Still marveling at the world that Toby Whithouse created; still in awe of the gift that is the incredibly complex and infuriating Hal. Still pining for more.

I own nothing. All mistakes are my own.

Many thanks to Saemay and TJ4ev.

Ch. 20 A Simple Life

"That beast is evil. Its name is Lucifer. See how it watches me, plotting my demise?"

Sylvie looks over at Hal standing a few feet away. He leans on the paddock fence, eyes narrowed suspiciously in her direction while he rubs his lower back delicately; the horse in question calmly continues munching on the apple she'd offered him, thoroughly ignoring Hal.

"Hal, he is simply a bit spirited..."

"He chose the moment he bucked me off, right into that pile of firewood. An errant sharp stick could have impaled me. That was his plan." Hal's face is the picture of sincerity. "Besides, a black horse is unlucky."

Sylvie laughs. "I believe you have confused him with a cat. If anything, he senses your own nefarious origins. He is the perfect gentleman with me." She pats her new stallion fondly. "Truthfully, his temperament reminds me of you. A bit ornery, but I shall manage him just fine. Riding him should prove quite enjoyable. Though not as enjoyable as yourself..." She throws Hal a crooked smile that he pointedly ignores as he signals to have his mare brought close. He proceeds to inspect her, a third time, as if to find fault and an excuse to turn her away. But Sylvie is pressed to find fault in either Friesian - both are powerful, agile and elegant. Finding the local horses for sale lacking, they'd traveled half a day south to a reputable horse yard. The male is the prized glossy pure black of that breed; the female a rarer chestnut, with a small white star just above her gentle eyes. The mare had been meant for her, but the stallion would have nothing to do with Hal, neighing with bare tolerance at his touch, and bucking at any sign that Hal intended to ride him. Hence Hal's sullen mood.

"Come now, stop this peevishness and help me find a suitable name, please. Perhaps Othello? Odysseus? Odin? Oberon?"

"Have the other twenty-five letters of the English alphabet grieved you in some fashion? Besides, the names of kings and gods seem pompous for a simple country horse."

"So the pot calls the kettle, my dear Lord Henry of Yorke..." Sylvie retorts with an upraised eyebrow.

Hal sighs at her implications, then smirks before offering, "Maurice. I knew a horse-faced man of that name. It should suit."

Sylvie is not impressed. "Maurice? I should think that suits a butler, not a proud, noble beast."

"As a matter of fact, he was noble - a prince, as proud as all nobility. And he was a beast... at least once a month."

Sylvie rolls her eyes at him, despite a slight chuckle at Hal's supernatural humour.

"Be that as it may, I shall not name him Maurice. In fact, I would like something singular for this lovely pair. Unconventional. Just as we are."

Hal, finished with his unnecessary inspection, walks his horse over to Sylvie. The mare joins her stallion in nuzzling at the closed wicker basket containing apples until Sylvie retrieves one more for each horse. Hal steps back, tilting his head slightly as he considers the horses carefully. After a long minute he says, "Traf for the stallion. Dola for the mare."

"I've never heard those names. Are they English?"

"No. Polish words, both meaning fortune, chance, fate. Traf has a darker connotation, a warning of hazard, while dola is neutral, more or less. Both were traded daily between the soldiers in Belarus, meant for luck..." Hal trails off, lost in distant memories of time and place.

Sylvie pats the horses on either side of her, pleased . "Nearly two sides of the same coin then. Yes, that will do nicely, Hal. Traf and Dola, our lucky horses." When he focuses on her she gives him a reassuring smile.

Hal's answering smile is a shadow of hers.

"Will you be retiring soon?"

With a startled gasp, Sylvie drops her quill as her eyes dart up to the darkened library doorway where she finds Hal standing in his night clothes. She purses her lips, chagrined; damn vampire, always catching her unawares. "How long have you stood there?" She manages to control her tone, her words not coming out as a squeak, but her heart stutters. No doubt hearing it, he flashes her an apologetic smile.

Hal had been calm today; he always was, on this day every year. Introspective, yet attentive, ready with assuring smiles. Sweet and timid, charming even. Her annoyance at being startled by his stealth melts as she thinks about the contented day they'd had. She returns his smile with warm affection, then answers his question, "Yes, I will only be a few more moments. I'm almost finished with my letter."

Hal looks to her desk, a small frown forming, just for a moment, before his face becomes an impassive mask. Then, with a nod and another timid smile he clears off. Staring at the empty doorway she wonders about the frown, but quickly dismisses it as she listens to his steady footsteps going up the stairs. Hal does have a propensity for frowning.

Picking up her quill, she cleans it off and she carefully blots the ink that had splattered all over before resuming her writing, small details from her day tumbling onto the page.

As precedent dictated, there had been no fanfare. She had awoken to find an intricately folded paper flower and the poem it stood guard over next to her pillow. The flower, a five-petaled Japanese Kusudama - he informed her at breakfast - had gone onto the shelf of the corner cabinet in their bedroom, joining its various sisters from years past. Her free hand snakes into her pocket, fingering the paper in there, but not needing to take it out. She had insisted frequently throughout the day that he read the poem to her, his rich voice caressing the words right into her memory.

They had ridden, giddy, through the grassy dales carpeted in colour - blue Harebells, Scabious and Meadow Cranesbill, dotted with the the occasional patches of red Bloody Cranesbill and purple Marjoram. The last brilliant show before late Autumn set in. They had gone up to the eastern ridge overlooking their valley, their home, then further north-east to her favourite place, at the south end of the woods. Through the woods the water flows in narrow ravines, or cloughs as they were referred to locally, and halfway up one clough, the water cascades down a series of small falls. She had soaked in the warmth of the sun as it made its occasional forays from behind the clouds, the fragrant perfume bursting from the flowers, the sounds of the water rushing over the rocks, and above all, Hal's serenity. Despite his original objections, Dola's gentle nature suited him perfectly, soothingly, and peace had reigned this day.

Reaching the end of her narrative, Sylvie pauses, reluctantly, but driven to write the words.

I think he never anticipates it, our Anniversary. Not due to any lapse in memory, of course. No, it comes as a surprise to him that there is still reason to celebrate. He never expects that I will still be alive.

A pang of heartache invades her mood, threatening, overshadowing. How long would she prove him wrong? I am mortal, after all. They avoid speaking of it, except at Hal's most morose moments, yet the fact remains. But she drives those thoughts out of her head. Today is not a day to dwell on them; her purpose in this letter had been otherwise.

Irked at herself, she crumples the letter. Just as well, it needs re-writing from all those ink stains. But that will have to wait until morning. Snuffing the lamp, she rounds the desk to the mantle where a candle stands ready. Leaning over, she lights it in the dying flames of the fireplace. As she straightens up, the shadow above the mantle catches her eye as it comes into relief - a large, very old, wooden cross from a burnt down Spanish church. It had been a gift from Federico on their fifth Anniversary, in keeping with the traditional wood. When they opened it, Sylvie had laughed, believing it given in jest. Yet something about Hal's reaction - his hands planting themselves on his thighs, fingers gripping hard enough to turn his knuckles white as he shot Federico a sideways glance - had hinted at a story behind it. Still, he had said nothing beyond ordering it hung immediately; it did serve well to maintain the illusions they cultivated. She had asked after it, but neither man chose to enlighten her. Still, she has her suspicions. One of Jacob's stories from Hal's time in Madrid involved an abbess, tulips, and a bet that Hal won. The abbess had not survived.

Chiding herself for letting this memory surface, she fingers the paper in her pocket, chanting silently, That man is not my Hal. When she is certain again, she leaves the library, pacing down the hall and up the stairs as silently as possible. No real hope of catching Hal unawares, but a game she entertained at times. It serves to re-capture her gay mood.

She finds the door to the antechamber closed, as expected. Blowing out the candle, she leaves it in a corner of the hall, opening the door with nigh a whisper and threading her way carefully through the dark room to the inner sanctum of their bedroom. As she reaches the doorway he calls out to her, "Your heart always betrays you."

"Bugger," she says, abandoning her stealth and running in to throw herself at him on the bed, at least surprising him in that.

His breath comes out in a huff, but his tone is teasing when he says, "For someone so slight, you are surprisingly heavy."

"For someone so old, you are surprisingly firm," She teases back as she pushes herself up to straddle his hips, her hands roaming over his shoulders and biceps. The light from the fire is just enough to see his upraised eyebrows at her implications. She undulates her hips, pressing down against him, to accentuate her point.

Hal clears his throat and plants his hands on her hips, effectively stopping her movement. Unthwarted, Sylvie reaches back to tug the end of the ribbon that laces the back of her dress, loosening it enough to shrug off her shoulders, exposing her breasts straining against the gossamer material of her chemise. But Hal's attention has turned elsewhere. She follows his gaze up to the corner of the room where his trunk sits in the attic above, the dark cloud forever hanging over them. She had made multiple attempts to shed light on that mystery, had even gone so far as to prove she could force the lock several times, but always hesitated to open it. The contents of the trunk paled in comparison to the true mystery. She waits, with dwindling degrees of patience, for Hal to freely share the knowledge with her.

With a pout, Sylvie grabs his hair and forces his attention on her. She leans down to kiss him, but before their lips touch Hal whispers, "I need to ask your forgiveness."

This brings her up short. "For what, Hal? What have you done?"

"Not for what I have done, but for all I have not. You deserve a life filled with accoutrements fit for your station - lavish celebrations, extravagant gifts, exotic destinations..."

Her answer is quick. "Do you think I care for those more than the heartfelt treasures you give me?" In past lives he might have surprised her with all he said, and more. But not her Hal. Her Hal is seclusive. Her Hal's gifts are spartan. Her Hal is reluctant to foray beyond the confinements of their home.

Her Hal is safe. At the end of their quiet day together she came to bed with the certainty that she would see the morrow. A spectacular day from his past could very well end in her death.

His mouth still open in pause, Hal's his eyes grow sad. His hand comes up, fingers caressing her cheek before trailing down her neck and dropping back down. He winces his eyes shut, with an audible swallow, before he faces her again, saying softly, "A family. Children."

She inhales sharply.

Children. The word seems to hang and echo in the stillness of the air between them.

They never discuss it.

"Did you ever want children?" She asks, searching for a hint of his human past.

"This is not about me," Hal deflects, looking away from her.

How characteristically Hal. With a sigh, Sylvie lets herself fall onto the mattress beside him, staring up at the ceiling as she gathers her thoughts.

"You have not heard my mother's consolations," she says lightly, before she mimics her mother's voice, 'He really was quite a match, despite his eccentricities. And he does not squander his fortune, does not stray to another's bed... Pity the circumstances that keep you away from society, but I am sure there are other compensations.' We've played our parts well. She really has not a clue."

"Your mother is an idiot."

"She had offered, on several occasions, the services of a well-respected surgeon of her acquaintance." This time her imitation holds an edge of bitterness, 'Pity my dear, your barren state.'"

"An utter idiot."

Sylvie meets his eyes with chuckle. "She invited him while you were gone on your ghostly errand this past visit. After observing polite formalities, I managed to escape the inquisition by pouring hot tea in his lap. He howled like a werewolf! " Hal joins her chuckle with a snicker - a shared moment of mirth, before she drops her smile and addresses his question with a solemn sigh. "Hal, I was well-informed when I made my choice. It has been an easy thing to accept the limitations of this life, to treasure the simplicity and not expect much more."

His answering snort is eloquent. "Easy to accept? Not expect more?"

"Very well, not easy. You can be such a bloody arse, most of the time!" She punctuates her words by punching him in the arm, which solidly absorbs the impact. She massages her fingers. "Yet my mother is correct in one thing; you do have your charms..." She grows quiet again, before continuing, "There may have been a time I dreamt of all that you speak of, parties and gifts and adventures. But then something extraordinary happened. Those dreams were replaced by dreams of a mysterious, hazel-eyed, angel-demon-man that haunted me for five years. I feared him. I was fascinated by him. I... desired him."

Hal answers with a hint of exasperation, "You were but a child that day in the cellar. You couldn't possibly have known what you wanted out of life then."

"How well did you know of what you wished at that same age, Hal? How impressionable were your experiences? You wanted an escape. I wanted... you. And so when I encountered you again, there really was no hesitation. This life is enough for me."

Hal props himself on his shoulder, hovering, eyes boring into her. "Deceiving others is a skill easily learned; deceiving yourself easier still."

"What reason could I possibly have to lie to myself?"

"Me. I believe you would suppress your true feelings for my sake. I do not deserve that."

"Were that the case, it would be underserved only if unappreciated. However -" Wishing no mistake in her meaning, she cups his face in her hands and stares into his shadowed eyes a long moment. "We are a family." She nods once, lending weight to her words, with the implication of a question.

His eyes continue to scrutinize her face, the rebuttal of disbelief clearly still lurking. But in the end he gives her an answering nod of acceptance.

With relief, Sylvie entwines her fingers in his hair, saying throatily, "Now that we have settled this, stop your morose musings. We are a family. You are mine. I am yours. I require you to demonstrate to me exactly what that means, at great length."

Hal raises an eyebrow at her comment, but willingly lets her pull him into her hungry kiss.

Dipping her brush in the paint, Sylvie leans back to survey her canvas before continuing, only to pause a long minute before placing the brush in the turpentine with a relieved sigh. Finished.

The companion piece to her current endeavor has sat wrapped in a corner of the horse stall that she had commandeered as a studio going on six months. The commissioned frames had joined it four months past. Painting her self-portrait had been an easy thing in comparison to painting Hal.

Lacking a live subject, so to speak, she had been forced to rely on dozens of sketches and hours of surreptitiously committing to memory his bone structure, the precise colour of his hair in different lights, all the small imperfections of his perfect face. It had taken her weeks just to settle on the right pose and place, to find the right moment that encapsulated the complexity she wished to capture.

His eyes had given her the most trouble. 'Les yeux sont le miroir de l'âme.' How do you capture the soul of someone who has none?

And then the perfect moment had presented itself. She had been sitting in the garden, ostensibly sketching the landscape, when he chanced to look up from his task at his stones just as the clouds had thinned enough to brighten the day from a drizzly grey and bathe him in luminosity. Unaware he was being observed, his lips had parted as he stared up, the look on his face a quiet contemplation. No struggle or pain, no derision. A hint of sadness - that was perpetually present - but otherwise a moment of balance. She had been mesmerized before remembering her task, furiously moving her charcoal to replicate that look.

And now a life-size replica stares back at her, mesmerizing her once more. She caresses Hal's lower lip, the asymmetric spot that never fails to make her fingers twitch with desire to touch. Perfect imperfections, she thinks with a smile.

Her contemplation is interrupted by voices outside, the neigh of her horse in the neighbouring stall answering the one from Hal's outside. Her task had been further complicated by the need for secrecy - Hal would be curious that she had taken up oils when normally she painted with watercolors, and oils require longer drying time, even having worked in thin glazes, built up and drying over the last few weeks. Hence her location in the stables and the tension of stolen moments, mostly while Hal went out riding.

Finally, William enters leading Dola, alone, and Sylvie lets out her held breath. Hal is a fastidious creature of habit. He avoided the dirty, smelly building with a passion.

William good-naturedly accepts her unnecessary precise instructions for cleaning up - he is a well-practiced hand at it now. They shift the canvas to its hiding place as she explains that she will check the painting over the following weeks to ascertain it has properly dried before he can secure both in their frames.

Removing her protective frock, Sylvie goes outside to the water pump, making certain her hands are washed free of all traces of pigment and turpentine, then applying a bit of lavender oil from the vial she carries in her pocket. Once satisfied, she makes for the house, mulling over how best to present her gift to Hal the following month.

All morning, while he goes about his routines, she sits in the parlour playing Hal's favourite soothing pieces, worrying her lower lip and shooting nervous glances at the paintings placed prominently on the fireplace mantle. Once Hal had retired the previous evening, William had brought them in, resting them carefully to await Hal's discovery.

Upon his entry, Sylvie bounds up to him with forced cheer, offering him an enthusiastic embrace and a "Happy Birthday, Hal."

Hal's frown does nothing to calm her nerves. "Firstly, it is not my birthday. And secondly, this day is hardly one to recall with any measure of happiness."

"So you say each year. Lacking precise knowledge of your origins, the eighth of September seems as good a measure as any other, and it can be called a birth, of sorts. You would not be here with me today, had it not been for this day. Surely, that is reason to celebrate."

Smugly, she sees that Hal has trouble coming up with a retort for her reasoning. But her pleasure is short-lived as his keen eyes are drawn to the addition on the mantle. His frown grows deeper, an edge of panic in his eyes as he meets hers.

"Sylvie, what have you done?"

Of course, she'd known he would disapprove. She had painted him in secret.

Years before, when she'd made an offhand comment about commissioning a joint painting, he'd gone through great lengths to explain the extreme care vampires took that their image not be depicted. This had involved frightening her with the story of an Old One's retribution on a Flemish master painter in the early seventeenth century. The man had discovered the existence of vampires and had sought to expose them through his art. Uncharacteristically, Hal had been detailed - the man's eyes had been gouged, first, so that the vampires could enjoy his begging, his screams, before ripping his tongue out. The painter had survived, for a time, before taking his own life. Of course, the unnerving factor was that Hal's description came from intimate knowledge. Hal had been present. Hal had participated.

"Sylvie, this must be destroyed."

Yes, she had expected his disapproval. And yet... the instantaneous rejection brings stinging tears to her eyes. She had taken so much care to make it perfect.

Hal makes a move towards his portrait.

"No!" Sylvie springs into action, reaching her precious masterpiece before him, grabbing the heavy framed canvas with difficulty, then hugging it protectively against her chest. She sets her jaw stubbornly, defiantly.

"Sylvie, there is a protocol-"

"Fuck your protocol, Hal! Do you have secret plans to invite some Old Ones, or any vampires for that matter, into our home? I have been under the impression that is the very last thing you wish, but as you care to enlighten me so little, I could be completely misguided. Yet I am under no illusions on your competence at erasing unpleasant reminders of your past; you will no doubt destroy everything once I am dead. But as long as I draw breath, I forbid you to touch this!" Fully expecting resistance, she edges a wide berth around him, keeping eye contact until, at the doorway, she turns with a sob to run away.

Although he would have no trouble plucking it out of her hands, Hal makes no move towards her.

Sitting at his desk, Hal opens the top drawer, intending to do some writing, only to find his new journal missing. He looks about in confusion, scanning the room out of habit, unnecessarily. He had placed the journal in its precise location three days prior when it had arrived with their supplies. The servants are under strict orders to avoid touching certain items of his possession, this desk being one of them. They would not dare violate his orders. Lips tightened in disapproval, he storms out into the hallway.

Passing the parlour he pauses as he catches a glimpse of the one painting still perched on the mantle, waiting to be hung. Sylvie looking over her shoulder, hair cascading wildly, lips turned up on one side with the hint of mischief. Yet her brown eyes hold a hint of sadness. Perfectly captured. He stares at her likeness, remembering her crestfallen look at his words: This must be destroyed. And her words in turn: You will no doubt destroy everything once I am dead. The truth of that simple statement lances through him freshly.

She had disappeared for the remainder of that day and the servants had made themselves scarce. They had heard it all, he was certain. Perhaps they formulated their own explanation, just as they had each and every time an incident had to be explained away; denial is a powerful force. Perhaps they had become so accustomed to his peculiarities that, despite knowing the truth, they did not see him as a threat. Whatever the reason, he had gone into hiding, throwing himself into his routines with a frenzy, to avoid confronting them, to suppress thoughts best avoided. Until nightfall when she had returned, empty-handed.

She had inexplicably climbed into their bed, seeking his touch.

Despite the discord between them, she always sought this reconciliation in their dark moments - the wordless comfort of their bodies entwined, giving and receiving in equal measure, their shared release. Or perhaps it was due to the discord; she leaves, but finds the strength to come back, offering herself to sooth his tension, transferring her strength to him. He takes solace in her offering: the feel of her skin warming him; the thrum of her heart pulling at him; hunger and desire, twin aches, building until the sound of her gasps and whispered pleas, the feel of her legs wrapped around him, her fingers gripping, urging, focuses his choice, keeps him hanging on to that fragile precipice.

The sound of the wind banging a shutter brings him out from his reverie. Rubbing his face, Hal tears his gaze away from the sad eyes in the painting, lost in circling thoughts as he ascends the stairs to their bedroom.

"Sylvie, have you seen my journal?" Hal's question precedes his preoccupied entrance. He stops a few steps in, taken by surprise to find Sylvie is not alone and she sits in front of the mirror, normally kept covered in a corner of the room. Berating himself for his lapse, he remains paused, his senses alert. The mirror is between he and the women, at least Sylvie has that much discretion. He notes her shifting uncomfortably in her seat before answering him, "Of which journal do you speak, Hal?"

Hal doesn't answer her immediately, staring at the maid who innocently continues to fuss with Sylvie's hair, keeping her eyes averted from him. Something elusive plays at the edges of his senses. But he shakes the feeling off, addressing his wife. "You know very well which one I speak of. If you are in need of a new one yourself, you have only send for one at the general store in town."

Sylvie answers him with a pout. "They do not carry any nearly as elegant as the one you had ordered from London. Besides, what would be the fun in not stealing yours?" She ends with a tilted smile. Hal closes his eyes, huffing with irritation, before turning on his heel and storming out. He doesn't fail to hear the giggles behind him.

He escapes up to the attic, chased away, but not simply from irritation. Just as it had survived much worse encounters, their domestic life continued as if nothing untoward had happened. Yet he is haunted by that hint of sadness in her eyes, the unvoiced accusations.

He unlocks the trunk, opening it and taking out a rectangular wooden box he can hold in both hands. His thumb caresses the worn spot on one edge before popping the lid open. Easier to face his demons than her disappointment.

A few days later they sit companionably in the library, the large fire in the hearth a soothing counterpoint to the rain pouring outside. He on one end of the window seat reading, she at the other embroidering; the perfect picture of domestic bliss.

Sylvie is called away into the kitchens to consult on dinner. When she returns, as she sits down again, something peeking out from the armrest of the seat catches his attention. It had been hidden under the embroidery she'd left behind - midnight blue leather, embossed with a simple scroll pattern around the perimeter and Greek words in the centre: 'The hardest victory is over self'."

"Sylvie, my journal. I see it hidden behind you." He holds out his hand to brook no argument.

She looks at him defiantly, an argument ready, but instead admits defeat with a puff of air. Handing it over she warns, "You will not want it any longer."

He'd thought she had merely stolen it to spite him. Flashing her an uncertain look, he opens it up, eyebrows raising immediately, eyes opening wider as he turns the pages before he shuts it firmly, wincing.

"Is this your way of humiliating me?"

"Humiliating you? Whatever gives you that idea? I have merely been sketching."

"Have you shown this to anyone?"

She answers quickly, too quickly, "Of course not." But he remembers the giggles between the women.

"Sylvie, this is crude."

"I beg to differ."

"I thought you drew flowers. Or landscapes."

"I found a more interesting subject."

"Quite unbecoming for a Lady to be sketching-"

"You expressly forbade me to reproduce the likeness of your face. You said nothing of the rest of your anatomy..."

Hal pinches the bridge of his nose with exaggerated patience. "Sylvie..." he draws out her name in warning, "Cease being childish. This is not a game. I forbade it for your own safety."

Her explosion follows. She stands up, snatching the journal out of his hands. "My safety? That is a bit rich, coming from you! And what of my happiness? Painting your portrait brought me pleasure. Just as doing this-" she fans out the risque pages of the journal, "brought me pleasure. You think I do it to defy you. You think some of my actions are childish. And perhaps they can be. But what choice do I have? In this life that revolves around you, I am forced to find happiness in small measures.

The crux is, when I showed you the portrait - had you acknowledged it in some way, that it meant anything to you - I would have been content with just that moment. I would have taken it down and helped you throw it into the fire. But you couldn't give me that moment. You simply could not be my Hal..." Sylvie trails off meeting Hal's confused look, unable to explain, silently urging him to understand. Frustrated, she throws the journal at him, before stalking out.

Coming back from her solitary ride, Sylvie leads Traf into the stables with some measure of relief. Wanting to take advantage of an unseasonable warming in weather, she had gone alone, for the third day in a row, leaving a brooding Hal behind. A feeling of unease was her only company, tinting what would have been an otherwise lovely ride in the late autumn sunshine. A slight anxiety - leaving Hal alone with people always made her worry - but more than that, a hollow feeling. Despite the hurt, she still feels the pull of him.

Even the horses seem to echo her mood, calling to one another as soon as she enters, the stallion restlessly pulling away from her attempts at de-saddling him until she desists. He tromps over to the end of his stall that borders Dola's, the two greeting each other earnestly before he turns his attention to the grain left for him. She envies the uncomplicated nature of their companionship.

Looking around, she wonders where William is. He would have heard her approach from the house, should be here to take care of the horse. Closing the stall, she walks over to the tack area, to a built-in cupboard currently hiding Hal's portrait.

The painting is not where it should be. Her feeling of unease turns to a flutter of panic. She searches the room, all the stalls, even tears into the pile of clean hay, headless of the mess, to no avail. Running across the yard to the house, she tears through the front door screaming his name. "Hal! Hal!"

The hall is empty. The parlour, library, dining room, kitchens, the rooms above... even the attic is empty. The panic builds. Downstairs again, she passes by the parlour door once more and her eye is caught by something inside, missed in her mindless rush. Above the fireplace hang her two portraits. Confused she runs outside to resume her search, yelling out the names of her household. Out front she catches the faint sound of speech and follows it, down the path to the river.

The sight that greets her is one unexpected. In the clearing at the base of the hill, blankets have been laid, garlands of blue flowers and lanterns strung from the trees. Ruth is fussing over food laid out along one end of the gathering; Beth and William under a tree in obvious attempt at light-hearted banter. And Hal is standing further down, at the river's edge, his back to the group. As she approaches, William turns to go up the path, to tend her horse no doubt, and Beth runs up to her, gathering her hands merrily and whispering, "We are having a celebration. It was to be a surprise."

"It certainly is that," Sylvie responds, grabbing Beth's hands to steady herself. Winded, and a bit dazed, she works to calm the roil of her emotions - panic, confusion, and now a dawning relief. Beth and Ruth wear identical worried frowns; she smiles reassuringly at them before walking to Hal. As she comes up beside him, he leaves his silent contemplation, turning to her.

"This is your doing?"

He nods, contritely. "An apology. For -"

"For being an arse again?"

He looks like he had an entire speech prepared, yet caught mid-word, his face smoothes out and he answers simply, "Quite." He reaches into his waistcoat, bringing out his journal and handing it to her. "A gift for you."

Sylvie takes it, expecting to find the sketches she'd made ripped out, but surprised to find a new one instead. The hint of a nude form, a woman: the gentle slope of her neck leading down to a delicate back, waist tapering down then out, the soft curves of her thighs.

"You drew my bum!" She chortles.

Hal raises his eyebrows suggestively, a smile playing at his lips.

"And the painting?" Her stomach tightens with an echo of her earlier trepidation.

"As you said, we are not likely to be entertaining certain uninvited guests." He shoots a glance up at the other women in the clearing, but they are occupied serving the food. "Go, join them. You must be famished from your long ride."

Sylvie sighs deeply, dizzy with relief. "And yourself?"

"I will join you in a minute." Sylvie looks like she will argue, but Hal forstalls her. "There is cake."

"Oooh, cake!" She raises on tiptoe, placing a happy kiss on his cheek before running over to the other humans.

Hal's heart warms to see how something so simple can make her so happy. As the group congregates together with easy banter, eating and laughing, he holds himself back, contemplating. She had said they were a family, and he supposes in some ways, even the servants had been included in her assessment. They never bothered addressing her formerly, nor curtsying or bowing. Not so with him. He had been deliberate in not cultivating attachments with the staff. And yet as he looks on, awkward in his exclusion, he experiences some qualms. There has been a comfort in the familiarity of their presence, a tie, however he denied it, that offered another measure of temperance to his hunger.

Sylvie glances up at him with a wide grin, urging, "Hal, stop brooding over there and join us!" His good humour is marred, knowing what he must do, the hurt it will cause her. But he dons his mask before walking over.

As the sun sets, the servants clear the food and light the lanterns. Sylvie walks over to the river's edge, her turn to contemplate the depths of the sluggish current. When Hal joins her, she turns to him with a glint in her eyes. "Let's remove all our clothes and bathe, in the moonlight."

"Surely you jest," he glances over at the servants.

His disapproval is lost on her as she kneels down to remove her shoes. "They should be leaving momentarily."

"Sylvie, I do not think... It's cold. And dark. Who knows what manner of creature lurks in there."

"Oh Hal, do not spoil my fun. I do this all the time without you. Come now, help me with my buttons," she says, turning her back to him.

His voice cracking, Hal parlays with, "Perhaps a waltz, first?"

She glances over her shoulder at him. "A waltz? I was under the impression you disapproved of such a scandalous display of impropriety. Are you simply trying to persuade me away from the dip in the river?"

In answer, he bows with a flourish. "May I have this dance, my lady?"

Sylvie faces him with eyes narrowed suspiciously, but then concedes with a small laugh.

They begin waltzing, their only accompaniment the twinkling sound of the water. When he notes the servants' departure and she begins humming a tune, he lets himself relax into the moment.

"I have been remiss in giving you my thanks."

"For what, Hal."

"My portrait."

Sylvie forces them to stop. "Do you like it?" she says, hopefully.

"I have never beheld myself properly, before. Thank you," he says sincerely.

Sylvie flushes with the pleasure of his acknowledgement. She brings her fingers up, painting strokes on his face. "This -" her index finger traces down the line of his nose, "and this -" fingers brush over his cheek, then outline his scar, "and this -" thumb caresses the asymmetric pout of his lip, "were childsplay."

"The servants assure me the likeness is perfectly captured."

She continues, "But this -" she smoothes across his brow, tracing his eyelids, caressing the tender skin below his eyes, "If I had a hundred years, a thousand, I do not think I could ever truly capture you, Hal." They stare at each other in a spellbound moment, a shared understanding of the deeper meaning of her words.

With deliberate movements, Hal places his right palm against hers, pressing, before entwining their fingers. Then, rather than simply place his left hand demurely at the middle of her back as he'd done previously, he cups the back of her neck, fingertips wrapped around to stroke her throat, before trailing down, following the line of her spine to her waist, then splaying out to press her firmly to him. "Shall we resume our dance?"

More than a little breathless, Sylvie merely nods at him and they continue to waltz, under the lantern-lit trees and the emerging stars.

Notes:

Inspiration music & title - A Simple Life, by Brian Crain. It's what's playing in my head during the waltz.

On a horse, a star is the name for a white marking between or above the eyes. It's not the shape of a star, just the name for it.

Maurice of Nassau was a 17th-century prince of Orange who helped establish the Dutch Republic.

Full quote from Hal's journal is from Aristotle: "I count him braver who overcomes his desires than him who conquers his enemies; for the hardest victory is over self."

When the waltz was first introduced, it was considered scandalous because of the close proximity of the dancers and the intimacy of touching, which was not in keeping with the modesty of this period.