"No!" Rhett exploded, before either of them could speak. "No, Scarlett!" He searched her stricken face. Her eyes went from the ring, to Ashley. Back. Back. "God damn it! Tell him you won't. You can't! You're not divorced! And I'll never give you a divorce if you say yes!"

Melanie made a small laughing sound, behind him. "Do you really think you would need to give her a divorce?" she asked, gently. "Scarlett has powerful friends—even if you don't like them, they are powerful. And everyone in Atlanta knows you have deserted her. She could sue you for abandonment."

"Damn them both," Rhett growled. "Damn them to hell! I'll never let it happen. Never!"

Melanie's gentle brown eyes were quizzical. "Why do you care?" she asked him. "You left Scarlett. She wanted you to stay. Why do you care if she moves on, too?"

Rhett buried his head in his hands. He could not answer Melanie, because he did not know himself. Could it be that he still loved Scarlett—loved her madly, desperately, with the same passion with which he had always loved her?

"No," he said, his voice muffled. "She's a witch, and I don't love her. I hate her."

Melanie's touch was soothing on his back. "We always like to think we hate the ones who hurt us."

Hurt him? By God, she had! Hurt him terribly. For he had loved her—loved her with a true heart. Always, always she had loved another, while he had wanted only her. When she did not love him, he had been that small boy again, crying for his loss. A small boy's tears welled in Rhett's eyes, his throat. It was a relief. Who cared if anybody saw? It was only Melanie to see, and Melanie understood.

"I do," she murmured, hearing his thoughts. "Captain Butler—I do understand. But do you?"

Besides the voices of the onlookers, it had been very quiet in the library for some time. Rhett lifted his head and turned his attention back to the players—Scarlett and Ashley, standing very still in the center of the room.

"Scarlett?" asked Ashley, rising to his feet. He repeated himself: "Scarlett, you will marry me, when you are free?"

She had the little ring box in her hands, was turning it over and over. Rhett scrutinized her face. He could see every thought that passed through her head plainly in her eyes. Ashley—at last! But did she want him? She was uncertain: he saw that. She looked toward the dauguerrotype on the wall—Rhett's own dark face—fleetingly. His heart leapt up? Could it be that she was telling the truth when she said she loved him? She looked away just as quickly, before he could seek the truth in her face. Ashley—she studied him, and Rhett understood that though she may have wanted him once, the Ashley before her was a stranger to her. She did not know this man—did not want him. And yet—was it better than being alone? Her features screwed up in distaste—she steadied them. And Rhett saw that Scarlett knew what Ashley was offering of himself, must not let her indecision—her revulsion?—show.

"I am flattered by your attentions," she recited primly, from some long ago primer she had been made to memorize, "But," abandoning it, "Oh, Ashley, I don't know! It's all happening so fast. Can I—can I think it over—and tell you—some other time? Tomorrow, maybe?" She squeezed her eyes shut, and Rhett knew she was thinking, I'll think about it tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day.

Ashley looked a little shocked—and could it be?—a little angry. But ultimately relieved. He dropped a chaste kiss on Scarlett's brow and Rhett knew suddenly that he had been wrong to suppose them lovers. For one, it would mean Wilkes would have to actually do something.

"Yes—think it over," Ashley told Rhett's wife. "Tell me your answer another time. For now, Beau and I should be going home, I think."

Rhett and Melanie followed them out, watched as Scarlett waved them off. She closed the door against the cold and wandered aimlessly though the now-silent house. In the parlor, she flicked a bit of dust from the sofa cushions. She stopped to straighten a candlestick on the dining room table, spilling wax across the polished wood, where it beaded and hardened in and instant. She had gotten some on her finger and she cried out, and then raised her hand to her mouth. Pushed both hands through her black hair.

Moved to the sideboard, where she kept the liquor, in glass decanters.

Her hand hovered over the whisky. Rhett watched her intently. She had told him, last time he had seen her, in the spring, that she had stopped all that. Had she been lying? Was this habit, or only a moment's weakness. She took the plug from the decanter and held it. Her hand went out, to lift the bottle, to pour the amber liquid into a glass.

And then Scarlett seemed to come to herself. She hurled the bottle stopper to the floor, where it shattered. She pushed the bottle roughly away, with a short cry.

Rhett was proud of her. "Good girl," he said, wishing she could hear him.

He heard her climb the stairs, and he followed, watching as she went into the room, closing the door behind her.

He crossed the hallway and stood by the door of his old room, the room he had shared with Bonnie. Was it only his imagination, or could he heard a sweet voice singing on the other side of it? But no—it couldn't be—he had locked this door before he left and he alone had the only key. He turned to Melanie as she laid a hand on his arm.

"Captain Butler," she said. She seemed to be growing faint, and a little transparent. "I'll have to leave you soon. I've shown you all I can."

"But we can't leave now! I need to know what the hell Scarlett's going to do."

"Someone else will show you," she said, looking strangely distracted—as if there was a bell ringing somewhere, but only she could hear it. "I must go."

He nodded, strangely sad. He had missed Melanie, and he knew now that she had been very dear to him. "Will I see you again?"

"I don't know," she said slowly. "Oh—I think so. If—if—everything goes right. And I'll see you. I'll visit you often." She squeezed his hand.

"Melly," Rhett said to her, "You were too good for this world. If I was a wise man, I would have known that I needed a woman like you the first time I saw you, at Twelve Oaks. I would have stolen you away from Ashley Wilkes, and ravished you, and made you my wife. Oh, I'm sorry—I didn't mean to make you blush," for Melanie was, now, surely as a star.

"You couldn't have 'stolen' me," she said, shyly, "But Captain Butler! I always thought you were better than people gave you credit for being—and—and rather dashing, if you must know."

Rhett bent his head and kissed her quickly and fleetingly on the lips. She was like a little bird in his arms—frail, and scared—but she did not pull away.

She smiled up at him. The noise behind the bedroom door was growing louder—yes, it was a girl's voice, picking out a sweet tune. "Go in," Melanie said. "There is someone waiting for you. Goodbye—Rhett."

"Goodbye, Melly," he said. She picked up her skirts, and started for the stairs. In an instant she was gone.

Rhett put his hand on the doorknob, expecting it to be locked. It wasn't. It turned easily in his hands. He opened the door wide—wider. "What the…?" he murmured, seeing his old bedchamber transformed. It was a young girl's room, now—a tall canopy bed, plush carpeting, pink drapes.

Before him, at a vanity table, a young girl—fourteen or fifteen years old?—was sitting with her back to him, brushing her black hair in the mirror. She turned as he came into the room, and his breath caught in his throat. She had a little triangular face, sharp chin, high brow, red lips. She was very beautiful. She was—

"Scarlett?" he asked, in some confusion, and the girl smiled fondly.

"No, Daddy," she chided him gently. "Don't you know me? It's me. It's your Bonnie Blue."