The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.”
I want to close my eyes as I listen, the words painting a picture of a man meeting a woman in secret while a bright, full moon lights up the dark night. But instead of closing my eyes, I watch Ambrose read, his gaze cast downward and a loose strand of dark hair falling over his forehead, the fire illuminating one side of his face with a soft orange glow. In the poem, the forbidden lovers speak, the highwayman telling the woman?—
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
Ambrose reads, and surprisingly, I’m enraptured by the story of the poem. Forbidden love, danger, and fatal sacrifice. When he reaches the end, the repetition of the lines from the beginning now full of despair instead of hope, my chest tightens with unexpected emotion. I let out a slow breath, thesilence in the room only broken by the soft thump of him shutting the book.
“So? What do you think?” he asks softly.
Fuck, he was right about the fact that I’d like it. That was incredible. “It was good,” I admit, but my voice cracks.
He smiles softly, not in a smug I-told-you-so sort of way, but in a proud, satisfied way. I can’t help but smile back. This is the first moment since I’ve been in this house that I feel like I’m almost able to relax.
The moment stretches between us, delicate as a spider's web and just as fragile. The firelight dances across his features, softening the sharp edges that usually define him, and I find myself studying the way shadows play across his face. In this moment, something seems to have shifted between us, and I’m afraid if I move or speak, I’ll break the spell.
He's still holding the book, his thumb absently stroking its leather spine, and the gentleness of the gesture is at odds with everything I know about him. The same hands that have surely ended countless lives now cradle these pages like they're something precious.
The fire crackles, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney, and I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. The warmth seeps into my bones, and I close my eyes for a few seconds, savoring the simple comfort.
When I open my eyes, he’s staring directly at me, and I quickly look away. He may not be a good man by any stretch, but there’s a humanity in him that I haven’t seen until today.
That almost scares me more than his darkness.
I should move, should break this spell before it takes root too deeply. But the fire is warm, and the poetry still echoes in my mind, and for just this moment, I want to pretend thatI’m not his captive, but instead that we're just two people sharing a peaceful evening.
“What got you into reading poetry?” I ask.
“I’ve always loved reading, so I read a little bit of everything when I was younger. But poetry is beautiful because it allows someone to say so much in so few words. Every word, every line, every stanza is a precise sort of beauty.”
“That makes sense, I suppose.” I stand to examine the titles on his shelves more closely, but my eyes are drawn to a shelf with a clear, locked casing that contains dozens of notebooks. “What’s the deal with the notebooks?” I ask, pointing toward the case.
“Another hobby I’ve had for a very long time,” he says. “I’ve kept a journal since my twenties, before I became this way, and I’ve continued to keep one since.”
Wow. One hundred years of journals chronicling his life up to this point. My curiosity burns. What I’d give to read those, to have a peek inside the mind of this enigmatic man.
“Can I read them?”
“No.”
“That’s what you do with that leather notebook, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“What do you write about?”
“Everything.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the clarification.”
