hours were longer than the eight days of her marriage, longer than the twelve-mile journey to Coldwater, longer than every winter of her childhood.
When Mercer finally emerged, his sleeves were rolled and his face exhausted.
Rosalie stood.
“He’s alive?”
“Yes.”
Her knees nearly gave way.
Mercer smiled.
“And we removed the fragment.”
He placed a small glass vial in her hand.
Inside was a twisted sliver of lead no larger than a grain of rice.
Rosalie stared at it.
Something so tiny.
Something that had shaped twenty-nine years of one man’s life.
“Will he hear?”
Mercer’s smile faded gently.
“I wouldn’t expect miracles.”
Rosalie nodded.
“I don’t need one.”
Gideon woke near midnight.
Rosalie sat beside him.
His head was heavily bandaged.
When he opened his eyes, she smiled.
“You’re here.”
He could not hear her.
She knew that.
She took the notebook.
Before she could write, Gideon lifted
