Snort.
‘I don’t quite understand it either, you know. But I don’t understand a lot of things.’ Tears pricked her eyes, and Truffél nudged her again. ‘You’re only a pig, you don’t understand much either, but less than me, I think.’
Snort, look, nudge.
‘I have to let him go too, so he can find happiness some other way. I can’t be responsible for his. I can’t carry that weight. Even he said so. I’ve never been in love, and I don’t know how to…’
Snort.
‘It’s best to leave it thus, before one or both of us gets hurt even worse. He said he’d be limiting me, and I’d be limiting him, because I…love him too.’
That last snort Truffél sounded very much resembled afinally!
And in all fairness, she understood the sentiment, for she finally saw what she’d been unable to distinguish until now: love for Thorn had lived in her heart for a very long time. It had lived in her heart at the fair. When her parents had come; and the others. It had lived in her heart that morning in their hotel by the sea; before then too. How far back it had been part of her, she couldn’t see, not precisely, except it didn’t matter. What mattered was how it lifted, supported, enthralled, and comforted her. All while she hadn’t recognised it, unable to even had she wished to, for she’d never known it, and feared it, and relied in many ways on what it should feel and look like, just as Henry said.
Hypatia let out a long sigh, and looked down the drive, as the all-knowing pig had.
‘Fine. I will go after him. I’ve no idea what I’m going to say, or how I’m going to find him—it would be just my luck he took some roundabout way Ian told him of to London—but I will try.’
Turning, she launched herself at the door, and opened it, intending to start giving orders about preparing bags, and horses, and for the farm, and work to be done, but instead she nearly slid into Mary, who was waiting patiently, a bag in hand.
‘Just whistle, my lady, and Ian will bring your horse round. We’ll mind everything, just bring his lordship back, and we’ll get you seen off to London all proper in a few days. Just in case, there’s enough for a day or two in your bag, and coin for the tolls.’
‘Thank you, Mary.’
‘My pleasure.’
Turning on her heels, Hypatia hurried back outside, whistling, and waiting only moments before Ian popped out, a bright smile on his face as he handed her the horse.
‘I sent him down Ditchrow Lane, my lady,’ the old man grinned. ‘If he kept pace as how he left, he’ll be halfway down it, and will need turn back as there’s a felled oak I forgot to tell him about, and no way to get into the fields and woods beside. Shame that. Old mind of mine isn’t what it used to be,’ he winked.
‘You’re the best man ever to live, Ian Farrow,’ she grinned, kissing his cheek, before securing her bag, and jumping into the saddle.
And then, without a moment more to lose, she was off.
I am not done with you, Thorn Ackerman.
If not for the glint in Ian’s eyes when he’d told him about this supposed short cut, Thorn might’ve thought the giant fallen oak cutting off the lane, to be a sign he should turn backall the way, to Gadmin Hall, and leave these foolish thoughts of Londonbehind. He also pondered returning to Gadmin Hall to murder Ian for playing such an underhanded trick; however, he knew that he could not endure leaving again.
It should’ve helped, to know he was doing what was right. For the person he loved most in this world, and perhaps for him too. Wrapping himself in his love for Hypatia, his unrequited love for her, might’ve warmed cold nights, and woken him on dark mornings, but he had to learn how to be his own person too. How not to depend on her for happiness, and joy, and meaning. Some part of him whispered he might’ve done that very well wrapped up in his love for Hypatia, time, and life, giving him tools to do so, but he swatted those thoughts away, as he swatted away some flies and gnats, and pondered getting back on his horse, and getting on his way.
He’d decided to take a break on one of the oak’s more solid branches, while his horse munched on some greenery nearby, so he could properly feel that goodbye. So he could feel, and cry, and mourn all he’d left behind for who-knew-how-long.
Certainly not I. A while, I think, unless she calls me for aid; enough time for her to spread those bright wings and soar beyond the clouds.
He should’ve stayed longer.
He should’ve allowed them both to accustom themselves to the idea, rather than leaving like a hasty idiot.
He should’ve…
He couldn’t remember every sigh, every change in the colour of her eyes when he’d loved her last night.
He couldn’t remember what colour the sun made her curls this morning, or how many times she’d bitten her lip as he’d packed his things.
One should know such things.
You know enough.
