Page 69 of The Phoenix Bride
Cecilia is standing outside.
The door closes behind me. I hover at the threshold. I look at her, and she looks at me.
I have never seen her so beautiful. Her hair is curled and pinned up at her ears, eyes lined with kohl, skin flushed with wine and heat. It is warm in the gallery, and there is a thin film of sweat on her neck and forehead. Her dress is a little loose, slipping indecently low down her shoulders. I want to dip my fingers into the hollows of her collarbone. I want to press my mouth against the line of her jaw. I want to close my eyes, but I can’t.
“Cecilia,” I say, voice low and hoarse. “What are you doing here?”
“I…Mistress Myddleton invited me.”
“Were you the one who commended me to her service?”
“Yes.”
I release a breath, shoulders slumping. “Why did you do that?”
“She needed a doctor.”
“Is that all?”
She takes a step toward me, from a black tile to white. I watch her, still and silent. We are chess pieces, and she is taking her turn.
“I missed you,” she says. “That’s why I did it.”
“How do you want me to respond to that?”
“I want you to feel the same.”
I take my own step forward—white to black—and reply, “Last time we saw each other— I thought you’d be angry at me.”
“For knowing about the betrothal?” She sighs. “I was. I am. But I have missed you more than I have resented you.”
Hearing that makes me ache with gratefulness, with relief, with want of her—but I must remain resolved. “There is nothing more to be said between us,” I tell her, as firmly as I can. “We both know you ought to turn around and go back to the dining room, pretend this never happened. You never should have come up here in the first place.”
There are only three tiles between us now. She moves forward. “You haven’t missed me, then?” she asks. “You haven’t thought of me, in the weeks since we last saw each other?”
“Of course, I have.”
“Then—”
“Everywhere,” I interrupt, temper rising, “You have beeneverywheresince we first met. I can’t escape you. Everywhere I go, you are there, whether real or imagined. And now that youare standing in front of me, I still can’t be certain whether youare truly here or instead some sort of waking dream. But—whatever you are—you ought to leave.”
She looks crestfallen. “We could talk, at least. Just for a little while. I know things have been difficult for you. I saw Jan, and…Your father…”
“Don’t,” I snarl, and her eyes widen. “Cecilia, leave,please. I haven’t the patience.”
She shakes her head. She is wearing earrings, cherry-sized pearls, and they swing wildly with the movement. The color on her cheeks intensifies. I wonder how much she has drunk tonight; enough, at least, to make her dangerous. “You are intent on your own suffering,” she says. “You know that? You and your martyr complex, your dramatic declarations—”
“Martyr complex?”
“You make everything so complicated, when it doesn’t need to be!”
“Lifeis complicated—”
“Oh, shut up!” she snarls. “You are as bad as the rest sometimes, you know. Stop talking to me as if I am your patient. Men see a woman having feelings and decide it is their job to remove them. Yes, I missed you, but I didn’t know we would meet in this way. I thought you could aid Jane—Mistress Myddleton—and now here you are chiding me forhelpingyou to get a new client. I know you have been grieving, but I don’t think that excuses it. You don’t think I know what grief looks like? You think you are permitted to treat me cruelly because of it?”
She steps forward another tile; I step back. A queen and a pawn.
“I should go,” I say.
