"How are you here?" His voice is quiet and close; snow lands on the sleeve between us.
"I live here," I say. My breath steams. My gloves are damp where I press my hand against the railing. He tilts his head, watching me with eyes that used to be impossible to read.
"You shouldn't be here," he answers. He unwraps his cloak slowly, hands careful. His palms are colder than the wind.
"I shouldn't?" I laugh once, sharp. "You left me alone for years and now you tell me where I belong."
He doesn't move to cover me. He folds the cloak over his arm like an object that might catch scent. "There are rules," he says. "The household cannot be known to grieve in public. Your family—"
"Save your rules." I cut him. Snowflakes hit my lashes. "Did the doctor tell you I would die?"
He looks away for the first time. The line of his jaw tightens. "The physician said the prognosis is grave. He used other words."
I know the words. I heard them earlier in a voice that wasn't mine, in a body that isn't mine but sits under my ribs. The doctor had been blunt then, the sort of blunt that clears a room.
"How long?" I ask.
"Short," he says. He says it like it is a ledger entry. He lets the word hang.
"You mean days," I say. "Weeks at most."
He meets my eyes again. "He did
