way you do, but when I read that passage, it was as though my soul remembered. Andrew, I love you. I only struggle with accepting being wanted so completely.”
He leaned in, pressing soft, desperate kisses across her cheeks, her temple, her lips. Between each one he whispered, “I will always want you, Isla. You are part of my very being.”
He pulled her closer, his arms wrapping around her. Isla softened against him further still, relaxed as she leaned in. They held one another, breathing the same breath. Both stunned, absorbing what their confessions could mean for their future.
A sudden pounding at the door made them move apart. Andrew opened the door cautiously and Edmund entered, his face taut with agitation.
“They’re coming for Isla tonight,” Edmund said.
Andrew’s stomach dropped. “What? Why? She doesn’t even have the journal anymore.” He moved instantly back to Isla’s side, sliding an arm protectively around her. She couldn’t be in danger now—not when they had just confessed the full reality of their feelings for each other.
“I don’t know if word hasn’t reached them yet about the journal,” Edmund said grimly, “or if they don’t care. It could be they want to eliminate what they think is in her mind or are just plain mad that she didn’t join them.”
“But I haven’t read Ray’s journal.”
“I know that, but they don’t.”
Andrew’s voice sharpened. “How do you know they’re coming?”
A door creaked behind them and Juliette stumbled out, her long hair in disarray. “What’s happening?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep.
“Isla is being targeted again tonight. We have been periodically checking the book in the library. I just found out that a group are after her tonight. Harold has a few men who are willing to help, though he’s struggling to know who to trust. With corruption coming from within, it’s been hard to ferret out who exactly is in the crime ring.
He’s sent them to try to intercept the criminals, but the three of us need to guard her. ”
Juliette straightened at once, her drowsiness gone. “They won’t get her.”
Edmund’s mouth tightened. “They already know she’s here. In your apartment, Andrew. If Harold’s men can’t hold them off, this isn’t the place to sit and wait. And we don’t know how many are coming.”
Isla slipped out of Andrew’s arms, lifting her chin. “I’m going to change. If I’m to face my enemies, I’d rather not do it in a nightdress.”
A flurry of movement broke out as they all rushed to dress and gather what they needed for the cold night ahead. Once ready to leave, Edmund opened the door, his eyes sweeping the hallway.
“Where do you suggest we go?” Juliette asked.
“George,” Edmund said. “He’ll meet us outside the student accommodations and take us through the old service tunnels beneath the east wing—no one uses them anymore.
From there, we can reach the caretaker’s lodge on the far side of the grounds.
It’s off the usual paths, and he knows every hidden entrance. ”
The four of them left Andrew’s suite, moving cautiously toward the stairs. A noise from below made them freeze. Quiet footsteps and the creak of floorboards told them they weren’t alone.
Andrew felt Isla’s hand clutch around his arm.
Edmund ushered their group into an alcove.
The space was tight, the air thick with dust and tension.
Andrew’s shoulders brushed the cold wall behind him, every nerve alert.
He despised waiting—hiding—while possible danger crept closer.
Were the people climbing the staircase friend or foe? Edmund’s stillness offered no answer.
He heard Isla hold her breath as six men slipped quietly past. Thanks to Edmund’s broad frame, Andrew couldn’t see much—just the flicker of movement and the soft rasp of boots on the floorboards.
“They’re wearing masks,” Juliette whispered.
That answered one question—they weren’t allies.
When the footsteps faded down the corridor, Edmund motioned for them to move.
Andrew’s pulse thundered in his chest as they eased out of hiding.
Every creak of the old building felt deafening; even their breathing seemed too loud.
They crept toward the staircase, each step a careful dance to avoid betraying their position.
Just as they reached the top step, Edmund’s boot found a treacherous floorboard. The long groaning creak might as well have been a siren.
“She’s there!” a voice shouted.
Andrew spun at the shout to see the masked men turning back toward them, setting off at a run in unison.
Before Andrew could react, Mrs. Harris’s door flew open.
The elderly caretaker—wearing her dressing gown and slippers—thrust out a wrinkled hand.
A sheet of ice shot across the hallway, slick and glittering, forming an impromptu tripwire.
Two of the masked men went sprawling with a crash that rattled the windows.
The remaining four stumbled to leap over their fallen companions.
“Go!” Mrs. Harris barked, already retreating behind her door. “I’ll be fine!” He saw that her door was already sealed shut with ice.
Bless the woman—half busybody, half guardian angel. Who’d have thought she had such reflexes? Thanks to her, they had a head start.
And then they ran.