Hey dudes! So I'm back in school now, which means that my updating may become a bit spotty - junior year is haaaaard. To the anons!
Zuzi: Gotta love going back to school! Yeah, the books needed more Shirley! I always wondered what he was doing. Even Rilla says (in the chapter where Ken visits) that she has no idea where Shirley goes when he's not at Ingleside. Anne and Gilbert should keep better track of their kids :P I'm glad the relationship with Gilbert-Walter made sense to you, like a lot of things, it's not explicitly mentioned in the books, just something I sort of...assumed, from the way they're portrayed. So I'm glad my weird headcanons make sense to others!
Marz: Sorry that Walter's dragging his feet! Hopefully by the end it'll make sense...otherwise, oops at me, I guess. D: Again, glad Gilbert and Walter's relationship made sense. Also, re: Una and Jerry, I do like to think that for all Una is very quiet and sweet, she still has some of her siblings' characteristics. Ty for reviewing!
Tiny Teddy: Thank you! :) Yeah, Walter's having a bit of confusion atm. I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter!
Title is from "Liar, Liar" by A Fine Frenzy.
you talk to me in siren song
Waking up is not easy for Una, this day. She lies in bed for a moment, then presses her hands to her face. Her head aches, and so does her heart. Oh, when did life become so confusing? She thinks she'd like to roll over and sleep until things make sense again.
But that will not happen, she knows. For once, she is at the center of things, the eye of this strange storm. No one can fix this for her.
She tries not to cry at the thought.
Rosemary gives her a sharp glance when Una trips into the dining room, eyes swollen from lack of sleep.
"Good morning," Rosemary says, the end rising like a question.
"Good morning," Una murmurs. "Where are Father and Bruce?"
"Your father's gone to bury one of the Crawfords over-harbor, and Bruce has left early," Rosemary says, pouring her a glass of milk. "He and little Jimmy MacAllister want to see if they can catch the birds nesting near the Upper Glen road before school begins."
Una nods, feeling a bit too fuzzy to really think about her family's activities. "Oh."
"You stayed out later than usual last night," Rosemary remarks, passing her a plate of potatoes. "Did you get enough sleep?"
No, Una had not gotten enough sleep. First she had lain awake, thinking of the things Walter had said, the way he had looked at her - the memories more vivid than any film she had ever seen in Charlottetown, full of color and sound. Finally she had slept - but then she dreamed, lovely and horrible dreams of poems and gray eyes and the touch of Walter's hand, and then odd ones of Maywater and her siblings and parents, and then even stranger ones of cats carrying suitcases overseas to France, all interrupted by fits and starts of wakefulness.
Still, she smiles at Rosemary and digs into her breakfast, trying to think of all she must do. Piano lessons when school is over, that is a given every day except Sundays, rolling bandages to send overseas - she'll do that before the school lets out - and choir practice at the church, where she accompanies on the piano. Little time to call or be called on - she's not sure if she's relieved or not. She is so close to some sort of edge, close to falling off - close to having what she wants.
What would she say, anyway? Una has never been good with words; they twist up inside of her and never come out right. She makes do with little gestures and and actions, hopes they mean something to someone.
What would he say? Declarations of love? Commonplace words? Una knows she has little experience in the area, but she feels certain that Walter would not have touched her face and looked at her like she was something fascinating and new, despite knowing her since childhood, if he didn't feel - something. Would he? What does she know of love, of men? She has never discussed such a thing with Jerry or Carl, nor does she ever want to. And her father, she thinks, is from a different time - he had barely been alone with her mother until they were married.
"What are you doing today?" she asks Rosemary, suddenly realizing how sullen she must seem.
"Oh, the usual," Rosemary says. "A bit of cleaning - and you mustn't help me, dear, you've too much on your plate today already - and then the choir practice. And Bruce is going home from school with Jimmy MacAllister, I think."
Una nods mechanically, dipping a piece of bread into her milk - a substitution they have all gotten used to, since butter is rationed. She chews and swallows without really tasting it.
"I was going to visit Ellen and Norman after practice," Rosemary continues when Una doesn't say anything. "There's meat and soup in the icebox, and vegetables…" Her voice trails off, and she sighs. "Una, do tell me what's on your mind."
Una stares down at her half-eaten potatoes. Where can she begin? Rosemary knows nothing of her fancy for Walter Blythe - the one she's held for nearly a decade, now. The words are jumbled in her consciousness - she does not think she can rearrange them to make sense. Not yet.
"I don't know," she murmurs. "Things are changing. I don't - I'm not sure if I'm ready for them to."
Rosemary looks as though she wants to say something, but instead she merely covers Una's hand with her own.
Una finds herself distracted all throughout the day - Rose Lewison, who is just as flighty as Susan had predicted, has to point out that Una has handed her the same sheet music that as last week.
What shall I do? she finds herself wondering, wringing her hands like Nan Blythe during one of her dramatic episodes.
Oh, she knows what she must do. She must see Walter Blythe, see if she has imagined his intent in her desire to believe her feelings are returned - see if the moment was only in her mind, a friendly touch that means nothing more. No matter what happens - she will have her answer. And that is all she wants.
Is it such an impossible thing? a little part of her brain repeats. And Una does not know which is the more dangerous - to ignore it, smother her hopes like she always has - or to listen.
To her surprise, he comes to her.
Father has gone to town in a rush, he had mumbled something about a book he'd forgotten to buy the last time he'd gone; Bruce is staying the night with a friend; Rosemary is visiting Ellen. And Una is home - choir practice cut short by half the children not showing up due to hay fever - counting stitches as she hasn't since she was a child, almost absurd, she knows, in her concentration. So focused is she on making her stitches as tiny as possible that, when the doorbell rings, she drops the mending and the thread unspools halfway across the room.
Outside, the air is thick and heavy; the sun is only just beginning to set, the harsh afternoon shadows giving way to something softer, muted and hazy.
And Walter Blythe is standing on the porch.
"Hello," he says. His voice is calm - how is he so calm?
"Hello." She wants to do something with her hands - tug at her skirt, sweep hair out of her face - but finds that she cannot move.
"I came to return your father's books," Walter says after a moment, lifting the hefty tomes to show her. "I hope he didn't mind doing without them for so long."
So he has not come for her. Something in her deflates.
"I don't think he noticed," Una admits, "but anyway, he's not in. He went to town for a book, I think."
"Oh," Walter says. "I did ask if I could come up when I saw him - well - I could come back - "
"No, don't do that," she says quickly. "He probably forgot. I'll take them."
"All right, then," he agrees, and she lets him in.
They're both quiet as she leads him to her father's study. It is not the companionable silence that they have always shared, but rather something strange and tense, so many things that must be said weighing heavy between them.
The Blythes are familiar with the study at the manse; Nan used to come by and borrow books on Jerry's recommendation, the better to argue over them. Jem often used to come by, too, to discuss God with Mr. Meredith - it had come to no surprise when he'd stopped being a member of the church. But Una cannot recall ever seeing Walter here.
"I've never been in this room," he says, as though reading her thoughts. "Your father and I always spoke in Rainbow Valley."
She gives a little hum in response, not wishing to reveal that she already knows that - had wondered, in her small heart, if perhaps her father ever spoke of her to Walter. Ever gave Walter cause to think of her. She shakes her head and takes the books from him, looking at the titles as she puts them back onto the shelf - the writings of Saints Paul and Augustine, selections from German theology, a book of poetry.
"I think I enjoyed St. Augustine's writings the most," Walter says - is it just her imagination, or is his voice too light, too casual? "I used to think him a bit severe - but he seems more applicable, now."
"Wasn't St. Augustine a bit of a - hedonist?" She is out of her depth here, in discussions about literature and philosophy. But Walter doesn't seem to notice.
"Yes," he says. "But he repented. I like his philosophy more than St. Paul's, although they have similar conversion stories - which is what prompted your father to give me their books, I think."
"Augustine wrote about war, as well," she says. She bites her lip in nervousness. Perhaps she shouldn't have brought that up.
"Yes," Walter says. "'Just war.' I don't know - that I agree entirely. But I understand his thinking better than I did. It's easier to understand - appreciate - his reconsiderations. Other schools of thought were more inflexible." He reaches out to touch the spine of one of the books. "'The only truth', they would write."
Una only nods. She does not want him to go, cannot find the words to ask him to stay. Why does she do this to herself?
He turns to her, his face serious. A strange shiver goes down her spine. "That's you, you know," he says quietly. "Una, the only."
Una does not know what to do. Her heart is beating too hard, too fast. He is very close to her, she realizes. She is aware of everything, suddenly - the light freckles that have appeared on his face during a year and a half out-of-doors, the strands of silver standing stark against his black hair, the matching gray of his eyes.
She does not know what possesses her to do it - perhaps emboldened by his words, the thought that he must care, because he is Walter and for all he has changed, he would never be dishonest with her - not about this. And she cannot find the words - can never find the words - so she acts, instead - leans up and kisses his mouth quickly, clumsily, too nervous to do anything more.
When she pulls back his eyes are wide, and she feels a sudden coldness, the certainty that she has made a mistake. She moves away, ready to apologize, but suddenly Walter's hands are on her face, bringing her back to him, mouth gentle on hers. It is everything Una has dreamt of, in the secret dreams she always tries to forget when morning comes. But this is real - so real - no dream will ever be able to compare.
Then the door opens, its creak audible from down the hall, and they pull apart. Without thinking, Una's hand goes to her mouth, as though there is some kind of tangible evidence of Walter's kiss that she might feel - or have to hide.
"Una?"
John Meredith pokes his head into the study, eyes widening when he sees Walter there with her. "And Walter! What brings you here?"
"I was returning the books you lent me," Walter says. His voice is completely neutral, no blush on his face.
"Ah - ah," John Meredith says, looking shamefaced. "I forgot! Do forgive me - usually Rosemary reminds me of such things, but she's off visiting Ellen."
"It's all right," Walter says. "Una - "
Whatever he is about to say is cut off by Bruce, who runs in chanting "Una, Una, Una!"
"Bruce!" Una says. "I thought you were staying with Jimmy MacAllister tonight."
"He ate a whole box of Redfern's Purple Pills," Bruce says, his voice slowing. The smile falls off his face as he takes in the tableau, his eyes darting between Walter and Una. "He got awful sick, so…Dad came for me on his way home. And he bought me a magazine in town. Will you read me one of the stories?"
"Of course," Una says faintly. She darts a glance at Walter. "Let me see Walter out, and - "
"That's all right," Walter says, stepping away from her. "I'm sure Bruce has been waiting a while for that issue."
"Months," Bruce agrees emphatically.
"I'll see you out, then," John Meredith says. "It's the least I can do, after forgetting our appointment. Did you enjoy the books?"
Walter nods and turns to Una. "Good-bye." His voice is casual - for a moment she feels hurt - but there is something in his eyes when he looks at her, and she knows that he is thinking of the kiss.
"Good-bye," she says, hoping that he can see the same on her face. She wants to stay there, wants to see how long he will look at her, but Bruce tugs at her hand and she turns away first.
After Bruce falls asleep and Una kisses her father goodnight, she ends up sitting next to the window, tucking her knees to her chin the way she used to when she was small. She does not know what she had been expecting, but not - that.
What would he have said, had her father not returned? Would he have said anything? Certainly they had not really talked. She blushes, thinking of the feel of his mouth against hers.
But the little he had said - Una, the only. The words make her arms break out in gooseflesh. Is that how he thinks of her? Nobody has ever seemed to think of her that way, wanted her in that way, and now - and now.
Well. She has her answer, she supposes. But there is another, stranger question - what does she do, now?
