I smiled. The promise of the observatory and a few stolen moments with Halstead enticed me upward, and I did not let myself stop again until I’d reached the top. The door creaked open under my touch. I’d expected to see a candle or a lantern, but the room was pitch-black.
“Halstead?” I whispered into the darkness.
“I’m here, Juliet.”
My eyes adjusted, and now I could see him standing at the large open window.
“I know it’s dark, but any light interferes with the stars’ visibility.” He patted the large cylindrical object next to him. “I’ll let you look through the telescope in a minute, but first, just come to the window.”
I crossed the room in a handful of steps and rested my hand on the stone that encased the window. My shoulder brushed against Halstead’s chest, and I battled to keep my breathing even. The view, even without the telescope, was breathtaking.
From this high up the view of the ocean was even more impressive than the view from the fourth floor—completely unobstructed—its surface like a mirror of black glass. The horizon was a deep purple, fading into a bluish black that drew my gaze up to the heavens. The ballroom had been charming, elegant; this was mesmerizing. Stars littered the evening sky, their brightness putting the chandeliers downstairs to shame.
“I feel so small up here,” I said quietly.
“I’d forgotten.” Halstead stood close to me, his voice low and warm in my ear. His breath wafted a curl against my neck. “Sometimes it is nice to be reminded how insignificant we are.”
Gazing upward, I knew exactly what he meant. But I merely nodded, unable to find my voice. No wonder my father loved the stars. There’d always been a bit of reverence in his voice whenever he’d spoken of them. To see this, night after night . . . No wonder he loved the sea.
I let the moment settle over me like the warmth of a blanket. For the first time in almost two weeks, my mind and my heart weren’t battling. I ignored the uncertainty of the future and what lay in store. I breathed out in a steady rhythm, at peace.
Gratitude for the man at my side welled up, spilling out in words. “Thank you, Halstead. For the music”—I gestured to the magnificence spread out above us—“for this.”
Though I didn’t turn, I could feel his gaze on me. “I wished only to please you.”
“I—I am. Pleased.” I was so much more, but I could not voice it. A minute of silence stretched between us before I spoke again. “My father used to tell me all sorts of stories about stars, which is why I love them so much. But my favorite was the one he told about my mother. He used to point to the Northern Star and tell me it was called the Sarah Star. ‘It’s the one star ye can always see, Juliet girl. And wherever I am on the sea, the Sarah Star is always there to guide me,’ he said.”
For the first time, I understood my parents’ love. What it meant to find someone who could anchor them in a world as vast as the night sky. Even if it came at a cost.
Halstead brushed away a tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Your father was a lucky man.”
I nodded. “He was.”
“Would you like to look through the telescope?”
“Please.”
He placed a hand on my elbow, his warmth seeping through my long glove. He guided me back toward the telescope and took a moment to adjust its height. “There; I think I have it. You may need to take off your gloves in order to adjust the focus.”
With a few quick tugs, I removed my gloves and laid them on the chair to the left of the telescope. I bent my knees and tried to position myself in a way in which my balance would remain steady as I put my eye to the lens.
Halstead’s nearness set my skin to tingling, as if each of my nerves was infinitely aware of his proximity. “Now, close your other eye,” he instructed.
I obeyed, and the most spectacular view was spread before me. The stars were no longer distant specks but bright beacons. It seemed that if I reached out, they would be close enough to touch. “Ohh,” I breathed.
Halstead let me take in the wonder of it for a few moments before he spoke. “Do you remember the Titan Atlas, from Greek mythology?”
I gave the slightest nod, unwilling to lose even a second of the vision I enjoyed.
Halstead walked back to the window. “The Greeks saw the heavens as one great dome. They imagined the stars were attached to the dome and that it spun upon Atlas’s shoulders, which caused the stars to rise and set.”
As I gazed at the stars, I imagined the dome slowly spinning, held up under the strength of Atlas. But the weight of it. “How does he bear it, do you think?”
I hadn’t even realized I’d spoken aloud until Halstead made a sound of consideration. When he spoke, his words were strained. “It is simple. He has no other choice.”
Straightening my back, I loosened my hold on the telescope and joined Halstead at the window. “But we are not bound as he is,” I said softly. In the distance the dark lines of the sea touched the bottom of the sky. Seeing where the two met, the unruly, tempestuous sea and the brilliance of the heavens, I could almost see a future I’d not thought possible.
The ballroom seemed a distant memory. Here, title and wealth and a thousand other things faded away, unimportant. Insignificant. “We may choose what we want.” I reached out, guided by instinct. My touch tentative, I traced the side
