With her hands darting away to clasp at her mouth, he now rests both of his on her knees, palms flat against bone and heavy fabric. It is sometimes so awful to have his heart marching around outside his chest, but he loves her even (especially) like this: brittle around the edges, still teary, something of a mess, but still persevering.

“If I ever need to terrify anyone whatsoever into doing anything, I know exactly who to call.” Stephen reaches up and swipes at Gwenaëlle’s cheek with one thumb, gently brushing away another of those errant tears. Their spark of humour is rueful, bittersweet for the immediate context, but:

“Maybe I’ll sic you on the Head Archivist. I tried the dementia angle and it hasn’t been working.”