He looked over his shoulder and watched her for a minute. Jade was lying on top of the dining room table, the back of her shoulder lined up flush with the edge. Her right foot was propped up on the shiny surface in front of her, and her left leg dangled off the edge. Her hair hung over the edge in a shiny black curtain.
She had been keeping close to him for the past few days, her dark eyes watchful, but never saying much. He felt like she was trying to read into him again, to see if he were upset with her – or afraid of her.
She had a stack of Belle's books on the table beside her – all the ones he could remember her reading – and she was paging through each of them methodically.
"What are you doing?" he asked. He didn't look up at her when he spoke.
"Research," she answered. She didn't look at him either.
The wheel creaked as he rotated it, keeping the tension on the string light but slightly taut.
"What kind of research?" he asked.
"Looking for patterns," she said. She flipped past another few pages.
She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him, and he looked back at her.
"Patterns of what?" he asked. He let his hands come down from the surface of the wheel to rest in his lap.
"I'm looking for recurring themes," she said. She tilted her head and examined a drawing on one of the pages in the book. "Sometimes, when people run, they try out ideas they've read about in books or heard other people talking about," she said. She looked up and over her shoulder to meet his eyes and then returned to the pile of books at her side. "The more often a certain theme or idea appears in the books the person has read, the more likely they are to try them."
He stood up and strode across the room toward her. He pulled himself up onto the surface of the table, and she pulled her leg back to make room for him. He reached back and gingerly moved his hand over the surface of the leather bindings.
"And, what have you found?" he asked. He looked down at her, and there was a light gleam in his eyes.
She matched it with a smile.
"Well," she said. She turned the book she was holding over in her hand and examined the back cover, running her fingers over it as if to make sure Belle hadn't hidden something in the seam. She looked back up at him and grinned. "She likes stories about people being heroes – being brave and doing something that other people think is crazy," she said. She ran her hand over the pile of books at her side. "And I get the feeling she's a strong believer in true love."
A quiet smile spread across his face, and he stared out into the space in front of him. When he looked back at her, Jade was giving him a sardonic smile.
He scowled at her and looked away.
She laughed.
"If you're up for it, I think you should tell me more about her – things you guys talked about – things she said she'd like to do someday," Jade said. She tilted her head and looked up at him from her spot on the table.
He shook his head. "I don't know if there's much else I can tell you. We didn't spend that much time talking," he said. He shook his head.
She looked at him for a moment and then nodded.
"Does it help you – looking through these books – sitting in her room – talking to me?" he asked.
She nodded. "I think so," she said. "You can't really know someone – can't start to think like them or anticipate what they'll do next – if you can't take a look at what's going on inside their heads, the things that occupy their mind."
"The things that occupy their mind," he said. He traced the outline of the wood grain across the tabletop with his fingernail. Belle was the thing that occupied his mind – every moment of every day – she was the only thing on his mind.
He looked back at Jade. She had stretched out a little further, tucking her right hand behind her head and laying her left hand gingerly over her right ribs.
"Are they hurting you?" he asked.
Jade dropped her hand fast. "What?" she asked. She stared at him hard.
"Your ribs," he said. "Do they hurt?"
"Oh," Jade said. A storm seemed to pass from behind her eyes, and she shook her head. "No, they're – they're okay."
He watched her.
"I mean, yes – yes, they hurt," she said. She looked back up at him and pressed her lips together into a line. "They hurt a little."
He kept his eyes on her. If he had to guess what occupied this girl's mind, it would be something dark – haunted – like she was.
He nodded. He would let it go. Like so much of what passed between himself and Jade, it was about giving each other the space to move past their own demons.
"Go upstairs," he said. "Lie down. I'll be up in a minute to work on you."
She nodded. She slid her right leg around him and rolled off the edge of the table, landing in a crouch on the floor. Without turning back, she stood, walked out of the dining room and up the stairs.
He wandered slowly toward the kitchen to wash his hands. He wanted to give her a few minutes to undress and get settled before he came in. He pumped the water into a basin and dipped his hands into it to soak for a moment. He hadn't really noticed until the day she had asked him about her scars how much they actually touched each other.
He had always strictly regimented himself when it came to touching Belle – once in the morning on the way to the kitchen and once in the evening while walking her to her room. That was it. He never permitted himself casual touches throughout the day or even the accidental brushing of her hand when he passed her something. Touching Belle had been something akin to radioactive – something so dangerous it could eat you alive if you indulged it. He smiled thinking back on how she used to prowl the floors looking for him, and when she caught him, how fond she was of those accidental brushes. He shook his head and gave a small smile.
But touching Jade had been something he had done as a matter of course from the beginning. Maybe it was because they weren't attracted to each other or maybe because she was utterly unselfconscious around him, but he seldom felt any hesitation resting his hands on her shoulders or taking a hold of her arm or moving her out of the way when he was passing behind her. And she never reacted as if anything special had happened. She never pulled away or avoided his hand, but she didn't seem to revel in his touch either. She seemed to take it as a given – a thing she had started off in any event – that created a shorthand form of communication between them.
He dried his hands on a clean towel and turned to head up the back stairway toward their bedrooms. It was sunny in the hallway when he crested the top of the stairway. He turned from the direction of his bedroom and headed down the hallway to hers. He found the door open a crack and pushed it open, letting himself inside.
Jade was lying on the bed, covers pulled up to just over her chest, and she was carving another one of those tiny owl-looking figurines.
"Missing your nest?" he said. He smirked at her.
"Very funny," she said. She smiled. "This one's for you. You should put it in your tower," she said. She held out the small, crudely-shaped owl figurine to him.
He took it between his fingers and looked at her, squinting his eyes a bit. "What is this for?" he asked.
"The Chinese believe that owls protect high places from getting struck by lightning," she said.
He turned the owl over in his hands. "My dear," he said. He gave her an extremely wry smile. "In all the years I have been living here, my towers have never once been struck by lightning." He laughed and handed the figurine back over to her.
"And now," she said. She pushed the owl back toward him. "They never will."
He laughed and shook his head.
"Plus, my potion's in there," she said. She smiled.
He shook his head. "You're not well. I'll humor you," he said.
She laughed.
He reached over and took hold of the edge of the down comforter, and she lifted her hands so he could pull the covers back. He folded them over her hips and legs. She settled back on the stack of pillows behind her.
"This side?" he asked. He surveyed the light smattering of bruises across one set of ribs and then the other.
"Yeah," she said. "Right side doesn't hurt that much today."
He nodded. "Alright," he said. He took her left arm and laid it gingerly over her head on the pillow. "Try to hold still," he said.
He closed his eyes and felt her take in a deep breath and then release it. He could feel her muscles relaxing under his touch as he worked his hand down to where the damage was. He found the spot where the bones had calcified and tried to knit the junction closed tighter, while also removing some of the excess bone growth. He could feel, rather than see, her gritting her teeth together a little when he did it.
"Doing alright?" he asked. He didn't open his eyes when he said it. He felt her nod and continued to create bone stitches in her rib. "Alright, we're almost done," he said. He opened his eyes to check on her and found her lying back, almost sleepily against the pillows.
She gave him a small smile and nodded.
He closed his eyes and finished working the stitches into place. He removed his hand slowly so the shock of the cool air where his hand had been wouldn't cause her pain.
"How's that?" he asked. He rested his hand on the top of her leg and examined the pinkening of the skin over her ribs, where the bruising was starting to break up.
She touched it gingerly with her fingers. "Better," she said. She smiled up him. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," he said.
She tilted her head, her dark hair cascading over the pillow next to her face.
"I think I'm going to head out for Gaston's tomorrow," she said. Her eyes flicked up to meet his.
"Already? I thought you were going to give it a few more days?" he said.
She shrugged. "It hardly hurts anymore. And anyway, I'm getting restless staying inside the house," she said.
He nodded. Wanderlust and all that.
"Alright," he said. "Whatever you think is best."
She nodded and toyed with the corner of the blanket.
"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you this time?" he asked.
"Nah," she said. She looked at him and smiled, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "You'd probably just slow me down," she said.
And they laughed.
The soft sound of the solution bubbling at his side was only interrupted by the quiet clinking of the glass stirring rod as he mixed in a touch more resin. But he nearly dropped the thing as he heard Jade, tearing up the stairs toward the library. His hand stilled.
"Come outside," she said. Her cheeks were pink, and she sounded breathless.
"I'm working," he said. He didn't turn around.
"Come on, there's a thunderstorm," she said. She ran up behind him and took his arm in both of her hands, tugging at him.
He swiveled slowly on his seat and gave her a wicked grin. "And are you scared, my dear?" he asked. He laid the end of the stirring rod against his lips.
"No, I love them," she said. If she could tell that he'd been playing with her, she didn't show it. "Come outside with me, please?" she said. She tilted her head and looked at him.
He crossed his arms and leaned back on his stool. "Don't you need to be in bed already? I thought you were leaving for Gaston's in the morning," he said.
"I am, but I need you to come outside with me," she said. She tugged on him arm until she pulled him to his feet.
He gave her an indulgent smile. "Alright, just give me a minute," he said.
She crossed her arms and waited – rather impatiently – for him, leaning her back against the doorframe behind her.
He took his time pouring in the last bits of resin and watched the stirring rod make its slow revolutions once again.
"Is that it?" she asked. Her voice was quiet, but it came from right behind him. She must have moved closer without making a sound.
"That's it," he said. He gave the solution a final stir and then removed the stirring rod. He wiped it clean on a soft cloth.
"It's blue," she said.
"Very good," he said.
She smirked at him. "I just didn't think it would be," she said.
"Well, it won't be when you drink it," he said.
"I have to drink that?" she asked. She stared at him.
"How else did you think this would work?" he asked. The light in his eyes glinted.
Her eyes stayed on the glass vial. "Honestly? I thought you would just sort of sprinkle me with fairy dust and poof," she said. She splayed her fingers out in front of her face, like she was spicing a pot of stew.
"Fairy dust?" he said. He laughed at her. "My dear, if you wanted fairy dust, you should have gone to a fairy."
She smirked. "No, this is going to take a bit more commitment than that, I'm afraid," he said. He steepled his fingers in front of himself and leaned back, feeling pleased at the slight look of discomfort that crossed her face. "No, when you drink this potion – and you must drink it all, my dear – it'll be less blue and more red."
"Red?" she asked.
"Blood red," he said. He leaned close and whispered it right into her face.
She laughed and shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest.
He leaned in closer and looked at her hands, running his finger lightly across the surface of hers. They were covered in a light film of gold, glittery dust.
"Oh, I hope you don't mind," she said. She opened her hands to show him. "I mean, there was so much of it downstairs," she said.
He cocked his head and looked at her.
"The threads. I borrowed some of them, for my pictures," she said.
He lifted his chin. He had wondered how she had colored in those drawings of him with gold.
"I crushed a few strands," she said. "Is it alright?"
He shrugged. "Just as long as you don't track it all over the house," he said. He gave her a wry smile.
"I am not that messy," she said.
"If only these walls could talk," he murmured.
"What?" she said.
"What?" he asked.
She glared at him.
"Come on, we're going to miss it," she said. She took him by the hand and pulled him out of the room.
She had left a stack of blankets on the end of the dining table, nearest the double doors. They were the old, burlap kind, with roughly torn edges that felt scratchy on your skin. She must have gotten them from somewhere in the north tower because he was quite sure he had never seen them before. She scooped up the stack in her arms and tossed him a grin over her shoulder.
He smirked at her but followed her out the double doors.
She led him outside to an old porch box that he never used because you had to climb out a window to get to it. It was on the side of the house, where the old servants' quarters had been. And it lay a few metres from the base of the tree he had climbed when he was waiting for Belle to escape.
She turned and handed him the stack of blankets, fairly shoving them into his arms, and she reached up, wrapping her hand around an ivy root that had wound itself around the stones from years of growth. Her muscles coiled like ropes beneath her skin as she pulled herself up, finding a foothold on the top of a stone that barely jutted out from the wall. She reached up with her opposite hand and caught the lattice post at the bottom of the porch railing. Then she pulled up hard with both arms and caught hold of another stone with her foot, leveraging her weight upward until she stood balanced on the very edge of the porch box floor outside the railing. She leaned her weight forward, as if she were prepared for the porch railing to give under her weight if she leaned back, and then lifted one leg cleanly over the edge and then the other.
She turned around and gave him a devilish smile, leaning down over the railing with both arms for the blankets he held.
"You've done this before," he said. There was a light gleam in his eyes as he reached up to hand the bundle of blankets to her.
She shrugged. "Maybe once or twice," she said.
She laughed and gathered the blankets from him, tossing them into a pile on the porch floor. The gusty wind blew strands of hair across her face, and she raked them away, leaning back down over the railing and extending her hand to him.
He crossed one arm over his chest and gave her a sardonic smile. Then with his other hand, he snapped his fingers and appeared in the porch box standing beside her.
She laughed and shook her head. "Why didn't you tell me you could do that? I wouldn't have climbed all the way up here," she said.
He shrugged and walked around her to the pile of blankets. He picked one up and turned around to look at her over his shoulder. "You didn't ask," he said.
She pressed her lips together into a wry smile.
He shook out the blanket he had picked up, then let it settle onto the floor of the porch box. She repeated his motion, adding another layer. He picked up another blanket and handed it to her, and she hugged it against her chest. He took the last blanket and settled down with his back against one wall of the porch box, his legs outstretched and the blanket draped loose over his lap.
She sat down with her back against the opposite wall so that she was facing him, the blanket wrapped around her like a cloak. The porch box was so small that his feet nearly touched the wall at her back, and her feet drew flush with the top of his outer thigh. The box was so narrow that their legs lay touching side by side, and she rested her arm across the surface of his shin. She looked up at the lightning that had just started to fork overhead, and he looked at her – quiet and contemplative.
A second streak of lightning cracked the sky and a roll of thunder clapped so loud that he could feel it in his chest when it hit. The rain poured down over the edge of the porch box roof, nearly closing them in at times within a cocoon made of falling water and air heavy with the smell of electricity.
She kept her eyes up at the sky, watching it with rapt attention, the lightning illuminating an expression on her face that was excited and uninhibited and breath-taken.
He kept his eyes on her face, watching the ideas and the expressions dancing across her features like fireflies, but all the while keeping a vigil for the ones that he feared.
When she finally turned to look at him, she was slightly out of breath – lacking her normal control and composure. She looked surprised – the first time he had seen that on her – to find him watching her instead of the storm.
She tilted her head and smiled at him. "What is it?" she asked. Her lips were parted in a half-smile, as if she were just about to laugh.
"Nothing," he said. His arms were crossed lightly in front of his chest, and he shrugged, keeping his expression light.
She laughed and knitted her brows.
He could see that she didn't believe him, but she let it go anyway. It was their unspoken rule.
She turned her face back up toward the sky, and she laughed with delight when some of the water pouring down off the roof splattered and then splashed her in the face. She raised the blanket and wiped a corner of it across her eyes, looking like a little girl waking from sleep.
He smiled and leaned his head back against the wall behind him, arms still crossed comfortably in front of him. He still hadn't looked away from her once.
She tilted her head and looked at him again. "What?" she asked.
He shook his head and gave another shrug. "Nothing," he said.
She pressed her lips together. She lowered her hand back to the surface of his legs and gave them a little shake.
"Are you going to miss me when I'm gone?" she asked. She tilted her head, hair cascading in rivulets down the length of her arm.
"When you're at Gaston's? Hardly," he said. He laughed. "I'm likely to push you out the door myself."
She laughed, holding the blanket up in front of herself and giving a little shiver.
"No," she said. She smiled, the laughter still sparking within her eyes. "When I go home. Will you miss me when I go home?"
He leaned his head back again, his eyes resting softly on her face. "I don't know yet, dear, if I can do it," he said. He said it quietly, cautioningly, almost sadly. He lifted his head from the wall where he had been leaning it.
She nodded, looking down at the blanket on her lap, and when she raised her eyes, he could see that her hopes had been duly chastened. "I know," she said. She nodded again. "But if you can do it – if it works," she said. She tilted her head when she looked at him.
He leaned his head back against the stone wall behind him and then returned his eyes to her face.
"Would you miss me if I were to go home?" she asked.
He watched her for a long time without saying anything. Then he laid his hand down on the surface of her legs, the way her hand was resting on his.
"May I ask you something, my dear?" he said.
"Not until you answer my question," she said. She smirked at him, all devilish and pleased with herself.
He smiled. He continued anyway.
"Are we friends?" he asked. He tilted his head to the side and waited for her to answer.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Are we friends?" he said again. His dark gold eyes looked hickory brown in the darkness of the porch box.
"Of course we're friends," she said. She smiled and shook her head. She wet her lips lightly with her tongue. "I'm not sure I understand what you're asking me."
He shrugged and leaned back against the wall behind him. He watched her for any telltale signs she might give away.
She looked at him, a slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes. "What are you asking me?" she said.
He felt her legs shifting beneath the blanket and under his hand as she scooted back to sit up a little more. His eyes never left her face, and he watched her.
"I just needed to make sure," he said. His voice dropped lower, held a note of seriousness that he rarely used these days. "I've noticed that you're rather fond of me," he said. He spoke slowly, treading lightly, being careful not to venture too quickly into any space that might be tender on her.
She nodded, watching him – her eyes serious but still unguarded. "Go on," she said.
His fingers toyed with the frayed threads on the blanket beneath his hand. He looked to the side for a moment, gathering his thoughts, and then back up at her face.
"And I didn't want you to be confused. I didn't want to give you the wrong idea," he said. He watched her, his dark golden eyes holding no hint of laughter for once.
She looked out to the side, looking through the cascade of falling water just past her shoulder. Then she looked back at him. He could see that she was concentrating, like she was trying to work out a problem she didn't quite understand.
"You're right," she said. She squinted her eyes a little and then nodded. "I do get confused sometimes with you," she said. She nodded again, and he could see her trying to work out this problem in her mind. "But it's not exactly what you think," she said. She pressed her lips together and focused.
He nodded, waiting for her to continue.
"You were a man once, right? Before you became the Dark One, you were a man?" she said.
"I was," he said. He was surprised for a moment how easily the information came out of him, when the same question had been so difficult to answer for Belle.
"So then, you knew what it was like to love someone and what it felt like to be loved," she said.
He leaned his head back against the wall and studied her face.
"And you learned the difference between what it feels like to love a friend or a parent or to be in love," she said. She waited for his nod of acknowledgement before she continued. "I guess I get confused sometimes because my parents gave me away when I was still little," she said. She toyed with the blanket between her fingers, her face forming around the puzzle in her mind. "And I think I remember, a little bit, of what it felt like to love someone, my grandfather," she said. She smiled at the memory. "He was very kind to me, and he took care of me, and I think – I really think that he loved me."
She shook her head, losing her grasp on the memory she had tenuously taken hold of a moment before. "But since then," she said. She shrugged, rather helplessly, and he smiled at the simple gesture. "I guess I don't really know what love is or what it's supposed to feel like," she said. She shook her head and gave a quiet laugh. "I don't know one kind of love from another, and you're the only person I've felt close to in all this time," she said. She shook her head again, hair tumbling loosely over her shoulders. "I mean, I've never been in love, but I can tell that's not what this is," she said. She curled her hand over her heart, as if she could touch the emotion inside of it to make him understand. "But beyond that," she said. She gave a tiny shrug. "I can't tell you what it feels like because I don't really understand it."
He leaned his head back against the wall behind him.
"But you don't have a longing to be with me, right?" he asked. He said it gently, treading carefully.
"I guess," she said. She looked over her shoulder and squinted her eyes again, trying to parse through the shreds of information in her mind. "At first, it was hard to be around you, to be with someone who could see me as me. But then, after a while I sort of got used to it. And now, I guess I kind of like it."
He nodded, waiting for her to go on.
"I feel like I kind of belong when I'm with you, and I like the way that feels," she said. She nodded. "And I like it that I can touch you and that you touch me and that it's safe, that it makes us feel close. But even if you didn't love Belle, I don't think I would want our relationship to change. I like us the way we are, how close we are. We understand each other, you know?"
He leaned his head back against the stone wall behind him – listening to the streams of water pouring down off the edge of the porch roof and pooling onto the ground beneath them. Finally, he nodded, accepting her answer.
"But will you miss me, when I'm gone?" she asked. She tilted her head to the side and looked at him.
He smiled, the expression reaching all the way up to his eyes.
"My dear," he said. He shook his head and looked at her. "You have no idea."