Текст книги "The once and future queen"
Автор книги: Paula Laferty
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
Getting ready for the festival was not nearly as simple as getting ready for a day at the castle, the informality of which Maria bemoaned multiple times throughout the afternoon. To her credit, every complaint came with a suggested solution, usually including Maria’s permanent presence in Camelot. Vera did her best to graciously dismiss the subject rather than shouting a panicked “No!” each time it came up.
For the festival, though, Maria planned the afternoon flawlessly, arranging for Vera to have her hair and makeup done in succession. She’d heard of lead being used in some ancient rouges and fresh animal fat in others, so she was both relieved and delighted that the cosmetics were mixed fresh before her eyes. The rail thin woman with sharp eyes and painted pink lips had carted in her two bags filled with supplies. She told Vera tales of her years on the spice trade route while she performed her alchemy using beets from Egypt as a base for rouge, berries Vera didn’t even recognize for her lips, and dark dried leaves ground down to fine powder for her eyes.
Under Maria’s sharp instructions, the attendants helped Vera into the gown Randall had made for her as they gushed over his craftsmanship.
Vera adored everything about the gown. It was a work of art, a masterpiece she was honored to wear. She would not have believed this gown was possible if she’d not known that Randall had literal magic in his fingertips. It was a creamy white, with swirling vines embroidered all down the fitted bodice. The threads were a gold that was somehow the color of light shimmering in a creek. The gown’s neckline swooped deep, stopping below Vera’s bust, but it came to a narrow point so it avoided being uncomfortably revealing. The back dipped low to her ribs, and the sleeves were fitted to her elbows where they split. The remaining length of the sleeve hung free, revealing a bolder golden embroidery on the fabric’s reverse side.
They stood back to admire their work, looking satisfied, especially Maria. As Vera was wishing she had a mirror, Maria dramatically swept her arm across her body like an orchestra conductor. Instead of music swelling at her command, water from the trickling fountain followed her wave and formed into an upright column in front of Vera, creating a perfectly smooth reflection.
Vera hadn’t seen her reflection since she’d left the George and Pilgrims, and she nearly didn’t recognize herself. This was exactly how she hoped to look if she ever got married. Then she remembered that, indeed, she was living a life in which she already was married, so perhaps donning this lovely gown and dancing with a handsome king was enough.
Maria swept the water back to its place with a flick of her wrist.
“Is Arthur coming here?” Vera asked. Maria stared at her blankly. “To … escort me?” she added.
“Oh, goodness no,” Maria said curtly. “His Majesty is fully occupied until after your arrival. Sir Lancelot shall—”
“No he’s not,” the makeup artist casually interjected as she packed her tools into a leather roll.
Maria blinked at her uncomprehendingly.
“The king,” said the makeup artist. “He’s outside the door … said he’d wait there … until we’d finished …” Her voice trailed off as Maria’s expression transformed into one of horror.
“You left the king sitting in the hallway to wait?” Maria said, each syllable like a truncated slap. The makeup woman withered. They exchanged anxious glances, rooted to the spot before Vera rolled her eyes and marched to the door herself.
“Wait!” Maria called as Vera unceremoniously threw it open. Arthur leaned against the wall opposite. Maria groaned from behind her. “So much for a reveal,” she said.
Vera grinned as his eyes met hers.
Arthur wore a much finer belted tunic than usual with threads and toggles that complimented Vera’s gown. His dark hair was pulled into a knot at the top of his neck which, Vera decided in that exact second, was her favorite way he wore it. He stood up straight as he saw her, and with the pleasant, crooked smile he fixed upon Vera, something in his prematurely weathered face looked boyish.
“Hi,” Vera said breathlessly. “You look very handsome.”
Arthur blushed at the compliment, and Vera was thrilled by that. “Thank you,” he said, his eyes roving over her. “You’re stunning.”
Maria had no choice but to send them off with minimal fanfare, mollified only by the assurance that they were planning to lead the opening dance. Arthur offered Vera his elbow, and they walked to the festival grounds arm-in-arm, where they found their friends seated at the same table as before.
Lancelot rushed over to them, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders. Then he turned his attention to Vera and kissed her cheek. “Guinna!” he said. “You look gorgeous. Is this the dress Randall made?”
“Yes. And thank you.” She shoved her hands into the slits in the sides of her skirt, eager to show someone who would appreciate the best bit. “It has pockets!”
“Hell yeah,” he said appreciatively.
She felt the heaviness of Gawain’s stare before she saw him. Lancelot noticed and shrugged. “I think I’ve cracked him. He’s actually pretty funny.”
There wasn’t time to argue Gawain’s merits. Maria was already beckoning them to the front for the dance. It all happened very quickly. One moment, they were standing around a table with their friends, and the next, it seemed, they were out in the dancing area alone—with hundreds of Yule revelers’ eyes on them. Vera’s breath hitched.
“Are you nervous?” Arthur whispered.
“A bit,” she said.
Arthur and Vera began the dance when the musicians beside the stage started playing. Her movements were stiff as she focused all her energy on not screwing up, but during the first part, where she and Arthur got closer, she heard his deep voice softly singing and looked at him, wide-eyed in her surprise.
“I made up lyrics, too,” he said.
She shifted her focus to him, straining to hear the deep quiet of his voice following the melody.
“The king agreed to teach a dance, but His Majesty was full of shit,
And when the festival was ruined, Maria had a massive fit.”
Vera threw her head back and laughed.
“Not exactly a masterpiece,” Arthur said as he and Vera drew close to spin, but he smiled at having pleased her so thoroughly. The rest of the dance was looser and, unbelievably, even fun. The audience melted from Vera’s periphery, and she saw only Arthur. Each time they came close enough to whisper, one or the other would mutter the made-up name for the next move. She was almost sad when the song ended.
Next came the presentation of the Yule crowns. It wasn’t Maria who processed onto the field for this, but a band of four children. The two youngest were at the front, a girl and a boy, each carrying a crown on a pillow, reminiscent of ring bearers. They were at the end of their toddler years and had an older child attendant accompanying them to keep them on task when they wanted to wander or shy away from the surrounding crowd.
Vera squatted down to be at eye level, and Arthur followed suit. She smiled encouragingly, emboldening the little girl to close the gap.
“Happy Yule, my queen lady!” She held out the Yule crown to Vera. The beautiful and earthy things were made with quartz sticks and gold wrapping them together. The older attendants placed them on Vera’s and Arthur’s heads. His was simpler: woven wire with one dark, round crystal at the center. Vera’s was a radiant eruption of crystals.
“Can we wear these every day?” she asked Arthur.
She was kidding, but Arthur said, “Yes,” though his eyes more plainly said, whatever you want.
The feasting and dancing began in earnest after that. Arthur and Vera retreated to their table to a bawdy welcome from their friends, who were clearly all feeling pretty good. Lancelot fussed and ensured she had food (because that was what he did, and she loved him for it), and Arthur got Vera a drink.
“I need to make a quick round to offer greetings, but you,” he said, emphatically holding up a hand as she stood to join him, “should stay here and enjoy yourself. This isn’t an official affair. No one would begrudge you that.”
She had no desire to argue. This table of raucous laughter and no expectations for her to be anyone but herself was precisely where Vera wanted to be.
“Guinna,” Lancelot said. “We’re interrogating Gawain to get to know him better, and it’s great fun.”
Matilda leaned toward Vera to bring her up to speed. “So far, we’ve learned he’s the youngest mage on the high council—”
“By twenty-two years,” Lancelot cut in.
“Yes, I was getting to that,” she said, batting at Lancelot with her napkin. “By twenty-two years, that his favorite gift he has is being able to do some healing work, and that he is well aware of how much his demeanor infuriates Percival.”
“But only because Lancelot told him,” Percival cut in with the exasperation he reserved especially for the mage. “Otherwise, he felt we were getting on fine.”
Even Gawain cracked a reluctant smile, though he had a drink in front of him, too, and Vera thought it would be a fair guess that none of them were on their first round.
“I have a question.” Percival eyed Gawain sharply. “You said you study who magic comes to and how the break happens and all that nonsense, right?”
Gawain didn’t acknowledge the insult. He merely nodded.
“Isn’t the magical birthrate one in every four people?” Percival asked.
Gawain listed his head from side to side. “It is lower than that now. Closer to one in ten, according to my research. But it would have been about one in four when you were born.”
“Right.” Percival rolled his eyes. “Here,” he gestured around the table, “we’ve got four of us, and not one has a magical ability.”
Gawain waited with a deadpan face. “Do you have a question?”
“Yes!” Percival’s annoyance had them all stifling laughter. “My question is, what the hell? What gives? Shouldn’t at least one of us have a power?”
“Statistics don’t order themselves to our expectations.” If Gawain intended to sound condescending, he succeeded. “It all comes down to the population dispersion, how people tend to group themselves, and what roles each party has to fill. I’ve found that the rates of magic in, say, leaders in armies tend to be far lower. Maybe they’re threatened by their inability and prefer to keep those with magic in a more pigeon-holed role? Perhaps those who cannot do order others to do.”
If Vera only had a blow dart and could have offered Gawain the mercy of tranquilizing him, she would have. Lancelot pressed his hand hard against his mouth, but she could see him laughing. Matilda patted Percival’s arm, who looked like he’d enjoy nothing more than to punch Gawain. Thankfully, the table was between them.
Gawain forged on without any clue. “Whatever the actual cause, the truth remains that it’s perfectly reasonable that none of you would have any powers.”
“Let me get this straight.” Percival leaned forward as far as he could toward Gawain, who finally took note of his precarious position and leaned away a bit. “You’re saying that Lancelot and I are either talentless hacks who are afraid of magic or that we happen to have rotten luck and are statistical anomalies. Do I have that right?”
“Erm,” Gawain said, his eyes darting between them. That was a yes. When Percival burst into laughter, they all followed suit.
“What about Guinna’s knack for strategy?” Lancelot said. “That could be a gift … Though, if it is, it’s a load more boring than being able to make fire or heal people or whatnot.”
“No,” Gawain said. “If Guinevere had a gift, she wouldn’t have ended up queen.”
“Why not?” Vera asked.
“You must have been too young to remember,” he said quickly, his cover for Vera’s ignorance so smooth even Lancelot didn’t seem to notice it. “Right around the time you’d have been born, the Christian leaders near your familial home of the North Upton territories rounded up all children with the gift, no matter how powerful its manifestation, and sent them to vocational training to join the religious order. It was their attempt to respond to the foundation of the council of mages after the massacre of Dorchester. They wanted their own supreme board of power. And,” he added gravely, “they wanted all trace of magic away from their populations. A knee-jerk to the horror inflicted by—”
“Oh! I’ve got it!” Percival pointed at nothing in particular. “Lancelot’s like really lucky. Nobody ever died in battle when paired up with him. Come to think of it,” he turned to Lancelot, “it’s pretty damn brilliant to have you on the king’s detail.”
Lancelot snorted. “Thanks a lot, Perce. Let’s conveniently forget that I trained since childhood and have dedicated my whole life to being a soldier. Can’t be that I’m actually an excellent fighter. No, it’s got to be magic.”
Gawain eyed Lancelot appraisingly. “No one ever died when fighting at your side?”
He tipped his mug toward the mage. “Not once. Bit of a point of pride for me. But even in my big-headedness, I can acknowledge that much of that came down to luck.”
“That could be a gift,” Gawain said as he scratched thoughtfully at his chin. “Part of my theory about magic breaks that occur at an advanced age holds that even someone unaware of their dormant gift might exhibit latent magical traits. Like the specimen in Camelot—”
“His name is Grady,” Vera said with a glare.
He halted and, after a pause, stiffly nodded. “Thank you. Like Grady, yes. His father told me that he’d always been naturally inclined to woodworking. Of course, it’s not evidential proof, but the correlation between that and the manifestation of his power makes me wonder.”
Lancelot nudged Gawain with an elbow and gave his most winning smile. “You think I’ve got some fantastic power lying in wait?”
Gawain cast his eyes upward as he considered it. “Mm. Magic is clever, and I believe it deliberately hides. If you did have a gift, we’d actually make it far less likely to appear by telling you about it. Later life magic most commonly breaks via the necessity of a disaster.”
“There you have it,” Lancelot said. “My life has been in dire peril somewhere in the realm of hundreds of times, so if my incredible secret gift didn’t break during any of those instances, I’m fairly certain it doesn’t exist.”
“Seems about as likely as the original gifts’ existence,” Gawain admitted. “That’s to say; highly unlikely.”
“What are the original gifts?” Matilda asked. She leaned forward intently.
“Rumors, mostly. They’re the powers that have been in myths and stories all across the world. One tells of the power to bring the dead back to life, another invincibility, and there are many different versions of the gift of immortality, the fountain of youth. In the Greek stories, it’s ambrosia—”
Vera perked up as the threads connected. “The Holy Grail?”
Gawain turned to her, his sallow eyes suspicious. “How have you heard about that?”
Vera picked at the tabletop with her fingernail to stall for time. “They mentioned it at the monastery.” Ah. Even with Gawain aware of her memory loss, she had to be careful not to betray the time travel bit. She wasn’t sure how long her go-to excuse of “the monastery” would hold for all the things she shouldn’t know.
Gawain held his stare on Vera.
“What’s the Holy Grail?” Lancelot asked. Percival and Matilda were intrigued as well.
That answered one question. Arthur nor his knights had their sights on the grail. That part of the legend had to be false.
After a pause that felt longer to Vera than it was, Gawain answered. “It’s rumored to be the cup Jesus of Nazareth used in his last meal and that caught his blood as he died on the cross. It’s said to contain such gifts of immortality to those who drink from it, like all the other cultures’ stories. Same ends—different magical mechanisms to achieve them.”
“So, the item gives the power? You don’t even have to have the gift to receive it?” Matilda asked.
“That’s the myth,” Gawain said. “But there’s no logical truth behind it.”
“How can you be sure?” Percival said. “If so many people all over the world have come up with the same thing, maybe there’s something to it.”
“What do all people who live have in common?” Gawain asked. He waited, like a teacher hoping his pupils would rise to the occasion. When they didn’t, he forged on. “We’re all afraid of dying. That’s what frightened people do. They make up stories that make them feel better. In this case, humanity came up with a story of magic that can alleviate our biggest fear. It’s an appealing prospect to believe in, especially when times grow dark.
“Even the council of mages has been caught up in that thinking. But unless we have actual, concrete answers, magic as we know it is doomed. I’ve not gained much popularity by saying it, but someone has to address the situation honestly. Magic’s dying out. If it continues to dissipate at this rate, it will have completely disappeared from humanity within two generations. I’m not entirely certain the world can even survive without it.”
Vera shifted in her seat, at a loss for how her life in the future made sense in all of this. Lancelot watched her keenly, chin propped up on his hand, and raised his eyebrows when she met his eye.
“There’s a sect of mages who believe that the original gifts are our key to saving things.” Despite the topic’s gravity, Gawain’s voice remained dry. “They’re as deluded as whoever came up with the notion of original gifts in the first place. The notion that there’s a power out there that we might find and use to fix things in a markedly bleak situation is soothing. It’s also a farce.”
“So … that’s it?” Matilda asked. “We’re doomed?”
They stared at him in the heavy silence that followed, only broken when Percival let out a low whistle. “Sheesh, Gawain,” he said with a disbelieving laugh, “You’re a real riot at a party, aren’t you?”
“It might be hard to believe,” Gawain murmured, “but I haven’t been invited to many parties.”
They weren’t sure if he was joking until he looked up from his drink, and his sullen face bore a hesitant grin.
“A joke!” Lancelot yelled as he threw his hands in the air. They laughed and offered a toast to Gawain’s efforts at party conversation, an unofficial welcome to his presence among them. Vera wasn’t entirely sold on him after his theories rattled the purpose of her existence. But if Lancelot had made a friend of Gawain, that would be enough to call the man at least tolerable for the time being.
This last toast left many of their cups empty. Vera jumped up and began collecting their tankard handles between her fingers with the particular skill of a woman who’d waited tables since she was seventeen.
“Absolutely not!” Matilda reached to try to grab the cups, but Vera stubbornly pulled them away. “You are not going to serve us!”
“Rock, paper, scissors for it?” Vera asked.
Matilda rolled her eyes and begrudgingly agreed. As Vera sat the cups down and they began to play for best two out of three, Lancelot gaped at them open-mouthed.
“What the hell is this?” he asked. “Is this a game? Why don’t I know this?”
Vera closed out the bout, covering Matilda’s rock with her paper. She spared Lancelot a shrug. “Sorry! Matilda will teach you because she just lost, and I am off to get drinks!”
She’d forgotten that there would be no blending in. Not in this time, not on this night, and certainly not in her incredible gown with the shimmering crown on her brow, marking her as royalty. The barmaid seemed starstruck when Vera carefully set down their five mugs on the counter.
She looked about herself anxiously as she refilled them. “Please let me find someone to help you carry these. There are servers here … somewhere.”
Vera tried to reassure her, but the mugs were rather heavy, and she hadn’t thought through how she would manage it with all of them once filled. Thankfully for her (and further unnerving for the barmaid), Arthur stepped up to the bar beside her.
“I can help,” he said. He procured his empty mug for a refill as well. “I’ve done my greeting duties satisfactorily enough. Think we can manage six of these between the two of us?”
“Easily.”
When they returned to the table, Lancelot, Percival, and Matilda cheered Arthur’s arrival.
“Perfect!” Lancelot said as Vera and Arthur took their seats. “Now we have an even number. Right: the game is rock, paper, scissors. Best two out of three wins. Loser drinks. Arthur, you’ll catch on. Do this, this, or this,” he mimed the three options, “on ‘shoot.’ It’s all luck anyway.”
Vera lost count of how many games she’d won or lost, but she was sure there’d never been a night in her life when she’d laughed more, never been a time when her name (well, sort of her name) had been called so often from someone—a friend—who wanted to talk to her.
She and Arthur had thrown rock simultaneously for the third time in a row when she laughed and leaned into his shoulder. He smiled as he gingerly touched her elbow, his fingers tracing around one of the embroidered swirls before he dropped his hand. Vera’s heart sank as soon as he withdrew that gentle touch. She wanted to be close to him.
“Would you like to dance some more?” she asked, entirely on impulse.
He didn’t remind her that she only knew the one dance. And she couldn’t say how long they danced, only that Arthur called out the moves as he’d done that morning. No one seemed to care that their queen often made missteps or went the wrong direction—only that she often laughed with her head tossed back as their king, more jubilant than they’d ever seen him, didn’t once tear his eyes away from her.
When the night grew old and the dancing music ended, the area was cleared to ready a bonfire for the dried trees of last year’s Yule to be thrown on. The table of friends had dispersed through the party. Vera spotted Matilda and Percival over by the guards who’d traveled with them to Glastonbury. Lancelot proved harder to find. After a while scanning the crowd, Vera caught sight of Gawain as he skirted the edge of the lit festival area. She was nearly ready to give up her search for Lancelot when she noticed movement in the dark beyond Gawain.
He looked only a hazy specter until he broke the lantern’s threshold and entered the light. Sure as day, it was Lancelot. She had seconds to wonder where he’d been when a pretty young woman, her locks of curling dark hair mussed about on one side, emerged from farther down in the dark, too. Now that Vera paid closer attention, Lancelot’s tunic was also askew, and he hurriedly brushed the grass from his trousers.
It was a common theme. Others emerged into the light from various spots along the edges, giggling and breathless. Though they’d obviously been partnered up off in the darkness, many came back one at a time like Lancelot, making some effort at discretion.
Lancelot jolted when their eyes met, his expression tightening with panic.
She didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable that she knew. Why should she care if he and this woman had enjoyed one another’s affections? She raised an eyebrow, glanced at the dark-haired woman she suspected had been Lancelot’s partner, and grinned knowingly back at him, hoping to assuage his concerns. His gaze ticked toward the lady, and now, caught red-handed, the fear dropped, replaced by a crooked smile and a roguish “What can you do?” shrug.
She didn’t say a word when he joined them back at the table, and the others came along shortly, too—except Gawain, who aided in lifting the trees onto the fire with his magic. He held his hand in a fist in front of his face and worried his thumb back and forth between his fingers, his dark stare trained on the trees hovering above the bonfire. When Maria signaled him, he dropped his fist to his side, and the trees fell with it and slammed into the fire with a crackling thud. Flames leapt hungrily at the fresh kindling and swept it up into the fray in seconds, sending an upward explosion of fire high into the air. The crowd gasped, and clapped, and cheered as a rush of hot wind from the fire blew past them all.
The spectacular effect of it lit the festival as brightly as midday though it was much closer to midnight. Vera caught a clear glimpse of Arthur, his eyes glassy like she’d seen them only once before; the first night they’d met. Though that was the extent of the similarities. Tonight, she saw nothing but happiness in them.
“Your Majesty,” she said coyly. “Are you inebriated?”
Arthur chuckled and raised his hand to show her the slightest sliver of air between his index finger and thumb. “Tiny bit,” he said.
Vera laughed, leaning into him and dropping her head onto his shoulder, a casual gesture of affection. Her marked lack of inhibition reminded her that she wasn’t entirely sober either. Arthur looped his arm around her waist as easily as if he did it all the time. She looked up from the safe crook of his arm and found Matilda watching them with a discerning glint in her eyes. Suddenly embarrassed, Vera sat up. Arthur pulled his arm away as casually as he’d placed it, mid-conversation with Percival on his other side. Still, he seemed aware of her every move.
His voice was at her ear when she could no longer stifle a yawn. “Guinevere,” he said. She felt a pang at the name. She was used to it by now, but when he used it, guilt stirred. Once, it had been because it reminded Vera what an imposter she was, trying to fill his dead wife’s place. Now, Vera ached for him to say her name. For him to want her, not Guinevere. “Are you ready to turn in for the night?”
“Only if you are,” she said, though she was thoroughly exhausted. Arthur was already rising from his seat and offering her his hand. Like the night before, Matilda stood to accompany them to help Vera change for bed.
Vera stopped her. “I won’t even rock, paper, scissors you for it. Stay here and have fun at the party. As your queen, I command it.” She hadn’t had the nerve to throw around her position’s weight before and found she rather liked it.
Matilda laughed and shook her head. “Yes, your stubborn majesty. As you wish.”
“Lancelot,” Vera called, interrupting his animated conversation. “Running tomorrow?”
He mirrored her energy and raised his cup to her. “Not a chance in hell!”
Arthur grinned at the exchange, and as “goodnights” and “merry Yules” were bid across the table to one another, he slid his arm around Vera’s waist, and she did her best to pretend this was ordinary and that she wasn’t thrilled by his touch.
It helped some that Arthur sang his made-up words to the song, Vera joining in and making them sillier. They wore the shadows of their laughter when they reached the room. Someone had come by and set a fire blazing in the hearth. The candles all along the wall were lit as well.
“That was so much fun!” Vera said. She took off her quartz crown and set it aside before she uselessly began trying to reach the ties on the back of her dress. It had her squirming and stumbling backward, which put Arthur in stitches so forceful he collapsed into the chair behind him.
“Be a gentleman then and help me,” she chided.
“That’s a first,” he said with a smile. “A lady tells me to be a gentleman by demanding I help her undress.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but Arthur held up a hand. “And I will gladly oblige.”
They were both laughing as she turned away from him, and his fingers fumbled with untying and unfastening various parts on the back of her gown. “I might have been better off struggling through it myself,” she teased.
He got it untied right after she said that. Vera felt the bodice loosen. It may have been her imagination, but she thought Arthur’s fingers lingered on the bare skin at the small of her back for a second more than they needed to. She closed her eyes. A shiver rushed through her. She was glad he couldn’t see her face.
She heard his footsteps retreating across the room and knew he’d politely turned away, giving her privacy as she changed into her nightgown.
When she turned to face him, it was to find him struggling mightily with the toggles beneath the neckline of his tunic. They made eye contact and burst into laughter.
“I suppose it’s my turn to be a lady and help you undress,” she said.
“I don’t know,” Arthur said as she closed the space between them. “Guffawing at my failure suited you nicely.”
Vera grinned. She stood very near to him, but it felt different than when he was untying her gown. This had them face to face, an intimacy they couldn’t escape, though she tried by slipping back into humor as she struggled with the toggles.
“Dear God, who are they trying to keep out? Someone should tell Randall about these fasteners. This might do better than traditional armor.” She tugged so forcefully that Arthur nearly stumbled, laying a hand on her waist to steady himself.
He made a quiet chuckling noise, one Vera could feel through her fingers on his chest. She focused on his tunic until she made headway on the stuck toggle. She wasn’t thinking about it as she continued to undo the others for him. When she reached the last one right at his sternum and was about to pull away, Arthur lay his hand over her fingers.
He wasn’t laughing any longer. He’d closed his eyes as he held her hand. He drew it to his lips, softly kissed the tops of her fingers, and then froze, eyes shooting open as if awakening from a dream. She did not move a muscle as she held his gaze.
Then she felt it; his thumb moving up and down, a light caress on her torso. Her breath quivered. When Vera had dared to let herself feel anything relatively romantic since Vincent’s death, it had been sorrow. So much sorrow and the weight of loss. But now, the pain was blanketed with longing, and longing felt good … like being electrified awake.
Arthur looked down at the floor in a moment of hesitation. It was like he stood at the edge of a cliff, deciding whether or not to jump. The pause was agonizing, yet Vera wanted to hold it for an eternity, this time hanging in the balance when all things were possible, and there were no consequences to actions untaken. With her free hand, the one not encased in his, she reached up and traced from the side of Arthur’s cheek down the curve of his jaw in a gentle stroke.
