She loves him. She does, she loves him. She feels it deep in her bones, and in the blood coursing through her veins – the thrill of undeniable, secret knowledge. She loves him.
It thrums in her fingers, the longing to reach out and stroke that disfigured cheek, to trace those malformed lips. They twitch in spite of her best efforts to still them, plucking at a loose thread in her dress. It snaps sharply between her fingers, the backlash stinging.
She should have stayed, should have refused to leave. She knows that now, sees it every time Raoul brings flowers and looks at her with such hopeful eyes. He thinks it's the thing to do, when one is courting a woman. (A girl. She is not a woman. She cannot be. She has not yet entered her majority, as he put it about Raoul. If she were a woman, she would not be in this mess. If she were a woman, she would have stayed.)
Flowers for a wedding.
And flowers for a funeral.
Which is this? she wonders, the fire's flames flickering in her eyes. In two days it will be a wedding, it is supposed to be a wedding. Yet, it feels so much as if she is going to her death. Why must she be in white? She may technically be free of certain sins, but in her mind... Black is the only fitting colour for a bride such as her.
Tomorrow she'll go to him. She'll bring him the wedding invitation. She'll hug him and kiss away the tears that will trickle down his cheeks and try not to cry herself. And then he'll kiss her, slowly, hesitantly, and Raoul will just have to stand there and watch because, after all, on such a day it would be quite permissible to kiss the bride. And is it not his right? To kiss her when he is the one who is giving her away?
(It is traitorous of her to wish that their roles were reversed, to dream that she is being given to him instead.)
It comes back to her in rolling waves, the hot tears falling on her hand when he placed it in Raoul's, the lightness of his finger on her lips when he gently hushed her protests, the way he stood there so helplessly when she broke their kiss, his eyes searching hers as if he couldn't believe what she had just done.
(He wasn't the only one. Even now she marvels at the fact that she managed to work up the courage to kiss him. It was a moment's decision, the world tilting into place, and she took that fateful leap into the unknown. For one fleeting, horrible moment, she thought he was going to have another seizure, the way he froze as she slipped her tongue between his lips.)
To take him in her arms and hold him close. To feel his heart beating against her cheek, fluttering in his chest. To kiss his face and stroke his hair and entwine her fingers with his – so simple, so necessary. (Life-giving. A gift from a living corpse.) To let him know that she loves him. She loves him. (You love him. It echoes in her ears as if Raoul is saying it, confirming her own certainty.)
Hail Mary, full of grace.
His cheek beneath her fingertips.
Hail Mary, full of grace
Her head leaned against his knee.
Hail Mary, full of grace
His forehead smooth beneath her lips.
Hail Mary
Hail Mary
Hail Mary
Tomorrow, she'll hold him in her arms and invite him to a wedding he can never attend and kiss him and hope that he never knows how much she loves him, and how deep the ache runs that she must do this to him. To know she loves him and then to have to watch her marry another man, even if it was at his own insistence. What hell must that be?
To hell with anything Raoul might say. He'll have her forever. Erik can only hold her once more. And not only that, but can only lay eyes on her once more. Let him have that chance, for both of their sakes.
Hail Mary
The diamond-studded ring is heavy on her finger, the stones glittering golden, a mockery of his eyes.
Hail Mary
They have tomorrow, an assurance that, yes, he is all right. (He will be all right.) Yes, he is still living. Yes, he is well. And ever more she can dream of him, his fingers dancing across the piano keys, simmering golden in the candlelight, and tell herself that he is safe.
She loves him.
(She loves him.)