The American display is sparse in comparison. There is a bald eagle made of plaster and a sculpture, larger than Beatrix, made entirely of Goodyear rubber that doesn’t look much like anything. They cross the model iron bridge arm in arm and watch Samuel Colt demonstrate a revolving pistol. But the heart of the exhibit is a marble statue of a woman wearing nothing but chains, standing on a rotating platform, concealed under a crimson velvet canopy.
There is no shortage of marble nudes on display around the exhibition, but theGreek Slaveis the only one hidden behind a curtain. Beatrix suspects the air of mystery has added to the sculpture’s allure. It scandalizes everyone at the exhibition except for Oliver, who is instead mortified by the German exhibit of taxidermy kittens having a tea party.
They turn around at the end of the foreign hall, but instead of continuing down the next row of exhibits to visit Norway and Sweden and Denmark, Oliver guides Beatrix past Belgium’s enormous sculpture of a knight on horseback.
He gestures to a wide staircase. “There’s something I want to make sure you see, up in the gallery.”
Her heart skips, and she follows him up the steps. He stops on the landing. “Close your eyes.”
“What, here? On the stairs?”
He offers her his arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll guide you.”
Beatrix loops her arm through his and closes her eyes. She lifts herskirt and takes careful steps when he tells her to. Slowly, together, they reach the top.
“Can I open them?” she asks.
“Not yet.” Oliver guides her over even flooring. It’s quieter than the exhibits downstairs, the air cooler, and she can hear the hollow echo of her boot heels on the wood. Oliver drops her arm, and for a moment, she is alone. He takes her by the shoulders and positions her just so.
“There,” he says, a note of triumph in his voice. “Now you can open them.”
Beatrix opens her eyes and gasps.
Swathes of heavy fabric dyed as black as the night sky hang from the ceiling and drape down to the floor, blocking the sunlight from shining through the clear walls and vaulted roof of the Crystal Palace. Instead, the light streams through panels of stained glass nestled between the dark cloths—large and small, arched and square, rectangular and even round, like the old rose window at St. Paul’s. All of it exquisite in its color and detail. All of it the most beautiful thing Beatrix has ever seen.
Oliver stands just behind her shoulder. “Do you like it?”
But the sight has stolen her breath away. She can’t find the words to tell him all that she is feeling—more than she has felt in centuries.
“Bea?”
She turns and kisses him. Her mouth meets his, and for a single, thundering heartbeat, Oliver stands frozen under her touch. And then his lips part and he kisses her back. Warmth surges through her.
He pulls away. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Heat rushes to her cheeks.
“It’s not you,” he quickly adds. “I made a mistake.” He winces at his fumbling words. “Not you.”
He sinks onto a thinly padded bench across from a triptych of stained glass. He stares over the edge of the railing, though Beatrix isn’t sure he sees the crowd below them, moving through the exhibits like colorful ants. She pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
Oliver pulls his gaze from the milling crowd, but he won’t look her in the eye. “In Venice, I told you I wanted more time to do everything.” He looks up at her, his eyes stormy with doubt and guilt and something darker. “I didn’t tell you why.”
Beatrix swallows down her fear. “Why?”
He slips his journal from inside his coat and pulls a worn piece of paper from between the pages. It reminds her of the poem from the Thames, the one she folded and unfolded until it fell apart into nothing. He offers it to her. She opens it along the well-worn creases.
“What is this?” She tries to focus on the words, tries to make them make sense. But they won’t. They can’t.
“My obituary.”
May 23, 2202Boston, Massachusetts
Oliver pulls open the heavy door, painted absinthe green and glowing dimly in the light of the neon sign mounted above it. The bar is packed with college students dancing and drinking and shouting over a thumping bass line, celebrating the end of a year or four. Six, if you are Oliver and Luke and Zoë. The end of an era.
Zoë beckons to him from the edge of the packed dance floor. She’s almost as tall as him, even in her worn-out canvas sneakers, with bronzed skin and a sly smile that makes her look like she knows something you don’t. Knowing Zoë, she probably does. Her bubblegum-pink hair is still in its sleek twist from graduation, but she’s changed into a sequined minidress.
“Sorry I’m late.” He fell asleep on his couch after the ceremony and didn’t wake up until it was dark outside. He was tempted to crawl into his bed, but he knew Zoë would never let him live it down if he missed the final bar night of their college careers.
