He leads the way to an exquisite world of blue tile, creamy marble, and gilded faucets. I exclaim over everything, from the plush towels to the porcelain toilet with its gold chain for flushing. But inwardly I’m distracted.
Beresford and I are happy. Of course we are. It’s our wedding day.
We made our peace with secrets. Agreed to let each other keep them. Promised not to discuss the past. I was fully aware of the arrangement, and I consented to it. Just being with him was enough for me. So why do I feel as if I only have access to part of my husband? He’s a lake with vast depths, but I’ve only gotten to swim along the surface. That has been fun, and I still want to do it, but I’m also ready to hold my breath and dive to the bottom.
Yet I’m afraid. Terrified that if I cross him, he’ll fling me out onto the shore and never touch me again.
There’s another fear, too—that if I plunge down to the bottom of his soul, he’ll transform into something awful and grip me with wicked claws, holding me below until my air runs out and darkness trickles into my lungs, killing me.
I don’t really know the man I’ll be sleeping next to tonight.
He has stopped talking, right in the middle of explaining to me how the hot water system of the house works. He’s watching me quietly.
“Sorry.” I vent a little breathless laugh. “I think I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”I summoned three demons and one of them was different from anything I’ve seen before…
I’m keeping so many secrets from him, too. Who am I to demand complete honesty?
It’s the same cycle of doubts and worries I’ve endured before, and I always come back to the same conclusion—that I love him and I want to stay. So why can’t I ever be happy with my decision and let things rest?
“I should give you your gift!” I exclaim, as if I just remembered it. “Let me see if I can find the box in the closet or in one of these bureau drawers.”
The third drawer I open contains the wooden box I’m looking for. I take it out and hand it over to Beresford.
With an intrigued glance at me, he lifts the lid.
“I got rather good at whittling and carving last winter,” I tell him. “And I thought you might like this. If you don’t, I can make you something else. Anything you like. Though I’m not very good with dragons. I don’t know why. I’ve tried to carve them before, and—”
“Sybil.” He stops me gently. “It’s beautiful.”
He lifts the figure out of its velvety nest. It’s a horse, carved from linden wood, poised in the act of galloping at full speed. Its mane and tail are frozen ripples, tossed by an intangible wind. There’s a boldness in the lines of its body, a desperate need for liberty, that I felt in my bones while I was carving it.
“You make me feel like that,” I whisper.
Beresford looks up at me, tears glimmering in his eyes. His lips compress, and he doesn’t speak, but I smile, knowing that my gift means something to him.
“No tears, my love.” I rise on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Only joy today. Joy and fun.”
He clears his throat and sets the carved horse reverently on top of the nearest bureau. “Speaking of fun, there’s a game parlor across the hall. It used to be downstairs, but as part of the renovations, I had it moved up here. The view from that easternwindow is nearly as wonderful as the view from our bedroom. You mentioned that you enjoy games.”
“I do. We had a few old ones, and a couple that we made ourselves.”
“I’ve been collecting them,” he says. “I like a variety of different kinds—the simple ones that can be played quickly, as well as the games with lore and strategy that take many hours. Come, I’ll show you.”
We cross the hallway to the game room. Its fireplace is cloaked in painted tiles that tell bits of old fairytales. The wide windows are framed in burnt orange drapes that have a golden shimmer in places, like autumn itself stitched into curtains. The armchairs are low and fat, with well-stuffed cushions, but they’re light enough to be moved into different orientations around the three low, square tables.
Built-in shelves and cabinets cover the walls. Stacked on the shelves are wooden boxes, each with the name of a game painted along the edge. I take them down one at a time, stunned by the craftsmanship of each one. My favorite is a long box that contains a hinged board, which can be unfolded and spread on a table. There are hand-painted cards, figurines, and dice that go with the board, along with a carefully lettered booklet of instructions. The game is calledConqueror’s Creed.
“I bought this from a toymaker in Gresoul,” Beresford says. “Would you like to play?”
“Fuck yes.”
He laughs. “Go ahead and start setting it up. I’ll get two mugs of cider from the kitchen.”
“I’ll fetch the drinks,” I offer. “I should start familiarizing myself with things, shouldn’t I?”
“Of course.” He glances toward the window, where the light is fading. “I’ll get a fire going and prepare the game. Will your ankle be alright?”
“It’s fine,” I assure him.
