Page 55

‘Will you remember this, do you think?’ he asks her. ‘Once you leave?’

His tone is teasing, but the intensity of his expression betrays him.

‘Always,’ she says.

‘I want you to remember.’ He moves his hand. Claire gasps. ‘I want to make it impossible to forget.’

‘I will not forget. Never, Leander. I swear.’

He bends to kiss her, releasing her wrists. She unbuttons his shirt, pushes it off his shoulders; then she undoes his trousers, and she takes him in hand, and they are both touching each other. At first it is sweet and stumbling, the newness of it breathless, uncertain—then they both become desperate, and the uncertainty fades. Leander moves his fingers, faster and faster. Claire feels the silk of the sheets slide beneath her, the cool breeze from the doors to the balcony, the heat of him, the pounding of her heart. He is murmuring nonsense in her ear, calling her ‘sweetheart,’ telling her that she is so good for him, so responsive, so willing. Too soon she is drawn tight, tight as the strings of the mandolin, and as he whispers encouragement in her ear, she cries out as she comes. It has never been quite so savage before. She splits apart and comes together again, thrumming, undone.

As she whines against his shoulder, he says, voice strained, ‘Claire, I can’t—I need. . .’

‘Please, please,’ she says, pulling him closer. The angle was already just so, and her movements bring him inside her, a smooth slide that feels so painfully good that they both gasp in surprise. His arms encircle her, and he kisses the corner of her mouth, the shell of her ear. His movements are uncharacteristically clumsy, his fingers convulsing against her back.

‘Leander,’ she says, and he pulls back so that she can see his face. She presses her palm to his chin, marvelling at the glaze of desire in his eyes. Her own vision has gone blurry. If this is not real, then she must remain in this unreal place forever. If she is dreaming, she must not wake up. She tells herself, Do not wake up, as he slowly rocks forward, rocks back, and pleasure sparks once more. Do not wake up.

His breath, hot against her neck. His fingers, pressed into her lower back. She catalogues all these things, presses them within the pages of her mind, tells herself they will remain there forever. Tells herself that almost anything would be worth this.

‘Claire,’ Leander says, his breath quickening. ‘Claire.’

‘Yes?’

‘I was wrong.’

‘How so?’

‘I didn’t almost drown for you,’ he said. ‘I already did.’

Claire wishes to reply, to kiss him, to beg him for more—but his movements speed, and all thought, all speech, is torn from her. All she can do is cling to him.

She holds Leander as he shudders against her. And she feels some part of her, some long-buried part, grow a green shoot out of its soil.

After, he holds her close to him, making a game of tracing lines between the freckles on her shoulders.

‘These are like Cygnus,’ Leander murmurs. ‘If I had a pen and ink I’d draw lines between them, to show you the stars.’

Claire’s eyes are closed. ‘You would make a mess of the bed.’

‘We’ve already done that.’

Claire giggles into the pillow.

‘Do you think,’ he says, ‘that if we were to meet in another place, a place not at all like this one—somewhere real and ugly, where the statues don’t live, and we had no secrets to keep—do you think then that you’d still want me?’

‘Of course,’ Claire says, opening her eyes.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because I am, Leander,’ she replies. ‘I do not know why, but I feel certain that if I saw you even briefly somewhere—if our eyes met each other’s across the room at a gallery, or if I saw you on the street as I passed by in a carriage—even if we did not speak and I never learnt your name. Even then, you would haunt me all my life.’

He goes silent and considers this a long while. ‘You speak as if it’s fate.’

‘Not fate,’ Claire says. ‘But I think some people are drawn to each other inevitably. There is some concordance in their souls that makes it so.’

Leander’s breath hitches. He puts an arm over her and pulls her closer to him, her back pressing against his chest. ‘Concordant souls,’ he whispers. ‘Is that what we are?’

‘Yes.’