Run: 2026-09-23-01M37HMGE1N4S25JAAW4BB6M7A

Aurora opened the door on its chain. Lucien Moreau stood on Eva’s landing with Ptolemy tucked under one arm and his ivory-handled cane hooked over the other. A streak of plaster dust crossed the lapel of his charcoal suit. The cat looked pleased with himself. For a moment, neither of them moved. “Your prisoner?” Aurora asked. “He made it as far as the curry house.” “He hates the curry house.” “He appeared to hate being retrieved from its kitchen more.” Ptolemy stretched one paw towards her. Aurora slid the chain free and took him, pressing her nose into the fur between his ears before she could stop herself. He smelled of cumin and rain. “How did you know he was missing?” “I didn’t. I came to see Eva.” Lucien’s gaze passed over her shoulder, taking in the books stacked along the skirting board and the saucepan beneath the dripping window. “Is she here?” “Bristol. Until Thursday.” “Then I’ve wasted a journey.” “You’ve returned a cat.” “A more distinguished purpose.” He glanced down at his lapel. “One with claws.” Aurora held the door open a fraction wider. The third deadbolt caught against its frame as she moved, its metal tongue stiff since she’d arrived. Beyond Lucien, rain darkened the narrow stairwell. He made no move to come in. She had last seen him six weeks ago outside Silas’ bar. He had kissed her under the broken light above the back entrance, one hand against her cheek, the other braced on the brick beside her head. Then she had asked if he wanted to come upstairs. He had stepped away and told her wanting had nothing to do with it. Ptolemy wriggled. Aurora tightened her hold. “You’ve got blood on your hand.” Lucien looked at the thin red line across his knuckle. “Ptolemy objected to the stairs.” “That’s not yours.” A drop marked the cat’s back paw. “Come in. Eva’s got antiseptic somewhere.” Lucien entered, careful to leave his cane against the wall rather than among the scrolls piled beside it. Aurora shut the door with her heel and turned the three deadbolts. He watched her hands as she worked the stiff one home. “Still sticking?” “Only when someone’s looking.” She carried Ptolemy to the kitchen counter. The flat left barely enough room for Lucien to stand clear of the table; books occupied two chairs, a roll of notes the third. He shifted a stack of dictionaries onto the floor without being asked. “Don’t let him jump.” “I’ve faced worse opponents.” “None who could fit behind the fridge.” Aurora settled Ptolemy on a folded tea towel. Lucien planted a hand beside the cat’s chest while she inspected the paw. A shallow cut ran across one pad, no longer than a grain of rice. Ptolemy complained and shoved his face beneath Lucien’s wrist. “There’s grit in it.” She opened Eva’s kitchen cupboard, then another. “She keeps the first-aid kit in a biscuit tin. Unless she’s started keeping biscuits in it.” “The green tin?” “You’ve been here recently?” “Last month. Eva needed a page translated.” Aurora found the tin beneath a tower of mugs. Lucien had visited while she was still refusing to answer his calls. She hadn’t known. She set the tin on the counter and eased out a bottle of saline. “She never mentioned it.” “I asked her not to.” Aurora stopped with the cap halfway off. “You asked Eva to keep a secret from me?” “I asked her not to pass messages between us. I had no right to put her in that position.” “And you had a right to decide I wouldn’t want to know you were here?” “No.” Lucien kept his eyes on Ptolemy. “I didn’t.” She wanted to pursue that, but the cat’s paw trembled in her hand. She washed the cut while Lucien held him. Ptolemy sank his teeth into Lucien’s cuff, drew the fabric taut, and let it go once Aurora finished. “He’s fine,” she told the cat. “You can stop torturing him.” Ptolemy sprang from the counter. He landed on a sheet of Eva’s notes and carried it to the floor under one paw. Lucien examined his cuff. “He disagrees.” Aurora reached for the sheet. Lucien bent at the same time, and their heads almost touched. He drew back first. She collected the note and smoothed it on the table, though the paper had no crease. “Why did you go?” she asked. Lucien’s expression changed. “From the bar?” “You can pick one of the six weeks after it, if you prefer.” He straightened. In the cramped kitchen, the distance he put between them amounted to half a step. “I thought staying would make things worse.” “You didn’t stay long enough to find out.” “I know.” “No, you don’t.” Aurora folded the tea towel around the damp corner Ptolemy had left on it. “You kissed me. I asked you upstairs. You looked at me as if I’d asked you to hand over your cane and then you told me wanting didn’t matter. I went up alone and spent the night wondering what I’d missed.” Lucien’s jaw tightened. “You missed nothing.” “Then explain it.” From the curry house below came the rattle of crockery and a burst of laughter. Lucien rested his fingertips on the back of the empty chair. “I wanted to come upstairs.” “That much I worked out.” “I also knew I would leave before morning. I had a train to catch. I’d promised someone I’d be in Calais.” “A train.” Aurora stared at him. “You could have told me about a train.” “I could have. I should have.” He rubbed the scratch on his knuckle with his thumb. “I heard myself refusing you and thought I could make it sound kinder than ‘I have to leave at five.’ It came out as if you’d asked too much.” “You made me feel like you’d given me something by kissing me, then regretted it.” “I regretted what I said. I don’t regret kissing you.” Ptolemy leapt onto the table and pushed his face into Lucien’s hand. Lucien scratched beneath the cat’s chin, his gaze still on Aurora. “Why didn’t you call when you got back?” she asked. “I did.” “Once. You rang once.” “Yes.” He gave Ptolemy’s chin another scratch. “You didn’t answer. After that, I told myself I ought to leave you alone.” “That’s convenient.” “It was cowardly.” Aurora leaned against the counter. He didn’t soften the admission or offer her the train as an excuse. Rain tapped at the window. Ptolemy stepped onto an open book, leaving a faint pink print on its margin. “Off.” She lifted him down. “Eva’s going to ask why there’s blood on her notes.” “I’ll take the blame.” “You took the scratches. She’ll believe you.” Lucien’s mouth moved, close to a smile. Aurora remembered it against hers, and gripped the edge of the counter. She had wanted him out of Eva’s flat a minute ago. Now she wanted him to cross the narrow stretch of lino, which annoyed her more. “I was angry,” she told him. “Not because you left that night. Because you let me guess why.” “I know that now.” “You can ask me what I want instead of deciding it for me.” “I can.” His hand fell away from the chair. “What do you want, Aurora?” She glanced at the door. His cane stood beside it, rainwater gathering beneath its tip. He followed her glance but stayed where he was. “I want you to come here.” He crossed the kitchen. Aurora put a hand against his lapel, stopping him with the plaster dust still between them. Close up, she could see a loose thread where Ptolemy had caught his cuff. “I’m still angry.” “You can be.” “You don’t get another six weeks of silence because this is difficult.” “No.” She studied his face. His amber eye caught the kitchen light; the black one gave nothing back. Neither looked away. Aurora drew him down by his lapel and kissed him. He kept his hands at his sides until she caught one and placed it at her waist. His fingers closed against her jumper, warm through the wool. Ptolemy yowled beside the fridge. Aurora broke the kiss and looked past Lucien. The cat sat by his empty bowl, wounded paw lifted clear of the floor. “He wants his supper.” Lucien glanced at the bowl. “Should I be offended?” “Not yet.” Aurora took the tin opener from the drawer and passed him a can of cat food. “You can make yourself useful.”