The gardens are the same sweeping hedgerows he lost himself in to escape the crowds during his first visit. Colour blooms across prosperous green, more vibrant than he remembers, as if he has wandered into a painting. Hero's skirts swish, revealing bare calves as she moves. Her hair is bundled in another messy bun, curls springing free. His fingers itch to catch one, feel its silk against his skin, and unravel all her efforts.
He keeps his fists clamped to his sides, thinking of anything but the brush of Hero's hand against his own.
"So, my lord, what conclusions have you reached?"
"Conclusions?"
"I expect you have formed some ideas from your observations." A smile threads through her words.
She is not wrong. He has been trying to puzzle out his life from what he has seen and heard but none of the pieces fit right. "I know not what to think. You could call the sun the moon and I would be forced to accept it."
She twirls, an absent-minded motion that has John staring. "The sun is still the sun, it has merely risen more times than you remember."
They stop beside a fountain and John examines his reflection in the pool, tracing his features. "My face is still my own."
She laughs, cupping his cheeks. "Of course, whose else would it be?"
"Claudio's," the name rings like iron on his tongue.
She snatches her hands back, burned, and he sees the match strike in her eyes. "Claudio and I were barely a summer. You and I are sworn for eternity."
"Are we? I cannot remember."
"I know!"
He stills. He has never heard her raise her voice like that. Even against Claudio's accusations, it was pitched in desperation. All damp and no fire.
Shame fractures her fragile countenance and she sinks onto the fountain ledge, hanging her head. "I know — I know you do not remember."
John heaves a breath, wrangling the beast inside him, eager to sink its fangs into the rabbit's flesh. "I — forgive me." He grits his teeth, the sun's glare hot upon him. "It is not… with you my frustration lies."
There is an opening there. Her cousin would not miss it.
Hero exhales. "Then forgive me too. I know you have been patient."
"No one has accused me of that before."
She smiles soft and wearied, her eyes rich as the soil from which the emerald grass springs. "I will tell you whatever you wish to know."
The questions surge like tidal waves crashing over one another. He could start with the most pressing, the most important questions — but that is no way to win at cards.
He sits, stretching out his legs. "What is Princess Court?"
The smile steals across her lips and her guard drops. "It is a game you created with Clarissa. She is the ruling princess and you come to her with problems to solve — land disputes, neighbours stealing cattle, there is not enough wheat, there is too much wheat, what to do if your subjects are dissatisfied and threaten revolt."
Her eyes twinkle on this last one and the corner of his mouth twitches. "Am I such a poor lord that I must seek the advice of a child?"
"Indeed, you are a good lord." Her hand rests on his arm, a frisson running through him before she pulls it back to her lap. "Messina thrives under your management. And, you are well-liked."
"I expect much of the credit goes to the lady of the estate."
"It is a team effort."
Team, what a word to bind them together.
"The game is good for Clarissa," she continues, a light breeze fluttering her curls. "It challenges her to think about the problems different people face and how to resolve them. Any estate she ends up managing will be better for it."
There is pride in her voice and John feels his chest tighten, casting his gaze around the garden. "She is very astute."
Hero laughs, a mellifluous sound that knots around his heart. "If we are not careful she will have us all wound around her finger, falling for her tricks."
He meets her playful grin with an arched brow. "Methinks you mean to charge me with something, my lady."
"Nothing I wish to change, my lord."
Gold flecks gleam in her eyes like burning stars. They are leaning close, he realises and pulls back.
Her breath sighs across his beard. "Ask me."
He freezes, startled by the strength of her voice. "Pardon?"
"Ask me. What it is you are afraid to ask.."
It is like her hand is inside his ribcage, pressing down on his lungs until the words croak out, "After — what happened? After? How can we be — how are we married?"
How did you forgive me?
She nods and her fingers brush his, a question in her touch. Unsure how to refuse her, he lets her take his hand.
She tells him a tale of trials unforeseen and kinship in the unlikeliest of places, of wild greens and tangled weeds, of dark waters and guiding lights, of gossamer touches stolen in shadows, and words like golden threads, reweaving their tapestries. She tells him — her voice a sonata in dulcet tones — of dirt under their nails from the hatchet buried and the fragile buds which sprouted from that fertile ground. She tells him of the fire which almost razed the garden, of the blood on her teeth from biting her tongue, and his calloused hands holding hers through the smoke.
She tells a tale of redemption and forgiveness and as she does she traces her finger over his palm, mapping the whorls like a charlatan might do to read his fortunes. She tells him a love story and — with breathless wonderment — he watches her face unfurl like blossoms on a tree, falling in love all over again.
She finishes speaking and the clearing fills with the trickle of the fountain, the rustling leaves, and the birds chirping in the trees. He is not breathing. Turned to stone. A chill breeze whips his hair. Heart battering a granite chest, threatening to turn him to rubble.
"...John?" her voice gentle like the ripples on the pond.
He stands, takes several strides —
Halts. Glances back.
The wind has picked up around them, riffling through the hedges, tugging on his sleeves, and billowing her skirts. She rises, a wraith in white, her face crumpled like a petal crushed beneath his boot. It spears through him, hollowing out his chest, the squall loud in his ears, and he gulps down air.
"Hero…" the name tears from his throat, ragged as the wind. "Am I… am I a good husband? Are you happy? Are you safe?"
Relief pours across her face and she staggers forward. "Yes. Yes. Oh dear heart, no one could love me better."
There is a trembling through his bones, his fists clenching. "I wronged you."
She closes the distance, fingers smoothing across his jaw — when was the last time anyone touched him like this, so gentle?
"Oh my sweet villain. You have long repaid that debt."
His eyelids shutter and — he cannot do this — he cannot — all his careful composure, his decades-old defences, torn up at the roots —
Her arms fold around him, pressing her face into his shoulder, warm breath tickles the crook of his neck. "When they came running across the fields, shouting that you were injured — when I saw you lying there — so still — and you did not — did not wake up—" She expels a quaking breath, tightening her hold. "It does not matter if you cannot remember — it does not matter — you are still the man I married, the man I love, and who I want to be with — John… John…"
His stomach convulses, sweat crawling over flesh. His hands pulsate, limp at his sides. His throat chokes with rusted nails as he grinds his teeth. Unworthiness has dogged his heels his whole life, but never has he felt more wretched than Hero's lips upon his skin, swearing she loves him.
He rips from her embrace. "I know that man not. I am not him."
"John—"
"I am sorry, lady. I will play your masquerade, but you and I know the truth of what I am."
"John — you are the most frustrating man," she exhales and shifts forward. He recoils and she sighs, raising her hands placatingly. "I will not push. If you can pretend for the children that is enough. That is enough."
She murmurs this last part as if to convince herself. John stands paralysed, wanting to say something, but what words can he offer? He is not her husband.
The breeze settles and she floats past him like dandelion fluff. "Shall we return?"
Her tone is mild and he would not discern a change in her features if he were not accustomed to wearing a mask himself. He nods and they walk back to the villa. Their hands do not brush.
:-x-:
As they enter the courtyard there is barking. Two — four — six blurs of white, tawny, and chestnut barrel towards them. John moves to steer Hero behind him but she flies ahead to meet the dogs, bending down to catch the first in an embrace, the others surging around her and John, yapping excitedly.
"Hello, darlings," Hero nuzzles their fur, sunlight spilling from her smile, and something inside him twists.
"Papà! Mamma!"
Clarissa and Leo rush towards them, Ursula and Antonio following behind at a pace more suited to their advanced years. Tonio squeals in Ursula's arms and Hero hurries to collect her son, blowing a kiss upon his forehead.
The dogs vary in breeds and sizes, some as big as the children, and the fear they will be trampled rattles through John. But the beasts are gentle, accustomed to the little ones. A few nudge his legs and John leans down, scratching behind their ears. "You are fine creatures, aren't you?"
"Clarissa, Leo — you should remind your papà of all their names," Hero calls.
John is swarmed in fur, the dogs frolicking around him as the children belt out names faster than he can process.
"This is Froth—
"—this is Bacon!"
"This one's Belch—"
"—these are Snout and Snug!"
"And she is Quickly!"
When he glances up, Hero is retreating inside the house. A weight settles in his stomach. He turns back to find the children looking at him in eager anticipation.
"Uhh…" He shoots Antonio a panicked glance, "What now?"
The older man grins and Clarissa bounces on her toes, throwing her hands in the air. "We play Princess Court!"
:-x-:
Princess Court, John discovers, mainly consists of Clarissa lounging on a makeshift throne, issuing decrees, and puzzling out whatever problems John and Antonio invent for her. She is far more rational than he would expect of someone her age. Not all her solutions are practical, but at six she makes a better sovereign than most lords.
In contrast, Leo is more whimsical, indulging in fantasies of knights, damsels, and dragons. He gallops about the garden, honouring some dogs as his noble steeds and others as monsters to be vanquished. The dogs at least appear used to this sort of play-fighting and follow along well enough.
John watches the children play and marvels at Hero's features melding with his own. There is his nose, and those are her eyes, that is his jaw, and there are her dimples, the arch of his brow, her tumble of curls — the list goes on. These are their children. Their children.
(John needs to sit down.)
And, of course, they inherited his temper.
John and Antonio intervene as a scuffle breaks out between the siblings. John grabs Clarissa while Antonio hefts his brother's namesake into his arms, spinning the squealing child.
"Hmph."
John looks down and finds Clarissa frowning at him. "Is something wrong?"
"Hmph!" She thrusts her arms in the air waving them as he stares. "Up! Up! I want to go up!"
"Uhh…"
It clicks that she wants to be picked up like her brother. John falters. He has never held a child, though the mechanics must be simple enough. How different can it be to a sack of grain? But is it safe? He glances at Antonio, who is watching with a twinkle in his eyes as he dangles a giddy Leo upside-down.
"I do not think that is a good idea…"
Hero will not be pleased if he injures her children. What even happens if a six-year-old loses ten-years of memory? His skull throbs.
"But you carry me all the time!" Clarissa argues. "I want to go UP!"
"Um…" John fakes a stumble, lifting a hand to his head. "I am… too weak from my fall. I am not strong enough."
"You are strong enough to carry Mamma and she is heavier than me!"
"I — I have not carried your mother."
"Yes, you have. You do so all the time!"
His thoughts stutter on the image of Hero in his arms. Fortunately, Ursula chooses that moment to call them in for dinner and the prospect of food has the children scrambling inside, their shouts heralding their entrance.
John starts as a hand pats his shoulder.
Antonio smiles at him, warm and sincere. "You are good with them."
"I — I do not even remember them."
"You may not remember them here," Antonio taps his forehead. "But you remember them here," he taps the spot over John's heart and the latter stiffens. "You are a good father, John. Trust your instincts."
John has no response to that and remains silent as he follows Antonio inside.
