Starset
"These past few weeks have been bitter ones. Dean has gone—where I know not. He has never written—never will, I suppose. Not to be getting letters from Dean when he is away seems strange and unnatural."
~Emily's Quest, Chapter XII
Madrid—June, 1908
Well, I have lost you; and I lost you fairly
In my own way, and with my full consent.
Say what you will, kings in a tumbrel rarely
Went to their deaths more proud than this one went.
It was one of those mornings in early summer that the inhabitants of Madrid considered to be almost perfect. And the most beautiful place in the city of Madrid was la Plaza del Angel—or so at least said the man in charge of the inn there when he wanted to draw in customers. But today, one of his patrons could not see the beauty around him for the sorrow of what might have been.
It was time to face reality, Dean knew from the moment he awoke from a restless sleep. Today was to have been his wedding day, the day that Emily would finally have been his—the day that he had dreamed of for so many years, knowing that more than likely it would never be more than a dream. But now—but now, not even the dream was left.
He would never marry his Star now—had he been foolish to think he ever could? Probably. But what was there in life without being a bit of a fool? The fools and the dreamers—they were the only ones with hope.
Some nights of apprehension and hot weeping
I will confess; but that's permitted me;
Day dried my eyes; I was not one for keeping
Rubbed in a cage a thing that would be free.
Mechanically, Dean went through the ritual of preparing for the day, just as he had done every morning since his arrival a week previously. As he breakfasted on the terrace, he thought about his mad flight from the Island—and Emily.
"I can't marry you after all, Dean. I don't love you." Such simple words. Yet they had turned his life completely out of kilter. He had known she didn't love him—not as he loved her. Could anyone love another person as he had loved her—still loved her? But he thought that she had begun to care for him. If only that blasted chromosome for second sight had been buried with her Highland Scotch grandmother!
She had offered to marry him still, of course. A Murray of New Moon would keep her word. But he couldn't have taken her on those terms, knowing that there was such a deep bond between her and Teddy Kent. Dean could admit to himself that he was selfish—the whole loaf or none.
He should have known that it wouldn't have worked—Teddy and Emily were both young, vibrant, creative individuals, while he was an old, hunchbacked cynic—Jarback Priest. He had done the right thing in releasing her from her promise, but it had almost destroyed him.
So he had left. He had simply packed his traveling paraphernalia, taken the train to Boston, and caught the first boat to Spain, trying to escape from people who would gossip and whisper about them; from the bleak sight of the Disappointed House, unable to avoid its destiny; from the chance of seeing Emily's black hair and smoke-purple eyes across a Shrewsbury street. What had it accomplished? He could still see her everywhere he looked, whether awake or asleep.
If I had loved you less or played you slyly
I might have held you for a summer more,
But at the cost of words I value highly,
And no such summer as the one before.
Could he have won her back? Dean pondered the idea as he wandered through the marketplace late that afternoon, haggling with vendors out of mere habit—what need had he for more treasures when the treasure he longed for he had lost? He might have been able to win her back—possibly. If Teddy Kent denied the bond that he held with Emily…if the Murray pride had been stronger than the Starr heart…if he had kept his mouth shut about his true opinion of her book…
"I won you by a lie, I think." The hardest words he had ever said. Telling her that he had originally lied about the quality of her writing had been a catharsis to his soul, but it had shattered any chance he would have ever had with her again.
But what if he had won her back? Gained her love? It wouldn't have been the same. Knowing that there would always be a part of her that belonged to Teddy, knowing that her writing could so easily pull her away—there would always have been a sense of uneasiness in his mind that she didn't truly love him. He pulled out the emerald engagement ring in his pocket and gazed at its green stone. Green for jealousy? Perhaps, although that had not been a conscious decision. But what did it matter now? He dropped the ring in the dust of the marketplace. What good was it to him?
It was evening now. Dean climbed the stairs of the inn back to his room and went out on the balcony. All that night, he relived every moment with Emily—from the time he had met her at Malvern Bay, perilously close to death, through the golden summer that they had had the previous year fixing up the Disappointed House. The memories were his, at least.
The wedding ceremony would have been over by now; the guests would have driven away. But here he was, on the other side of the ocean, while Emily, for all he knew, was at New Moon. What was she doing? Sleeping? Writing? On some nighttime prowl through the fields? Had she thought at all of their wedding that wasn't? Dean buried his face in his hands.
Dawn came over the rooftops as Dean watched, his face haggard with pain and lack of sleep. One by one, all the stars faded away…except for one that hovered there as if to mock him. Finally, it too disappeared.
"My Star has set."
Should I outlive this anguish—and men do—
I shall have only good to say of you.
Author's Note: The poem in this story is Sonnet XLVII by Edna St. Vincent Millay.