The second session was harder.

The sky was overcast. The wind bit through their coats.

The garden felt less like a sanctuary and more like a courtroom.

Seraphina was pacing.

"I can't do this," she said. She was wringing her hands. "The hearing is in two days. I should be reviewing the property deeds."

"Damien has the deeds," Marcus said. He was leaning against a tree.

He looked relaxed. It was a calculated pose.

"We need to talk about the guilt."

"I don't have guilt," Seraphina lied. "I have grief."

"You have guilt," Marcus corrected. "You have a mountain of it."

He stepped into her path. She stopped pacing.

"You feel guilty because you survived," Marcus said.

"He was a soldier," she deflected. "It was war. I accept the risks."

"You feel guilty because your career took off after he died," Marcus pressed.

Seraphina flinched. "That's not fair. I worked hard."

"And you feel guilty," Marcus said, lowering his voice, "because you like me."

Seraphina went pale. She took a step back.

"That has nothing to do with—"

"It has everything to do with it," Marcus interrupted. "That's why the lawsuit hurts. Because they're pointing at me and saying, 'See? She's a traitor.'"

Seraphina turned away. She wrapped her arms around herself.

"It feels like cheating," she whispered.

"Richard has been dead for three years," Marcus said.

"It doesn't matter!" she shouted. She spun around. Her eyes were blazing.

"He died defending the border. He died alone in the mud. And I'm here? Drinking coffee? Flirting?"

She struck her chest with a fist.

"How is that fair? How can I be happy when he's nothing but bones?"

Marcus didn't flinch from her anger. He absorbed it.

"Did Richard love you?" Marcus asked.

"More than anything."

"Did he want you to be happy?"

"Of course he did."

"When?" Marcus asked.

Seraphina paused. "What?"

"When did he want you to be happy? Only when he was there to see it?"

"No," she said. "He wasn't selfish."

"So he wanted you to be happy," Marcus said. "But now that he's dead, you think his wishes changed?"

Seraphina opened her mouth. No words came out.

"Do you think," Marcus continued, "that from the afterlife, Richard is looking down and saying, 'No, Phina. Be miserable. Cry forever. Wear black until you die. That's what I want.'"

"No," she whispered. "He wouldn't say that."

"Then who is saying it?" Marcus asked.

Seraphina stared at him. Her breathing was ragged.

"Who is telling you to be miserable, Seraphina?"

She trembled.

"I am," she said.

The confession hung in the cold air.

"Why?" Marcus asked gently.

"Because if I'm miserable," she said, her voice breaking, "it proves I loved him. The pain is the proof."

Marcus walked over to her. He didn't touch her. He just stood close enough to offer warmth.

"The pain isn't the proof," Marcus said. "The memory is the proof. The person you became because of him... that is the proof."

Seraphina looked up at him. Her eyes were swimming.

"I don't know how to let it go," she said. "The pain is all I have left of him."

"That's not true," Marcus said. "You have the maps. You have the pirate voices. You have the burned eggs."

He sighed.

"Pain fades, Seraphina. It's supposed to. That's how we survive. Letting the pain fade doesn't mean letting the love fade."

She wiped her face with her sleeve. It was an ungraceful, childlike gesture.

"I'm scared," she admitted. "If I stop hurting... what happens?"

"You start living," Marcus said.

"And that," he added, "is exactly what Richard fought for. He didn't die so you could build a shrine. He died so you could have a life."

Seraphina looked at the gray sky.

"He hated shrines," she murmured. "He said they were dusty."

"Smart man," Marcus said.

Seraphina took a deep breath. The air rattled in her lungs.

"I think," she said slowly, "I think I've been very stupid."

"Not stupid," Marcus said. "Just human."

He checked the sky. It was getting dark.

"One more session," Marcus said. "Tomorrow night. Before the trial."

"Marcus?" she asked as he turned to leave.

"Yes?"

"Thank you for not being nice," she said.

Marcus smiled. "I'm not nice. I'm a professional."

✧✧✧

The third night was clear. The stars were out.

Seraphina was sitting on the bench when Marcus arrived.

She looked different.

She was wearing a dress he hadn't seen before. It was dark blue, not black. Her hair was pulled back, but a few strands were loose.

She wasn't pacing. She wasn't wringing her hands.

She was just sitting.

"You look ready," Marcus observed.

"I think I am," Seraphina said. Her voice was calm.

"I remembered something," she said. "Something from the end."

Marcus sat down. "Tell me."

"It was at the hospital tent," she said. "Before he deployed for the last time. He had a fever from a minor infection. He was talking nonsense mostly."

She looked at the stars.

"But then he grabbed my hand. He looked clear. Lucid."

She paused.

"He said, 'Phina, don't become a memorial. Memorials are for pigeons to crap on.'"

Marcus laughed. He couldn't help it.

Seraphina laughed too. It was a genuine sound.

"I dismissed it," she said. "I thought it was the fever. Or just Richard being Richard."

"But?"

"But he meant it," she said. "He knew. He knew I would try to turn myself into a statue."

She looked at Marcus. Her eyes were clear and steady.

"I have been treating my life like a graveyard," she said. "I thought I was being a good wife. But I was just being a coward."

"And now?" Marcus asked.

"Now," Seraphina said, "I realized something. Honoring him doesn't mean dying with him."

She stood up. She walked to a bed of white roses. She touched a petal.

"It means living fully enough for both of us," she said.

She turned back to Marcus.

"I'm going to keep the house," she said fiercely. "Not because I want to preserve it in amber. But because it's my home. And I'm going to fill it with new things."

"New books?" Marcus asked.

"New books," she agreed. "New maps. Maybe even decent cooking."

She walked back to him. She stood right in front of him.

"And," she said, looking him directly in the eyes, "I'm going to allow myself to care about people. Living people."

Marcus felt his heart do a complicated flip.

He knew she meant him.

He also knew he should deflect. He should mention Theo. He should mention the plan.

But looking at her face—so brave, so open, so healed—he couldn't do it.

"That sounds like a good plan," Marcus said simply.

Seraphina smiled. It wasn't the polite smile of the professor. It wasn't the sad smile of the widow.

It was Seraphina.

"I'm ready for court," she said.

"You have your legal precedents?" Marcus asked.

"Damien sent over a stack of them," she said. "They're very thorough. Apparently, the 'Widow of Eastgate' case from 1402 is quite relevant."

"Good."

"But I don't think I'll need them," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because," Seraphina said, "I'm not going to argue the law. I'm going to argue the truth."

She smoothed her dress.

"They want to shame me," she said. "They want me to apologize for surviving. I'm done apologizing."

She offered her hand to Marcus.

"Walk me back?" she asked.

Marcus took her hand. It was warm. Her grip was strong.

"It would be my honor," he said.

They walked out of the garden together.

Marcus looked at her profile in the moonlight. She looked formidable. She looked beautiful.

He thought about his original plan. Operation Redirect 2.0. The harem plot.

He thought about Theo, who was probably asleep hugging a sword.

And he realized something terrifying.

He wasn't just fixing Seraphina so she could be a plot point.

He was fixing her because he couldn't stand to see her in pain.

He squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.

I am in so much trouble, Marcus thought.

But as they walked toward the lights of the dormitories, he didn't let go.

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