Hero is right, there is a feast leftover in the kitchen. She speaks with the staff, assuring them they don't need to stay late, that she and her husband can serve themselves and will tidy up afterwards. John experiences a strange swooping in his stomach when she calls him that and misses what forces of persuasion Hero applies as the kitchen staff concede, laying out a cold spread before leaving for their own beds.
Hero and John sit at the table, picking over the spread. After the bland rations of war, he is overwhelmed by the volume of food and their rich flavours. He barely eats a quarter of what is laid before them. As they eat, they talk. John has always struggled with conversation, preferring not to converse at all. But with Hero, it feels natural, the words flow off his tongue. Each time she smiles, each time she laughs, he feels a rush of warmth.
"Do you like selling chocolates?" She asks, biting into a fried pastry wrap stuffed with creamy ricotta she called a cannoli.
His eyes watch her lips and he bites into his own. It's delicious.
"No, not really."
Being a salesman requires too much talking and smiling with strangers. Far out of his comfort zone. But Margaret had found him the job after he promised to get an honest one. As it turned out, he doesn't have to do much talking or smiling, but sit and listen to these women's life stories as they pour him tea. He doesn't understand what about his taciturn nature appeals to them but his sales numbers speak for themselves. It is not the worst way he has earned a living.
"Why are you doing it then?"
He looks at Hero with her guileless gaze, crumbs on her lips, and thinks how another version of himself would have bitten out her throat. He keeps his voice gentle, "Have to pay the bills somehow."
"Oh," she ducks her head, a shamefaced blush colouring her cheeks, "Of-of course…"
Against his will, he thinks about the size of her family's estate, the staff waiting on them at dinner, the feast spread before them now. She has probably never known what it is to go without, to walk around in clothes patched and sewn, your shoes falling apart around your feet, to trick your mother into thinking you have eaten so she doesn't starve herself. If they had met at a different time, in a different place, he might have hated her.
Nausea curls in his stomach at the thought and he drives the conversation onto a different topic. "What about you? Why study literature?"
Her smile wanes. "Not the most practical choice, is it?"
He shrugs. "More than any degree I have. Literature has its value."
He recalls the poets he met during the war, the men who would trade rations for paper and charcoal, who found solace in letters and prose. War drove men mad; those who poured their madness into writing were better off than those who didn't. He thinks of the unspeakable nature of war, the minds ravaged in the destruction, soldiers rendered mute. No one wants to talk about it, to remember —and all those terrors memorialised on tattered scraps of paper. It has value.
"I suppose… um… I have always loved to read… since I was a girl. Through books, I could travel the world, go on adventures, meet people and experience things I never could living here… with the same people — who I love — but… I wanted more…"
"It's an escape," he says, recollecting the battered second-hand copy of Treasure Island his mother used to read him, the cover close to falling off. How he would imagine himself a pirate sailing on the high sea, far from the poverty of his real life. "Do you have a favourite book?"
"Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. It's a classic. Do you know it?"
John thinks for a moment. "With the four sisters?"
"Yes!" Hero beams and he preens a little.
It is a favourite of Margaret's, owing to the fact that she shares a name with one of the lead characters.
Excited, Hero speeds on, "Beatrice and I would read it together. I love those stories. Beatrice reminds me so much of Jo. I thought she would marry Laurie but he falls in love with Amy in the end. Beatrice was pleased, she didn't want Jo to marry. She was very put out with Professor Bhaer, she went on a rant about men with beards…"
It is nice to sit there and listen to her. John feels at ease, something he hasn't felt in too long a time. He loses track of time, the candles burning down to their wicks. It is Hero who first becomes aware of the late hour, pausing in her praisings of the '33 film adaption.
"I've been babbling."
"I don't mind."
She gives a shy smile. "We should call it a night."
He nods and stands. They clear up after themselves, putting away the food they haven't eaten and washing the plates and glasses.
He considers their handiwork, throwing her a crooked smile. "Not long before sunrise. The hardest part is over now."
She stares at him, her expression shifting before she glances down at her hand. "Yes… I bet you will be relieved to be gone from here." She moves to the door. "After my father's behaviour towards you, no one can blame you for taking off."
He pauses, something heavy sinking through his stomach. "Hero…"
She opens the door and ushers him back into the main house. He closes his mouth, conscious of who might overhear, and follows her through the house, up the stairs. Her home is so big, so grand, unlike the cramped, run-down apartments of his childhood. They enter Hero's bedroom and the same thought strikes them at once.
"I'll… uh… change in the bathroom." He crosses to his bag, grimacing as the first thing he comes across is his sullied army jacket, the reek of puke still pungent.
"Oh no," Hero says when she sees what he's holding. "We should have that washed while you're here. Ugh… but it's too late now…"
He folds it up; at least it is no longer damp. "It's fine."
"No, it's the least I can do after what you have done for me…"
He digs out his sleep clothes and wash things, moving towards the bathroom. "Don't worry. You don't owe me any debts."
He stays there in the bathroom, longer than he needs to, breathing in and out. He examines the coarse skin of his hands, running a finger over the foil ring. This is all just pretend; he will be back to his real life tomorrow. Somehow that is not the comfort he hoped it would be.
He sighs, moving to the door and opening it a crack. "Can I come out?"
Hero sounds an affirmative and he steps out, stilling at the sight of her. She has changed into a long robe, tied over a silky nightgown, and is brushing her hair. She smiles at him and lightning splinters through him. He feels as if he has been transported into someone else's life, seeing her as he would if he were really her husband. But he is not. This is all pretend and he will be gone tomorrow. He will be gone tomorrow.
"I grabbed some extra pillows and blankets," Hero tells him, motioning to the pile. "Are you sure you will be alright on the floor?"
"I'll be fine. Thanks."
He focuses on building the makeshift bed as Hero slips into the bathroom. It is not going to be the most comfortable sleep, but it is still miles better than some of the conditions he has slept in. At least there is no risk of a bomb being dropped on him. He eyes the dolls on their shelves… that is not to say there is no threat.
He has finished making his spread when Hero returns, fiddling with the belt on her dressing gown. "I want to thank you for all you have done for me."
"You have thanked me. Any more and I'll be insufferable."
She giggles. "I know it is a terrible mess… but I'm… glad I mixed up our tickets."
He considers her, hair cascading around her shoulders, face scrubbed of make-up and no less beautiful. "I am too."
She smiles and slinks to the bed. He casts his gaze to the floor as she slips off her robe, climbing in under the covers. John settles on the floor.
"Good night." She switches off the bedside light.
"Good night." He rests his head on the pillow — so soft it is almost uncomfortable — and closes his eyes.
A knock sounds on the door followed by Leonato's voice. "May I come in?"
John lurches upright as Hero does the same. "One moment, Papà!"
She switches on the bedside light, motioning frantically to John. He bundles up the blanket and pillows, kicking the spares out of sight, and dives onto the bed beside her. They scramble to arrange themselves, Hero leaning against John.
"You can come in!"
The door opens and Leonato steps inside. He looks at them with an expression of discomfiture. "Your mother… sent me to wish you good night."
"Good night, Papà," Hero chimes.
"Good night… Mr Messina," John intones, drawing on the manners his mother tried to install in him when he was a half-feral child.
"Good night…" Leonato tells them awkwardly. He hesitates, glancing at them, then turns and makes a swift exit.
They hold their breaths until the door closes.
"Does the door have a lock?" John asks, conscious of the tickle of Hero's curls against his nape.
"No…"
"Do you think he suspects?"
"I don't know…" She exhales, shifting to look at him. "Per-perhaps… you should… should stay. In case… he-he comes back."
John stares at her. The bed is big enough for two but it isn't spacious; they are likely to brush against each other in sleep, his body meeting hers…
He shoves back the thoughts that stir, a lick of heat through his veins, at the concept of sharing a bed with a beautiful woman, with Hero, and searches her face for discomfort. She gazes back at him, cheeks dark, mouth set in determination.
"If I make you uncomfortable…"
"You don't," she is quick to assure him.
"If I do… or I take up too much space, don't be afraid to kick me out, alright?"
She nods, "Alright."
They stare at each other, their faces drawn together, an inch between them. He can see the sun-bursts of her eyes ringed in green, count the faint freckles of her nose. His breath hangs suspended as his gaze travels to her lips, soft and pink.
He tears himself from his trance and rolls over. "Kick me in the ribs if I snore."
He hears Hero suck in a breath before moving to switch off the light, "Good night… John…"
He lies there in the dark, blisteringly aware of the woman beside him pulse pounding too fast for sleep. And yet… as he listens to her quiet breaths, his muscles relaxing into the comfort of the bed, the scent of lavender around him, his thoughts quieten, his heart-rate steadies … something switches off in his head… and he is asleep.
:-x-:
Bullets rain around him. Torrents of flame throw up earth and debris. Men scream, bodies twisting and convulsing within the blaze.
John charges, firing at the enemy, stumbling over rubble and corpses, through the smoking inferno.
His ears bleed with the barrage of shrieks and explosions, the relentless onslaught of the guns.
Men crumple before him, others blown apart. John grits his teeth, tasting blood, dirt, ash, and pushes on.
The bomb strikes the ground before him and the world rips apart—
Hands shake his shoulders.
He seizes his attacker's wrists, rolling their bodies so he is on top of them, straddling their hips. He snarls into the enemy's face, pinning their hands behind their head.
"J-John—!"
His heart vaults into his ribs at the woman's voice — at Hero's voice. He remembers — the train, the bus, the road, the house, the ruse.
"John," she says again, her voice soft and soothing as her fingers brush his knuckles.
She shifts beneath him, and he releases her wrists, lurching off her. "Sshhii—sorry."
He drops his legs over the side of the bed, realising he is trembling. He cradles his head, still hammering like the rapid blast of a machine gun inside his skull.
"Sorry."
The bedside light switches on and then warm hands press upon his shoulders. "It's alright. I'm alright. We're both alright."
He pants for breath, fingers dragging through sweat slick hair. "It was just a dream…"
Hero's hands rub circles into his back. "You're alright. Do you want… is there… can I help?"
He sighs, leaning into her touch. What she is doing is more than enough…
A bell rings, piercing the night. John jolts to his feet, recalling the howl of the siren, bombs dropping from the sky—
"What is that!"
"Oh no." Hero flies to the window. "Frost!"
:-x-:
They hurriedly pull on clothes, Hero tying her hair back in a messy plait, and then rush downstairs. Outside, the rest of the household has gathered, along with the other vintners and staff — John wonders where all these people lodge. They move through the rows, lighting burners. At the centre of the commotion, Antonio hands his brother a sprig of grapes, frost collected on the skins.
"What do you think?"
Leonato inspects the grapes, splitting one open. His expression turns relieved. "It doesn't reach the inside! We can still save them! We have a chance. Now!"
The crowd ripples with excitement, surging into action. Someone hands out strange contraptions that resemble moth wings and they spread out through the rows.
"Hero!" Someone runs up to them, holding the same contraptions. It is the man who almost shot them — Clyde? He ignores John, handing Hero a set of wings. "Here, we need to act fast."
She thanks him, passing the wings to John and grabbing another set for herself. "Use these."
He examines the wings. "Show me how?"
"Are you serious?" Clyde snaps. "There's no time! We are about to lose everything! Help or don't!"
The man stalks off.
John arches his eyebrows at Hero. "Someone had a rude awakening."
She offers an apologetic smile, strapping on her wings. "Follow my lead."
She manoeuvres the wings, pushing the heat from the closest burner towards the vines. John copies her motions and splutters as a cloud of smoke gusts back in his face.
"Gently," she instructs, calm and patient, despite the agitated shouts around them. "Like a butterfly. Up, down. Up, down. You want the heat to go onto the grapes."
Once more John mimics her motions, slower this time. "Butterfly…"
He feels a little ridiculous but Hero's approving smile twists sharp and sweet inside him. "Good. Follow me."
She walks down the rows, John following behind. He shifts his arms in sync with hers, using the wings to direct the heat onto the grapes. All across the vineyard, men and women do the same, their strange procession resembling moths around flames as fountains of fire illuminate the night. He stays close to Hero, gaze caught on her neck where the strands of hair too short to be caught in her plait hang in sable rings. As the fires cast their amber glow, sparks glittering in her hair, she looks like something ethereal, a Fairy Queen gliding on delicate wings. Beautiful. Bewitching…
Through the smell of smoke and the crisp night air, he catches a whiff of her lavender scent and draws closer, closer. With slow steps they walk up and down the rows, warming the grapes and melting the frost. As he repeats the motions of the wings again and again he feels himself fall into a meditative trance, his focus narrowing to Hero.
At some point, someone starts to sing. Soon there is a whole chorus going, rousing those spirits that are starting to lag. Away from the flames, the night is black as ink, but the stars still glitter above, winking down at them in their thousands. Hero's voice as she joins in the song nestles in his marrow. Most of the singing is Italian, but John listens, an enchantment weaving over him. He feels as if he walks in a dream, long past the age of believing in magic yet here he is…
An hour must have passed when Hero starts to slump, her voice wavering. John closes the distance between them, letting her use his shoulder as a prop. Around them the voices of the others' fade as more people tire. Leonato begins dismissing the women and the elderly, sending them back to their beds, thanking them for their help and assuring them the danger is averted.
"I can still help," Hero murmurs as John steers her towards her mother and aunt, slumping in his arms.
"You've done enough. You should get some sleep."
She groans a protest, but her head is lolling on his shoulder.
"Come on, dear," Innogen takes her daughter from him with a smile. "Thank you, John."
Together, she and Ursula escort Hero inside.
John watches them go, then moves to where Leonato stands. "I'm staying."
Leonato gives him a long considering look. "Well then, don't stand there. Get moving."
John restrains an eye-roll and stalks back into the rows, wings spread.
Antonio joins him with a smile. "Don't mind my brother. His bark is worse than his bite."
"His bark is bad enough."
"You are a stranger and Hero is his only child."
"He can judge me by my actions and I shall judge him by his."
"That is fair," Antonio hums in concession. John thinks that might be the end of it but then he continues. "My brother places a lot of importance in family, in community. These are things he can trust. No matter how many generations our family has lived in this country we are still considered immigrants, aliens. Since the start of the war we have been enemy aliens. It has not been easy these last years."
John is quiet, reflecting on this. He knows something about the abuse "immigrants" suffer in this country, has seen it, growing-up in a diverse and impoverished neighbourhood, in the treatment of fellow troops of certain descents, knows of Borachio's own struggles. With this in mind, he understands Leonato's defensive attitude a little more.
"He will warm to you, once he knows you better," Antonio assures.
John doesn't say anything. There won't be time for Leonato to know him better.
They work on through the night. Not until the blood-orange dawn spills across the skyline and the air starts to warm from more than the fires do the remaining vintners set down their wings and trudge back to their homes.
Antonio claps John's shoulder as they move inside. "Thanks for your help, son. Hero picked no slouch."
John watches as Leonato disappears up the stairs without a word or backwards glance to either of them. He looks at Antonio, "I've never experienced anything like it."
He blames the lack of sleep for the candid remark but, it is true… a whole community coming together to help in crisis, singing and lighting each other's paths. For a moment he had felt a part of something, a sense of belonging burrowing in his chest which now bleeds hollow.
Antonio lets out a great yawn and stretches. "Do not expect to see me until noon at least."
John pauses, his hand tightening around the stair bannister as he remembers. "I'm leaving in the morning."
Antonio blinks bleary eyes at him. "Leo's bark was not that bad."
He shakes his head. "I need to go… it's my job… I can't stay… I need to get back on the road."
"But… you just got here."
"Hero and I discussed this… she'll… she'll remain here… while I'm travelling." John tries to recall the explanation Hero and he had agreed upon for his sudden departure, the sleep-deprivation limiting his powers of cognition.
Antonio appears to be struggling from the same infliction as he frowns. "That makes no sense." He waves a dismissive hand. "We can discuss it tomorrow."
"But—it is tomorrow—"
Antonio has already turned and is plodding down the corridor back to his bedroom. John hovers in the hall a moment more then walks in the other direction to Hero's room (it is an impressive feat that he is able to find it on his own). He takes care to be quiet as he opens the door and moves inside. Hero is curled up on the bed, her plait undone and her soft tresses fanned out around her. The growing light of the dawn trickles in through the curtains bathing her in its golden caress. It must be some lingering echo of the night's strange surrealism that makes him think of a maiden in a fairytale. Beautiful.
He stares at her, transfixed, for a long while before realising what a creep he is being. He sighs, stripping off his clothes, leaving him in his undervest and pulling on his pyjama trousers. He looks at Hero once more, sprawled on the bed, her arm reaching across the empty space beside her. He should sleep on the floor. But what if someone decides to call on them for breakfast? The house is full of staff and he doesn't want to set any tongues wagging…
He wavers in indecision before exhaustion wins out and he climbs into the bed, managing not to disturb her as he settles next to her. He shut his eyes before he can lose himself staring at her again, and is asleep in a matter of seconds. This time, there are no dreams to disturb him, but the slow, soft breaths of the woman beside him.