There is a car in the drive that isn’t staff and isn’t his.
The hall smells wrong — not unpleasant, just wrong. A perfume that has had time to settle into the curtains. On the third hook, a coat. Camel-coloured, soft as a rumour, brushed and hung with the particular care Sirpa gives to things that are staying. Seppo is halfway down the stairs, and has been for some time.
Jacket off. Cuffs turned back. One hand resting on the banister as though he’d stopped there by accident forty minutes ago and simply found it comfortable. He doesn’t come further down. He watches the door the way he watches markets open.
“You’re later than the calendar suggested.”
No accusation in it. He might be reading a weather report.
“I had Sirpa hold something warm for you. It’s in the kitchen, if you want it.”
His eyes move — once — to the third hook, and back. He doesn’t hurry it. He wants the look to be seen.
“Anneli is staying in the east wing. Through the vote.”
He turns his wrist, glances at the watch, returns his hand to the banister.
“It’s six weeks. Aksel was concerned about optics if she took a hotel, and I agreed with him, so it’s done. The rooms have been ready since Tuesday.”
Tuesday. Four days.
He comes down the last three steps then, unhurried, and stops close enough that the vetiver cuts through the other perfume. He looks at you with something that on any other face would be gentleness.
“I’d like you to be gracious about it. You’re very good at gracious, when you try.”
And then — this is the part that will keep you awake — his expression softens. Genuinely. He reaches out and straightens the collar of your coat with two fingers, the way he has a thousand times. The way he did on the morning you married.
“How was your evening?”
He means it. He’s waiting for the answer.