… of what I really am.
It was quite cold now. Her skirt was restrictive but warm, and she found herself wearing woollen socks and thick boots even in the house. She didn't like the frilly collars and the pearl buttons on her sweaters, so she simply wore her coat all the time, with a scarf wrapped around her neck when she went outside. She still did that regularly, enjoying running in the walled gardens in the cold, liking the heady feeling it gave her, a feeling like having too much sake but without the horrible after-effects.
Today she'd coerced Shiro into letting her help in digging a small pit in which he was going to bury old garbage. She'd wrapped up warmly enough, and had dug all day, exhausting herself by lunch, and resuming until it got dark. Shiro had smiled at her enthusiasm, and now, as he packed up his gardening tools and took the spade she was swinging around, said, "There's this little locked up garden down the path – you've probably seen the door. I'm going to be doing some digging there too, next week. If you'd like, Miss Misao, you could come and help me out there too …"
She beamed, nodding her head excitedly. "Will it be snowing by then?"
He tilted his head, thinking. "Nah, don't reckon so. But maybe, if you hope enough," he added, looking at the disappointed look on her face, "it might."
She smiled broadly, waving at him as he turned and trudged down the path. She turned to go as well, watching the already grey sky darken even more as she walked towards the house. She stopped under the avenue of trees right before the path turned and merged with the driveway, bending down to look at the dry grass beneath. She looked at the tiny white blossoms there, blooming defiantly as everything else withered and died. They looked forlorn, uncared for, overshadowed by the trees around them.
She didn't know if that was why she did it, but she bent down and stroked the tiny white petals, smiling. And before she knew it, she was talking. Talking to a cluster of almost invisible white flowers. "Everyone's forgotten about you, haven't they? No one really cares. They like you while you're here, but they won't really miss you if you're not, will they? It won't really matter if you're not there, will it? It'll make no difference to the trees, or to the grass. But – but it'll make a difference to me, okay? It will. I'll miss you. So – so you just hang in there, all right? Don't die like everything else. Because I'll miss you if you're not there."
She touched the small stalk, swallowing quickly, wondering why she cared so much, and then straightened, turning to go. The house loomed before her, huge, depressing, its windows blank and empty. It looked desolate, deserted. Uninhabited. Even though she'd done her best to make it come to life, to become a home … it was still like this. It was still empty. What did she have to do to make it the sort of place she wanted to live in, a happy place, a place that made you happier, that buoyed you up instead of bogging you down?
She needed to see him. She knew that, suddenly. She needed to talk to him, to hear him talk, to say anything whatsoever. He could help, she knew. He could make it better. He would be wry and disdainful and he'd make everything better. He'd chase away the oppressive shadows, the unspoken horrors that lurked in each corner of the house. She didn't know how he'd do it, but, standing there under the darkening sky, the wind whispering through the trees, her gaze filled with nothing but the empty house and the aura that surrounded it, she knew that only his ice-blue eyes could drive away the emptiness.
She was running, suddenly, impulsively, into the house, slamming the door behind her, rushing up the stairs, her boots leaving muddy prints on the plush carpet, her breathing echoing in her ears. Her braid flew behind her, her thoughts whirling, unclear. And then one thought came to the fore of her mind, a thought that held more weight than 'What will I say?' or 'What am I thinking?'
What will he think?
What would he think? What would he think if she barged in, breathless and panting, with nothing to say and no reason at all for disturbing him? What would he think if she said that the house was too empty, too lonely? What would he think of her ungratefulness when he'd put a roof over her head and given her an enormous house to live in, with far more freedom than girls her age should rightly be given?
She came to a halt in front of his office, the only room she'd ever seen him in. He should be in here – he was always in here. As far as she had seen, at least. And she hadn't seen him much. Twice, in there. What if he wasn't? What if she walked in and he wasn't there and then he caught her there and never let her come near there again?
And because she was Misao, she knocked and walked straight in.
He wasn't at his ever-present position behind his desk. He was standing near a filing cupboard in the corner of the dim, dark room, striking a match. He'd obviously heard her come in, because his head was half-turned, his air expectant. He didn't pause in his action, though, lighting a tall white candle that barely helped to brighten the room.
"Yes?" he said after a pause, in which she just stood in the doorway watching him as he placed the candle in a holder and headed for his desk, placing it there carefully.
"I – I – " She racked her brains for something to say, wondering why she hadn't thought of an excuse on her way up, wondering why his eyes didn't seem so blue in the dark. "Are you busy?" she managed finally, knowing the inevitable answer.
Surprisingly, it didn't come. "Not very," he said.
Two words. She almost grinned. "Well, um, you see, I just – just wanted – " – just wanted to talk to you. Just wanted to see your eyes again. " – wanted to know if – whether – you'll – " She thought of something Okon had once mentioned, and said, " – be getting me a governess anytime soon."
His expression didn't change, although it was hard to tell in the poor light, and she got the uncomfortable feeling that he knew that wasn't what she'd come to say. He didn't say anything, simply seating himself and motioning for her to sit in one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. "Not until next year," he said.
"Oh," she said. "Good. Thank you." She was relieved, honestly … and she had also run out of things to say.
They just sat there, looking at each other across a flickering candle and a pile of paperwork. It was weird and wonderful, sitting here like this, bathed in a ring of dim yellow light, just the two of them, cut off from the rest of the world within it. There was something strange about that candlelight, the light that encircled both of them. It was like a different world, a world in which nothing outside mattered. A world where his eyes looked into hers and hers into his and no questions were asked, no conversation was needed.
She could sit here forever. She could sit here and watch him look at her, watch him breathe, watch the changing colour of his eyes, depending on the light, forever. She'd never felt like this before, never found it hard to breathe because of the presence of someone else, never felt the urge to touch anyone so strongly.
But there was no forever. There was no forever, and one of them was going to break this. This feeling that they'd never name, this connection that they'd never acknowledge. This thing that they'd never have.
"Is there anything else?"
Did he actually speak or had she just heard the words because she'd known that they were coming? She looked at his mouth, and his unmoving lips, and wondered. Maybe he hadn't. But it was broken anyway. Spoilt. Destroyed.
The connection broken before it could properly be made.
Broken, this thing that they'd never have.
She wanted to cry, suddenly. She'd never felt anything like this, she wasn't used to understanding things so clearly. Nothing intangible had ever been this obvious. None of this had been said openly, no words had been spoken, but she knew what she had felt. She knew, and it scared her. She was used to her childish innocence, her childish ignorance. She didn't want to be able to feel, if it meant this. She didn't want to be able to understand, if this is what understanding actually was.
"No," she whispered, her skin feeling cold as she brought her hand up to her cheek, rubbing it forlornly. "There isn't anything else."
He nodded, and for a minute she thought he understood, that he felt it too, felt the way she was losing it, losing her innocence, her unawareness. She felt like she had lost it already, that some great part of her was missing, that he had taken it. Maybe it wasn't all her ignorance – maybe it was something else. Yes, it was something else as well. That something that had made her happy on her own, that something that was her happiness. That something that was all her own, that she drew from herself and gave to herself, that got her through the depressing days and the difficulties in her life. That something that made her complete, all on her own, that made her content without anyone else's help.
And she knew, at that moment, at the age of sixteen and a half, that she'd never be complete on her own again. That she'd never be content. Never completely happy. Not until she regained that something that she'd just lost.
Not until he gave it back to her.
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A/N: Short, I know. Sorry about that.