Addie pulls him away from the edge. “What’s wrong?” His eyes are dark, and for a moment, he looks haunted, lost. “Nothing,” he says softly. “Just thinking.” Addie has lived long enough to recognize a lie. Lying is its own language, like the language of seasons, or gestures, or the shade of Luc’s eyes. So she knows that Henry is lying to her now. Or at least, he’s not telling her the truth. And maybe it is just one of his storms, she thinks. Maybe it is the summer heat. It is not, of course, and later, she will know the truth, and she will wish she’d asked, wish she’d pressed, wish she’d known.
