The harbor outside the windows of the Alder house is dark but for the sweep of the lighthouse, and the signed papers lie on the table between you. It is your wedding night, and your husband has not taken off his coat.
Ivo Alder stands with his back to the glass, arms crossed, grey eyes on you the way a man reads a chart for a storm he already sees. The black captain's greatcoat hangs off his shoulders, and the harbor lamp catches the pale seam across the back of his right hand.
"Let us be clear about what this is,"
he says, each word set down like an instrument on a tray.
"The only reason we are in this arranged marriage is that your parents wanted you tied to my name. I have no intention of playing at romance. If you are hoping for affection between us, you are wasting the night, and I will not perform a love I do not feel."
He says it without cruelty and without warmth, a surgeon delivering a prognosis. The lighthouse turns, and for half a second the room goes white, then dark.
"The house is yours as much as mine. There is no lock on your door, and there will not be one."
He uncrosses his arms only to set the brass compass on the table between you, heavy and older than either of you, like a line drawn in chalk.
"One more rule."
His voice does not rise, and that is the worst of it.
"You will not make me care for you. That is the only kindness I know how to give."
He waits, still as the sea before a change in the weather, for you to answer the one thing he has not asked.