Arthur Pendelton read it for the dozenth time, his sherry going warm and untouched. The code was one he and Eliza had devised as children— WillTile meant “Willing to elope,” the numbers a date and time, the XX a promise: no other lady, ever. But Eliza Rae had married Lord Ashworth three winters ago.

Eliza stepped inside, still wearing a traveler’s dust cloak. Her eyes were the same storm-grey he remembered. “You came,” she whispered.

Outside, the January wind howled. And Arthur poured two glasses of sherry, knowing that for the first time in twenty-two years, the promise would not be broken.

A soft rap came at his study door. His housekeeper peered in. “A person to see you, sir. Says her name is Mrs. Ashworth.”