"I know," Isabelle whispered, her voice cracking for the briefest second before regaining its iron composure. "That is why I didn't tell you. Because you would have come out of obligation, Gabriel. You would have come out of fear. And I didn't want a husband who stayed because of a crisis. I wanted the man who promised me, fifteen years ago, that I would always be his first choice on an ordinary Tuesday."
She stepped back, leaving the door open, allowing me to see into her world. The loft was simple, bathed in warm light, lined with rolls of raw linen and uncarded wool. On her worktable lay a single garment—a dress made of rough, un-dyed silk, structural and breathtaking in its simplicity. It was better than anything I had produced in five years.
"Why are you here today?" she asked, turning her back to me to pick up a pair of iron shears.
