“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not.”I’d rather not have this moment at all. I’d rather still be in that bed with you snoring softly in my arms. I’d rather still be at that ridiculous ball with my ridiculous attempt at waltzing. Anywhere else.
I had the brief notion at the start of whatever this was, that this moment might be easier for knowing it was coming. It wasn’t. If anything, it was worse. Because even knowing it was inevitable, even though I was ready for it, I hadn’t seen it coming. Not really. Not like this. Not when I had the vague notion to sneak upstairs at the office and find my mother’s ring.
“William…” There was no warmth, none of the usual affection. I hadn’t noticed until just this moment.
Part of me wanted to urge her on, to force her hand. But the petty, jealous, broken part of me wanted her to suffer forit. To drag it out. And the rather delusional part clung to hope, desperate to give her one last moment to change her mind.
“William, I…” Her gaze cast about the room as she searched for the right words. Anywhere but at me. “I think it’s time you returned home.”
A fist tightened around my chest, heart, lungs, esophagus, all of it. The tears were there, of course they were, but that—that was the one thing I would not do.
“I see.” The words ripped from me, my tone far steadier than I felt.
“I-I’ve been using you.” Even now, even in this, she was beautiful. It wasn’t fair. That the sun should halo her so, that her cheeks should flush that delicately—it was cruel. “I’ve been using you. I don’t love you. I can’t love you.”
There it was. The crack. The physical agony that burst from my chest. I tried to swallow it but it lodged there, suffocating me.
“I’m sorry, William.”
And with that, she turned and stepped out, leaving me open and bleeding on her frilly purple carpet.
I took a great ragged, rasping breath. There was pain, Lord there was pain. At some point after the door shut, my knees gave out and I landed in a ragged heap. Ironically in very much the same position I had found last night with her in my arms.
But I felt relief too. The waiting was over. No more worry over whether this thing, or the next, or the one after that would be the one. The thing that did it—that reminded her how far beneath her I was.
This feeling, this bone-deep agony, this was the worst it would be.
I didn’t know how long I sat there. Not crying, surprisingly. My eyes were dry. But breathing. It was a difficult enough task at the moment, each breath taking consideration and will. But eventually I managed to stand.
When I slipped into the hall, I found my bag packed. And wasn’t that just charming? Had she informed the entire staff this morning? Or merely the essentials? The snap of irritation was a balm against the devastation, and I clung to it, fed it. I grabbed my bag and hurried down the stairs to the door.
Bouvier hovered uncomfortably there, a carriage waiting through the doors. “Monsieur… I’m?—”
“Don’t. Please.” I could not manage the man comforting me.
I could feel wide, downturned green eyes behind me. It took everything inside me not to turn and beg, scream, cry, anything.
“Would you prefer the carriage, sir?”
The carriage… The carriage with a desperate Celine whimpering for me. Certainly not.
“I think I’ll walk. Can you have my bag sent at your convenience?”
“Of course.”
I nodded and set the bag aside. I stepped purposefully through the door when he opened it, out into the deceptive sunlight. On the little railing sat the damned bird, silent for once in its damned life.
CELINE
The ease of it was the worst part. Not on my end, of course. I felt an agony that was at once the same and entirely different from the torment of Gabriel’s death. That I managed to get the words out with any semblance of steadiness was owed entirely to determination and the numbness that had settled over me.
But his acceptance—that was a pain I would not soon forget. There was no fight in him, not a single word of protest. Evenbeneath the hurt in his eyes, a shade of ice blue that was entirely new to me. There was no steel, merely resignation and almost… relief. And wasn’t that a sickening thought?
The man had worked his way into every facet of my life within days. My bed smelled of citrus and sage and him. His cravat and waistcoat were still spread on the edge of the bed. The lilies he brought me were still in bloom on my bedside table. Everywhere I turned, reminders of William. My door reminded me of him. My flesh was a reminder. Under my skirts, sets of five finger-shaped bruises lined my upper thigh. My neck bore similar marks. He was everywhere.
And gone.
I climbed into the unmade bed in a pathetic ball. The fabric was cold and stark, wrinkles the only reminder of his presence, that and the divot from his head on the pillow.
