//CLARA//
I called for a footman to help Oliver to the guest room. He was half-asleep, leaning on the servant like a drunkard, muttering something about gears and patents.
"You are going to be fine," I said as they guided him through the door. "Sleep. We will talk in the morning."
He collapsed onto the bed. The footman pulled off his boots and draped a blanket over him. I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him breathe.
"Thank you, Eleanor," he murmured, already half-gone. "For not giving up on me."
"It was the least I could do."
I went down to the library, where the fire had died down to glowing, red embers. I picked up the brandy decanter and drank straight from the crystal, the liquid searing a path down my throat.
One swallow. Two. Three, until it was empty. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, the knots in my chest finally loosening as the liquor hit my bloodstream.
