The days that followed were a slow, sweet unraveling of every fear Olive had carried into Balkwill Manor. The initial shock of safety had softened into a quiet, persistent wonder. She woke each morning not to the sound of her father's demanding bark or the oppressive silence of a sickroom, but to the distant clatter of the household coming to life, and more often than not, to the solid, warm presence of Amos beside her.

He had kept his word. He did not impose. But he was there. Every night, he would wait until she was settled in bed before sliding in beside her. Sometimes he would turn away, giving her the privacy of his back. Other times, he would turn toward her, his arm finding its familiar, loose drape over her waist, his breath a soft, steady rhythm against her neck. And Olive, to her own astonishment, had begun to sleep. Truly sleep. The rigid coil of dread that had been her constant companion for years was slowly, gently being unwound.