Dusk had come, bathing the sky of its incandescent light. A warm, cheerful pink that did not match her mood. She would have rather had the blue turn dark, the heavens begin to roar. Annabel would have rather seen a bolt of lightning strike the land.
Alastair was finally gone, albeit staying for dessert after Tom had insisted that he did. There is still cheese and fruits and cake, he had said, tempting words that had yet sounded like a threat. Because when Annabel had stood, excusing herself - she refused to partake in that absurd playacting - Tom had held her back, gripping her wrist.
"Sit down" he had stated, with a voice so firm that Annabel had regained her seat.
And since then there they stood, two shadows submerged in the setting sun, estranged souls in opposite corners of the room. Tom was standing by the window, his back turned to her like if the sight of her was displeasing.
"Is there something you would like to tell me?"
His voice was clear, collected despite the circumstances. Annabel looked at him, his dark hair, his ribcage that expended with each intake of air. Nothing seemed to betray his ire, not the softness of his tone, not the calm of his breathing. Yet Annabel was no fool. She knew it was only a facade, that sooner or later, her treachery would be addressed. His question was nothing but a trap, a way to speed up her sanction and she hated him for it. She would not say the words, no, she refused to do it.
After all, she had yet to grasp what this all entailed, the tests, those changes that occurred. She was not ready because she never wanted to, and instead, she held on to what she could comprehend: anger, rage, tangible feelings.
In her head, another phrase was running on a loop, one imbued with rancour and grudge. Alastair, that little shit was all she could think of. She remembered their encounter, their drink at the Leaky Cauldron. She should have seen it coming, she thought. That frown, that glance he had given her, all aspects that presaged his deceit… That he had ignored her plea, regardless of their many years of friendship, was to her heart-wrenching. Worse, that he had gone to Tom like a tattle-tale, that he…
"Alastair has nothing to do with this"
The words made her start.
"I was the one who summoned him"
She darted Tom a furious glance, irked that he dared peeking at her thoughts in such a moment. Yet, the latter seemed not to acknowledge her scowl, giving his wine glass a swirl instead, with a nonchalance that made her want to scream.
"Alastair only came to confirm what I already knew"
He turned around, spinning on his heels, adding:
"You're pregnant, Annabel. That it took you so long to realise is actually astonishing"
She blinked, stupefied, as the words sunk in.
"How did you-"
"How did I know?"
He snorted as he shook his head.
"You think I haven't seen the signs? Your swollen breasts, your food cravings… For Merlin's sake Annabel you haven't even bled for over a month!"
He was right. She had not. She had not thought much of it though, all convinced she was that she could never conceive again. She had blamed the delay on her work, on the contingencies of adult life, all the stress and obligations.
"So to your question, the answer is quite simple. I realised you were pregnant because any fool would have noticed it"
The words, spitted in anger, were painful to her ears. She glared back at him, her eyes two burning orbs. Silence stretched, long minutes during which they stared stonily at each other before Tom probed her some more.
"When did you plan on telling me?"
"Tonight" she lied, and she held his gaze when she did.
He turned around once again and he peered through the window, glancing at the stretch of grass, at the shrubs and rose bushes that adorned their garden. He sighed, a infinitesimal exhale of air, before he announced:
"I want you to quit your job"
Annabel frowned, confused about such turnaround. What could explain this sudden change, this shift in the situation? How was her job remotely connected to all of this? Unless, she thought, this was his way of punishing her, of making her pay for her deceit.
"You will write to St Mungo's tonight" he pursued.
"Resign from your position as a healer"
Tom snapped his fingers and the house elf appeared on the doorstep, her big, bulgy eyes looking plaintive. It was carrying some items, a piece of parchment, an ink pot, a quill.
"I don't… understand" faltered Annabel. "How is this related to-"
"I know about the cotton roots"
Her mouth fell open. She closed it quickly, composed a virtuous air on her face.
"The what?" she frowned, darting him her best innocent look but he roared:
"DON'T YOU DARE PLAY DUMB WITH ME"
Gone, his collectedness, his phony composure.
He had yelled, his voice echoing inside the room.
Her body froze, all stunned she was from his sudden fit of rage. He, who used to never scream, had turned around and roared like a vengeful beast.
She gawked at the man she did not recognise, his contorted traits, his chest that moved up and down, up and down.
"Do you seriously think you could hide it from me?!"
His voice was threatening, portentous of her dire fate.
He drew near, taking a predaceous step towards her.
"Do you know what happens to women who conceal their abortions from their husbands, Annabel?"
She wished to leave, to run, but Tom hurled himself on her, held her back by the elbow when she stood.
He turned her around with a frightening ease, like if she was nothing but a chiffon doll.
"A lifetime of imprisonment" he snarled, his face so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of his breath.
She bit the inside of her cheek, to prevent a sob to escape, but when the taste of iron filled her mouth, she was gripped by a surge of courage.
"Then be my guest. Denounce me"
Tom lifted his chin, looking down at her face for a second before his traits displayed a mocking grin.
"How tempting…" he smiled, and his lips almost brushed hers when he did. How sensuous it could have been, at a different time, in a different room.
He pushed her back down onto the chair, forcing her to sit.
"Yet I have better plans for you"
He cocked his head to the side and he elf shuffled towards her mistress, her feet dragging the small body to the table with queasy steps.
"You will carry this pregnancy to term. Throw yourself body and soul in the upbringing of this child"
The elf lifted the items on the table while she whimpered a babble of apologetic words. She uncorked the ink, unrolled the parchment. Annabel gawked at the paper, a brief, courteous missive that bore the words of her resignation. She skimmed the letter that awaited her signature and the words made her stomach churn.
She shook her head, left to right, right to left. She tried to wiggle, to break free of Tom's hold but his hands were holding her tight, his fingers bruising the skin.
"I'm not quitting" she growled. "You cannot make me resign from my job!"
"Oh, can't I?"
The elf placed the quill in the crook of her mistress' hand. As though suddenly possessed, Annabel grasped the base of the tool, swivelled it between her fingers. She tried to let go of the bloody item, tried to push it as far away as she could. Yet, her hand refused to abide to her command.
"S-stop" she pleaded when she understood the kind of curse Tom was using on her. A disregard of her assent, a rape of the mind.
She looked with a muffled sob how her hand dipped the base of the quill into the ink, how her hand grazed the parchment, her fingers motioning on the sheet. She drew loops and strokes, turning right then left, motioning the quill as she wrote down her name.
Once the deed was done, she felt Tom's hands on her shoulders, his fingers giving them a gentle squeeze before he bent over, to grab the letter that he rolled and sealed.
"Thank you darling"
—
The light was flickering inside the room, the flames of the candles slowly dying out. It blurred out the contours of the bookshelves, of the sofa, of the drapes. All seemed to merge into the darkness, to disappear in the obscurity of the night, all but the handful of cotton roots that was laying on his desk.
As if to mock him, the latter was catching the light, the wavering flames highlighting their shades of brown. As if Annabel was cocking a snook at him once again.
Tom had known she was with child even before she had seemed to acknowledge it herself. A change in her smell maybe, something primal that he could not explain. He believed it came from the bond that linked them both, that ungraspable and yet absolute conviction that something about her was different. He had observed her for weeks, spying on her every move to figure out whether what he felt was real.
On the 6th of March, Tom had awaited the monthly tantrum, the one that preceded every bleeding. He had watched for any exasperated sigh, for the usual discarded packagings of chocolate frogs. He had searched for any stain on the bedsheet, for the smell of fennel and lemongrass tea in the house. He had expected Annabel to burst out in tears at the slightest inconvenience, thought he would come home to find her curled up on the sofa, her face contorted in pain, a hot water bottle pressed against her stomach.
But none of the above occurred. Days passed instead, slowly, uneventfully, while Annabel had kept being her normal self, if not for her body keeping changing.
When her breasts had finally filled his palm, Tom had begun to have doubts. Was she truly unaware of what was going on?
It was with this thought in mind that he had summoned their friend.
"She's pregnant isn't she?" he had asked that afternoon, and Alastair had looked down, ran a hair through his blond hair. He had not lied. He never could.
The news had brought joy at first, before Alastair had put him on his guard.
Annabel was having doubts.
Not like the first time, when she had been scared, doubting her ability at becoming a mother, yet complying, acceding to his wish to grant him a heir. This time, she was distressed, distraught…
He had wished to verify his friend's assumption, mainly to prove him wrong. Annabel, his dearest Annabel…She could never do that to him.
His eyes grazed the small heap of tubers, the roots that sprouted left and right from the stem. A handful of innocent-looking plants.
A sadness filled him, a harrowing grief that made his shoulders slump. He had been wrong. About her, about them. He had thought he could change her mind. Deep down, when he had agreed that Annabel would remain childless, he had thought she was just too young, too opinionated. After all, what do you know about life at eighteen? He had not thought about it himself, that he would ever want to pass on his lineage, that he would want to see their blood be bequeathed, granting their dynasty the power to live for another thousand years.
How could she not see it the way he did, that child as a gift, a providential heir, undreamt of and yet real, thus debunking all of what the healers had predicted about her?
She was pregnant again.
A flicker of pain crossed his face as he recalled the incident, eight years ago, when the extent of her ambitions had costed their son his life. He had underestimated her, back then.
Was he underestimating her now?
Could she possibly put her scheme into action, despite him taking away her job, her research, distracting her from external temptations?
Would that ever be enough to ensure her safety, that of his child?
He thought about her words back then, when they had stood in the living room, fighting just like two erratic Muggles.
"Denounce me"
What if…
With a shaking hand, Tom opened the lowest drawer of his desk, rummaged through his belongings. His fingers met a cloth, out of which he pulled out a long and thin item.
Annabel's wand, that she had lost a few weeks back, misplacing it in the field where they had taken a stroll on a warm afternoon. The object must have fallen down, sticking in the mud of the ditch that ran alongside the path on which they had walked. The mud must have dried, trapping the wand, which would explain why the many spells to call for it had not worked. He had found it by chance the other morning, yet forgotten to tell her with all that had been happening.
He raised the item before his eyes, weighted it in his palm, noticing how light it felt.
What if he made sure, this time, that Annabel could not escape?