The easiest way to find her husband has always been to follow the music. As soon as she opens the door of the house she hears it, drifting through the walls, notes so soft they feel like a caress upon her cheek. She breathes them in, feels them warm along down into her lungs. The door clicks shut and she sighs, slips out of her coat, hangs it on the hook.
He does not know she is home. If he did he would stop playing, seek her out, the bow still hanging from his fingertips. It is a wonder that he is not at the organ, or the piano, but clearly this is a special piece, each delicate note full of love and tenderness.
For a moment, she feels guilty for overhearing him. What if the piece is meant to be a surprise for her? He will be so disappointed if he thinks she's been listening to it. She should turn and leave, visit with Daroga for a while and come back when he is sure to have finished it.
But she cannot leave. Not now, without seeing him. The craving aches deep inside of her to trace the outline of his figure with her eyes. He does not know she is home now. If she is careful, quiet, he need not ever know.
The pull towards him is magnetic and she is standing in the door of his study almost before she realises it. He does not see her, eyes closed as he slowly sways in the middle of the floor, the violin propped on his shoulder. The flames in the fireplace cast a glow to his face, softening the edges, his long fingers wrapped gently around the bow. Each note is perfect, aches her heart to watch him as they hang in the air, drift slowly. He has cast his jacket aside, shirt sleeves rolled up past the elbow to show the lean muscle of his arms, his watch chain glittering, stretched across the front of his waistcoat. He is very nearly handsome, every line of tension smoothed from his face, lips twitching just slightly at the corners, the violin seeming almost an extension of him, he and it one and the same and her heart twists for to go to him, take him in her arms and kiss him and never let him go.
The music is hers, of her and for her, and if she closes her eyes she can see him as he stood on their wedding day, one red rose linked through his lapel, solemn and shy as a schoolboy, lips hesitant when at last he was permitted to press them to hers. She curls her fingers tighter, wills the itch to touch him away. It would not do to disturb him now, when he is in thrall to his music. It would be a crime.
If she were an artist, she might draw him. If it were her singing he would draw her, the lead light in his hand, each line of her perfect. But she cannot pay such tribute to him, cannot hope to ever capture him in such a wonderful, beautiful moment and there is a flicker of disappointment in her chest. And he is hers, hers to hold and to keep and to love forever and there is no more that he would want of her than to be held and loved and her eyes prickle hot with tears but she does not move to brush them away. Oh, he is so precious, so dear, her husband, and the ache twists again for to ease the violin from his grasp and fold him in her arms but she suppresses it, and slips from the room.
Later. Later she will lie with him and hold him. Later, she will remind him of how much she loves him and will always love him. Later, she will kiss the corner of his lips and twine her fingers in his and cradle his head to his chest and let him listen to her own, private music, the beat of her heart that is for him and him alone, and that will be her gift to him. And she will hold him, all night long, and never want to ever let him go.
And she smiles, and takes her cloak back off the hook. Later there will be only him, only them. Now, she will give him the space he needs and visit Daroga for tea.