(Ruby's POV)
The morning after the oak tree, I woke to an empty bed.
The sheets were cold on Nicholas's side. He had been up for a while. I could hear his voice from downstairs, low and steady, talking on the phone.
I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. The plaster was cracked, stained from the fire. The workers would fix it eventually. Everything would be fixed eventually.
I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold under my bare feet. I pulled on my robe and walked to the window.
The garden was a mess. Mud and debris and broken branches. But the shoots were still there, green and determined. The sun was up, burning through the mist.
I found Nicholas in the study. He was sitting at his desk, the phone cradled against his ear. He looked up when I entered, and a small smile crossed his face.
"Yes," he said into the phone. "Tomorrow morning. Thank you."
He hung up.
"The architect?" I asked.
