Page 72 of Antiletum
The dove grey sheet on my bed is tossed on the ground. I collect all the pieces of the painting, throw them in the center, and bring the corners together to create a sack. Mindless, I haul it over my shoulder, a splintered piece of wood poking my back. Trekking through my room, my cargo snags on the arched door framing. Ripping it free, I span the hall to Val’s ajar door—inviting, as it always is. An open gesture telling me he wants me to come in.
Oh, howsplendidlythat worked out for us last time.
Still, my foot kicks in the door, uncaring if I’ll be faced with him inside. Uncaring for him to witness how I wrecked his hours of outpouring. How he whittled away his time after our first argument.
But Val is nowhere to be seen. Not across the black cathedral bed. Or sprawled on one of the velvet settees. The door to his en suite is open and it’s as dark as my husband’s soul inside. Equally a blessing and a curse. So hedidn’tretire to his rooms after exiting the graveyard. A nonsensical part of me wonders where he might have gone.
Shooing that question away, down the short set of stairs I go—straight to the large bed in the sunken, cozy room. I dump the remnants of my husband’s gift in the middle of the mattress, still damp varnish staining what would have been our marriage sheets.
“Here’s a gift of my own,” I seethe down at the ruin, breathing hard.
Val’s own heartache cansoothe him in the lonely hours of night. He brought it upon himself.
19
Alas, nothing can be truly perfect
Val
Which is more terrifying amidst the starlight filtering through the crystal domed ceiling into my chambers: the sealed envelope stamped with a wax barn owl face, or the remnants of my painting pouring out my heart and soul—shredded to bits just the same—decorating my bed?
I don’t have an honest answer. Both are adrenaline inducing, for entirely different reasons.
Truthfully, I should have expected each respective gut punch. In keeping with my current state of being unable to rationally think aboutanything, it’s unsurprising that I have been entirely blind sided by both the letter and my destroyed gift to my wife.
It’s hard not to wonder what she did with the brooch. I’m sure I can expect to never see it again.
Before I read the letter from Parliament, I strip the bed, throwing the linens in the bottom of my wardrobe to be properly hidden from sight and forgotten. I don’t think I could sleep in here tonight even if I tried. Not that unusual. Might as well spend the rest of the evening soaring over the city, beating off some of this tension with themoonlight and night air burrowed into my feathers. Much like I did after leaving Delaney with Austin in the cemetery. It was obvious what was happening in the graveyard between me and my wife. Even before I waltzed by half naked. Purposely.
Deos, it is freeing that Delaney knows I can shift. Though I will mourn our visits when she openly accepted what thrives between us. How she would stroke my feathers and allow me to preen her hair in turn. Being able to openly rub my face against her skin.
However, I won’t miss not having time to expel the pellets left from Delaney’s mice she offered me before having to shift again. I shiver at the thought of indigestion and sore throats from the gruesome act of purging them as a man.
Alas, nothing can be truly perfect.
There’s no doubt that Parliament is all around cruel, controlling the population’s magic, money, wares, and relationships, but the thievery of the people’sNocturnegiven gifts to shift is unconscionable. Denying the masses an intrinsic part of who they are.
I hurt for my wife tonight, ruminating on how sheachesto shift: a feeling I cannot even begin to fathom. Ever since my first shift, when I was only a small boy, I can’t imagine not being able to call upon my owl at will. To be denied the freedom of touching the clouds. I bet when we resurrect the Heartstones, break the Ellden clocks, and raise theNocturneDelaney will be able to do just that.
We will be able to fly together.
I can teach her. Unlike how I had to teach myself as a fledgling. Give her all the pointers that I learned myself through nothing more than trial and error.
That thought alone is enough for me to immediately flop back to my original turf of ‘raise Heartstones andoverthrow government.’
By the time all is said and done, there won’t be any worry of Delaney being granted freedom from our marriage. Because she won’twantto be free of it at all. That much I am certain of. I’m only unsure of how long, precisely, it will take us to get there.
Love her willfulness though I do, her stubborn nature on this matter is to her detriment. I was afraid of laying the truth at her feet before, terrified of her rejection. That what we have doesn’t mean a fraction to her what it does to me.
But now…
Now my lack of spelling it out for her is more out of my own curiosity, wanting to know just how long it will take for her to be honest with herself. If she ever will.
And fear of her rejection.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so brazen in front of Austin. But Delaney herself said she wishes to sell to the masses a false fairytale of our marriage. One could argue I was only giving her what she desires.
A quick glance at my letter from Parliament across my marble topped table sends my heart skittering all over again.
