His laugh was ugly, bitter. "Leave? You can barely breathe without wheezing. Your feet are so damaged you won't walk for days. You have no money, yes, I checked your pockets, don't look so shocked, no family, no position. Where exactly would you go? Back over my wall to die in my garden like some tragic heroine?"
"If necessary."
"How dramatically foolish of you." But his arms tightened around her again, and she realised with a start that he was shaking. No, they both were. "You always were too proud for your own well-being.”
"And you always were too cruel when you were frightened," The sharp retort flew from her lips before she could check herself.
The silence that followed was deafening. His body went completely still behind her, hardly daring to breathe. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and infinitely more dangerous.
“Frightened? “Do you truly believe that I am frightened?”
Of what exactly? Pray tell.”
"My aunt passed." Clara she stated without any expression. "The fever took her and half of Bath. I got a position as a governess. The master had wandering hands and a wife who blamed me for it. I was dismissed without reference. I tried to find work, seamstress, shop girl, anything. But without references, without connections..." She trailed off. "So yes, I stole boots. I walked for three days through sleet to get here. Because even your cruelty seemed better than freezing to death in a ditch. However, I do believe that I was gravely mistaken.”
She felt him swallow, his throat moving against her hair.
"The rose," she said suddenly, desperately needing to change the subject. "You said it survived."
"It's a weed," he said after a moment. "Grows wild all over the west wall. Impossible to kill. Rather like its gardeners, apparently."
"We grafted it well."
"We were children playing at being clever. It was luck, nothing more."
"It was…" Clara started to argue, then stopped. What was the point? This wasn't the boy who'd delighted in their creation. This was someone else, someone harder and meaner and absolutely determined to hurt her as much as possible.
"You're crying," he observed clinically.
She hadn't realised she was. "No, I'm not."
"Terrible liar, as always." His thumb brushed across her cheek, catching a tear, and for a moment his touch was almost gentle. Then he seemed to catch himself, his hand dropping away. "This is why you shouldn't have come. I'm not... I'm not who you remember."
“That much is clear.”
"The boy you knew no longer exists.”
“Very well,” Clara said with feeling. "He was a coward who chose his father's approval over keeping his word. At least you're honest about being horrid."
She felt him flinch as if she'd slapped him.
“Leave” he said quietly.
“By all means, my dress?"
"In the morning. When you can walk without collapsing. Until then, you'll stay here, you'll eat what I give you, and you'll be grateful for it. Then you'll leave and never come back."
“It would afford me the greatest satisfaction.”
They sat in furious silence, still wrapped together, both too proud to be the first to move, and despite everything, the anger, the hurt, the years between them, Clara became aware of his every move. The way his heartbeat had accelerated when she'd called him a coward. The way his hands, for all his cruel words, held her carefully, avoiding her bruises. The way he'd said "theboy you knew No longer exists." As if he was trying to convince himself.
"Your scar," she said suddenly.
Every muscle in his body went rigid. "What of it?"
"I just... I wanted you to know. It did not escape my notice.”
“Fear not. Revulsion will come after you have recovered fully to observe it properly.”
