HIM
Breakfast the next morning is about as awkward as expected.
Elliot is down at the hospital, meeting with the doctors from Kingsward. Adah and I haven't talked since I stormed out, and, of course, Limonskiy sits awkwardly between the valet and Mrs. Hobbs.
All that can be heard is the scrap of utensils against the plates, and Mr. Stephens' loud breathing.
I've all but forgotten that Sara is even there until her voice rings out from next to me.
"So, Beth, do you have any children?"
I choke on my juice at the same moment 'Beth' chokes on her porridge.
The rest of the table seems to be torn whether to look at her or I as we gain our composure.
My brain supplies a mental image of Laura and her new, faceless husband with children running around their feet. Would they have her curls? Her smile? Traitorous as my mind is, it shifts the picture until the children do have her curls and her smile. They also have my eyes. My nose. Her mouth.
I have to swallow back bile at the anguish that rises to the surface.
She recovers quicker than me, dabbing her mouth with grace and an easy smile.
"No—No, I don't."
My heart beats normally for the first time since Sara asked the question.
Why are you relieved? She's still married.
I inwardly scold myself for making a fool of myself. Maybe Limonskiy will chalk it up to surprise at the silence breaking and not complete and utter horror at the thought of her having a family with someone else. I bite back a groan.
My brain only supplies more imaginings of our children.
Thankfully, there isn't anything in my mouth when Sara asks her next question.
"What is your husband like?"
Sara has never been great at reading the room, and it seems she's particularly obtuse today as most of the table starts giving her obvious warning looks, glancing between Laura and I.
I try not to meet anyone's eyes, this horrible feeling they'd look at me and see exactly what I'm thinking bubbling in me. That every fear of theirs would be confirmed. That I am just the pathetic man pining after someone I can never have.
The only person who seems completely unfazed in Limonskiy.
"Wonderful. We met up North, where I live now."
Sara smiles and nods, even as I feel each word like a knife to the stomach.
Get it together, I hiss to myself silently. I had spent all night getting used to the idea, practicing my unaffected ease. My careful facade broke at the first sign of trouble and I scold myself for not being stronger.
Although, knowing she's married is one thing.
But this? Hearing all about it?
This makes it real.
This creates a living, breathing person in my mind which is irrevocably linked to her. Who belongs to her, and who she belongs to.
Work can't come fast enough.
HER
As everyone gets up from the table I stay behind for a moment, worried that if I get up too fast they'll notice the sweat beading on my neck. The slight tremble to my hands.
Every interaction here is exhausting.
Toeing the line between truth and flat out lies.
Well, less toeing and more full on crossing it. Repeatedly.
How horribly awkward it must be for Aleksi, having his new love ask questions about my husband.
Does she know?
Know what? My brain supplies viciously. You were never truly together.
I wince in embarrassment, my cheeks heating against my will.
He made his feelings clear when he ignored my last letter. Something I had been telling myself for three long years. Apparently seeing him was all it took for me to forget.
Perhaps they laugh together about me. The pathetic girl who begged him to wait for her.
I smack my head with my palm at the memory. Of the stomach churning feeling it creates. God. How horrible. To have the girl you slighted sit across from you at breakfast while the girl you chose asking questions which have no real answer.
I know with perfect clarity that she doesn't know about me. About what I said in that infernal letter. He would never be so cruel.
I sigh, staring at the ceiling, wondering just what I must have done to make God punish me so.
HIM
Usually, I only open this drawer once a week. It's a rule I made for myself in order to preserve the last remnants of my sanity.
But here I stand, staring down at it for the third time in twenty-four hours.
I run my fingers over the last letter she sent to me, something I've done countless times.
Dearest Krasavik,
I don't see how chickens are any better or worse than horses or cows. Perhaps I would rather be fast and light than large and lumbering like a certain someone.
Truth be told, if you hadn't limited it to farm animals, I would have picked to be a dog. I've always loved dogs. I know you'll probably disagree with me on this because of that one incident with the wolves which left you with a crippling fear, however, it remains the truth.
And, in the endeavor of our continued honesty—I miss you.
I certainly haven't decided to stay in the city, in fact, I long for the country fiercely. I'm as anxious to return to everyone as you claim they are to have me back.
In other news, I cannot believe we have found a topic we actually agree on! I'll alert the church as to a new miracle! I, too, think Mrs. Kozlov with her rolling pin would beat a grizzly. Finally, some common ground.
As always, your question is difficult to answer. How could I fit all of your flaws in one letter? And you've prohibited me from mentioning your handwriting! How cruel.
I jest, of course.
Truly, I can't think of anything worth putting on paper. There is no great, all encompassing flaw which mars your character.
Although, I can feel your ego getting larger while I write this.
Sorry if my answer is unsatisfactory, but what were you expecting?
I pose the same question to you but about me. What is the worst thing about me?
As always, I await your response.
Fondly,
Laura
P.S. Thank you for the drawing, the lamb is adorable.
After this one, they stopped coming. And only when Adah came home at the end of the season did I hear the news: that she resigned and wasn't coming back.
No goodbye.
Nothing.
The dinner bell breaks me out of my stupor, and I brace myself for another excruciating meal.
—
Dinner actually passes without incident, and after we all mill around the servants' hall.
My eyes are never off her for too long, though.
She sits at the far end of the table from me, absorbed in a book she cradles in her lap. I'm observing the gentle curve of her wrist as she turns the page when Sara stands up from next to me abruptly.
"We should have some music!"
The only answer to her outburst is hesitant silence. I expect her to wave away the idea, but instead she seems to only grow more convinced.
"Come on!" She moves towards the piano forte tucked in the corner. "Someone come play."
Awkwardness is thick in the air, and I wince.
I go to say something, anything, to relieve the tension, which ironically Sara seems blissfully unaware of, when a soft voice stops me.
"Do you still play, Aleksi?"
Her face is all innocence, yet every eye turns my way, heavy with expectance. Memories flood back to me and I fight with everything in me to keep my face impassive.
"Not really."
This, at least, is true.
She nods, thoughtful, looking to Sara.
"Well, I'm no good at playing, but I could sing if someone could accompany me."
I recognize her tone, her soft expression, immediately.
She's trying to help Sara.
Alleviate tension.
And the worst part is, it works. Every time.
She sacrifices a little piece of herself for the comfort of everyone around her.
I see the valet start to move, but I'm out of my seat before he is.
"Well… maybe just this once."
Limonskiy looks at me in shock for a moment, but the expression is gone as quickly as it arrived.
"Well then."
It's stupid. And selfish.
For me to play while she sings.
But the old curiosity, the old yearning, stretches awake within me.
I sit stiffly at the bench as she leans against the piano, looking down at the keys.
Her brow is creased ever so slightly, and it hits me that maybe she isn't comfortable singing with me. That she asked just to make sure I wouldn't play with her.
Bitterness floods my heart as I place my fingers on the keys.
This is an old dream of mine, and yet, only a hollow recreation.
We exchange a few clipped sentences, deciding what to play, before she finally nods, and we begin.
It's somehow exactly how I pictured it.
Her voice weaving through the melody effortlessly, creating a haunting tapestry that falls over the world.
This woman will never fail to wreck me.