The estate was dark when they arrived.
Franz drove with one hand on the wheel and the other holding hers. His thumb moved absently across her knuckles. Neither of them spoke. The city slid past the windows, streetlights bleeding into the dark, and Arianne let her head rest against the seat and didn't pull away.
The foyer lamp was on low. Aunt Estella had left it on—a small warmth against the dark house. She'd gone to bed hours ago, but she'd known they weren't home yet. She always knew.
Franz shrugged off his coat. The brown one. The one Arianne had picked out that morning. He hadn't changed. His shirt was still the same one she'd buttoned for him, the collar slightly rumpled now, the sleeves pushed up his forearms. He looked like a man who'd been running on adrenaline and was about to crash.
Arianne paused at the foot of the stairs. Looked up toward the east wing. The twins' door was closed. No light underneath.
"Asleep," she said.
