Page 85 of The Phoenix Bride
“She will be happier without me,” I say.
“I sincerely doubt that.”
“You don’t understand,” I reply, voice sharp. “It isn’t as simple as you believe. We are too different.”
Grey says, “I know that you are different. But that doesn’t change what I have seen.”
“What have you seen?”
“The two of you together,” he replies. “Perhaps I am naïve. I know that I am. I know people can be cruel; I know I often underestimate that cruelty. But it is the least we can do, I believe, to allow ourselves a little kindness.”
A lump forms in my throat. I can no longer look at him. I turn away.
He approaches and lays a hand on my shoulder. “Summer in London,” he says. “I always summer in London. If she agrees, we will return next year. It is time enough, Master Mendes, for you to change your mind.”
“Perhaps.”
“Time enough,” he repeats. “I know it is. All will be well again.”
And—for a moment—I almost believe him.
—
I am not in the mood for stargazing now. I bid Grey farewell, and I return to the bedroom.
As I walk the townhouse’s crowded hallways, his words echo in my mind. He is correct: There is time enough, certainly, for things to change. Eight months—nine? More time than I have known Cecilia at all.
Cecilia is still sleeping. It is almost dawn. The light streams through the window and pools around her. It illuminates her skin, the halo of her hair. I sit on the mattress and watch her.
She is ivory and gold. She is Granada; she is the mezuzah on the doorframe. And someday, perhaps, things will change: The fire will end, a new summer will come, the linden will bloom again.
But, until then, I cannot touch her. I cannot return to her.
I have to let her go.
I awaken to an empty bed and a knock on the door. I have only a moment to look at the space beside me, shocked and woeful, before the knock repeats. I am forced to answer.
It is Sam. He enters and sits beside me, taking my hands in his. He speaks. He explains. He suggests we elope this very morning.
I have no answer for him. I tell him I must think upon it, and I ask him to bring me somewhere else. I cannot stay in thisroom, surrounded by my memories of the evening, haunted by the emptiness of the bed. He takes me to a music room instead, where he leaves me alone with his harpsichord. It is an extravagant thing, wood and black enamel with gold inlay. The underside of its raised lid has been painted with a dawn sky. Despite the fact that no one in the house plays, it has been kept tuned.
I play “Go, Lovely Rose.” When I am finished, I look up to see that David is watching me from the doorway.
Relief slices through me like a sword. “You weren’t there thismorning,” I say, accusatory, at the same time he says, “Forgive me.”
Irked, I play a discordant chord, and he winces. “It was cruel of you,” I say, “to leave me to wake up alone. I thought you had left.”
“I know. I am sorry, Cecilia. I—I was—”
“You were being a coward,” I say.
“Yes.”
He enters the room, standing beside me, staring down at the harpsichord keys. He taps a high note.
I echo the note back to him. “Sam thinks we should elope.”
“I know. Will you?”
