It was turning out to be a quiet Christmas this year, in more ways than one. He had been glad enough to miss the Potts’ sprawling family affair, whether he had made an enemy of his mother-in-law or not; better not to have been there, and forced to make light of the less-than-wonderful winter he and Daffy had been having. He had wanted to fix it – he had been trying to take more care with her, give her space and comfort where he could – but the damage still felt as though it had been done, the repairs not complete.

And Daff had retreated into herself. His fault, he knew: if he had been more understanding, or given her the benefit of the doubt, actually believed she was happy (with him, in their marriage, with the baby she was carrying), maybe she would be happy by now. The bedrest hadn’t helped anything: even her agreeing so easily to the instructions was unusual. If Daff had been happy, she wouldn’t have been content to hide away from her whole life.

So he hadn’t managed to clear the air between them, and now Elias couldn’t remember what fresh air felt like. He hated this.

His stomach dropped at finding her curled into the armchair – it was no good sign that she was already awake and downstairs before him, and couldn’t sleep, had been afraid to disturb him. “You wouldn’t have,” Elias protested softly as he moved in towards the hearth, nearer to her. She was still being quiet: there wasn’t any need to whisper now, but even their silences felt fragile. He swallowed. He hated it.

“Because of the baby, or –?” Something else. He would be grateful if it had only been some ill-timed kicking keeping her up, and not a restless mind. If it was the latter, then – well, he felt guilty for it, and wished he knew what to do.

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