4134.318 · November 14, 1814 AD
Every Sunday
She comes back four days later. The counting room at Warehouse Three becomes their sanctuary—ledgers open between them like props in a theatre whose script they're writing as they perform it. She teaches him the mechanics of colonial trade. He tells her the truth about Portsmouth, about Jack Hawley, about the theft he didn't commit. Somewhere between the manifests and the margins, something dangerous takes root. Something that could destroy them both.
There is a place in the Domain where the eucalyptus creates a natural shelter, where a fallen tree lies like a grey serpent across a clearing, where the harbour glitters through gaps in the branches. She tells him about it in the counting room, her voice lower than usual, her eyes fixed on the ledger between them as though the words are easier without meeting his gaze.
Sunday afternoon. Follow the path from the eastern gate.
William knows what she's risking. A merchant's daughter meeting secretly with a convict—it could ruin her. Destroy her prospects. Close every door that birth and breeding have opened. He should refuse. Should protect her from consequences she seems unwilling to consider.
Instead, he goes.
Hours disappear in that clearing. They talk of Portsmouth and Sydney, of fathers who shaped them and losses that broke them, of a colony where a man might become what his abilities merit rather than what his birth dictates. The light turns gold. The birds change their songs. And when their lips finally meet, it feels less like a beginning than a recognition—two people who have been walking toward each other across impossible distances, finally arriving.
Every Sunday, he promises. For as long as you'll have me.
