Eleanor threaded and twisted her fingerless-gloved hands, worrying her way to an answer. Dickens followed her gaze outside, where some small change in the weather had split a seam in the fog. The clock tower where they’d first met peeped over steep roofs in a navy-blue night, as if saying hello. It seemed to hold up the bright winter moon all by itself. And she seemed to find in it the thing she wanted to say.
