They had settled into something of a domestic rhythm, working in the morning, reading in the shade when the heat of midday came, then doing the heavier, hotter work at night after the sun had set. Rosalind insisted that she had recovered and was in perfect health, but she was still pale, and struggled to stay awake at times.
This afternoon was one such occasion. They had taken their tea out under the old oak behind the house. There was a cool breeze, more so than recent days, and Rosalind had hardly taken one sip of her tea before Robert was distracted from his reading by gentle snores, and his counterpart's head drooping over her book.
He went to the house and fetched a pillow, propping her head up so that she would be comfortable. His hand brushed her skin, and he silently gave thanks that he was now able to touch her. It had taken until she was conscious and remembered who she was before he was able to set aside the heavy gloves, which made him feel like he was treating her like a specimen, an experiment.
He sat back in the chair and regarded her, the hum of the cicadas and the rich smell of the high summer grass filling his senses, the text forgotten on his lap.
He wondered, as he had wondered in every quiet moment since she arrived, at how easy it had been to bring her out of her dimension and settle her into his life. It wasn't really any different from meeting a long-lost family member, or making a close friend, he told himself. Of course, new friendships are generally not marked by prolonged nosebleeds, but in the end they had made the connection between Robert's habit of humming when he was thinking and Rosalind's recovery, and continued to play music or sing whenever she was struggling with the dimensional sickness.
They had treated each other with the formality of strangers in the beginning, but at least for him – and he thought for her too – it soon became clear that the shock of recognition that he had felt when he first saw her through the tear was not without merit. In fact, one of the first things they had done, when Rosalind was not yet up to heavier work, was to write down and compare the timelines of their lives, to see where the variances lay. She had not been ready to talk, he thought, about the events leading up to her flight here, but he would wait. They had time.
He realized that the brief touch had brought up other feelings – more masculine feelings – but he took a deep breath and let himself settle down. He was not sure it was possible to have been more humiliated than when she informed him of what he had been sharing with her, but she did not seem angry or even embarrassed, just—
Practical. She just seemed practical about it. He wondered if she approached all of her romantic dealings in that way, or if she was just trying to save her dignity in front of a man she hardly knew. He hadn't asked – shying away from the topic after their encounter – but she had made no other comments, or indicated that the subject interested her. Perhaps she was devoted to her work in a way that did not allow for romantic attachments.
Or perhaps she sees me as her brother, and has no interest in me, in the same way a real brother and sister would, he thought. He had been forced to admit to himself weeks ago that contemplating the possibility of an encounter with her gave him a frisson of forbidden pleasure.
But down that road no good thing lay, he told himself sternly, and returned to his tea and the book he had brought out.