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said as he finished his tea, giving his head a baffled shake. “That’s something I didn’t think I’d ever have to consider again. Can’t we just put the kid in a drawer?”
    I took his empty mug from him and said, “Why don’t I get you some aspirin. Your hangover looks like it’s going to linger.”
    “Thanks, babe. I’ll just nip out for a smoke.”
    I went to the sink and left his mug there. Then I fished in the cupboard for a pint glass, and as I was filling it with water, I looked up and caught sight of him outside in the garden. He was drawing deeply on his cigarette; then he breathed out a plume of smoke into the cold morning air. And what he did next was this: He took the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it on the snow. He stood perfectly still with his head bent, as if staring at the butt on the ground. Then he closed his eyes and brought both hands up to cover his face. His bent neck, the slump of his shoulders, his face hiding in those cupped hands. Something about it made me go cold. It was a gesture of despair.
    *   *   *
    “Freezing out there.”
    He closed the back door behind him and stood there shivering.
    I found the packets in the cupboard. The tablets plinked as they hit the water, and I handed him the glass and he swallowed down the contents with a groan, as though the effort had drained him of any last scrap of energy.
    I put my hand against his brow and felt the heat there despite the enveloping cold. Then I leaned in and wrapped my arms around him, pressing my body against his, needing to feel close to him to dispel the despair that still clung to him.
    “I know something that’s good for a hangover,” I said slowly, and when I drew back, he met my smile with a broad grin of his own.
    “Oh yeah?”
    “Yeah.” I reached up and kissed him then, slowly, savoring the taste of him, sour with alcohol and cigarettes, but I didn’t care. My desire for him licked like a flame inside me.
    And so it was not until later, when we lay against each other in our bed, naked and exhausted, a quiet contentment falling over us like a happy sigh, that I remembered our phone call of the previous day.
    “Harry?” I said, watching the strand of my hair that he was idly spiraling around his finger.
    “Hmm?”
    “You never did tell me.”
    “Tell you what?”
    “Yesterday, on the phone, you said something had happened.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Remember? When you rang to ask me to come and meet you? You said something had happened. But you never said what it was.”
    “Didn’t I?”
    “No.”
    “I thought I did.”
    “So?”
    He stopped playing with my hair and rubbed a finger in his eye, frown lines puckering his brow.
    “I bumped into someone.”
    “Who?”
    “Eh, Tanya—that girl from the Sitric Gallery. The one with all the freckles. Do you remember her?”
    “Vaguely. And?”
    “And we got talking and I told her about the stuff I’ve been working on…”
    “And—?”
    “And she sounded interested.”
    I pushed myself up onto my elbows to look at him.
    “Do you think they might give you a show?”
    He saw my eager expression and let out a burst of laughter.
    “Look at you, counting your unhatched chickens.”
    “Seriously, Harry. Do you think they might?”
    His laughter died away, and he gave me a slow, hazy smile.
    “They might. They just might.”
    Then he pulled me back down to him and we lay in silence for a minute, both of us considering the possibilities.
    “Harry?”
    “Go to sleep, baby.”
    I felt the weight of his arm slung over my hip and the tickle of his rough chin nestling into my neck.
    “We’re so lucky, Harry.”
    His body lay cupped around mine, so I couldn’t read his expression.
    “Yes,” he said slowly, before drifting away to sleep. “Yes, we are.”

 
    CHAPTER FIVE
    HARRY
    The first time we met Cozimo, he had been knocked over by a passing bicycle on one of the narrow alleys of the medina. His straw hat lay beside his outstretched