four.
Oh, my darling make it go, make it go away
A week passes, then two. It all seems so trivial, and Sybil works longer shifts than ever before, is up on her feet every hour of her waking day, praying that only sleep will come a little easier each night.
Still, there is no permanent escape, no place to hide, no corner to sneak into, no work to be done, no atonement to be demanded.
She is sitting at the dinner table motionlessly, merely a shadow, staring ahead into nothingness.
"So, Sybil," Aunt Rosamund's voice sounds persistent from the other end of the table, and it is solely for her presence that Sybil has bothered with attending dinner at all instead of working a late shift.
The mere thought of having to discuss recent developments with her aunt frightens her, but her mother and father's reaction at her refusing to attend a family dinner will be far graver, she tells herself.
"When will I meet your fiancé?"
The word lasts heavily on Sybil's shoulders, and she takes a deep breath before turning to face her aunt, melting out of her immobility.
She notices Mary who watches her with a careful glance, both bitter and cautious.
"He is in London, visiting his parents. His mother is quite ill, so they never had the chance to visit him here."
Trying hard to keep a polite smile on her face, she can see her aunt's curiosity winning over.
"And what exactly is it his father is doing?" Rosamund asks, taking a small sip of wine. In that moment, even this simple gesture is enough for the fragile mask that Sybil holds, to crumble.
"I wonder why you're asking, at all. I'm sure you already know all about him and whatever dark secret there might be to discover."
She regrets the words the second they are spoken. However, the guilt she feels is small. These days, she is regretting too many words she has said that she wishes to take back, and too many words she never had the courage to allow to be spoken.
"Sybil!" her mother says harshly, setting down her wine glass with much more force than necessary, "What ever has gotten into you?"
Truly, she has not meant for the words to be as hard and spiteful as they have passed her lips, but deep down she knows that it is really how she feels.
"I am terribly sorry," she quickly apologizes, avoiding Mary's glance now, knowing exactly that she understands what has just happened, "I have rather a headache."
.
.
"I'd say as soon as the war is over. It is only a matter of weeks now, and if we start planning everything, we should find a convenient date rather quickly, don't you think?"
Sybil nods, smiling chastely at Vincent. However, it is her mother who answers in her stead, and Sybil feels so guilty when she sees the clear disappointment in Vincent's eyes.
"I am quite sure we can get it all arranged. Sybil, darling, we could drive into Ripon next week for some dress fittings. It's best to start as early as possible on that particular matter," her mother says with so much more enthusiasm than Sybil has seen on her face since that fateful day so many years ago, when she slipped in her bathroom and the world shifted.
"That would be lovely, Mama. Maybe Mary and Edith could join us, as well," Sybil says in an effort to sound as excited about her own wedding as everybody else appears to be.
Lovely.
Vincent is lovely to her. She never gets to speak about the things that rest so heavily on her mind, but nevertheless, she knows he is a good man.
He looks at her with such awe, even now as her mother asks him about his parents and how well his mother is to travel for the wedding.
Glancing down at the heavy, red rug, she hopes that maybe one day, she will find it in herself to respond to the awe in his eyes equally, with all her heart.
It is a faint hope, but now that every conversation seems to include flowers and guest list and frocks, what else remains?
.
.
The war ends, harsh November winds rushing past Sybil's window at night as she lays awake, waiting for all the sorrow to pass along with it.
Soldiers return home, some healed, others scarred deeply until the end of their days. As Sybil bids them farewell, she comes to see that everyone carries their own scars in some way. Their very own stories and tragedies.
It feels as if centuries have passed since that golden summer day when the world had changed forever, and now time seems to fly like some invisible restraint has been loosened.
"You look beautiful, darling," Mary says with a loving smile, running her fingertips over the duvet on Sybil's bed.
Sybil can see her in the mirror, and she responds faintly, trying hard to control her breaths as her own reflection causes the blood in her veins to freeze. Maybe Mary is right, maybe she does look beautiful, her dark hair against the white of her dress, the soft lace surrounding her face.
Anna carefully adjusts the earrings her mother has given her with tear-glossed eyes and a smile on her face only a mother could spare.
Last night, Sybil found no sleep. Instead, in a sudden wave of melancholia, she sat down on the edge of her bed with the bright blue pantaloons in her hands, an old memorabilia hidden in the depths of her closet.
She has not worn them again since that day in spring, when nothing had been more exciting than a new frock. Until he came along, bursting into her life like the bright turquoise with pamphlets and the key to a whole new horizon of thoughts.
Smoothing her palm down the lacy ridges of her wedding dress, Sybil tries hard to hold on to what little of the young girl she used to be still remains inside of her.
.
.
There is a knock on the door, and frightfully suddenly, Sybil's imagination is rushing down unfamiliar paths that lead into the darkness. A path that consists of blue eyes and cars parked in a rush in front of the house, white dress floating in the wind, trains leading into freedom.
When her grandmother enters the room, she feels like a child, almost afraid to be told off for her foolish mind.
"Could you give us a minute, please?"
Mary and Edith cast Sybil another pair of encouraging smiles as they step past their grandmother to leave the room, and Anna secures the second earring before rushing out of the door behind them.
"Sybil, dear, you look lovely."
Violet smiles gently, her gloved hand cupping her youngest grandchild's face.
"Thank you, Granny."
"But you look awfully cheerless."
Her grandmother's ability for directness should not surprise Sybil any more, but as she stands there in the heavy dress, the lace of the veil itchy against her skin, she finds herself defeated.
"I am just nervous, Granny," she attempts to say with as much honesty as she can muster, but as so many things lately, it fails.
"Sybil, dear, do trust me, I know the difference between nervousness and sadness and you certainly look more like woman in mourning than a bride," Violet says sharply, "Are you sure about all this?"
"Oh dear, has aunt Rosamund really uncovered some horrid secret, or is there another reason for this inquisition, Granny?" Sybil answers, knowing no way out other than playing her grandmother's game. Her voice is weak, though, quiet, and in no way emphasizing her words.
"She has not."
Their eyes meet, and when her eyes fill with tears, Sybil knows her act of secrecy is in vain.
"I have made my choice," she whispers hoarsely, standing as tall as she can, maybe, or most certainly, to make herself believe she is strong enough for the consequences of her decision.
"That you have, my dear. That you have."
Somehow, Sybil finds herself in her grandmother's arms, muffling a single desperate sob against the thick and itchy fabric of her dress. Only for a second she breaks down, and when Mary returns to fetch them, Sybil feels like looking at a strange and twisted reflection of herself.
.
.
The delicate ring sliding onto her finger feels like an icy chain, curling around her for all of time.
.
.
Sybil's heart beats violently in her chest, her entire body tense, breath coming in shallows heaps that repeatedly get stuck in her throat.
Her trembling fingertips run along the soft fabric of the duvet, tracing invisible lines only to find some distraction.
"Are you quite alright?" Her husband's voice is soft – husband; she shivers even more at the thought. Casting him a fluttery reassuring smile, Sybil nods.
"Of course. It was a long and exiting day," she says with a steady voice, feeling herself fill up with anxiety and fear.
They fall back into silence, and it is so uncomfortable and filled with unfamiliarity that Sybil can feel it suffocating her.
"If you are exhausted, we could always...," Vincent begins quietly, and Sybil can see the unease in the way he starts fidgeting around next to her, "Wait until tomorrow night. One night won't throw the Earth off its track, will it?"
Guilt creeps into Sybil's every fibre, but somehow, the trembling in her body calms down. Everything is so wrong in the world, so terribly wrong, and she wishes nothing more than for this to be a bad dream. She does not love Vincent, but looking into his eyes, she can see his love for her.
She feels loved. Not as deeply and passionately as she has once before, although she only now allows herself to really feel how much he has loved her, but loved nonetheless. She tries not to let the sadness wash over her, desperate to hold onto the sensation of calm that spreads through her.
"I'm perfectly fine, darling," she says quietly, reaching out her arm across the duvet, allowing him to take her hand in his.
.
.
The sun is only beginning to rise, casting a dim glow into the room as Sybil carefully pulls the soft curtain to the side. The world outside is still asleep, enveloped in a calm serenity.
Sybil takes a few deep breaths, longing to open the window to let the freshness of dawn flood the room, but the steady breathing behind her reminds as much of the fact that she is now sharing a bedroom as the warm hand on her shoulder has done when she awoke from a restless sleep.
Her nightdress floats around her skin as she takes a step closer to the window, pulling the curtains just a little bit further apart.
Realization that she is a married woman, someone's wife, has set in abruptly yesterday, but in the aftermath, she feels numb and cold, her mind taking her by the hand, leading down the path she fears so dreadfully much.
All she wonders about in this moment is him. Where he is, from what window he can see the sun rise, from underneath which sheets he climbs, where he will be going, how he is feeling.
She wishes for a chance to redeem the lies she has uttered in his presence, for one last glimpse of him, for the opportunity to only hint that she feels so much love for him that her heart threatens to burst.
All she can do is hope. Hope that he is finding his place in the world, that somewhere out there, he wakes from a deep sleep and a good dream.
She can hear the sound of ruffling sheets coming from the bed behind her, but she does not turn, does not react in any way until she can feel a warm hand resting softly on her upper arm.
"Good morning, sweetheart," Vincent whispers, voice still hoarse from sleep. Sybil turns her head far enough to smile at her husband, feeling oddly relieved at the sight of his tousled hair and slightly swollen eyes.
He seems afraid to touch her, his palm so lightly against her arm she can barely feel it at all. Maybe she seems fragile, maybe this is normal (but how differently she has imagined it), and maybe he can see she is not here, not really.
The sun begins to rise more radiantly now, and when the light floods through the curtains, Sybil presses her lips softly against her husband's cheek. An act of duty, of manners, a charade, maybe even a tentative attempt to pretend to herself that she indeed wants to.
"Good morning."