“I agree,” Quincy jumped in. “We were under the assumption it was a romance you were telling us. But he left. That’s not a romance. A romance should end with a happily-ever-after. This is a tragedy, likeRomeo and Juliet.”
Lenora did look at Peter then, her eyes wide with the pain of remembrance. And he recalled with stunning clarity the conversation they’d shared at the pools, and how close he’d been to kissing her.
Blessedlythe others were too engrossed to notice their tense exchange. “I do apologize, Mr. Nesbitt,” Margery drawled. “I should have warned you.”
“Yes, you should have,” he grumbled.
She laughed. “But does that mean you don’t wish to hear the rest?”
Quincy threw up his hands, leaning against the stone wall. “You may as well tell us. I don’t see how it can get any worse.”
Margery grinned but continued. “Synne remarried soon after and is thought to have had a long and prosperous life, though she never bore another child. Perhaps she wasn’t happy in that life, however. For when she died, she asked that her ashes be brought to these very cliffs, to be spread over the sea so she might find her beloved Ivar in the afterlife.”
“I was wrong,” Quincy muttered. “It got worse.”
Margery shrugged. “Love does not guarantee a happy ending, I’m afraid.”
There was a small sound from Lenora’s direction. It mingled with the lowing of the wind, until they appeared to be one and the same. How Peter kept from looking at her, he would never know.
Suddenly she spoke. “We should get started, Margery. It unsettles me to be out here.”
Strange wording. Peter could see her being nervous. The height, as well as the concentrated wind, had even Quincy looking a bit green.
But no, she had specifically said “unsettled.” Did she feel it, too, the eeriness of the place? As if there would never be happiness here again?
As Quincy and Redburn moved off to the side, conversing quietly, Lenora and Margery bent their heads over their paper. Several minutes passed, the faint sound of pencil scratching parchment breaking through the low sounds of wind and conversation. Eventually Peter realized that only one pencil was moving across the page. A quick look at the women, and he could see he was right on that score. But it was not Margery whose pencil was still. No, it was Lenora.
***
Peering down at the pristine paper, Lenora frowned. The simple mechanics of art had always come easily to her, even when she had refused to put her heart in it. Now, however, the image wouldn’t come. By sheer will, she lowered the pencil, scratched out a few hesitant lines. She glanced up at the view, returned her gaze to the beginnings of her drawing, tried adding a bit more.
Blowing out a huff of frustration, she erased the image. She would try again. And this time she would succeed. No matter her determination, however, only disjointed lines came from her pencil. Tearing the sheet free, she crushed it in her hands and tossed it across the stone floor. It bounced along, caught up in the wind, until it was launched over the side of the cliff and fell out of view. But there was no satisfaction in it.
She returned her attention to the paper in her lap and bent her head to try again. And again. Yet no matter how many times she attempted it, the image wouldn’t come. Finally she was out of paper and she sat there, lost.
“Lenora.”
Her name on his lips. She closed her eyes, feeling it flow through her, a tingling that worked its way through her limbs to her very heart. Taking a deep breath, she fought against her longing with everything in her.
But he wasn’t through tormenting her. She felt him lower to his haunches beside her. “Are you well?”
Damn the man for choosing now to be kind. And damn her traitorous heart for clinging so desperately to it, for trying to find hope in it. Things were over between them, and she’d best remember it.
She opened her eyes and looked out over the cliff’s edge. For she knew, if she looked at him, she would be lost. “I’m fine.”
He paused. His breath stirred the wisps of hair that had come loose at her temple. Lenora gripped her pencil tight, feeling the aromatic cedar begin to bend in her grip as she fought against the desire to lean into him and feel his strong arms close about her.
Peter spoke again. “Is there anything I can do?”
Leave me, she wanted to cry out.Leave the Isle, let me heal from this and find peace again!The words clamored at her lips, begging to be released. As long as he remained on Synne, she would never be able to put him behind her.
Desperate, she pressed her lips tight and shook her head. Still he stood there, hovering over her. Pulling her nerves so taut, she thought she might snap in two.Please go away.The thought whispered through her head in an endless litany.
Finally he seemed to sense he was not wanted. He rose and moved to the far side of the grotto. And Lenora thought she would suffocate from the crushing loss that washed over her.
She stood, the remainder of her supplies falling to the stone floor with a clatter. The conversation beside her paused. Margery peered at her, concern darkening her eyes.
For a moment, she feared her friend would ask if she was well. Because she was not. She was the furthest thing from “well” there was.
