.

.

.

He lies so still at night, his chest barely rising with the effort of breath, that Victoria can hardly be blamed for resting a hand against his heart to check that it still beats. Every time, it does. He stirs and once he even grasps her wrist, murmurs, "Emily," and it is her heart that shudders, that breaks, that stops. In the morning he never remembers.

In the morning, he maybe even loves her.

But in the night-

There is a part of him, she believes, that will always be in the land of the dead, drinking and laughing. He is so pale, his smile so faded when she remembers that time when they first met. She tries to energize him, tries to deserve the (unexpected) warmth of his arm around her waist, asks him to play the piano, and every note sings like a love letter to someone else. She wipes away the tears before he can see them.

She tries to forget that one day they will die, and Victor will meet that girl again, with the long dark hair and her skin blued and rotting, a corpse in wedding gown who loved Victor. How can he? she wants to cry out. How can he love the dead so much, when the living have so much to offer?

(In the darker nights, lying under the heavy sheets that Victor's family paid for, in the gray halls where she was raised, she knows it is because the dead offer more, and freely.

Victor was never given a choice, not really, she remembers. Emily, who had put an arm around Victoria and guided her away from Lord Barkis- so beautiful, so gracious, so caring, that Victoria could understand why Victor would want someone like her- had simply relinquished her claim, when the poison was already lapping at Victor's lips.)

Be honest with yourself, Victoria, she thinks brutally. You think one day he'll kill himself and leave you behind. He was yours, once, but you lost him and just because he sleeps at your side doesn't mean you have him back.

But the thoughts only come at night, and during the day, Victor smiles at her (and if it is less than what used to be, the sun blinds her eyes and she cannot see) and takes her by the hand (and if she jumps, it is only because she is surprised and not because she had expected the cool hand of a corpse) and kisses her lips (and if she tastes rot, well, she has always been an imaginative girl).

Victor and Victoria, the young, pale couple, so deeply infatuated with each other. Victor, so handsome with his dark hair, and soulful eyes. Victoria, so pretty, with her light hair and sweet smile.

They are young and in love and married. Nothing else matters.

.

.

.