Stolen
She strode into the room, unwinding her scarf and sweeping off her heavy winter coat. He came in behind her, closing the door neatly. His calmness only gave fuel to her anger. With quick steps she disappeared around the screen and began to untie the sash about her waist.
Close overhead, lamps swayed gently, casting a warm glow over the plush walls. Through the casement windows, ocean-light sifted back and forth, fingering the tasselled edges of the cushions, caressing the velvet throws. They were drowning in luxury.
'Another wasted night. Those nobles will never agree on anything. If I'd only supported Gaspard, we'd be free of their bickering.'
She could sense him on the other side of the partition, could imagine his composed stature; hands held behind his back.
'That is not why you are angry.'
She gritted her teeth but made no reply. The sash undone, she turned to put it away in her dresser, to find that he had come into the alcove while she was not looking. He watched her neutrally, waiting for her to speak.
Her hands dropped to her sides. 'No, that is not why I am angry. I don't want you to go.'
Some deep emotion flickered in his eyes, before it was gone. 'I was wrong to have lingered so long. It has only brought you pain. It is time to put an end to this.'
She stared in incomprehension. 'What are you saying? You can't mean that.'
'It is time.' He raised a hand and placed it over her heart. She felt hot and cold at once, as if she were falling, being squeezed into nothing; stretched out so far that she flew apart.
Then he pulled his hand away and for a moment she could not breathe. In his palm was a flame, ruby-red, more solid than any flame could be. It was almost like a jewel, beating and jumping to its own secret rhythm.
She knew at once that if he took it from her she would be robbed of all her memories of him.
'Give it back,' she said, her voice trembling.
'Of course.' But he did not move, and neither did she.
'Give it back – now.'
Before he did so, he reached towards the flame and closed his hand over it. When he withdrew his hand, the fire was less than half the size it had been before, so small it hardly pulsed at all.
'What have you done?' Her voice was not her own, filled with panic and terror.
'It is for the best.' And he started to put it back inside her. She screamed and caught hold of his wrist, trying to pull it away, but his will was like iron.
'No! No! What have you done? What have you done?'
His face did not change as he sealed it inside her ribcage, then turned and walked away. She doubled in on herself. The walls fell away and there was nothing left but the searing pain.
'What have you done?'
She woke dripping with sweat, her hands clutched over her heart, alone in her vast, empty room. It was a dream – a dream. It could never happen.
But what if it could? What if it already had?
She lay awake in the silent room and received no answer.