Page 87 of The Phoenix Bride
“I know. I am sorry.”
“I will come back to London,” I tell him. “I will be here. And you will be here, also.”
“It is a large city.”
“I don’t care. When summer returns, so shall I. And I will find you again.”
He shakes his head. “You will forget me,” he says. “I know you think otherwise, but once you are gone…”
“I swear I won’t forget you, David,” I reply.
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can, and I do. Will you forget me?”
“Of course not.”
“You must swear you won’t,” I say. “As I have sworn to you. Unless you promise to remember me, I will not leave.”
He makes a wounded sound. “Don’t say that. How can I promise now, knowing that refusing will keep you with me?”
I seize his wrist. “If that is how you feel, then choose otherwise. Tell me to stay instead.”
For an agonizing moment, he stares at me, and I at him, and neither of us says anything at all. Awfully—selfishly—I wish I could transport myself to the past, when he was coming to the townhouse to treat me, and I could be certain of his presence. When he was mine because he had to be. When neither of us had the choice to make.
“If I asked you to stay, I would cage you again,” David says. “Lock you away in your sister’s home. I cannot. You are meant for greater things than that. Go with Sam and be happy with him. Live, Cecilia.”
“I will,” I reply. “I will be happy. I will live, and soon, we will meet again. I know that we will. We are meant for each other, David Mendes. I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.”
He exhales shakily, eyes widening in surprise. I press my lips to his once more, quickly, harshly. It is not a good kiss, as mucha reprimand as it is affection. After, my head drops to rest in the crook of his neck, and his arms close around me. One of his hands rests upon my back, and the other cups the base of my skull. His skin is very warm.
I pull back to look at him. “Say you love me, David. Give me that, at least. Lie, if it is necessary.”
“I cannot lie to you,” he replies.
“Then—”
“Te amo,” he says. “Ani ohev otah. I love you. That is why I must ask you to leave. Promise me you will, querida. Swear you will.”
I swallow my tears, collect myself, look at him directly. I see myself in his eyes; a hint of reflection—something gold, something pale—in the pools of black.
“I swear,” I say. “And I swear, also, that I will return.”
I step away, scrubbing at my face with my sleeve. David drops his arms.
“Farewell, Cecilia,” he murmurs, whispering it like one of his prayers.
“Farewell,” I reply.
I turn back to the harpsichord. I cannot stand to watch him leave. Waiting until I hear the door moving, I allow myself a sob. I play a note, and then another; suddenly I am so furious, so enraptured by my own grief, that my hands are moving by instinct. I am angry at David for leaving, at myself for letting him leave, at the world for forcing us to part. I slam my fingers across the keys, hardly knowing what I intend to produce. Then I hear a familiar roll of notes, and I realize this is the toccata I have been attempting for months now, which I have never been able to finish, never been able to perfect.
This piece is monstrously difficult, but that was never why I had trouble with it. I could play it, technically, but it lacked theflourish all toccatas require to soar. It is too dark a song for joy, and yet too fast for sorrow. Now I understand that what it needed was anger. It requires its player to wield it like a weapon. I sound each note as if it is battlefield surgery, as if I have blood on my hands. It is labored and painful and violent.
It is flawless. It is the greatest performance I have ever given or will ever give. And when I look up, David is gone; my only audience is the silence he has left me.
—
There are three Cecilias now, whom I have been and have become.
