Isabella still cannot bear when the wind howls in the darkness and the rain kisses the lattice, she starts at every noise, her heartbeat quickens at each step on the winding stairway to her tiny room, she imagines herself a little better now.
She no longer sleeps with the knife.
The purple marks have faded from her skin…the scars she will wear to the grave.
Her tiny babe lies in his cradle, sleeping at least for a moment.
She leans down and kisses the tiny pale cheek; he stirs but a little and mercifully does not wake.
Linton, named for her family.
Linton Heathcliff for the man she married, for the gypsy she took to her bed and called her lawfully wedded husband.
Her husband…the prince that became a monster, the fairytale she believed in…the pages soaked in the poison of hate…scorched in the fires of revenge.
And come the end she had fled, into the darkness and the whispering snow that fell like pearls into her tresses the colour of sunlight, as though God himself cried for what had become of her.
She glances at herself in the looking glass, and gently brushes a curl forward to hide the ugly mark below her ear…
She bites back the tears that threaten to fall, even now.
So many months living in fear, cowering behind these filthy walls, only alive but for the charity of others.
Without their goodness she would have starved within a week.
Alone and loved by no one in all the world.
Beyond her window the sky is fading to the warm gold of evening, she is glad that summer is come at last.
Perhaps now the child's health may improve….She can scarce pay for the doctor, she can barely feed herself enough to keep him breathing.
And each time the doctor reminds her that the boy is ill, she must care for herself more, if not for her sake then for his.
He has no compassion…No understanding.
She has swallowed nothing but water in two days, the last of her coin gone into his pocket, for the medicine her son needs so desperately.
She sinks into the worn chair, tracing the faded flowers with pale fingers, and allows herself a moment of self-indulgent sorrow.
She flinches at the tread on the stairs and reaches out…of course; she sold the blade for a crust of stale bread two weeks hence.
It will be her angel of mercy, perhaps with a gift of food or else an offer of work…she is a good old woman, she took Isabella in from the cold streets, she will have some good news or else will have come to sit with her a little, and tell her not to lose hope in God's mercy.
She rises, the frayed hem of her gown brushing dust from the bare floor in a cloud of silver as she crosses to the door.
A knock falls against the wood…too strong to be her dear helper…
"Miss Linton?"
Heaven help her…She knows that voice.
How has he found her? Who has played her Judas?
To betray her to such a fiend.
Her poor boy….
She draws on a strength greater than she, as Christ must have sought in the Garden.
When he threw himself before the Lord and begged mercy.
Not my will but yours.
She leans against the door and her voice when it comes, is gilt edged in diamonds, hard and cold as ice.
"How did you find me? You are not welcome here."
She throws open the door and stands before Heathcliff, lent courage not normally in her possession, she glares up into those black eyes, and tries to be the Isabella Linton she once was.
The proud daughter of the magistrate, when he was nothing more than a filthy gypsy at her gate.
Her eyes burn with a fire that surprises him, like sapphires lit by candles.
She is thinner than he remembers her, in truth she looks as though she is starving to death, he eyes the scar at her cheek…
Silence stretches itself between them.
She waits.