At two o'clock precisely, Kaima stood outside the library door, her notebook clutched to her chest like a shield. She took a steadying breath, mentally shifting into her professional role. She was a therapist. He was a client. A compelling, tragically handsome client, but a client nonetheless.
She knocked.
"Enter." The voice from within was just as she remembered, that low, resonant baritone.
She pushed the door open and stopped on the threshold. The room had been transformed since last night. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn completely shut, blocking out any hint of the afternoon sun. The room was illuminated instead by several lamps and the crackling fire in the hearth, casting the vast space into a pool of intimate, golden light amidst deep shadows. It felt like a world apart from the rest of the house, a perpetual, cozy twilight.
Damien was already seated in one of the armchairs. He rose as she entered, a gesture of old-world courtesy. He was dressed similarly to the previous evening, in dark, fine clothes that seemed to absorb the light around him.
"Miss Bernard. Thank you for coming." He gestured to the chair opposite his. "Please, make yourself comfortable."
Kaima sat, crossing her legs and placing her notebook on her knee. She glanced around the shrouded windows. "It's rather dark in here," she observed, keeping her tone light and professional. "Not a fan of daylight, Mr Tewksbury?"
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "I find the sun… overstimulating for these matters. The darkness is more conducive to introspection, don't you think? It allows one to speak more freely, without the judgement of the full light of day."
It was a vague, poetic answer, but not an unreasonable one. Some clients did prefer a dim, non-confrontational environment.
"I suppose that's true," she conceded. "Though a little natural light can be helpful. It reminds us of the world outside our… introspection."
He studied her for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then, to her surprise, he nodded. "Of course. Your comfort is paramount." He stood smoothly and walked to the nearest window. With a single, fluid motion, he drew back one heavy curtain just a few inches.
A single, brilliant shaft of afternoon sunlight lanced into the room, cutting through the motes of dust dancing in the air. It fell directly across Damien's arm and side as he stood there. Kaima watched, inexplicably holding her breath. He simply turned and walked back to his chair, settling into it as the sunlight pooled on the carpet behind him, failing to touch him.
"Is that better?" he asked, his voice gentle.
"Yes. Thank you," Kaima said. She opened her notebook. "Shall we begin?"
The session that followed was a masterclass in deflection. Kaima started with the most pressing question on her mind.
"Mr Tewksbury, your contract is for one week. Grief of the magnitude you've described… it's not something that can be unpacked and processed in such a short time. May I ask why such a brief period?"
He steepled his fingers, his gaze fixed on her. "I am a man who knows his own mind, Miss Bernard. A week is a sufficient amount of time to determine if a… connection is possible. To see if you are the right fit. If it is, then of course, we can discuss a more permanent arrangement. I am more than able to visit your offices in London weekly. Or monthly. It rather depends on how broken you find me to be." He said it with a slight, self-deprecating smile that was utterly disarming.
It was a diplomatic and meticulous answer. It put the onus on her performance, made the continuation of their work contingent on her skill. It was clever. It also neatly avoided giving a real reason.
She steered the conversation towards his wife, as he had said this was the core of his grief.
"Can you tell me about her? What was she like?"
A shadow of genuine pain passed over his features, so raw that Kaima felt a pang of sympathy. "She was… light itself," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Where there was darkness, she brought warmth. She was fearless in her compassion." His words were beautiful, but they were a eulogy. They gave no concrete detail, no name, no shared memory, no specific habit or anecdote.
"How did you meet?" Kaima asked softly.
"In a garden," he said, his eyes becoming distant, looking at something she couldn't see. "It feels like a lifetime ago. Several lifetimes." He shook his head slightly, as if clearing it. "I am sorry. These memories are… difficult to give voice to. They remain too precious, too sharp."
He answered every question she asked, but his answers were like smoke, beautiful to look at, but impossible to grasp. He spoke of loss in grand, timeless terms, of a void that had consumed him, of years that felt like moments and moments that felt like eternities. He was eloquent, tragic, and deeply mysterious.
And throughout it all, he would occasionally turn the conversation back to her. A gentle, seemingly innocent question. "And you, Miss Bernard? Does your family remain in Nigeria?" or "It must take great strength to build a new life in a foreign city alone."
By the end of the hour, Kaima felt she had learned very little about the specifics of his grief, but she was more mesmerised by him than ever. His pain felt palpable, his loneliness profound. And the subtle, flattering attention he paid to her life made her feel seen in a way she hadn't expected.
When the session concluded, he saw her to the door. "Thank you, Miss Bernard. I find our talk… curiously uplifting. I look forward to tomorrow."
"As do I, Mr Tewksbury," she said, and she realised she meant it.
Walking back to her room, her head was spinning. He was a puzzle, a beautiful, sad enigma wrapped in twilight and guarded by a elderly butler and a houseful of silent maids. The professional in her knew he was holding back vast reservoirs of information. The woman in her was desperately eager to learn what they were.