The air was close, cool but more invigorating than chilling, a gentle breeze ruffling the soft curls at the nape of his neck while his heart cried out a steady beat of Ruth Ruth Ruth. She was here, as impossible, as incomprehensible as that thought seemed to be, and with every second that passed Harry wrangled with himself, certain one moment that he ought to abandon her as she had done to him and go down to have dinner with Rebecca, and equally certain in the very next breath that if he could not reach out and touch Ruth with his own two hands he must surely die. He had decided, earlier, that he would not speak to her, that he would leave her alone to her new man and her own devices, but then Rebecca had appeared, and he had known, somehow, though he could not say how, that Ruth must have heard his voice, that she must have realized what was afoot, and he had been unable to remain silent. It was one thing to slide away from her without her knowledge, to suggest to Rebecca that they find a new hotel, start over again on the other side of town, but it would be altogether more cruel to turn his back on Ruth when she knew full well that he was there, and he could never be deliberately cruel to her.
So he had called out to her, and she to him, and now they stood, shielded from one another by a veil of greenery, able to hear one another though he could not see her face. He yearned to break through that veil, to reach out with both hands to grasp hold of her, this woman he loved more than his own life, who meant everything to him, and yet he held himself back, knowing she had left him, willfully, determinedly. It was Ruth who chosen the method and the manner of their separation, and having once before stuck his hand into the flame and been wretchedly scorched he was loath to do it again.
"Is that really you, Harry?" Ruth's floated to him, only faintly muffled by the the greenery that hid her from view.
"It is," he answered, wondering if she could tell, even now, after all this time, all this space between them, how emotion had made his voice ragged with uncertain longing.
"This is a dream."
He did not answer her, for her voice had been soft, bemused, terrified, and he was almost sure that she had only been speaking to herself, musing aloud on the strangeness of this most unexpected meeting. For his part Harry heartily agreed; such a gentle, hopeful coincidence did not seem to be the sort of blessing bestowed upon mortal man, and he was half-convinced that soon he must surely wake to find himself back in his bed in London, the soft sound of her voice fading away as he blinked his eyes and reality asserted itself once more.
And yet, still, the seconds passed, and no such awakening came. She lingered with him here in this moment so full of beautiful promise and terrible consequence. He wanted, more than anything, to see her, to gaze upon her face and take note of the passage of time, to with his own observation determine whether she was happy with this path she had chosen, this new man, this new life. He wanted, more than anything, to look into her eyes, so bright and blue and expressive, those eyes that seemed to contain her very soul. He wanted, oh he wanted, her.
"Can I," Ruth started to say, but then she caught herself, drawing in a sharp breath, and Harry's heart, wrecked and shattered though it was, leapt in his chest, still hopeful, after all this time. There was no need for her to finish her sentence, to ask the question that had begun to trip so hesitantly from her lips; he knew what it was she wanted of him, and he would give her anything she asked.
"The door is unlocked," he told her.
A second passed, then two, his whole world shifting and swaying, hanging in the balance as Ruth deliberated with herself. She wanted to come to him and he wanted to let her, but there were obstacles yet to face. Rebecca had gone down to dinner, but two or three of the ten minutes she'd allotted him had already passed, and if he lingered too long she might well come looking for him. Ruth's man had retreated to their suite, and to reach Harry she would first have to pass through their room, would have to see him and make some excuse before stepping next door. Harry did not doubt that Ruth could navigate that conversation deftly; she was a born spook, after all, her natural talents for solving riddles and disarming opponents with a guileless facade supplemented by years of hard lessons learned while living on the run in exile. With a jolt Harry realized she had been two years away from him, just as she had spent two years far from his side after Cotterdam, before she'd come hurtling back into his world, shrouded in grief and yet more beautiful than even his recollections of her. Two years had been enough, before, to open her heart to him, to encourage her to make room for him, to find the courage to step from the precipice and into his open arms. He wondered now, with some trepidation, what lessons the last two years had taught her.
"Give me two minutes," she said, and then he heard the opening of her door as she slipped once more into her suite.
Though it was folly, though he knew such hopes were unfounded and would likely only increase his devastation when he found her cold and angry, still, as she had been when she left him, Harry could not help but smile as he stepped into his own room to wait for her arrival. Ruth, and here, and coming to see him; nothing else seemed to matter, in that moment.
Ruth's heart was racing as she stepped once more into her room, her thoughts awhirl with Harry. Harry who she hated, Harry who she loved, Harry who remained the only man who had ever truly understood her. There was no question in her mind that she must go to him, face him, speak her piece and listen to his own wounded heart, but what would come after that she could not say. They had not parted on the best of terms; anger and terror had left her loose-lipped and raw, and she had, quite without wanting to, thrown wide the gates of her heart and let him catch a glimpse of the yawning chasm of darkness that had claimed her. All her life Ruth had tried to keep that darkness at bay, to fight back against the black dog nipping at her heels, but with so many of her friends dead, a headstone in a graveyard in Essex already bearing her name, her mother still mourning her loss and the very fate of the world weighed against something as inconsequential as her own small, disappointing life, she had been unable to win that battle. She had given in, had accepted that death was coming for her, and Harry had snatched even that away, in his selfish pursuit of her, a woman who was weary and frightened enough to reject his proposal, to roll out of his bed and walk away and yet still held some sway over him.
She did not know what she could possibly say to him, only that she must speak, must see his face and tell him all the things she'd held back before, tell him how he had wounded her that day, that day he'd saved her life against her own wishes, that day he'd looked in her eyes and said it's my turn and gone to face his own demise and left her in ruins. But there was an obstacle she would have to face first; Paul, gentle and kind, stretched out on the bed with his laptop resting against his belly, scanning through his emails and utterly oblivious to the turmoil that gripped her.
What have I done? Ruth asked herself as she looked at him now. At first, she had been determined not to repeat the mistakes of the past, to bring an innocent man into her bed and lead him to her doom as she had done years before. That was a lesson hard learned, a little boy with an angel's face left orphaned and alone for the sake of Ruth's own selfish heart. And yet, she was young enough, still, only 42, her life not yet over, much as some days she rather felt that it was. The need for connection, a hand to hold, was too strong to be denied, and when Paul, with his warm brown eyes and soft greying hair, the little lines on his face telling the story of a thousand easy smiles, had insinuated himself into her life, had brought her coffee and flowers and laughed with her as they talked of books, their students, the mundanity of a normal life, she had been unable to resist. She'd told herself that Harry was gone, that she had abandoned his world, that there would not be another blood-soaked miraculous reunion, and she had let Paul hold her, though she knew it was folly.
And now it would fall to her to do that thing she hated more than any other, and lie to him outright.
"All right?" he asked her, his eyebrow raised as he watched her over his laptop.
"I'm just tired," she answered. Tired of the lies, tired of running, tired of feeling every day as if I'm fading into nothingness. "I think I'll have a bath. Why don't you go on and get something to eat?"
Though he had just celebrated his fiftieth birthday there was still something decidely boyish about Paul, and one of those many sometimes juvenile qualities that both endeared him to her and left her feeling somewhat petulant was the way in which he was so ruled by his stomach. The call of a warm Parisian dinner would be too powerful for him to resist, she knew, and having been divorced for fifteen years he was quite accustomed to eating on his own. He was likewise accustomed to his lover's ever-shifting moods, and she hoped her feeble excuse would be enough to send him on his way.
It would seem that she was right, for as she turned away, shuffling through her bag as if in search of the various accoutrements she would need for her bath, she heard him close his laptop and rise to his feet. Relief washed over her, though it retreated somewhat when he stepped up behind her, wrapped his arms around her and pressed a kiss to the back of her neck.
"Do you want me to bring you something?"
Another life, she thought.
"Pain au chocolat, please," she said. They did not serve the treat in the restaurant downstairs, she knew, and she hoped that her request would send him farther afield, would buy her more time with Harry, though she hated herself for the calculation behind her words, for the way that, no matter how hard she tried, she could not shake the habits ingrained her by the long years she'd spent working in the shadows.
"Anything for you, darling," he told her winsomely. He kissed her again and then shuffled into his shoes, stepping from the room and throwing a casual see you soon over his shoulder, but Ruth had already all but forgotten him. The time had come, and Harry was waiting, and she could think of nothing else save seeing him again. His weathered face, his broad shoulders, his sorrowful eyes; the picture of him floated before her, Harry as he had been when she last she saw him, broken, shattered, laid low by grief and yet still going to face his doom with his back straight like any good soldier.
She forced herself to wait for one full minute, to be sure that Paul had made his way down the stairs and out of sight, and then she rushed from the room. At the doorway she paused, investigating the corridor and finding it mercifully empty of any potential witnesses. There was nothing for it now, and so she squared her shoulders and stepped out, locking the door to her room behind her before turning her feet toward Harry. His door was unlocked as he'd said it would be, and so, gathering her courage and trying valiantly to still the trembling of her hands, she opened it, stepped inside, and closed the door behind her again in one graceful movement.