Chapter Sixteen
I stood up and looked out of the stretching expanse of trees from the window. She was stooped below a large Sessile oak tree, inspecting moss and lichen growing up the trunk. I had no idea if she would talk to me, but I wanted to try. Down the stairs and out the back door, I followed the winding man-made path into the woods. The tree I last saw her under was in a shallow portion of the woods, but she was gone by the time I found it, so I trudged deeper into the trees with no direction in mind, following blindly, and hoping I would find her.
The more I plunged into the thickets of spiralled and knotted trees, the colder it became. I slipped the cloak I had held longer than intended over my shoulders and clasped it around the front of my chest. The sun became a weak and milky slant of light. Intermingled with pines were beech and hawthorn trees, elm and blackthorn. Thickets of lilac bushes grew wild and teaming against the trunks, and I saw spreads of holly erupting in sprouts from the ground. I noticed, and categorized them, without thinking, an old habit I paid little attention. What I did realize was that seemingly any forest felt home, as if by design I was meant to be there all along, and life in a house felt like temporary stays. I did not fear monsters in a place like this; I feared them in the hollowed-out ballrooms with large paned windows and the cloak and dagger business decisions made behind closed doors. I feared the way that words could assign value to a person or destroy them and all it took was one inflammatory article to solidify the death of one's reputation.
Narcissa strayed far, but I was not enough behind to not see her suddenly as I climbed a small hill. Near the base of the higher peaks, she was walking absentmindedly, one hand outstretched to brush against the tree trunks and soft, supple limbs of new growth. She lifted her skirts and climbed up an embankment to a pool of water. The rocks were covered in green. From my vantage point below, she seemed to disappear in this raised pool, so I quickened my pace to follow her so that I might catch up with her at last.
As I walked up the embankment and onto the rocky ledge, I saw her kneeling, her skirts pooled around her like a silk moon. In her hand were bright red clusters of tiny berries.
"I wouldn't eat those," I said softly.
She jumped and the berries scattered from her hand, dropping them into the water. They disappeared into the depths of the gurgling creek.
"What are they?" she asked, looking away from me.
"Holly," I replied.
She pulled her hair from her side braid and let the waves drift down her back and over her chest.
"Poisonous?" she asked.
"Not enough to kill you, but enough to be miserable for a bit."
"I would choose the path of misery," she muttered softly.
In the language of flowers, holly was a symbol of defence. I did not correct her out loud, as it was anecdotal. The last thing I wanted to do was trail off into obsolescence, which would eventually become another shouting match as we had in the foyer.
But without all the pageantry of society and humanity, it felt shockingly difficult to be anything but calm in our seclusion, with the only sound around us the soft disturbance of leaves with the wind and the gurgling spring.
"Have you come for another round of battle, Malfoy?" she asked, plucking a bit of long-stemmed plant from the water and twisting the hollowed-out piece in her hand, "Because I've little energy for it."
I tucked my hands into my pockets and meandered over the ledge of rocks, taking care not to slip. The moss growing over them stopped and sprawled in uneven patterns. The pool of water dwindled to a thin, small stream curling over small uneven rocks and smooth stones.
"You told me that I never say anything," I said, calling slightly so she could hear me despite our distance. "I suppose you were right."
She jerked her head toward me as I admitted I was wrong. This seemed to please her, though she didn't express it directly.
"How long has it been since the night I first stumbled into your library?" I asked.
"Almost two years," she answered, "Maybe a little less."
I nodded. That sounded close enough. I lost track of months as of late and it scarcely seemed I could have suffered for so many months without dying.
"So, for two years then," I said, turning my back to her, smoothing my hands flat in the warmth of my pockets. "I have been convinced you could read me so well I need not say anything. You seemed to see into me so effortlessly, like I was a pool of shallow water, still as glass. I dreamed a version of you that knew me better than I knew myself."
She was quiet for once, allowing me to speak even when I drew a breath for a pause. The wind picked up, drawing back my hair from the shoulders and across my back in long arcs.
"In my insistence of defining you on my own terms, I failed to see you as you are," I said, "…But I also failed to see myself in relationship to you. Perhaps I am not so easy to read."
"I'm certain you think a thousand more sentences than you say out loud," Narcissa offered.
I turned slightly. "Yes, I believe I do. But in building you up in my mind, I erred in a fatal way. I realize I do not know you at all—not half as much as I assumed you know me, which may be even less."
Narcissa pursed her lips. She wished to interrupt me, so I gestured for her to do so.
"You romanticize me, Lucius," she replied, "I'm flattered that you do it, but pretence is no longer necessary. You are a Moonflower whether we meet or not. I need not impress you with knowledge or secrets or adventure. Which means you can let go of the myth you have created; I believe you will find you know me more than you think if you do not think too hard about it."
"I love the myth," I murmured.
"I do too," she said, with a smile.
She swept herself off the ground and closed the gap between us. "Tell me three traits you wish I did not have," she whispered, taking my hands in hers, wrapping my knuckles over hers. She brought my index and middle fingers to her lips.
"You have a rather explosive rage," I replied.
She kissed the first knuckle. "Go on."
"You're self-destructive," I breathed, as she kissed up to my palm. "You're incredibly stubborn."
"Is the latter really a bad trait to have?" she asked, teasingly.
Her teeth brushed against my wrist bone and I shuddered.
"Tell me three things you like about me," she demanded, kissing up my arm as she rolled up my sleeve to the elbow.
"You're clever," I answered numbly. Her hands found the front of my cloak and unclasped it; it fell over the ledge and onto the ground below.
"And?" she asked, drifting her fingers from neck to navel with exaggerated slowness.
"I think you're—oh!" I exclaimed as she pulled me closer to her by the front of my clothing and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. "You never fail to surprise."
Her fingers were on the back of my neck. Our faces were inclined toward one another, bent toward the inevitable. My heart was racing in my chest, thudding so loudly in my ears I could not hear water or the soft curl of the wind. I pressed my lips to hers and ignited—we both did, I think—an electric current went through us so powerful we both jolted in surprise. There was nothing chaste about it; all the anger and frustration, the chaos of two years, and the titillating banter back and forth created a fury.
I kissed her like I was about to die. I kissed her like she was a siren drawing me recklessly from the sea to a jagged shore. Every woman I touched before her was a ghost and she was the only real thing in the world. Anything else but her was hollow.
When we finally parted, she whispered into my ear, "What's the third thing?"
"You're a little dangerous," I said, "Perhaps more that I don't know about it."
"True," she said, her teeth dragging down my bottom lip as she slipped out of my arms.
She twisted her fingers through mine and pulled me along. I climbed down the ledge behind her. On the forest floor, we moved east for a few more feet before she took me by the hips. She shoved me against an oak tree, one hand around my throat, her lips drawing me in. I relished every touch, however soft or rough. Her fingers were electric pulses against me, roaming up and down my arms and up my chest as if she wanted to memorize every hill and valley and texture of my body before she devoured me.
"And you like that about me?" she asked quietly, "The dangerous parts of me?"
Her hand slid all the way down my thigh and I inhaled sharply. "The dangerous," I murmured, "The violent and soft, the selfish and ambitious, the creative and calculating."
"Curious," she responded, drawing her fingers toward my inner thigh.
I was a gasping, shuddering mess. Every experience I had ever had with a woman involved much of the work on my part—I was not appalled by the thought of taking lead—but I had never been left desperate and begging under the hands of one of my lovers. I reminded myself that it was Narcissa and should not have expected anything other than a Midas touch.
Her lips went to the hollow of my throat and I sighed as she moved away, tugging me by the hand. It was a useless endeavour—I would have followed her anywhere, drunk on her as I was. If I had been teetering on the edge of a cliff, I had thoroughly fallen off the end and was thrashing through riptide, but I would not have given up the feeling of helplessness for anything.
She parted the long sweeping branches of a willow tree and turned around. I pulled her against me, one arm sweeping around her hips and the other pulling her braid to the side, forcing her neck exposed, and kissing her. She let out a noise of shock and melted against my body. There was little pretence for what was to happen next and something bigger than the two of us had decided.
I got lost in her body, stripping her free of every layer of dress and sleeves, corset, and chemise. We laid across the skirts of her dress beneath the willow tree and I touched every inch of her, memorizing the exquisite softness of her skin. Where my hands explored, then I moved my lips to memorize every sensation of her. I learned what made her legs shake and her back arch. I learned, too, what made her twist her legs over my shoulders and bite the fleshy part of her palm as she spent, wave over wave of pleasure until her breathing settled and I drew another out of her.
She flung me onto my back and climbed on top of me. She was rougher with me than I to her, and strung my hands above my head and held them as she straddled me. The moment I was inside of her, I felt oblivious to the world around me. Our bodies intertwined like vines and familiar friends as if fate itself had designed all this discord just to lead us there beneath the tree.
"You're mine," she whispered.
And I believed her. She ruined me for anyone else. She managed to bring darkness and light, managed to make love to me and fuck me all at once until I was adrift at sea and begging for release. A thousand promises spilled from my lips. I called her a goddess. When I came, she pressed my wrist bones pinned above my head together until the bright pops of pain turned to golden pleasure too, and I felt as I had swimming through opium hazed dreams.
She ignited an unquenchable thirst inside of me. Scarcely had she removed her body from mine that I was upon her again, pressing indelicately in between her thighs, taking her with my hands until she was crying out and writhing beneath me. I pressed myself inside of her again, deep enough to bottom out, and I relished the feeling until I exhausted her and myself again, but even though did not satisfy. When I could not get enough of her softness, I relished in her wickedness and fucked her and our skin was on fire and it felt like summer between us.
We were finally spent sometime later, my back against the trunk of the willow tree, her legs splayed over mine, her fingers wrapped firmly in the middle of my throat without pressure, the other against my shoulder as she swung her hips rhythmically against me until we were finally, agonizingly, out of stamina.
She gave me one final kiss and stood up to dress again. "It is always the ones you least expect," she admitted, smiling over her shoulder at me.
"What's that?" I asked lazily, knowing what she meant but wanted her to say it.
"If I had heard any gossip that you had half the prowess you do," Narcissa replied, "I would have had you years ago."
"Wouldn't that have been something?" I asked, watching her dress as one looked at a sunset, for she was a constant source of beauty. "I chose well and was discrete, however, I doubt word got around."
"Why?" she questioned, pulling her messy hair to one side. "Men in our society have every advantage to be known for their conquests."
"Perhaps," I said, shrugging.
She laughed. "Toujours Pur. You and I should swap surnames."
"You could just have mine," I quipped.
The words came out before I had time to register their meaning or intent. Narcissa raised her eyebrows, but laughed and shrugged.
"If you're as feral in a real bed as you are in the woods," she teased, leaning over to kiss me softly, "Consider the matter settled."
I kissed her so hard she lost her balance and with a shrieking laugh, pulled herself away from me to collect herself. It became clear to me what Keats meant by three days; it would be enough, I knew that now. Three days in Narcissa Black's bed and I would not care if I died after, the pleasure of it would outweigh everything.
"Up, you lush prince," she commanded, snapping her fingers, "If our parents have not returned, they will soon."
I stood up and collected my clothing. She helped me dress needlessly, an excuse to touch and tease me until I couldn't breathe. But we were finally fully clothed, dusted off, and arranged for proper society. I siphoned off every smear of dirt or mud from her skirts and made sure her corset was tied as tightly as she could manage on her own. Her hair was messy, but her hair usually was, tufts of curls and hair perpetually escaping from the thick braid she draped over one side of her shoulders.
We walked the length of the forest back to the house. It was growing dark; I imagined our parents had returned from the village to settle in for the night.
"This hasn't fixed anything," she commented, chewing on her bottom lip, which was slightly puffy and swollen, "Nothing is made less complex, you understand that, Lucius? Nothing about my life is easy just because we've…"
"I've never been an optimist, Narcissa," I interrupted, and then with a sly smile, "Though I admit it has been a very cathartic afternoon."
She swatted at my arm and rolled her eyes. "Try to keep it together, Malfoy."
We reached the back of the manor and climbed up the steps. As I opened the door and swept inside, I felt the immediate warmth of a fire somewhere beyond in the house and the sound of laughter, likely coming from the parlour. I turned around, kissing Narcissa chastely on the lips, all innocence, and when I pulled away, her gaze never left mine, unwavering in the intensity that matched my own.
I knew society would attempt to diverge what it was between us and that I might lose the tenuous hold I had on her. She could and perhaps would slip between my fingers as easily she gathered into my arms. But for the few undisturbed seconds, we had before greeting my parents, we belonged to each other.