Still falls the rain
Joseph was sleeping. Even in the darkness of the bedroom she could make out the clean, strong lines of his body; he was lying on his back, perfectly relaxed and careless. She had herself been uneasy sleeper all her life, and she felt a sudden rush of envy just watching him.
The fire had almost died, but the room was warm, warmer than it had been in all this time. The consumed coals still glowed in the fireplace, the only light in the room. She slid back to bed and pulled the cover over them both. He stirred in his sleep, turned on his side and drowsily wrapped himself around her.
"I love you, Clarisse"
"I love you too."
---
Clarisse was tired. She had suffered from a jetlag for a week now; she slept restlessly even at the best of times, but in San Francisco she had barely closed her eyes. It wasn't just the time difference she blamed - she was used to the calm, undisturbed quiet of Genovian nights, to the darkness of the canals slowly streaming under her windows there. Looking out the windows of her suite here, she could see the city stretch to every direction, millions of orange lights glittering, the traffic humming. As beautiful as it all was, it overwhelmed her. She had lied in her bed awake, staring at the shadows dancing on the ceiling, counting at first hours and then minutes to the daybreak; now her head was heavy.
She loved her granddaughter for her clumsiness; she had spent her own youth trying to overcome her own shyness, to find a way to handle her long limbs that always got on her way, to stop her clothes from tearing, to stop herself from saying the wrong things at the wrong times. She hoped every day she wasn't sounding too much like her own mother had sounded back then, her beautiful, perfect mother who always seemed disappointed at her. But this afternoon, watching Mia to struggle with the dance steps, trip over, start and stop endlessly, her patience was wearing thin. Even the music irritated her.
She had went to Joseph Martin Landry, security advisor and man-about-place to King Rupert, more and more often in the recent months, asking little favours like this one today. The King had both respected the man and been amused by him, feelings he had had for too few people in his lifetime. And sure enough, he had proved to be everything Rupert had told him to be; he was smart and tough and wise in a quiet, unassuming way. He had spoken his mind and given her his honest, plain opinion more often than once during the last year.
Clarisse knew he had first thought the job she assigned him to do beneath himself, but she had long since known he quickly grown to love Mia. He led the girl around the dance floor rather intently, forced her to learn, to respond to his moves, to forget her clumsiness.
In any other day, watching him would have been a pleasure.
Mia had perhaps sensed her tenseness, as she had never seen anyone to take off so quickly as the girl did the moment she gave her a permission to leave. She put together her papers and took off her glasses, wishing she could go away and just catch a moment of sleep. She kept her back to Joseph, hoping the man didn't have to see her so worn out. Uncomfortably aware that he hadn't moved since the music had stopped, she tried dismissing him.
"Thank you, Joseph." she didn't look at him when she spoke the words. She didn't have to. She felt his presence even before he touched her, took her hand in his. The rush of emotion was all too familiar too, the shiver his closeness sent down her body, the sudden warm dampness between her legs. The words he spoke were unnecessary, she barely heard them. Closing her eyes, she surrendered herself completely to him.
"I am so tired." she whispered when the music stopped.
"I know, I know." He wrapped his arms around her, rubbed the nape of her neck with his fingers. "It is time you went to bed. Come with me."
He poured her a glass of wine. "This will help you to relax. No no no, just drink it."
Clarisse took the glass, her hand shaking. Joseph sat on the bed and watched her to empty her drink. She hadn't eaten all day and the liquid burned her stomach. Her legs suddenly felt heavy, her skin burning. She lied back on the cushions and closed her eyes; sleep came faster than she even knew it. She barely felt it when Joseph pulled a blanket over her, or wrapped his arm around her.
---
It had started raining again, heavy drops drumming the screen, blurring the outlines of her view. Clarisse saw the bay, black behind of the city, through her the window. She made out the bridge, the island of Alcatraz, and the Angel Island, so far she almost couldn't see it, all the millions of little lights glittering at her feet. She didn't even know anymore why she had come to San Francisco, and she didn't care. All that there was, was here. In this moment.
She only waited it to happen.
The room was cold, and the candles she had lit had done little to warm it; the coals rumbled in the fireplace, but she still shivered. Tiles under her bare feet felt warm and she wanted to lie down, to stretch herself on the floor. Suddenly she felt uncomfortable; she hadn't taken a deep breath in hours and her head was light.
Downstairs, people were still dancing, Clarisse heard the music echo through the hallways and corridors and stairs of the old building. What time was it, how long past midnight, she wondered.
Where was he? Why didn't he come already? Duty had called him away at her doorstep, small but demanding voice in his earpiece. If anything, Joseph was discreet. He answered the call, promised to come back to her. She had gone alone in her bedroom, lit the candles, stirred the fire someone had been thoughtful enough to start. She took off her jewels, the tiara that always made her head hurt, the diamond necklace she didn't even like. She tried to open her dress, but the hooks were tight and refused to give in to her fingers. She wished she had worn something else instead.
Joseph stopped behind the door, she could hear his footsteps. Was he hesitating? Maybe, but not for long. The door opened, silently, and closed again.
She didn't turn to face him. He came in, to her, touched the bare skin of her back with his fingers. He kissed the nape of her neck, her shoulders, searched the hooks of her dress. The heavy fabric, the hoops and linings and bones and beads, they had become like a prison to her, and she sighted with relief when the garment gave in and slid off her frame with a soft rustle. She took a sharp breath.
"Your hands are shaking. Are you afraid?"
"No." he drew his hand up her neck, turned her face to his. "A little." he whispered to her lips, before kissing her.
He undressed himself quickly, in the darkness of the corner. She watched him, unable to turn her eyes away. He met her with passion, fierce as her own, extracted his pleasure from her. She clutched herself in him, her body whispering not enough, not enough with every move, till they both collapsed, spent and exhausted. He drifted away, fell asleep, away from her.
Clarisse slipped out of the bed. Looking through the window she almost expected to see the canal, the ducks sleeping in their usual place, under the balcony of the gate house, the trees hanging heavy over the water. This time of the year the water was still clean, fresh. A few weeks more, and it would first grow lilies, then algal blooms, thick green soup of tiny leaves. The stench would keep her awake at night, stench of dying plants and still water.
She knew he lived in the attic of the gate house; sometimes she saw him, a shadow moving behind the closed curtains. Had he ever watched her, seen the light in her window at the dead of the night when she sat by her fireside, reading the same page of her book times and times over, never understanding a word? Had he ever counted the hours she had spent there, hoping to see him, or guessed the jealousy she had felt sting her when he had brought a woman in his home?
Instead, she saw the garden, the street below, cars driving by. Didn't this place ever sleep?
She sat on the windowsill, wrapped her arms around her bare legs. She noticed suddenly she wasn't cold anymore; the room was warm and her own skin was smooth under her touch. The sore rigidness of her muscles was gone. Her eyes could barely stay open. She slipped off the windowsill and went back to bed.
Outside, rain had stopped.