I owe an enormous thank you to two wise women called Sam (Cyrillah, here and on Tumblr; foooolintherain on Tumblr), who, through their thoughtful and detailed suggestions, helped to craft this story.

No map traces the street

Where those two sleepers are.

We have lost track of it.

They lie as if under water

In a blue, unchanging light

—Sylvia Plath, from "The Sleepers"

2:17 a.m.

The wind whipped by and tunneled through his ears. He was driving recklessly, speeding faster than any car. At the twilight hour, the sky was aglow in sapphire, and the rows of willows danced in the breeze. He felt he was flying, the way he used to imagine. His father would take him outside to practice on the bicycle, and they'd look up at the moon together. When it was full, his father would say that if he pedaled hard and steadily enough, concentrated on his balance, rode on without fear, he could lift off, and soar all the way to the bright creviced surface above. He almost believed this. He wanted to undo the pull of gravity then, only to return to his father's cheering, beaming face. That was magic.

And there was magic, here, in this race down a never-ending boulevard, watching her elegant profile, her raven hair rippling out behind her, caressing the air like a gentle, dancing flame. Some of the strands blew into her face, and he brushed them away. Her hands wrapped around the wheel in their black gloves, and her fingers tapped along to the song of the evening air, the sorrowful whispering trees, the whirl of wonder in her head. And then she was laughing, laughing, and he chuckled, too, his heart lifted, the moon was huge in the sky, and he kept asking her to tell him the joke. She said it was funny, how they weren't really there, and his throat clogged with fumes, his eyes watered; she was reaching out to him, her hand curling in his, and he wanted to tell her to keep watching the road ahead, to watch for a sign to take them where they were going, but her fingers were slim and warm around his, and he was safe, and then he couldn't think at all.

3:48 a.m.

A glass of champagne warmed in her hand. She was in a ballroom, all gilt and marble Rococo flourishes, floored in deep scarlet rugs, dappled by the light of the ornate sconces that dotted the walls. She could hardly make out the details in the throng of people. They were dressed in billowing lace and satin and feathers, awash in royal purples and reds and blues. Their masked heads blurred and wavered as though underwater. She swam through them, panicking, searching. She needed to find her gloves. Somehow they'd gone missing. She couldn't remember. They were long and black, essential. Now her arms were bare. She raced through the swirling long room, and all she saw were blank faces turning toward her, and all she heard was laughter, laughter. She felt her cheeks burning. They were mocking her. Her arms were exposed to them, and they betrayed her. Her dress felt heavy, a burden of refinement, scorn. Her composed world had split open, and she fell into a chasm of whispers and taunts. Tears pooled in her eyes, and her throat clenched.

She smelled smoke. The room floated into the air. She knew they were not on steady ground anymore. The hall lifted from its frame, and settled above the weeping willows in a forest off of the estate grounds, and somewhere below, a bonfire blazed. Her stomach dropped as gravity shifted, and her loosened grip sent the glass shattering to the floor. Her gloves were back, the velvet crushed against her skin, and she was being flung from dancer to dancer in a twist of bodies, men groping her back and sides. She stopped pushing back; there was no use. A hand latched onto hers in the crowd. She couldn't discern the man's face. She watched a painting, of Selene and Endymion in his eternal sleep. Two bodies close enough to touch, but separated by vast realms of consciousness. The hand held firm. Her voice caught in her throat. She closed her eyes, and heard beyond the clamor, to the music of the crickets, the crackling hush of the woods below, and the voice of Selene, whispering moonlit greetings to her lost lover. She fell into a chair against the wall.

5:33 a.m.

A glaze of silence melted over him. He was in Paris, on a balcony overlooking the Seine. Honeysuckle lavished the railing, yellow blooms sweetly perfuming the sticky air. She drifted outside and joined him. He looked at his hands, covered in grime. He was bleeding from somewhere on his body, he was sure. He couldn't figure out where. He touched his face, his sides. He gripped the railing. She reached out, placed her pale hand over his to stop the shaking. Blood must be pooling at his feet by now. She marveled at the clear blue sky, the low-hanging wisps of clouds, the boats that passed serenely below. On a bridge, a violin busker played a waltz, and Parisians gathered around and danced to the tune. His heavy, tattered uniform made him sweat. He knew she was radiant in a lilac summer gown, as the edges brushed against his ankles when he stared down. He didn't see her face, but when she touched his arm, he turned to her, eyes closed, accepting her kiss. Her hand soothed his neck, and she whispered his name again and again as she kissed him, told him about how she'd been away, off lifting heavy brown-paper parcels that held the tattered ends of hope inside, and asked him would he come back, would he. He could not speak, and tried to answer her in kisses against her cheeks and jawline and eyelids.

When he opened his eyes again, he was standing alone on the bridge. But he was not on his own, because around him were the dancers, brushing at the sleeves of his crisp, light jacket. He felt no pain, and he had no open wounds. A shower of honeysuckle blossoms fell as though from the sky around the revelers. He mouthed her name, producing no sound. He squinted up into the bright sun, searching for her in the rows and rows of rooms along the bank, waiting to see her wave, to call to him, to smile. He knew she wouldn't be there, though. He gave his last few francs to the musician, and began to cross over.

6:10 a.m.

Her fingers ran along the crackled spine. She was seated in the library. A pristine spider's web glimmered in the corner. She thought about the work of the spider, the weaving, the waiting. She could almost crawl into the threads, climb the silvery strands. And then she was swept away as a petal drawn on the breeze into the sky; she was a girl again, and she ran outside in the springtime whenever she could get away from lessons or tea, and lay down in the gardens. The insects surrounded her, and she wondered at their active lives. The butterflies danced above her head, and she sang little tunes to them as their saffron wings fluttered, and watched them fly high, up and away. Then she returned home, to the disparaging words about the stains on her dress, the rigid adult faces staring down to her with their large, creased eyes, and the hushed comments that she was an odd child, indeed, but perhaps this running about in the dirt was just a phase, and phases all pass as quickly as the tide rolls back in.

She must have outgrown it. She was distracted. The book of mythology in her hands had fallen to the ground. She hadn't heard the landing. He was picking it up, and handing it to her, and she did the only possible thing, wrapping her arms tightly around him, and burying her face in the space where his neck and shoulder met. He held her tightly as she trembled. She'd lost something more than her memories. He hummed the butterfly song into her hair, the vibrations catching against her lips. She could almost reach her heart.

7:30 a.m.

Mary awoke in darkness, pulse pounding. She sat up, her head spinning and aching, the oppressive fog of a restless night clouding her thoughts.

The day before, she'd gone into town, but she'd hesitated to visit the hospital. On Tuesdays, the men who were able did their outdoor exercises by the window near Matthew's bed, and Matthew became despondent and irritated. Some were healing, but he never would, not really. She couldn't help him then; her reassurances were not enough. Ashamed, she'd come home and read until dressing for dinner. She knew her fear of his desperate moods had won over, and she regretted her inaction. She had to be there for him. That was all she could do, even if it didn't seem enough. If she didn't see him, she wouldn't know, wouldn't remember, how he was alive, safe, grasping onto the world with all his strained, bitter might.

When Anna came to prepare her for the day, she told her never mind about fixing her hair. She had to go at once. She spared not a moment's glance at her reflection in the mirrors surrounding her. Anna had no questions, helped her into her faded blue frock, worn from days of watching and worrying. If anyone asked after her, Anna knew where she would be.

She nearly ran in the gray-pink drizzly dawn down to the hospital. The rapid click-clack of her shoes on the pavement resounded. There was no use pretending she wasn't in a hurry. She rushed through the door, and sped to his side. And there he was, sleeping, sweat dripping down his face from his brow. She rummaged for a clean rag in the supply area, and returned to him. He was waking now, shivering.

Her loose hair flowed over her shoulders when she removed her hat and shawl. He felt he must still be dreaming, as though he'd dived into a pool of water, and she was swimming to meet him. Her tears could be the sea.

"Matthew?" she whispered. "You've had a bad dream. I'm here." She began to wipe at his forehead.

She was talking to him, touching him, and he was awake to another motionless day. He stared at her, and reached to stop her hand, grasping her wrist. "Mary," he rasped.

"Yes." She wiped at her cheeks with the back of her other hand, laughed nervously. "I couldn't sleep, so I—"

He chuckled. "I can't believe…" He shook his head, frowning, his eyes dropping, then searching hers. She didn't dare look away. "Are you fine?"

She laced her fingers in his where they lay against his chest, and pulled together a smile, of relief, of unburdening. "I'm perfectly alright now. No worse for the wear." Her smile only faltered for a second. "I'm much better knowing you're well."

Her movements enthralled him, the sweep of her arm, the furrowing of her brow, the flickering of her eyelashes. Her simple dress, trimmed with pearly buttons, marked the contradictions of her. He reveled in her full presence beside him. He'd reached the other side of the night.

Around them reverberated the snores, groans, and shifting discomfort of the injured, suffering men in their beds, and the shuffling footfalls and comforting murmurs of the attending nurses.

She focused on his eyes, sunken in shadow, but glowing as the sun struggled to emerge from the haze of clouds and mist outside. There was a small, gentle smile now on his tired face, and its warmth nestled in her veins. Exhausted, they were both out of words. She wanted more, to tell him she was sorry, she missed him, but how little that mattered now that this moment absorbed them in its bloom. They slept again, side-by-side, and they dreamt of a boy on a bicycle and a girl in a garden who flew away, and met somewhere off in the vast sky.