"My lady," he says formally, bowing his head as they pass each other in one of the villa's many hallways. She stiffens involuntarily as he keeps walking, and then chides herself for being foolish. It could have just been a mistake – mistakes have been made before, but when she sees more of this condottiero that her husband hired, doubt gives way to certainty. Which gives way to panic. So she ignores him, as if to wish him away (if only such a thing were possible!), becoming colder – not crueler; no, never cruel – when they see each other. She no longer starts at his presence; in fact, it's as if he doesn't exist.
He sees it all, though: every toss of that dark head, every tinkling laugh at an inane jest. More importantly, he sees the way those cold blue eyes continue to deny his existence, when in reality, he is exists so very strongly as a solid being of flesh and muscle, and as much right to be here as she has. Frustrated, he stops acknowledging her presence after a while, figuring that two can play this game. They can't. Only then do both of them realize the inevitable: they can't stand it.
Neither of them can, really, but they (each more stubborn than the other) refuse to reach out and bridge the chasm that has sprung up between them. They can't handle the loneliness that comes only from knowledge of almost-solidarity, and that's what drives them to distraction. It's what makes him accidentally have to accompany her to the market, and it's what makes her narrow her eyes and hiss when she bumps into him, because she's inadvertently standing too close.
The madness of the Almost is also what makes her drag him into an alley, teeth gritted in frustration, and slam her fist into the wall. She curses, decidedly unladylike, and he can't help it – he grins like an idiot. "What in the name of Hades are you doing here?" she demands. The words are stretched taut over pain and frustration. Her hand hurts. She hates this one part of humanity.
Something in his eyes softens. Aside from the surreal situation (it's not every day that you get cornered by a wealthy, attractive woman who's just shoved you up against a wall), he's still a man. Very much so, and he appreciates the irony in her compromising her honor in such a way by standing so precariously close to him, cheeks flushed, and obviously passionate about something. He's still a man, so he can't help grinning, but stops as soon as he feels a drop of wetness on his tunic. Smile faltering, he turns and realizes that her hand, while still curled into a fist, is obviously injured. "You're bleeding," he states, carefully taking the wounded appendage, and begins to wrap it, wincing as she inhales sharply.
"I do that every month," the female retorts, stinging as ever. "Stop it," she snaps, wrenching her hand away and doing the best she can to ignore the dull throb of pain. "You know full well that Zeus would kill either of us if he knew we were here. You know—"
What exactly he did know, he never got to find out, because she took a breath, let out a small scream of frustration, and walked away, leaving him in an alley with a bloody handkerchief. Women.
《 ❀ ❀ ❀ 》
He gets transferred after that. Some minor noble conveniently pops up with a bid when she comes home with a broken hand. She claims that some rude peasant shoved her and trod upon her fingers, but they all know that it's a lie.
《 ❀ ❀ ❀ 》
The sad thing is, she doesn't even notice his absence until her birthday. An elaborate box arrives, bearing finely-wrought silver combs with pearls and other gemstones in fantastic designs. "I'm not at liberty to tell, milady," the messenger (a wisp of a boy, really) says when questioned about the sender. "I was only told that he's a great admirer of yours."
"Milady has admirers?" Her husband laughs as he leans down to kiss her dutiful lips. He's greatly amused, but when he lingers, lips grazing the line of her jaw possessively, he whispers that she is forbidden to wear the combs. He straightens up, as if nothing has happened, and the merriment continues.
When she searches the hall that night for him, he's gone.
《 ❀ ❀ ❀ 》
"Mademoiselle," a voice murmurs, barely audible over the din as the Queen loses yet again. It's cards tonight (it's cards every night), and the Queen always loses a hand or two. Or twelve. But that voice… Bright blue eyes look up, instantly free of boredom's clouding influence. She knows that voice, if nothing else. The man nipping at the expanse of skin revealed by her low-cut gown suddenly became less of a pleasurable distraction and more of an annoyance. "Get off," she orders abruptly.
"But I am," he replies, fancying himself quite the jester.
She repeats the words, but this time more harshly.
The tone surprises him, and he looks up. The Lady Sophie was known for her dulcet tones and soft eyes. "Mignonette," he wheedles (pitifully, she thinks), but the eyes that meet his are nothing like the limpid pools that he raved about earlier. No – these were icy, piercing, glass-sharp eyes that shot daggers at him. He flees.
《 ❀ ❀ ❀ 》
Finally rid of that one annoyance, she soon retires from the tables as well, but for an entirely different reason. That voice – oh, but she knows that voice! – drives her mad with annoyance and something else that can only be classified as a bit of melancholy.
She doesn't find him that evening, or the next. When they finally do meet by chance, it's the day before he leaves for some war in America. He's standing in an oddly desolate room, back to her, a perfect silhouette against a weak spring sky as the sun shines out on the still-frozen grounds. They stand, stock still for a fleeting moment, perfect as players from a tableau, before moving. She enters; he turns and bows. "Minerva, it certainly has been a while," he says, still (damn it) taller than she is.
"Don't call me that."
He tugs back the smile that threatens to break loose and instead turns it into a frown. Still the same as ever, prickly and exacting. "I'm Nathaniel," he offers. "Nathaniel Wilkes."
The next words he says come tumbling out before he can help it. "You never wore the combs." It's not so much of an accusation – more like a statement of fact. She didn't, not once, not ever.
An awkward silence ensues. "I died in childbirth," she blurts out. It's not an answer or an excuse – she doesn't really ever give either of the two.
"I know." So much for the virgin goddess, Pallas Athena, he wants to say, but thinks better of it. Another pause worms its way in, and he walks to the doorway, leaving her at the window. "This is all going to end soon, you know," he warns her, gesturing with one large hand to indicate the room, lavish and luxurious. "It can't last much longer. The people are hungry."
"I know," she says quietly.
Gods, this is frustrating, watching those dark eyebrows as one of them raises fractionally. Her body language, her demeanor – they all arrange themselves as if to say, 'is there anything else you'd like to waste my time with?'
There is, but he still turns abruptly on his heel and leaves.
《 ❀ ❀ ❀ 》
She gets in one last Christmas before trying to flee the country; one last, loving look at the opulence and splendor that is so very Versailles. Scores of presents change hands, and nobody really remembers any of it at all, other than the fact that it was all splendid fun. It always is, especially when you live in blissful ignorance.
In America, things are quite different. Men are dying, freezing to death while dreaming of the same sugarplums that aristocrats are carelessly trampling underfoot. A horse gallops into camp about a week before Christmas Eve, and weary eyes look up, hope lighting up the dreary days. Names are called and letters are delivered, because nobody is left alone at Christmastime. "Nathaniel Wilkes?" A blond man's head shoots up. Impossible. He doesn't have relatives, or anyone who'd care enough and be rich enough to send anything.
"Nathaniel Wilkes?" There it is again; that's his name. Incredulous, he propels himself forwards to receive the impossible hamper, fully prepared to have to return it to some other chap named Nathaniel. But no, it's under his name, and it opens up to reveal wine, cheese, bonbons, and other delicacies – and a carefully wrapped package. Perhaps it's not going to be a lonely Christmas after all.
He carefully unties the satin ribbon, and the delicate fabric falls away beneath his fingers to reveal a richly embroidered wool scarf. The smile he'd tucked away months ago returns with full force to his face. How clever.
"Nat!" A hoarse voice jolts him back to reality. "This is real wine, lad, and what looks like some damn fine food," the grizzled creature next to him says, envy apparent in every syllable. As if responding to a clarion call, what appears to be every miserable animal for miles around gravitates towards him.
One of them picks something up. "This yours?" he queries, holding up a small scrap of vellum. On it, written in an elegant hand, are three words:
From an admirer.
"That's mine," he says, grim firmly plastered on his face as he takes the paper and slips it carefully into his pocket.
《 ❀ ❀ ❀ 》
A week later, he wears his scarf across the Delaware. It's quite warm.
《 ❀ ❀ ❀ 》
War breaks out in France, just as they both knew it would. When the news reaches America, though, it's too late. He can only snarl impotently and smash his fist into the wall as he tries not to think too hard about it.
They live in symmetry when they come to Earth: first in Italy, where Beatrice died in childbirth, and he in battle soon after; when he somehow found the combs and sent them to her for Christmas, and got the same message back (he knows it had to be her, cheekily throwing his own words in his face) when attached to a scarf. And now – most macabre of all – he lost several toes at Valley Forge and a leg later on. She lost her head.
The grotesque humor of it all makes him want to laugh and cry at the same time. Instead, he retches and pukes all over the floor.
《 ❀ ❀ ❀ 》
It's really quite hard to explain how a seventeen-year-old girl has possession of a set of hair combs that should be venerated in a museum somewhere, much less why she's actually using them. It's hard enough that they're over half a millennium old; even worse is the presence of several precious stones all masterfully worked in at the tops. But the girl in question doesn't miss a beat. "Antique-slash-pawn shop in France," she says when asked by the male watching her curiously. "You were busy finding a whore."
The man whimpers. "Come now, Lady Lenore, have a heart! At least soften your language." He steps forward to meet her eyes in the mirror. "You're the daughter of a poet. I named you after a rare and sainted maiden – the least you can do is act the part."
She rolls her eyes. "You were consorting with a tragically beautiful lady of questionable repute while I, the lost man's only child, roamed the winding streets of a noble city."
"Much better." He smiles beatifically, and kisses the top of her head, as if bestowing a blessing on her before she heads off to school.
《 ❀ ❀ ❀ 》
"Hey babe," he calls with a cheeky wolf-whistle as they cross paths in the halls. She's torn between slapping him and dragging him to ask what the hell he's doing there. But she'll be late to class if she chooses the latter, and being late on the first day is the worst idea in the world. So she lets him go, but makes a mental note to hunt him down.
They don't see each other until the end of the day, when she figures out where his locker is. In a sleepy Florida town where the average age is something like sixty-five, there's a ridiculous number of adolescents, which makes her laugh.
He straightens up from getting something at the bottom of his locker and closes the door before seeing her. "Hey babe," he says again, giving her the once-over with a cheeky smile on his face. He towers over her. Again.
"It's Charlotte," she says, leaning on the garishly red locker next to his before smiling in that annoying, enigmatic way and walking off. He only notices later, when analyzing the moment, that she was wearing the combs. About damn time, too.