a/n: The following three diaries will be part of an interrelated epilogical subplot. Previous diarists will be referenced throughout, but the main plot is complete as of Episode XV.
Episode XVI: The Fleeting Ingenue Who Can't Seem to Find Her Muse
Witch Weekly's 'Modern Romance' series asks anonymous witches and wizards to record a week in their sex lives—with comic, tragic, provocative, and patently revealing results. This week, an ethereal singer in need of inspiration embarks on a continental tour: 18, female, straight, exclusively committed to her art.
DAY ONE
7:35 a.m.: I find it immensely ill-conceived that I should keep a diary. If I'm to commit my thoughts to anything, I doubt it should be myself, which is the whole of my career at present. I am flooded with thoughts of me at every waking hour—what I will wear today, what I will sing, who I will be?—and none of that inspires me. Left to my own devices, I am lured into complacency. How, then, will I create anything of note? I am desperate for something, anything, to wake me from this lull of ego. I write to Oberon nearly every day.
8:15 a.m.: I wake slowly, thinking of nothing, which is even rarer now than it has ever been. I've moved to Paris recently from Bordeaux at Oberon's insistence; it's faster here, he says, noisier in a good way, filled with life and beauty and vice instead of what he patronizingly calls solemn quietude. I think he considers a more provincial life to be destitute in some way, lacking in flavor. I, meanwhile, trust him implicitly. He's my publicist and has a very great interest in my career for what are almost certainly selfish reasons, but I adore his sense of self. I live for his unshakable condescension, his beautiful cruelty. In fact, I crave it, both for myself and for my career. If not for him, I would surely be less than I am, in every sense.
8:20 a.m.: This is my only day off, and my only day at home, before I continue on my most recent tour, beginning with Bucharest tomorrow. I have been living out of a suitcase for weeks, but this trip is especially exciting; I see my only sister tomorrow for the first time in several months. She's a dragonologist in a remote Romanian creature sanctuary, where she has lived with the man I suppose is her boyfriend for some months now. I'll call her Hermia, and he can be Lysander. Hermia and her husband, Demetrius, are… estranged? They've fallen out of love, or drifted away from it. I sense she hides Lysander from me intentionally, presuming me incapable of understanding, but I'm older than my age, I think. She imagines me to be a little girl, but I am not. I have a voracious sensuality, like she does. We are beautiful and bored, the worst kind of creatures. Hermia considers herself Melusina, the siren of our childhood, who destroys the mortal men she loves. If this is love with Lysander, then I do not think it will last for long, and I suppose that's why she keeps him from me. Demetrius, after all, is proof of something she and I mutually intuit, either from experience or something innate. We both understand that our devotion, pretty as it is, is far too lethal to last.
10:00 a.m.: I have asked Nick to meet me for a late breakfast, as he and I may not see each other for several weeks. Nick, too, was Oberon's idea, given that he is also an up-and-coming artist (two years my senior, English, Hogwarts educated and the younger of two non-magique sons, the elder of which loved photography and, tragically, did not survive the Battle of Hogwarts), and therefore beneficial to my career. He has an installation here for his photography, which is itself an homage to his brother. Oberon chose Nick because has an eye for talent, but my relationship with him is our doing. Nick is the closest thing I have to a best friend besides my sister, and it was his idea to attempt this diary.
10:05 a.m.: I tell him I hate it, the confession of my thoughts to the apathy of parchment, and he laughs. "Why can I not simply tell all my secrets to you?" I ask him, pleasantly indignant, and he smiles at me. He has such a soft smile, like a slender ray of light. He's very fine, almost gossamer. I would give him a more delicate nickname, only it wouldn't suit his personality, which is eager, sweet, utterly without guile. He calls me his Lady of the Lake, which would make him my Merlin, but I see myself more a queen of fairies than a watery enchantress. I am Titania, a woman of passion; not an obscure voice of prophecy, like Viviane. "I would take all of your secrets if you wanted me to," he says, "but maybe writing them down will help you more." Maybe, maybe not. I suppose it doesn't matter. I am listless enough as it is.
10:25 a.m.: "Will you miss me when I leave again?" I ask, innocently enough. "Exquisitely," he says. It is a favorite word of mine. He adores every word that comes from my mouth, and I reward him with a tender kiss to his cheek, which a photographer captures nearby. Domestic bliss, or something like it. The papers consider us the pinnacle of young, doting love, precisely as we intend them to. People are so easily fooled.
10:27 a.m.: My brief moment of cynicism, bitter and vulgar, makes me long for Oberon. "Would you excuse me?" I say to Nick, who will always excuse me. It's in his nature. Goodness is bred into his bones. "I'll be back in just a moment," I assure him, claiming the need to fix my lipstick. His eyes, crested blue, rest for a moment on my mouth before his cheeks flush. "Of course," he says, and looks away.
10:31 a.m.: To Oberon: Come with me, please. I feel better when you're here. I am missing something. I know you have someone—I know your obligations are elsewhere—but I will not only ask it of you, I will beg. Or do you think the months apart have somehow caused me to forget?
10:35 a.m.: Immediately after I send the letter, I scribble a version of the words in verse form. What a fruitful error Oberon has been for me. He is an eternal flood of longing, which manifests in anguished poetry. Do I love him? It doesn't matter. Desperation pairs so well with my voice, which is a wistful soprano. Oberon is both the object in the frame and the hand that guides the shutter. Though, speaking of, I remember Nick is waiting for me outside.
11:15 a.m.: Nick and I chat aimlessly. I can speak freely with him, and he with me. "Do you think there can be art without truth?" he asks me. "I think there is beauty in falsity," I say, and he asks if art necessitates beauty. "Can it not simply be suffering, pain, loss, guilt?" "Those are already beautiful," I tell him, "more so than happiness." He seems surprised. "Take my sister, for example," I suggest. Her suffering makes her more beautiful than ever. Her wedding day was off-color for me, too saturated, harshly bright. Contentment rendered her familiar, something common. In tones of desolation she is inhumanly lovely, enough to strike a man dumb. "And you should see my sister lie," I add admiringly, "because it is enough to drown in her insincerity."
11:25 a.m.: Nick looks troubled, and I laugh. I touch his cheek, comforting him. "I would never lie to you," I say. He pauses for a moment, considering the shape of my palm, and promises, "And I would never lie to you." I know, I think, and inwardly grimace. Honesty grates me. I only like it on Oberon's tongue, because his truths are so enticingly vindictive. Nick's truths embarrass me a bit. They are more explicit than obscenities, and I flinch to hear them. There is a way to tell a truth so that it maintains the elegance of a lie, contributing to some still-guarded mystique, but Nick's are nothing like that. He gives too much away, too freely.
3:15 p.m.: Nick and I part ways and I return home, waiting for word from Oberon. He appears in my Floo, finally, after several hours. "Never beg," he tells me, voice clipped. He doesn't say hello; his impatience with niceties enthralls me. "I don't see how I would get your attention otherwise," I remind him. He considers me for a long time. "You don't need me," he says, and I shake my head quickly. "I do," I urge him, "you're my muse."
3:30 p.m.: My artless sincerity exhausts him. Everything exhausts him. I am old, but he is ancient. "How is she?" I ask boldly, referring to his current paramour, whom I know nothing about except for knowing she has lasted longer than I expected. Oberon has been refusing me on her behalf for months, though I know I can still tempt him. I know what his desire looks like, and I recognize it, glimpsing it from time to time. I know he remembers the taste of my skin, just as I remember his. "Gone," he says, and I blink.
3:45 p.m.: "Gone?" "Gone." "Did you have a fight?" "Yes. But it was over before that." "What does that mean?" "That I wasn't enough." "What? Of course you are." "No." "Don't be ridiculous." "I'm not, it's the truth, I wasn't enough." "If you aren't enough for her, then nobody has ever been enough for anybody." "Hasn't that always been true?"
3:58 p.m.: "Then come with me," I say. He looks hatefully disinterested. "I can't tomorrow," he says drily, "I have responsibilities." I shrug, tell him, "Not tomorrow, then. The day after. Or any day after." He hesitates for a moment.
4:01 p.m.: "Fine. I'll see you in Budapest." And then he is gone.
8:45 p.m.: It is impossible to contain my excitement. Do not be mistaken, I don't love Oberon, nor do I believe he will ever love me. This isn't about love as it truly is, but as I can craft it. I sit at my piano for hours, coaxing melodies from my thoughts. For the first time in several weeks I am writing again, and it is euphoric. Use me when you cannot refuse me. Make peace with my shape in your life. You have only to love me to lose me. I am yours like a blade to a knife.
10:15 p.m.: I have spent so long writing about Oberon I forego supper and wake from my trance hours later, starving. It doesn't surprise me that Nick's attempt to help did nothing for me, but I return to the process of journaling anyway, finishing the evening with some bread and meditative thoughts. Does it hurt me, Oberon's lethargy of feeling? Yes, a bit, only he understands me. He knows I wish to commit myself to my work in a way that Nick does not. For Nick, it's about the art he creates in honor of his brother, who was lost to the war I was mostly lucky enough to escape. Nick is constantly trying to mend himself, to piece himself back together. I am more like Oberon, flinging myself into destruction. I have no wish to be whole. The thought of it bores me.
10:45 p.m.: Before I sleep, I write to Nick. I will miss you, but try not to blame me if you hear very little while I'm away. I mean it as a reassurance; you have a way of keeping me warm even from afar.
11:01 p.m.: He replies as I'm getting into bed. Have a good tour. I'm proud of you! Enjoy every moment. I'll miss you. Just say the word, any word, and I will be at your side, he finishes, or intends to, but then, as a scribbled afterthought, Your silence is already better than anyone else's speech.
11:05 p.m.: I tuck his letter into this woeful diary and slowly drift to sleep.
DAY TWO
4:45 a.m.: My international apparition call is early this morning. I hurry to my feet, casting a few beauty charms. Today will be mostly rehearsal, followed by the concert this evening. I've been warned to be realistic with my expectations; mine is a new fame, merely a flicker of what could be. It will be a small venue, perhaps an intimate crowd. "Intimacy is good," Oberon told me when he informed me of the arrangements, "It means they will fall in love with you. They'll think you belong to them. People are possessive idiots," he added neutrally, "who want to believe you are only theirs." I like this, when he conspires with me. It makes me feel he senses a kinship with me. I miss his mouth, his lips, his tongue.
6:45 a.m.: I have no trouble getting through the apparition checkpoint and arrive in Bucharest on schedule. Oberon isn't here, of course, but that's unimportant. I have both a performance and a visit with my sister to come, which is more than enough excitement for one day.
11:00 a.m.: Hermia surprises me after two hours of rehearsal, telling me she's persuaded one of the other dragonologists to take on her responsibilities for the entire day. I am, of course, elated, though it occurs to me to ask something. "Where's Lysander?" I say, bracing myself for his appearance, and she smiles. "Just you and me," she assures me, and I instantly exhale, relieved. I am not an unselfish person; I want my sister to myself. "You must tell me everything," I insist, pulling her away for an early lunch.
11:20 a.m.: Hermia is hesitant to discuss her own life. I wonder if something has gone wrong between her and Lysander, or if the abrupt end of her marriage to Demetrius—Lysander's brother, in fact—is causing her to experience some aftershocks. After all, it is newly December. The newness of spring, the heat of summer, the promise of autumn, they all fade, and the revelation of winter may bring some new season of affection. Instead of discussing her life, though, she tells me briefly of her work and presses me about my tour, my album in progress, about everything. "How are things with Nick?" she asks, and I cannot fathom why it matters. "Fine," I say evasively, purely out of boredom, but it seems our conversation is circular, sometimes contradictory. As if neither of us is capable of remaining on the same track.
1:15 p.m.: I am almost relieved when I return to rehearsal, parting ways with Hermia until later this evening, after the show. I'm comfortable here on stage, beneath the lights. Some people find a spotlight intimidating rather than illuminating, but it feels natural to me. I have an energy, the same one my sister has, but she seems to be restricting it today. I wonder for a moment what she isn't telling me, and then I release my questioning. Tonight is about love, about the romance of performance, about the sanctity of art. Tonight, I will sing their stories so opulently, so generously, they will fall in love with mine.
6:30 p.m.: A final soundcheck, then the performance. I don't expect a large crowd, as I said, but there are certainly people filling the seats.
7:30 p.m.: A full house, even if it is a small one. I make no mistakes. The audience is entranced, and I sneak a look at my sister, who looks overcome with pride. My heart warms again at the thought of her presence, and my enthusiasm for our evening returns. Perhaps she'll be more forthcoming over a bit of fairy-made wine.
10:01 p.m.: Backstage, I find a single rose from Nick, along with a note from Oberon. It isn't particularly congratulatory, but he informs me he's made a reservation for my sister and me at a restaurant in Bucharest's wizarding alley. He is cunning above all things, so I assume he's chosen it for its visibility, or perhaps because they have offered something in return. I smile briefly, then return to Nick's note. He wishes me well, expresses pride in my talent, tells me he's thinking of me. I tuck it into the diary, which so far seems to be serving more purpose as a file for his thoughts than mine.
10:35 p.m.: A very late dinner, of course, but my sister seems at ease now. I ask her what was wrong before, but she elegantly demurs. Of course she does. "Did you hear from Nick?" she asks, and I struggle not to roll my eyes. "Fine, fine," she says, lifting her glass to toast me, and a camera shutter clicks, observing us. "Strange to think that's not Nick's camera," I say offhandedly, because she's the one who brought him up, and she makes a noncommittal sound of interest: "Oh?" "Well, he's always got his camera with him," I explain, "and naturally, I'm often the subject." My most recent U.K. piece for Witch Weekly was shot by him, all very abstract. Reflections, he called it, taking pictures of me in mirrors, glass, fairy pools—never directly. I was strangely pleased with the result; I thought it a ridiculous concept at first, considering I am perfectly capable of seducing the camera myself, but the lack of directness added a layer of something interesting. Distance, I think. As if I'm out of reach. "Ah," says Hermia, with a bit of a chuckle into her wine.
10:56 p.m.: Dinner is delicious, and the wine finally unlocks my sister's carefully cultivated secrecy; or perhaps it unlocks mine, first, and then hers. "Is it what you hoped for?" I ask her, referring broadly to her life, and she gives me one of her siren smiles. "No," she says, "it's nothing I would have ever been clever enough to hope for." At first it seems she means the dragons, and I heartily note her joy in her work, but conversation seems to warp in and out until it becomes apparent she's also talking about Lysander. "I feel free," she says. "Free?" I echo doubtfully, because that's not what I would call living in a tiny Romanian hut, and she smiles again. "I feel unequivocally myself," she clarifies, "and I didn't realize how much freedom I would discover in that."
11:15 p.m.: "I am never just one version of myself," I say, perhaps a bit haughtily, and Hermia laughs, dotingly. "True, my life would be much too small for you," she teases, jiving me for my inexperience, and I make a face. "Why didn't you bring him?" I ask, referring to Lysander, and she hesitates for a moment. Several moments. "I'm the one who sent you after him," I remind her, implying somewhat brusquely that I am entitled to some candor on the subject, and she relents with a sigh to confession. "I only know how to love two ways: one as if it will end in the morning, and the other as if it will never end," she says. I struggle to see how this is relevant. "I was wrong once," she tells me, and I register something I have never seen on my sister's lovely face, except for once when she thought she would lose me: fear.
11:30 p.m.: "I did it wrong once. I worry if it ever becomes something that lives on its own without my nurturing it, without me protecting it, then it will come to harm. If you meet Lysander, if you come to know him, then that is another piece of my heart he can break. Another thread of myself I will never get back. I believe he will never intend to hurt me, I believe I love him as I never loved Demetrius, but at the same time I believe in nothing anymore. I wish he had been my first love, that I had been his. I wish I had never become a villain before I loved him. I wish the pages of my story were empty of shame. I find myself dreaming again, remembering old feelings. I wanted to be married once. I wanted forever once before. I feel trapped in a cycle of memory, and now I know what it means, being haunted by mistakes. They follow me around like ghosts, my old feelings for a different man. They are new and old all at once."
11:45 p.m.: I press her. "Are you happy?" "Oh, excruciatingly so. Exquisitely. So happy I think it requiring a different word. Happy enough that every moment comes with a little stab of fear, because I don't deserve it." "You're being ridiculous, of course you deserve to be happy." "How? I destroyed my marriage, I failed my husband, I broke the heart of the man I love before I ever chose him." "Hush, you destroyed nothing on your own. It was a marriage, it required two people." "Well, does it matter whether I had help? I shouldn't be this happy. I have no right to it. It shouldn't be mine." "Does Lysander not deserve to be happy?" "Of course he does, he's good, better than me." "Then suffer your punishment. You have to be happy now because of him, because you owe him that. Be tormented by your joys."
12:14 a.m.: Hermia is laughing through tears when we apparate back to my hotel room. I don't know yet if she believes me, or if I even believe me, though she does me the kindness of treating my advice like expertise. She is the elder between us, the wiser, the fairer. But I do try to say something of worth, even if I am not entirely convinced of its value.
12:35 a.m.: My sister becomes solemn when she asks me again about Nick. "Don't waste it," she tells me. "Waste what?" "His friendship." I sigh loudly, "I'm not wasting anything, I'm looking for something." "Don't look too hard," she warns me, "or you might miss it."
1:01 a.m.: Tomorrow, I'll see Oberon in Budapest. The thought of him buzzes in my chest. His name blazes through my bones. He ignites my imagination while I rest my head beside my sister's and she tells me of dragons and sirens, old tales of heroic love. She smooths my hair like I'm a child, still seeing me as I once was, but now I have a woman's heart. Oberon, Oberon, Oberon. It beats irrepressibly to the sound of his name, and I fall asleep beholden to tomorrow.
DAY THREE
5:15 a.m.: These late nights with early risings will soon exhaust me, I fear. I wake sluggishly while Hermia is preparing to return to her village, kissing my cheek and telling me perhaps she'll see me again soon. "You should come to London," I say, because I know it was once (not so long ago, even) a city she adored, and she gives me a hesitant smile. Her lips say maybe, her eyes say no. I understand. "Give Lysander my love," I say, equally insincerely. Does it bother me, perhaps? I always understood the mystique of Demetrius. Her attraction to Lysander feels… unlikely, though I admit, I have never met him before. He was estranged from his family at the time of her wedding, and I have found few opportunities to visit. I know nothing about him other than he is not well-loved by the rest of his siblings. Hermia merely smiles and bids me farewell, rushing out in a whirl of orchids.
8:40 a.m.: My morning is unremarkable. I don't bother much with beauty charms or extravagant fashion, as I will spend most of the day taking the wizarding express train into Budapest. I take my seat in my private compartment and let my mind wander, contemplating my life, as I often do. I mentioned, I think, how much my thoughts revolve around myself. It sounds like narcissism, but sometimes I suspect it's loneliness.
9:11 a.m.: I struggle with a few songs. My process is melody first, then poetry. Siren song, with the words being the more difficult piece. Today, perhaps a consequence of his handwriting existing beside mine in this diary, I am thinking of Nick. I don't usually think of him during these times, as my affection for him is playful, almost childish. He feels like I have known him my entire life, even if it has only been a little more than a year. My diary smells like the rose I pressed between the pages; I smile to think of him, though that is hardly helpful. There is no song here.
10:03 a.m.: I have only kissed or touched Nick for show, for the cameras. I sometimes wonder why he takes no issue with it, as he isn't particularly ambitious. I don't understand the appeal for him in pretending, though he never faults me the enjoyment I take. I suppose he knows my presence elevates his career, though I am not too proud to notice his star is on a more rapid rise than mine. I am sometimes belittled by my critics; too young, too inexperienced, vacuously lovely. Nick has something they call a 'hardened' eye, sometimes 'disenchanted,' as if to part with one's illusions is somehow inherently wise. Yes, Nick has known war, he has known his brother's death, but I would never call him disenchanted. Perhaps what they mean is that he spies beauty in chaotic things, but because they don't understand his beauty, they presume it to be a loftier ugliness instead. That interpretation must appeal to critics who find no value in a pretty song.
10:30 a.m.: I am disembarking the train when I hear my name, my entire body flooded with a siege of blissful panic. There is a feeling when someone unexpected calls for you; some little impossible-something that only happens when you hear it spoken by a former lover or a newly ignited flame—which today, if I am lucky, will be the same person. Someday, I wish to put to pen and paper the saccharine terror of knowing Oberon is somewhere near.
10:35 a.m.: Oberon is wearing a suit, standing alone on the platform. Not truly alone, of course, but all I can see is him, and a ray of sun from the skylight above gives him a sort of glow around his shoulders. He is a beautiful man, more so than handsome. I should like to see him carved from stone. "I was expecting you later," I say, wishing now I had thought to apply some charms, but so be it. Natural is best, according to him. "I took the early apparition call," he says perfunctorily, and I am business, I know, just business. For now.
10:40 a.m.: "I've had some trouble reaching my contacts here. Better I get to work early," he explains. I'm disappointed, asking him, "Will you not be with me this morning?" He gives me a quizzical look, softly amused. "What did you expect from me?" he says, and I, who have existed only in my head all morning, decide to indulge my rebellious fantasies. I lean up on my toes, pulling him into what looks like a casual embrace, but isn't. I feel his body brace at the motion of me grazing against him. "Do you remember that lunch we had in Bordeaux?" I ask him, carefully touching my lips to his cheek. I can feel the way he remembers I am not speaking of wine or tartar.
10:41 a.m.: "You," he says, gently taking hold of my arms, "have a show to prepare for." Still, I can feel his hesitation to refuse me, his renewed contemplation of me. I feel his tension, as I always do. He has avoided me for months, but something has changed recently. His demurral is more coiled, more tense. I remember that he and his inamorata are fighting, perhaps broken. I can feel they are broken in the way he leans towards me, craving something only I possess. Will I make him whole? For an hour, maybe. Two, if he is ravenous enough. "Tonight?" I ask, and he considers it a moment, and then slowly nods. "Late dinner," he says. I smile. "Very late," I agree, and turn away, leaving him to watch the sway of my hips.
12:12 p.m.: I go directly to rehearsal, where I am slightly more tired than yesterday. It is a larger stage, which means I must recalculate the steps I take, the places I look. It is important to me to communicate in some way with everyone in the audience. At some point, someone brings me the reviews from Bucharest: lovely girl, not untalented, though a bit charmingly naive. Naive? I toss the paper aside, wishing I had never seen it. It is a worse crime for a woman to be sweetly ignorant than anything. Ingenues never last.
4:35 p.m.: The review haunts me slightly, and in my agitation, I sit at the fireplace in my hotel, calling for Nick. He answers quickly, listens to me at length, nods sympathetically. He understands what it is to be an artist; one thing we share is that our work is constantly misinterpreted. "People often struggle to give any value to self-discovery," he says, "and your work is a sort of bildungsroman." This, unfortunately, makes me feel no better. "You think I sing only of my formative years?" "Don't you?" he asks, looking puzzled.
4:45 p.m.: It occurs to me that Nick doesn't know of my feelings for Oberon, nor does he understand them. Perhaps he interprets my words of feeling displaced by my love for Oberon as being some sort of adolescent pining. "I'm sorry," he says, interpreting my silence poorly, and I shake my head. "It's fine," I lie, and add, "I'm tired, that's all. I shouldn't let things like this bother me."
4:55 p.m.: He protests remorsefully. "I only want you to feel better. I shouldn't have taken the critic's side, I'm sorry." "You didn't take his side, I understand, you're trying to make sense of it. I appreciate it." (I'm lying, but I want this conversation to end.) "You don't, I can see that you don't. I only meant—" "To help, yes, I know." "But I didn't help." "No, you didn't." (Now I am restless.) "Please, let me fix it—" "There's nothing to fix. I should go, I'm performing in two hours." "Okay. Okay. You look beautiful, I miss you." "Yes, I miss you too, thank you for the rose." "You got it? Good." "Yes, okay, talk to you later."
6:31 p.m.: Needless to say, Nick did not particularly make me feel better. I am still vibrating with displeasure before my performance, irritably sending people away. I am about to snap for the fourth or fifth time that I need silence to prepare before the show when I realize it's Oberon slipping into my dressing room. "You have everyone scuttling around you like terrified mice," he says, amused. I can't take this right now, his presence sickens me. I long for him so desperately it convulses in my throat. "Good," I say.
6:34 p.m.: "What is it? Trouble with your Englishman?" I struggle not to scoff. Of course not. No, it's worse, I say, and confess the review is bothering me. Oberon thinks for a moment, contemplating something. "I'll make sure you have a female reviewer in London," he says, "someone who will relate more to your performance." All business, like always. I am a commodity to him, and it makes me ache. I rise to my feet too quickly, tripping over my long Grecian gown, and Oberon catches my elbow. In the mirror, I can see the ways I make an enchanting faerie queen, a wreath of flowers in my delicate silvery hair, and the way he looks like a king beside me, solemnly elegant. "Careful," he says.
6:40 p.m.: I have all the wrong energies. I must turn them to something useful. I look up at Oberon and barely think before I am pressing myself into him, my hands rising to his neck. I pull at his collar, tracing the tips of my fingers over the line of his clavicle, and then I curl my hands into fists, the fabric of his shirt now trapped within my grasp. "I don't want to be careful," I tell him, and I don't. Oh, am I naive? Do I require further heartbreak? Break me, then, I don't care. I cannot be an ingenue forever. "Don't throw yourself away on someone like me," Oberon says. I hate the woman in his life, whoever she is. I wish her nothing but painful, unspeakable ill.
6:45 p.m.: My mouth is on his with urgency, and at first he resists, his hands tight on my arms, but I can see he has been fighting with himself a long time. He gives in, returns my kiss, and we both fumble as he backs me against my vanity, lifting me roughly onto it. A knock at my door signals fifteen minutes to curtain. "She'll be ready," Oberon calls back, pulling away long enough to bark it over his shoulder before I yank his lips back to mine. He tastes different than I remember. There is something anguished to him now, and it enriches the flavor of his lips. He has loved and lost, and loss is what has done this to him. I, who am apparently naive and lacking any particular heartache, must taste too sweet to him, all sugar.
6:51 p.m.: There is no time for anything. I want him to make something profane of me, to spoil my gown and everything beneath it, but he won't. He stops me, taking my hands from his trousers, and sets me on my feet, turning me to face the mirror in my vanity. My hands are shaking while I refresh my beauty charms, re-apply my lipstick. His hands are on my waist, traveling the slopes of my hips, possessively rounding my breasts. He kisses my neck, whispering in my ear that he'll see me later. I stretch out against his chest, hungry for more, but he won't, he won't, he won't. "Tonight," he says curtly, and releases me. I walk slowly to the door, like a dream, like a ghost.
7:01 p.m.: The lights dazzle me, blind me. On a whim, I change the first song to the one I wrote after my first little intimacy with him. I will sing of Oberon, the first thing on my tongue, or my lungs will fail me. Outside of that, I make no mistakes.
9:39 p.m.: I rush into my dressing room, which is empty. A note from Nick, another rose; I shove it into my journal. From Oberon, two words: I'm waiting, and then the name of the restaurant. I change quickly, rushing to disapparate, and follow wherever he is.
10:06 p.m.: To my dismay, Oberon is speaking to someone else, though I realize quickly (with relief) there are only two place settings at the table. He introduces me to someone in the industry, someone whose name and face I will hardly remember, and I smile and speak only as necessary. I notice for the first time while I observe him closely that Oberon has a letter tucked into the lining of his coat. I frown slightly. It is long, clearly, with slender, sprawled handwriting. I wonder for a moment what it could be, but then the industry professional is departing. Oberon and I are alone at last.
10:34 p.m.: We eat sparingly. Neither of us are hungry, it seems. Oberon discusses my career, refills my wine. From time to time, he looks at me as a sweet to be unwrapped. I long for it, impatient. I drum my fingers, scratch imaginary itches, flick away invisible dust, turn apprehensively over my shoulder multiple times over the course of the meal. I am paranoid with want for him; Will it be this moment? This one? Will he whisper for me to meet him now? Will he slide his hands under my dress here, with everyone watching? He does none of it and I loathe him, I fall in love with him anew. Oberon, tell me you miss the taste of my skin. Tell me the sweetness of the wine is nothing compared with mine. His dark eyes follow my movements, observing me as I manage to speak less and less throughout the meal. Then, finally, "You must be exhausted. Let me take you home." I die quietly, resurrecting in no less than a breath.
10:45 p.m.: He apparates me into my hotel suite and has me in his arms immediately, wrestling me back against the wall. He never fumbles; instead, he slides my dress above my hips with patient expertise, tracing his hands over my skin. Has he been imagining this all night, like I have? I can't speak, I can't think. The zipper digs into my skin and he slides it down, grasps me in the same motion. He pulls the bodice down over my breasts and the skirt up over my hips. He presses his lips to my shoulder when he fills me. "Do you get this wet for Nick?" he asks, amused, and I'm so furious he says it I could die. "Only for you," I say, scolding him, half-wanting to weep. "I am only ever like this for you."
10:55 p.m.: It's the first time I feel I've said something right. Whoever his lover was, she certainly did a number on him. He has a new vacancy, which is in turn newly filled by the promise of my wanting. "This?" he asks, gritting his teeth as he fucks me, "This is what you want?" The vulgarity in his voice overwhelms me, and already, I see stars forming around his head. "Be rough with me," I say, "as rough as love is with you." I do not need to ask twice.
11:14 p.m.: I don't see how he does it; I suppose I underestimate his magic, but he wandlessly conjures vine-like ropes, silken ties that wrap around my wrists, forcing them above my head. He kisses me, bites me, leaves marks on my flawless skin, and I cry out for being unable to touch him. Worse, he pulls out of me, withdraws himself from me, and un-twines my legs from around his hips to rest my feet gently on the floor.
11:16 p.m.: He slides my dress from my hips, leaving it in a pool on the floor, and then bends down. He lifts my right foot, brushing the arch of it with his lips, and shoves the dress away, doing the same with the left. Then he looks up from his knees, his hands curled around my thighs, and removes his wand from his pocket, murmuring something.
11:23 p.m.: He holds the wand tenderly to the lips of my sex, hovering there so I feel a low, gentle vibration. I moan, breathless, and abruptly he slices the material of my underwear away, leaving me bare. I long to press my skin to his; I tell him mindlessly, touch me, please touch me. He is ruthless with his patience. He takes his time, masochistically. He removes his jacket, impassively folding up his sleeves. The letter that was inside his pocket falls to the floor, unnoticed by him, and I say nothing.
11:30 p.m.: Oberon's lips are on my breasts as he slides his fingers in and out of me, torturous. He wants control and I let him have it, though for me, it throbs and aches. I am desperate, writhing against him; I have been reduced to begging. You want naivety, you want an ingenue? Hysterically, I am neither. I am a prisoner. I have been utterly, irreparably seduced.
11:54 p.m.: He alternates with his mouth and his hands. Sometimes he does nothing but massage parts of me, molding my longing to the shapes of his palms. Sometimes he gathers my hair in one hand and yanks it; sometimes he twines it gently through his fingers. It's as if he's acting out months of restraint in one evening, fulfilling every fantasy of me he's had, making me the star of his arousal. By the time he kicks my legs apart, widening my stance, I am strung naked against the wall, with all the exhaustion of being wrung out and drained, but he is still fully clothed. I can barely gather the strength to gasp when he slides inside me. I am so wet I glisten. A swollen sheen of gluttonous want.
12:12 a.m.: I thought I could feeling nothing else. I was wrong. I'm so sensitive to touch I come quickly, rapidly, and he hardly lets me rest before he is building me to orgasm again. The sound of his name falls from my mouth like a sob, and how has he done this? How has anyone done this? I think part of me would rather be devoured than loved. I want to be repressed, ravaged, consumed. By the time he comes, forehead pressed to mine in beatific agony, I know I would not be standing without his help, without his magic keeping me upright. When he releases me from my restraints, I slither into his arms and he carries me to my bed. I am formless and boneless when I drape myself over his chest.
12:44 a.m.: He stays with me, stroking my arms, but I can feel him counting the minutes. That's fine. I don't want to ruin the portrait of him by knowing whether or not he snores when he dreams. When I can stand to lift my head, I struggle to my feet—Is this exhaustion all his doing? Has he really drained me of everything, even energy itself?—to step beside my ruined clothes, surreptitiously nudging the letter under the hotel bed. "Go," I tell him. He seems eternally grateful, kissing my forehead. "Sleep in tomorrow," he suggests. I plan to. I will have to, if I can even manage to wake. Sleep will have me for hours tonight.
1:01 a.m.: After he leaves I bathe, retrieve the letter, climb into bed with it. It's a letter to Oberon, as I already suspected, but I don't know if I would call it a love letter. At first, it seems so deeply hateful I feel certain it can't be love.
1:13 a.m.: This isn't about you, it isn't about whether I love you or not, why can't you understand that? Some things are about me, you bloody fucking bastard. Why do you always have to question me? Don't you understand that I can love you and still need to be away from you? I can't breathe when you're here, I forget who I am. What a crime it is, denying you. I'm not at the mercy of your whims and it kills you, I can see it killing you. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I hate you so much it burns in my throat. I know you went back to the vials, I know you started again, I know you're fucking other people and still, I won't come home anyway. I can't. Why? I don't know. I just can't. You drain me. Your friends are right, you can't love me. You only know how to set me on fire and you don't even care when I burn. You're selfish, you always have been, and my god have I loved you for every selfish bone you possess. I'm fucking drunk right now, do you even understand what you've done to me? I want to tattoo every word you've ever said on my skin, between my ribs. I want to have your lips in ink, I want to memorialize the way they look around my cock, I want you permanently on my body just so I can have you, any part of you, forever. I told you I needed to find myself. Finding you is not finding myself. What do you want from me? What can I tell you to make you stay? Nothing. Was I ever anything to you? I know I was, I know it, the worst thing is knowing how you loved me and realizing this is the only way you can love. You selfish man, you arrogant bastard. You're so fucking beautiful when you take and I wish I could love you less for that.
2:04 a.m.: I read the letter five times. For almost an hour, I cry inconsolably.
2:14 a.m.: I am absolutely naive. I am a beautiful idiot. This, whatever is in this letter, is something I have never felt, and now I know for sure that I know nothing.
DAY FOUR
10:15 a.m.: I finally wake with my eyes swollen, restlessly in and out of sleep all morning. So, now I know who Oberon's lover is. Was. I know he's a man, and apparently a troubled one. Apparently Oberon should not have been in my arms last night, which I already knew. What does this mean for any of us? I read it again and realize the letter is dated five days ago. Oberon has been carrying it around in his pocket, and probably in the recesses of his mind, for five days.
11:45 a.m.: I groggily make my way to the apparition point. London? The idea of going there sickens me. Oberon wrote me this morning to say he would meet me at tonight's venue, because London is home for him. I am repulsed by how badly I still want him. I am furious I hold this letter in my hands. How often do I feel I kill myself, enslaved to my need to translate feelings into words? Somehow, the drunken ramblings of a broken man hold more emotion than I have ever managed and it kills me. My inadequacy crushes me. I feel sick. My misery manifests like a fever, leaving me in chills.
1:34 p.m.: I am prepared to lock myself in my hotel suite until the show this evening, but I don't quite make it. I collapse, or so I'm told, and when I wake again I'm in bed, my manager and Oberon beside me. "You fainted," my manager tells me, frantically asking if I need anything. I look at Oberon, silently pleading, and he nods. "Leave her alone," he says, ushering my manager away, "I'll take care of it."
1:45 p.m.: Oberon holds a cool hand to my forehead. "You're clearly exhausted," he says, and tells me to rest my voice. He informs me he'll reschedule tonight's performance for tomorrow. I agree in silence. He pauses for a moment, obviously uncomfortable, and then clears his throat. "I apologize," he says slowly, "if I… did something I shouldn't have." I stare at him for a moment. Then I withdraw the letter from my own pocket, solemnly handing it back to him. "I'm the one who did something wrong," I manage to rasp. He stares at the page, saying nothing.
2:04 p.m.: I cover my hand with his. He doesn't move. I sit up, he doesn't move. I pull him into me, twisting my fingers in his shirt again, he doesn't move. I press my lips to his, holding his face in my hands, he doesn't move. He is immovable. I pull him closer, he doesn't resist. I am kissing him desperately, breathlessly, and finally, after what feels like many years and lifetimes, he kisses me back. He shoves the covers aside and climbs into bed with me while I hurry to remove my underwear, yanking it down my legs. This will be quick, intuitive, expulsive. His eyes are closed, as are mine. I don't know what I want, I don't know why I want it. I whimper when he slides inside me, I beg him to fuck me like he loves me, he says nothing. He lets me strip him of his shirt, he kicks off his trousers. He and I lie naked together, moving slowly, quietly, carefully. His skin is soft and smooth.
2:13 p.m.: He and I both understand this is a lie. I bite his lip, he scratches my skin. Be rough with me, ruin me, be unkind. I don't know what this is or why I want it. I come in waves, in swarms, in choked down silences. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that mine is not the face behind his eyes when he comes.
2:35 p.m.: Oberon holds his hand to my forehead again. "You're hot," he says, "you need to rest." He slides out from the sheets, retrieving his clothes. He pauses, then holds out a hand. "Come on," he tells me, and I don't have the energy not to follow. I take his arm and let him lead me to the bathroom; I dutifully stand with my teeth clenched in the shower, arms folded tightly over my body, while he turns on the water, stepping in after me.
2:45 p.m.: He bathes me gently. His touch is tender while he washes my hair. This is the least sexual thing I have ever done; I feel like a child, like a baby. I rest one hand on his shoulder as he bends down, running the soap over my legs and feet. He places a kiss on my knee and looks up at me. "You need to rest," he says again, and turns off the water. I let him wrap me in a towel and warm me until I'm dry.
5:56 p.m.: I wake up alone. No, not alone. Oberon is gone, but someone is knocking on my door. I hear my name, softly, and reach around for my wand, unlocking the door and turning the other way. I hear Nick's footsteps before I feel the weight of him settling beside me on the bed. "I came because I thought you might need me," he says, "but I can leave, if you want."
6:05 p.m.: I turn to look at him. Nick has such fine features. He has all the beauty of someone who believes in goodness; who still, however fruitlessly, seeks it out. His eyes are soft when they fall on mine, tender without touching me. He has a single rose in his hand. "Hi," I say quietly, and he smiles, relieved. "Hi," he says, and then, tentatively, he reaches out, brushing his thumb lightly across my cheek.
6:15 p.m.: He asks me if I need anything and I shake my head no. I pull him in next to me, though he doesn't climb under the covers. He carefully removes his shoes, setting the rose on the nightstand beside the bed, and lies atop the duvet, facing me. "Have you had a busy few days?" I ask him. He nods. It would never occur to him to boast, so he says nothing aside from logistical necessity. "They've been pestering me to come back to London for a residency," he says hesitantly, "and I agreed to take some meetings while I'm here. But not until I know you're better."
6:24 p.m.: He seems concerned that I have some lingering chills, so he conjures a fire in the hotel's fireplace before returning to bed with me. I don't know if I'm hot or cold. I only know I'm relieved he's here. I feel better, safer. Warmer, though that might be the hearth. His face glows in the firelight. "Is there anything you need?" he asks me. "Just you," I say, and press myself closer to him, letting one of his arms wrap around me. "You told me you would never lie to me," he murmurs. I barely hear him, drifting again into sleep.
8:32 p.m.: I open my eyes to find Nick is shivering a little in his sleep. I wake him, nudging him until his eyes snap open. "You can get in the blankets," I tell him, but he sits up groggily, looking around with a shake of his head. "I should get you something to eat," he says, and rises to his feet.
8:52 p.m.: He comes back with broth, and something that looks and smells like spiced mead. "It's what my dad gives us sometimes when we're sick," he says. This is not the first time I notice he still speaks of himself and his brother as if they're a unit. I sit up, beckoning him under the covers. "Please?" I say. He will deny me nothing, though he hesitates. "Alright," he concedes, and slides into bed with me.
9:15 p.m.: I rest my head against his shoulder between sips as he tells me about things in Paris. He doesn't say so, but I'm aware there is less for him in Paris than in London. In fact, his residency in Paris was always meant to be temporary. "I like it there," he says, shrugging and dismissing my concern when I bring it up. There is half a smile on his face while he looks at me, and unwisely, I bask in it.
9:30 p.m.: "Stay the night with me," I say.
9:31 p.m.: Nick reaches out, gingerly stroking my hair.
9:32 p.m.: "I could never leave you," he says quietly, and his golden head is resting on my pillow, and undeniably, contentment is a drowsy lure.
DAY FIVE
5:32 a.m.: It's a marginal time change, but enough to throw me. I wake up to find Nick is tousled from sleep, trembling a little. I reach out, attempting to soothe him with a touch, and he jerks awake, struggling to place himself. "Nightmare?" I ask, and he sits up. His shirt is soaked through with perspiration and he swallows heavily, shaking his head. "Nothing," he tells me, and it is obviously a lie.
5:43 a.m.: I run my fingers over his back, which is cool now, damp with sweat. My fingers slip under the fabric and I peel it from his skin, exposing the muscle of his back. He's a bit underfed and it makes him look angular. There is a scar that cuts across the blade of his shoulder and he tries to resist me, tries to pull away, but I pause my palm against his spine, reassuring him. "Let me," I say, and sit up to remove his shirt, watching his body reveal itself to me, inch by inch.
5:45 a.m.: I suppose I've forgotten that I'm also in my nightgown. Nick's gaze falls and then rigorously freezes as he tries to drag his attention away, looking elsewhere. I laugh, taking hold of his chin. "You can look at me," I say, teasing him, and his cheeks are flushed. My fever is broken, my energy has returned. I can't help the pleasure I take in watching him struggle, so I slide myself into his lap, resting my back against his chest. I am feeling affectionate towards him this morning. I want to be closer, perhaps even too close. "You can touch me if you want to," I say, and I can feel his heart pounding between my scapulae.
5:48 a.m.: He isn't breathing when I take his hands, holding them to my waist. Both of us are leaned against the headboard of the bed, me between his legs, his hands delicately placed on my torso. I cover his knuckles with my fingers, guiding his hands. Down to stroke my hips, curving around my inner thighs. Up to my breasts, where I shape his fingers around the base of them. He inhales sharply, and his breath excites me. His mouth is near my ear, and now my heart is racing, too. I separate his hands, lowering one beneath the silk of my nightgown to trace my hips. With the other, I draw the silk aside to place my bare breast in his palm, letting his thumb scrape over the delicate bead of my nipple.
6:01 a.m.: I feel him hesitate, going rigid, and I lock my fingers around his wrists, moving my hips rhythmically. He groans softly, and he is less boyish to me now, a man's sound of pleasure resounding huskily in my ear. He says my name in a whisper and I feel my cunt tighten at the sound, my eyes closing. His hand rises of its own accord, hovering above the line of my neck, and I lift my chin, lips parted.
6:05 a.m.: His kisses are impossibly light, following the shape of my clavicle to the column of my throat. He holds my jaw with one hand, his hand tight around my hip with the other. "Don't do this to me," he says, his tongue brushing over my skin. He must be torturing himself. I turn in his arms, taking his face between my palms. "Do what?" I ask, innocent, and I see it the moment his restraint fails him. He comes to life in an instant, throwing me gruffly on my back.
6:15 a.m.: Oh, he's exhilarating now, more than I could have ever imagined. He pauses with his lips on the strap of my nightgown, fingering it for a moment. Then he turns to murmur in my ear, so softly I almost think I imagine it, "Can I take this off?" I convulse with longing, wishing to rip it myself, tear it to shreds, but he removes it slowly, gingerly, patiently. He looks down at me, half-holding his breath, and says, "Can I touch you?" My god, my god, my god. "Please," I whisper, and I meant to scream it, only hardly a sound comes out.
6:24 a.m.: I sit up, reaching for his trousers, but Nick shakes his head, falling gracelessly onto his back. I think for a moment he's about to change his mind, to refuse, but instead he pulls me to him. I kiss him with confusion, reaching for the hardness I can feel between his legs, but he shakes his head. He slows me down, stroking my hair from my face, his tongue light as a feather along the side of my mouth. "Can I taste you?" he says. I move away, thinking he'll want me on my back, but he shakes his head. "Like this," he explains, and slides underneath me, his shoulders fitting between my thighs.
6:31 a.m.: His first lick of me is tentative, slow, and then progressively more certain. He has his hands on my hips and he moves me, forward and back, while his lips pulse against the slit of my cunt, sucking with more conviction as I gradually give in. I want to toss my hair back, to look sensual as I ride his mouth, but I can't help looking at him instead. It's a strange view, this angle. I have to see the whole of myself in order to view him, and as I look down to watch him, we look as if we are one piece, moving in tandem.
6:36 a.m.: My orgasm startles even me. I didn't think it would build so quickly, and the rush of it leaves me in a moan. Nick seems as if he will stay there—that he will gladly do it again—but I am eager to repay him. I reach around, brushing my fingers against the tip of his cock, and his entire body shudders. Yes, I think, I can repay you fully in kind.
6:46 a.m.: I pull my legs away, perched beside his chest as I lean across his torso, the silvery tips of my hair brushing his bare stomach. I withdraw his cock from his pants, ghosting my breath over it, and then shaping my lips around him. He will not be able to stand this for long, I think, so I go slowly. His hands hungrily smooth over my back, my thighs, the still-swollen velvet of my cunt. I slide my lips over him, swirling my tongue around the stiffness of his head.
6:52 a.m.: His touch dances around my slit, darting inside me, traveling in and out while I take him in my mouth. I tighten around his fingers, feeling the way he jerks in my mouth. For others, for Oberon, I am happy to be the object of fascination, but for Nick I take a more active role. In fact, I take great pleasure in being the aggressor. Is this how Oberon feels? For Nick, I am pleased by pleasing him.
7:01 a.m.: He yanks me away with a low, foreign-sounding obscenity, spilling out over his torso. I survey his body like I would a patient, a landscape, as if I have something to learn from it. He sits up, reaching for his wand, but I stop him. I use mine instead, soothing myself by cleansing us both.
7:15 a.m.: For a moment after I remove my wand, we're both stunned. I have never considered him like this before, and it alarms me how easily it happened; how quickly ours was a bridge I was willing to cross, never once looking over my shoulder. Is that youth? Or is it destiny? I glance at him, half-apprehensive, and he swallows. "If you want me to go—" "No, no, please don't," I say quickly. Suddenly, I am terrified to lose him. "Don't go," I whisper, and I kiss him fiercely, something I realize we haven't actually done. Not like this. Not with the way I can't bear to let him go.
7:20 a.m.: Our kisses are ravenous, belying what we did moments before. I feel as if we're children, discovering each other. We've abandoned the playacting of adult love, choosing instead to hold each other close, to hardly move at all. I'm aware of his erection pressing against my hip and I deviously ignore it, as does he. We go through stages of adolescence together, drifting and twining, the taste of me on the tip of his tongue. I touch only the saintly parts of him, eyes and cheeks and nose. I run my fingers through his hair. He holds me in his arms, breathless.
7:35 a.m.: I could spend forever like this, kissing him while our lips alternately numb and throb, but I ask him questions between periods of languid exploration. What are the dreams about? His brother, he tells me, whispering it like a secret. He sees him sometimes and runs to him, chases him until his legs give out, calls after him: It should have been me. No, no, I coax him, tenderly, and then I become maternal. We are every age and dimension now, me holding him close to my chest. "No, you are here for a reason, you can't believe your dreams, they aren't him. Your brother is in your heart, in your mind, in your memories." I say this while I kiss him. It is important to me that he feel my lips while I swear to him he is not to blame for his brother's loss.
7:57 a.m.: He spills his little longings to me, quietly. "I told myself I would be your friend, that friendship was enough for me, but sometimes I ache for permission to be close to you, to be allowed to hold you." I must admit, this thrills something selfish in me. His anguish stirs me to sympathy, and I don't know whether I'm lying when I make encouraging sounds, murmuring for him to confess everything in his heart. I usually find softness repellent, but his vulnerability moves me. I thought him too earnest before, but now I see his true honesty is only won with difficulty, with work. "I want to be with you," he admits, "to hold you like you're mine. Tell me to stay or to go, up to you. I can jump or I can wait, whatever you ask." How beautiful, I think. For the first time, Nick dazzles me.
8:05 a.m.: He has me on my back, my legs around his waist and his hardness nudging at the slickness I can't fight when suddenly there is a knock at my door. "Who is it?" I manage to ask, biting back the sound of my moan when I know he is moments from filling me. "Hermia," says my sister, sounding concerned. I curse quietly in French, startling Nick, and hastily shove him away, reaching for my nightgown. I whisper for him to dress, pushing him into the bathroom as I spell open the door for my sister. She is pale with concern, rushing inside and enveloping me in the smell of her perfume.
8:10 a.m.: Oberon stands behind my sister, languid in the frame while Hermia fusses over me, chirping her concern. Knowing Nick is in my bathroom does little to prevent the sight of Oberon from stirring my blood, but I don't worry about it for long. Oberon inclines his head, a tacet 'Are you well?,' and I reply with a nod as my sister begins speaking to me in rapid, chattering French. She holds me like she did when she feared she'd let me drown—as if she nearly lost me—and Oberon, recognizing he has no particular place in this moment, walks away, his black-suited silhouette disappearing down the hall.
8:17 a.m.: I am slightly disoriented by her presence. "I thought you couldn't come?" "Your publicist called me, he worried you would be alone in London." "Well, I'm happy you're here but I'm not alone, aren't you missing work?" "Don't worry about work, you're more important." "Are you sure?" "Yes, yes, I'm sure, I'll stay tonight just to be sure." "Here with me?" "No, I have a room, don't worry."
8:20 a.m.: I make an excuse and slip into the bathroom, where Nick is facing the mirror, staring at himself. I have never seen Nick look at his own reflection before. I, of course, am frequently checking my hair, my beauty charms, my dress, but Nick is always pleasantly unconcerned with his appearance. He turns at my entry, shaking himself from his thoughts, and I can't decide if he looks pleased or troubled. He softens, though, when I take him in my arms and whisper in his ear to disapparate; I'll slip away to join him this afternoon, I say, or he should come to my dressing room before the show. Perhaps I even murmur that he should sleep in my bed; that he should make a home there; that he should abandon any doubt; I mesmerize him with portraits of the future. He brushes his lips to my cheek in charming acquiescence and disappears.
8:35 a.m.: The moment he's gone, reality strikes me. Is this… hollowness? Illness? Regret? My exhaustion returns. My sister gives me an arched look as I emerge from the bathroom. "If you'd like me to go—" "No, no, don't," I tell her, reaching for her hand. "Come, let's have breakfast."
9:50 a.m.: One thing Hermia never adjusted to were the breakfasts in England. Too heavy. I can relate, picking at my food. I'm relieved she's here, mostly; more predominantly, though, I feel weak, still, and a bit tired. My fever may have broken in the shelter of Nick's arms, but now something has left me cold.
10:15 a.m.: I should be happy, I know, but something eludes me. I repeatedly imagine I have seen Oberon on the street in Diagon Alley, or even sometimes that I see Oberon and his lover together. I thought I would write a song for Nick this morning, but nothing comes. My journal smells like roses and I flinch at the scent. My sister hovers over me, around me, relentless. My dark mood eclipses me and I am left to wonder what has happened, what went wrong.
2:15 p.m.: Hermia accompanies me to my rehearsal, ever the dutiful sister. My voice is shaky, not entirely its usual strength. I falter more than once, but I can't miss another performance. My inadequacy frustrates me further, sours me more, and I know I don't look right; the look on my face is that of an ill-tempered girl. When Hermia pesters me about my health again, ceaseless in her worry, I suppose I do something cruel. I ask if she plans to see her husband while she's here, and she flinches immediately. "I'm sure Demetrius is busy," she says faintly, and then she makes excuses to leave. I feel both guilty and relieved.
6:02 p.m.: I sit alone in my dressing room before the show, poring over an empty page. Nothing comes, nothing. I want to slam my head into the vanity. Is there really nothing in my brain? I have been with two men, both entirely different, one devotedly mine and one resolutely not. Can't I conjure anything at all for Nick, or is life with him some sort of curse for mediocrity? I recall that contentment is a dangerous, smothering thing. Will I always be destitute, absent any emotional worth, so long as he is present?
6:17 p.m.: I exhale in relief when Oberon enters my dressing room. I have my eyes closed, but I know the sound of his footsteps well. He sets his hands on my shoulders, delicately tracing the bones of them, and when I open my eyes, I see how well we look together. I lean my head against his torso, letting the pulse of his touch lull me into something. Serenity, tranquility. Something temporarily like peace.
6:25 p.m.: "Make love to me, please," I murmur to him, and Oberon's motion ceases. "This isn't love," he tells me. I protest that it's merely a phrase, but he shakes his head, releasing me. "It's not a phrase. I've made love before. I've fucked far more often." His pain intrigues me, beleaguers me, compels me. "I want to write a song for you," I say, rising to my feet, "and for your lost love."
6:35 p.m.: He scoffs, startling me. "You have no claim to that," he says. I grow defensive, but he cuts me off with a dismissive glance. "You have no right to that story, to his words. You have no right to him."
6:38 p.m.: We argue. I tell him I need heartbreak, that I can't write from a place of happiness, that I require the immensity of pain. And besides, don't I know equally what it is to long for him? Oberon goes cold when I compare myself to his injured lover. "You and I are nothing," he tells me, without even the passion of anger, and tiny pieces of my chest spoil to rot. "If you have been hurt by me," he says, "that is only negligence. I wronged you. But we did not ruin each other."
6:41 p.m.: How unsurprisingly selfish that he allows me nothing, and how truly hateful that it still breaks me of my sense of blockage. Already, I feel new verses bubbling up on my lips, audacity finding strident chords to match. I chose this, I chose his impassivity, I have always understood he offers nothing substantial and I tell him so. "I picked you because you are failure wrapped up in a beautiful package," I rage at him, "and because you have no capacity to love anything but yourself—and worse, you don't even see how tiny that is, how inconsequential. You think you're a tragedy but at best you are simply an addict, addicted to making others suffer. You are a man who feels nothing, pretending your nothingness is pain."
6:48 p.m.: I can see that he wants to shake me, to slap me, to kiss me. It is all the same violence of feeling to him, and I indulge the latter, pulling him in and pressing my mouth to his. He twists his fingers in my hair, wrenches it loose. I come undone, waiting for him to relent, but he drags himself away. "Your devoted little paramour came to London for you," he reminds me, phrasing it like an observation. I struggle to see his point. "So?" I ask, and Oberon's lips twist, mirthless. "When you burn your life down," he says darkly, "don't say I didn't warn you."
6:52 p.m.: Oberon leaves and I turn to my vanity, fixing the pins that have come loose. In the mirror, I see a narrow suited figure behind me, a single rose in his hand.
6:54 p.m.: I spin hastily, struggling to hide my shame. "Nick," I start to say, but he cuts me off with three long steps towards me. He invades me, leans forward as if he will kiss me, but instead he reaches behind me, setting the rose on the counter of my vanity. "You want heartbreak?" he asks me quietly, making it clear he heard everything. I say nothing, and his gaze falls to the loose curl resting on my clavicle. "You're right, you've felt no loss. You've suffered nothing. So maybe you need to give your heart to someone first," he says, emotionless, "or try to find it. What even is there to break?"
6:57 p.m.: Somehow, though Oberon was far more cruel, Nick's question shatters me. I call after him, but he says nothing. My voice makes no sound for him now. He closes the door to my dressing room and leaves without looking back.
7:15 p.m.: I begin my show late. I struggle to contain myself enough to manage a step. When I finally reach the stage, I am still struggling. I cannot seem to hold a note its full length; it's as if my breath has permanently failed me. Oberon lingers in the wings, discussing something with the club owner, probably negotiating my pay. Nick is nowhere to be seen. Hermia is somewhere, I don't know where. I look for her as I stumble through an off-pitch ballad, and she looks sad. She is looking at me as if she knows I am really drowning this time, and once again, she can do nothing to save me.
9:34 p.m.: When I arrive back in my dressing room, I pick up the rose from Nick and thrash its petals until nothing remains, littering crimson on the floor like I've bled it from my own veins. I lock the door, spelling it shut, and allow no one inside. My sister calls for me and I shout for her to leave. I'm not sick, I'm not a child, I'm not in need of her coddling or of anything else. I am a woman who has made a wreckage of her life—there, I think with a darkened laugh, how's that for an ingenue?
9:56 p.m.: Oberon appears only long enough to tell me the club owner doesn't feel I merit a second night. My tour in London is over. I have tomorrow off, he says, a spiteful congratulations. "What did I do to you?" I demand in frustration, because surely I have wronged Nick and Hermia this evening, but not him. His mouth tightens. "Nothing I didn't deserve," he says, and disappears.
10:45 p.m.: This diary taunts me. I consider burning it, and the roses inside along with it, but I can't. Who am I angry with? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. I can't even make any apologies for what I've done in the name of ignorance. I am the beneficiary of ancient sirens, I care for nothing and no one. I am the cold-hearted fairy queen, and it is not romantic, it is not love, my story is not for everyone. My story is as self-concerned and piteous as me.
DAY SIX
6:45 a.m.: I wake expecting to hear from Hermia, but I hear nothing. I lie in bed, listless.
8:15 a.m.: The newspaper arrives and I read it out of boredom. Nobody is looking for me this morning. I have nowhere to be, and nobody cares. I scour the news, identifying one piece that calls out to me, flickering on the page: British-born photographer on the rise to accept residency in London. Nick Bottom, muggleborn art photographer and brother of student slain during the Battle of Hogwarts, has agreed to relocate from Paris to London, according to publicist Oberon—
9:30 a.m.: I'm staring blankly into space when I hear a knock at the door. It's too quiet to be anyone I know intimately; my staff is much more perfunctory, and my sister would be calling my name. I open the door with reticence, standing before a slender redheaded man who looks very much like Demetrius. "Lysander," I say, before I can stop myself. I recall my sister always describes him as solemn; I suppose I recognize him by her description alone. She has spoken often of his quiet elegance, which I can see when he nods, looking solemn. "May I speak with you?" he says, and lacking any reasonable cause for refusal, I motion him inside.
9:32 a.m.: He settles himself in the chair beside the fireplace, gesturing to the one opposite his and beckoning for me to sit. "I'm sorry to bother you," he says, his tone neutral and brisk, "but as you and I have never met before, I felt it necessary to take the opportunity. I regret that I haven't done so sooner. You and I both know how important you are to her." He has a very distinct way of speaking, almost excessively formal. "If you want my approval," I begin, about to express that this is not a very good time for this discussion, but Lysander interrupts me. "Perhaps on another day I would request your approval," he says, and concludes neutrally, "Today, I expect your apology."
9:35 a.m.: Needless to say, I am more than a little bit startled. I demand to know why I should apologize to him, and he shakes his head. "Not to me. To Hermia," he says, and adds that my remark about Demetrius upset her deeply. "She confided in you. She confessed herself to you. You wrong her by dismissing that confidence." He speaks in absolutes, as if this is fact. I ask him what business that is of his, and he doesn't flinch. "Her happiness is delicate," he says, rising to his feet. "I advise you to handle it with care."
9:42 a.m.: I rise angrily to my feet. "How dare you treat me as if I don't love my own sister? As if I'm a child?" He, for whatever reason, looks quietly amused by this. "Someday," he says, "you will have grown up enough to know that loving someone is both a weighty responsibility and an immense, incomparable privilege. Done right, it leads to drastic things."
9:45 a.m.: He nods to me, and then walks to the door. He turns the handle and leaves, and it appears that Lysander traveled all the way to London from Romania for less than fifteen minutes of conversation. I stare at the door after he leaves, contemplating the soreness I feel. In so little time, he has wounded me irreparably. I no longer feel Demetrius is the stronger of the two, and wonder now if I chose incorrectly. Perhaps Hermia's story is not that of a siren longing to be free or a woeful mourner of lost things, but a love story preserved in secret.
10:15 a.m.: I find her at breakfast with Lysander, her fingers twined loosely with his. She is looking at him, and he at her. I don't know if they're speaking, but if they are, they are doing so without words. It seems she is comforted solely by his presence, and he asks nothing more of her. I make a note of it, tucking it away to examine later. How pretty our silences, our trinkets of time. I wear them like jewelry to remind me you're mine. More coffee arrives at the table and Hermia accepts without much energy, looking distracted. Lysander adds a lump of sugar, stirring for her. Someday you will know my details, how I take my coffee and how I like to be kissed. Say I'll never leave you, that my absence will be missed. Hermia says something, I don't know what, and Lysander's lips twitch up in a smile. He touches her cheek, then thinks better of it. He kisses her lips, lightly, and she basks. They look comfortable, content. Your love looks good on me. I wear your affections so well. I suddenly feel I was wrong to think contentment empty of beauty. She shines like this, happy at last.
10:20 a.m.: When I approach, Lysander excuses himself quietly, kissing my sister's forehead and nodding once to me. He disappears, and I take the seat opposite Hermia. She scours me guardedly, searching for signs of displeasure at seeing her and Lysander together, but I shake my head. "I didn't know," I say, and then remorsefully, "I didn't understand." There is little need for more words; we are two sirens who sing the same song. Hermia leans forward, taking my face in her hands, and says, "Little one, promise to grow up slowly. There will be so many stories to tell, but take your time as you go."
11:30 a.m.: My sister and I are still chatting aimlessly when I receive an owl from Oberon, asking me to come to his office at noon. Regrettably, he is speaking as my publicist, which means I have little choice in the matter. I make my apologies to Hermia, but she reassures me she has plans in the afternoon anyway. "Lysander and I are going to see Demetrius," she says, masking whatever trepidation she might be feeling, and while I have a number of questions about that, I can see it will have to wait.
12:01 p.m.: Oberon barely looks up at my entry. "I was able to book you tonight at a different venue," he says, and tells me my manager has already been informed. He adds that he's arranged an interview for me with an independently-published magazine, a publication with a small cult popularity. I remember that Oberon's agency serves as Nick's publicist, too, and ask him how long Nick's London residency will be. Oberon looks somewhere between resigned and impatient. "Indefinite," he says, "per my client's request."
12:10 p.m.: I haven't been invited to sit, but I do so anyway. What is the point of having this face and this voice if I can't take liberties now and then? Oberon sighs, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded. "What is it?" he asks me, and I confess something I do not know if he deserves, but that I feel I need to say.
12:15 p.m.: "I never wanted easy. I admire your life, the reckless bohemia of it." He seems doubtful. "Is that what you think my life is?" "Isn't it?" "Of course not." "You are… fleeting," I tell him, "You must be won, and that's what I want. I want complicated, difficult, complex."
12:24 p.m.: "You think goodness is easy?" Oberon scoffs, and then, rather derisively, he tells me, "Sweetheart, goodness is the hardest thing there is."
12:25 p.m.: Perhaps inadvisably, I accuse him. "Then either your lover has never had goodness, or you killed the good in him."
12:27 p.m.: Oberon drifts through coiled silence for what feels like a long, long time. Then he says, "You mythologize my cowardice. I'm not capable of murder." "Then what happened?" I ask, and he shrugs. "I am careless with my toys. They break."
12:30 p.m.: He is lying, clearly, but I suppose neither of us has the time to unravel the knots of his conscience. I rise to my feet, ready to leave, but I pause to look over my shoulder. "Did I ever mean anything to you?" I ask him. He looks at me for a long moment, hands steepled at his mouth. "No," he says.
12:32 p.m.: Strangely, I accept it as both a cruelty and a favor. It means I will never take refuge in his arms again, and I think we both see how I will be better for that. "There's no need to join me on the rest of my tour," I say, "though I thank you for arranging the show and the interview." "That's my job," he reminds me. I wonder how it feels to be loved by him. Suffocating, I imagine, because it is quite clear to me now he could do nothing short of fatal damage. I pity more the people he loves than the people who foolishly choose to love him. "Thank you for doing your job," I say, and leave Oberon behind.
1:14 p.m.: When I arrive back in my hotel room, my diary is sitting out, and I remember what Nick told me about writing in it. He said that confessing things without an audience might allow me to see things from another truth, which didn't make sense at the time, but as I reread the entries from earlier in the week, I'm struck by my own blindness. How little I seem to care for him! I understand his hesitation now. He must have known, even then, that I would hurt him, but he invited me in anyway. He opened himself up to pain, real pain, which is nothing I've ever done. Oberon was always an illusion, something that would never really hurt even when it stung. Nick trusted me, and I betrayed him. I thought I was above him, and now I see how clearly I was wrong. That, and I see how this entire time, I thought this exercise a waste only to discover it was always the unrefined pieces of perhaps my first truly honest song.
5:45 p.m.: I spend the rest of the afternoon writing. This venue is smaller, booked last minute, and the crowd will be relatively thin. I hope it will be my best performance. I send a letter to Nick, which I don't expect him to answer. I know he owes me nothing, but I try anyway. You don't have to forgive me, I won't ask you for that. But let me tell you I'm sorry, give me the goodbye I know I don't deserve, and after that I swear, I will disappear forever if you want me to.
7:15 p.m.: I would call this venue intimate. The stage is less a stage than a small platform, but that will work for tonight. I opt to accompany myself for the song I've written, which is mostly a collection of thoughts. I catch sight of Hermia and Lysander, but I don't see Nick. Still, I sing the song I wrote for him.
7:34 p.m.: This is not a love song, love doesn't happen overnight. This is just a promise from a girl with wrongs to right. I'll keep you in my memories, I'll preserve you in my heart. Someday I'll be worthy, I'll grow while we're apart.
7:45 p.m.: I see someone slip out, but I don't know if it's him. That saddens me, but doesn't rattle me. This is my job, my gift, my obligation to my audience. I continue for a perfect set.
9:35 p.m.: Lysander, Hermia, and I sit down for a quiet dinner when someone approaches us. It's a female critic, as I suddenly recall Oberon promised me it would be. She congratulates me on my performance, and to my surprise, she thanks me. She tells me I provide a voice to many a young girl struggling to find herself—and while it is, in some ways, the same as calling me an ingenue, I don't take it as a slight this time. My innocence is not pristine, divine, untouchable. It is not some nymphette's portrait, frozen in time to be gazed upon immortally by others. My innocence, according to her, belongs to a work in progress; a step on a much longer journey. I thank her genuinely for her review, and she smiles and slips out, wishing me luck with my career.
11:13 p.m.: Lysander is a bit strange, though in a charming way. He's very serious, sometimes slow to recognize a joke, though he and Hermia appear to understand each other well. I imagine it's similar to spending time with Nick and me; we sometimes speak rapidly, and in reference to things only the other understands. I wish I had realized that before tonight, but I suppose that is the purpose of retrospection. I hesitate before asking how the visit with Demetrius went, and then observing they are both in pleasant spirits, I assume it unimportant. I discard the question, enjoying my evening with my sister as she basks in her love for us both.
12:04 a.m.: When I return to my hotel room, I find a single rose waiting for me. There is no note. I inhale a breath of its sweetness, finding a bright spot of acceptance. I press it into my diary and fall asleep almost immediately, dreaming of nothing at all.
DAY SEVEN
6:50 a.m.: I'm scheduled to perform in Barcelona tomorrow night, which means I can either leave this afternoon or early tomorrow morning. I tentatively decide to apparate later today, as I have no reason to be in London much longer. Hermia and Lysander returned to Romania at the crack of dawn, but I have only one obligation: the magazine interview Oberon arranged.
9:00 a.m.: My interviewer Floo-calls me promptly at our scheduled time. She is a young woman I'll call Mab, a well-regarded Ministry lawyer who works for the magazine, The Human Interest, part time. She is a war hero, quite famous for her friendship with England's wizarding savior, and I remark on my surprise to see she's my interviewer, which she quickly waves away. She's very no-nonsense, which I appreciate. "Let's start with this," she says, and then, "How does it feel to represent the female experience through song?" I have never thought about this before, and I'm sure my confusion registers on my face. "Well, it's interesting, isn't it? Having Veela blood, being measured by your worth to the male gaze, but then writing music that speaks directly to the soul of a young woman."
10:15 a.m.: For over an hour, we discuss my process of songwriting, though of course I leave out many of the details. I explain the finer distinctions between being reviewed by a man versus a woman. "Which is not to say men are incapable of grasping the significance of my career," I say quickly, and add that the photo spread I find truest to my inner self was actually shot by a male photographer. "Nick Bottom, you mean?" she asks, being well-prepared for the interview, and I'm grateful for her relatively dispassionate tone, or I think his name would register as a tiny stab to my heart. "Yes," I say, and praise his eye at length. "He sees people as they are, even when others wish he wouldn't." "Even you?" Mab asks curiously. My smile is either wistful or saddened. "Especially me," I say. After all, he is the one who first saw me as a series of reflections; as someone who did not even truly know herself.
10:34 a.m.: Mab and I finish the interview and she wishes me luck. I enjoyed my conversation with her, so much so it is only once the flames become flames again that I realize I feel empty. Hollow. As if a piece of me that used to live so comfortably inside my chest is gone.
11:05 a.m.: I'm packing again for Barcelona when I hear a knock at my door. I try to temper my hopes for who it might be, but find immediately that I can't. Leave me the extravagance of youth, the beautiful optimism of my girlhood. I am hardly grown at all, so let me hope. Who else would be looking for me in this city?
11:06 a.m.: "Nick," I exhale, my heart leaping as I open the door to him. He looks resigned, and fights his words for a moment before they leave him. I don't know whether to be elated or terrified by what comes next.
11:07 a.m.: "I was afraid that if I came to you last night I would just fall into your arms again," he says.
11:08 a.m.: "And will you?" I ask, breathless.
11:09 a.m.: He steps inside. "Yes," he says, "yes," and kisses me hard, taking my face with both hands as we fumble backwards from the door.
11:15 a.m.: Part of me doesn't want to rush this. A very large piece of me wants precisely what we had the other morning, him giving me his secrets while we kissed each other softly, but I know I have done little to deserve it. That, and I can't help the spark I feel at his touch. I cling to him with my arms around his neck, my fingers tightly grasping at the roots of his golden hair. I pull him closer until we tumble together onto my bed, his hands desperate on my skin.
11:20 a.m.: Everything he says in patient whispers is met with haste from me. "Can I take this off?" "Yes, yes please, please—" "And this?" "Oh, Nick, please—" "I can't resist you, I don't want to, maybe it's stupid but I can't. I wish I could." "I wish I'd known this sooner! I wish I'd never let you go."
11:34 a.m.: By the time I'm naked with him, pressed into his bare chest with both of us on our sides, Nick has said so many fearless things that I am trying desperately to keep up. I don't ask him to leave with me, because there's no bravery in that. Only a coward or a child would ask so much with nothing to offer in return. Instead, I tell him, "I would like to do something very difficult with you. I would like to fall for you slowly, in pieces. I would like to make the time to love you, to earn you gradually, to learn you from afar." He pulls my leg over his hip, both of us gasping when he slides inside me. "Take all my secrets with you when you go," he says, and I dig my fingers into his back. At one point that would have been too much for me to carry, or I was too careless to try. Now, he is a privilege to hold.
11:46 a.m.: So this is making love, then. I am inexperienced with it, clumsy. I can fuck with vigor or I can fuck with beauty, but this, I find, is a struggle. He wraps his arms around me, teaching me: this is what it feels like to let go. There are no ropes, I'm unbound, he and I are tied to nothing. Is that the point of love, to float untethered but not do so alone? He has my legs wide, my heart flayed open. The destructive core of me still exists—I sink my teeth into his shoulder, venomous with my longing—but his kiss unnerves me, pulls me apart.
11:52 a.m.: I come with my lips pressed to his, choking out my suffering. I must be monstrous like this, looming over him; oppressed by pleasure, which is almost more than my body can stand. It floods me, the chemistry of giving myself to him. Have I always made too little of sex? It dwarfs me. I feel infinitesimally small. Ah, I think, suddenly sheepish with new wisdom: So this is how love feels when friendship lights the spark.
11:54 a.m.: He comes shortly after I do, me whispering his name to him as if my tongue has never held something so precious before. He is my best friend, my confidante, my lover. I have been chosen for both the privilege and the burden of his affection, and I will carry it carefully, with patient hands and open arms.
12:25 p.m.: We lie together in bed, me draped across him, soaking in what little time we have. He doesn't ask me for more, nor I him. An hour, a thousand hours, a lifetime, it doesn't matter. I give myself permission to let it be easy while it lasts.
12:57 p.m.: "Are we sure all this is real?" I murmur, reluctant to let him go. "It feels like I'm floating somewhere in a dream. Like we're frozen in time."
12:58 p.m.: I suppose I'm being needlessly foolish, disastrously romantic; it's nothing I'd say to Oberon, or to anyone but Nick. I made the right choice, though, and he indulges me with a smile, toying with my hair. "Then let time steal me awhile," he says.
12:59 p.m.: So be it, I think to myself, drowsy now, and overflowing with words I will write in my diary tomorrow.
1:00 p.m.: Then I sleep, foolishly satisfied, and do not wither in his arms.
a/n: For ShayaLonnie, with love.