Day 5
Part 5
The photograph is sepia and her hair is up in rolled braids. Stoic face but same bright eyes.
A paper beside it, old and brittle brown. Bit of foxing at the edges.
It reads:
DIED
Isabella Alice Whitlock
In hospital
On Thursday, May 25, 1865
Died of puerperal fever caused by complications in childbirth
He reads again, unblinking.
She stays in the corner, hovers. Eyes sad, wary.
"It doesn't matter. It does not matter, you hear me?" Two strides carry him closer to her. "He had you then, but I'm here now. I'm sure he was a great guy and we might've even been like brothers if I'd known him, but he had his chance. He had his chance. Until death do you part. But I'm here now and I'm not leaving. I'm in this forever. Forever is not the same as 'until death.'"
"My husband did say forever, too. And I take him at his word."
He worries his lip and no words, no rebuttal form.
"Edward." Soft whisper. She moves near the new exhibit. Leads. "This is real. You can't ignore it anymore. I can't try to help you learn more than this. God knows I've tried." Her voice carries up and then breaks at the end. "It isn't what you wanted. But that doesn't make it less real."
She moves again, not so much away but leading. Leads him to the case.
"This is what you wanted. The reason you're here. This is the 'real' you so want so badly. The bad that happens to good people. Dispassionate cruelty. Questions you haven't asked because you have the answers. Because you do know. The history you have known, but forgotten."
And the world falls away. The walls, the bricks, the berry sun. All draws down, tunnels, to this small space. Moment.
Time is stopped. He feels it now.
The glass case calls out to him, part siren song, part wolf cry. The flotsam of an old, forgotten life nestled upon the velvet lining.
It sings out to him. A raven's mournful bale.
Requiem.
Fine. She wants him to see the reality she's dealt. He wanted to know her, and now he will.
He looks at her, does his damnedest to commit every detail to memory, struck with a sudden despair that this is that moment, that dreadful action that frees her, that lets her leave. Because he should want that for her. To be where she belongs and with her husband.
He smiles sadly. Turns.
Leans over the case.
He tears his eyes from her. Turns to the case. Contents pulse. Swears he can hear them drum out like lifeblood draining.
Inside, a field medic kit. Letters. Death certificate. Major's bars. A bound leather diary with faded lettering.
He squints, leans further in.
Places his hand on the wooden frame.
It passes straight through.