The snow falls and the lake freezes solid and Barney is reminded why he often considers winter his favourite time of the year.
First of all, it's breathtakingly beautiful – almost intolerably beautiful. Days of clear brilliance. Evenings that were like cups of glamour—the purest vintage of winter's wine. Nights with their fire of stars. Cold, exquisite winter sunrises. Lovely ferns of ice all over the windows of the Blue Castle. Moonlight on birches in a silver thaw. Ragged shadows on windy evenings—torn, twisted, fantastic shadows. Great silences, austere and searching. Jewelled, barbaric hills. The sun suddenly breaking through grey clouds over long, white Mistawis. Icy-grey twilights, broken by snow-squalls, when their cosy living-room, with its goblins of firelight and inscrutable cats seems cosier than ever. Every hour bringing a new revelation and wonder.
Secondly, there are so many fun things to do now.
Using skates to get around the frozen lake is only practical – how else are they going to get around its frozen expanse? – but every time Barney puts them on, he can't resist grinning like a child at the prospect of flying over the ice with the wind in his face. The fact that he gets to do practically daily what used to be a childhood indulgence fills him with giddy satisfaction.
In moments like this, he loves his life.
To his delight, Valancy fully shares his sentiments on this matter. The way her eyes lit up at the sight of the skates he bought for her is in his collection of favourite memories, even if her subsequent tale of her Christmas disappointment soured his mood considerably. Yet another example of the callous disregard her damn family has always held for her. But seeing Valancy's joy while she rapidly regains her mastery of skating soothes him considerably, as it always does when he sees how happy she is with him.
Teaching her snowshoeing is very fun as well and opens up the land of snow covered woods and hills for them to explore. They go for long tramps through the exquisite reticence of winter woods and the silver jungles of frosted trees, and find loveliness everywhere. At times they seem to be walking through a spellbound world of crystal and pearl, so white and radiant are clearings and lakes and sky. The air is so crisp and clear that it is half intoxicating.
Once they stand in a hesitation of ecstasy at the entrance of a narrow path between ranks of birches. Every twig and spray is outlined in snow. The undergrowth along its sides is a little fairy forest cut out of marble. The shadows cast by the pale sunshine are fine and spiritual.
"Come away," says Barney, turning, after he's sure he committed this sight to his memory. His mind whirls searching for the right words to describe it and his hand itches for a pen to note them down with. "We must not commit the desecration of tramping through there."
He feels the familiar thrill when Valancy gets his meaning immediately and follows him back through the path in full agreement, leaving another untrodden and undisturbed.
One evening they come upon a snowdrift far back in an old clearing which is in the exact likeness of a beautiful woman's profile. Seen too close by, the resemblance is lost, as in the fairy-tale of the Castle of St. John. Seen from behind, it is a shapeless oddity. But at just the right distance and angle the outline is so perfect that when they come suddenly upon it, gleaming out against the dark background of spruce in the glow of that winter sunset they both exclaim in amazement. There is a low, noble brow, a straight, classic nose, lips and chin and cheek-curve modelled as if some goddess of old time had sat to the sculptor, and a breast of such cold, swelling purity as the very spirit of the winter woods might display.
"'All the beauty that old Greece and Rome, sung, painted, taught,'" quotes Barney.
"And to think no human eyes save ours have seen or will see it," breaths Valancy and then, of course, quotes his own words back at him – this time from his newest book which he gifted to her mere weeks earlier. It's been apparently enough for her to learn it by heart. "'All the tintings of winter woods are extremely delicate and elusive. When the brief afternoon wanes and the sun just touches the tops of the hills, there seems to be all over the woods an abundance, not of colour, but of the spirit of colour. There is really nothing but pure white after all, but one has the impression of fairy-like blendings of rose and violet, opal and heliotrope on the slopes—in the dingles and along the curves of the forest-land. You feel sure the tint is there, but when you look at it directly it is gone. From the corner of your eye you are aware that it is lurking over yonder in a spot where there was nothing but pale purity a moment ago. Only just when the sun is setting is there a fleeting moment of real colour. Then the redness streams out over the snow and incarnadines the hills and rivers and smites the crest of the pines with flame. Just a few minutes of transfiguration and revelation—and it is gone,'" she looks around in awe. "I wonder if John Foster ever spent a winter in Mistawis."
"Not likely," scoffs Barney, doing his best to stop himself from squirming. "People who write tosh like that generally write it in a warm house on some smug city street."
"You are too hard on John Foster," says Valancy severely and he is half amused, half touched by her spirited defence of his writing. "No one could have written that little paragraph I read you last night without having seen it first—you know he couldn't."
"I didn't listen to it," says Barney morosely, knowing that there is no way he's going to escape hearing it again. Valancy is nothing but stubborn when she wants to be and after having been married to her for half a year, he knows to his chagrin that John Foster's books are something which is sure to bring this stubbornness forward. "You know I told you I wouldn't."
"Then you've got to listen to it now," persists Valancy. She makes him stand still on his snowshoes while she repeats it.
"'She is a rare artist, this old Mother Nature, who works "for the joy of working" and not in any spirit of vain show. Today the fir woods are a symphony of greens and greys, so subtle that you cannot tell where one shade begins to be the other. Grey trunk, green bough, grey-green moss above the white, grey-shadowed floor. Yet the old gypsy doesn't like unrelieved monotones. She must have a dash of colour. See it. A broken dead fir bough, of a beautiful red-brown, swinging among the beards of moss.'"
"Good Lord, do you learn all that fellow's books by heart?" is all Barney can say as he strides off to hide his face from her.
"John Foster's books were all that saved my soul alive the past five years," averres Valancy matter-of-factly, as if she isn't pulling at the strings he didn't even know his heart possessed in the first place. "Oh, Barney, look at that exquisite filigree of snow in the furrows of that old elm-tree trunk."
He hides his sigh of relief when she gets distracted and finally drops the topic.
In all truth, his conscience is becoming increasingly uneasy about his continued secrecy. It seemed only natural in the beginning of their acquaintance – he never even told Cissy what he's doing for a living, why would he tell Valancy, whom he knew so much shorter? – and when he married her, he made his boundaries clear on that topic without a second thought. But the longer he lives with her as husband and wife, the closer he becomes to her and she to him, the more he's starting to doubt whether keeping all his secrets is right. He knows everything about Valancy – or at least as much as it is possible for one human to know about another – which isn't difficult because she's the most honest, open person he knows. She shares her thoughts and feelings with him with frankness that continues to startle him and which he can't fail but to hold against his own stubbornly kept silence and find himself wanting. He never lied to her as such, not directly, but he can't escape an uncomfortable conclusion that lying by omission is still lying. He tells himself that she knew from the beginning that he had secrets he intended to keep and that she accepted it as part of their marriage, but this little nagging voice in the back of his head starts piping in more and more often that this bargain is unfair to her.
The damn thing is that he's starting to want to tell her everything.
He's not going to, of course. He's never told anybody anything about his past before the Yukon – not a living soul – and he's not going to change it now. This part of him is dead and buried and not relevant to who he is now; there is no point in raising the dead and waking up sleeping ghosts.
Liar, whispers Bernie Redfern from somewhere deep within him. Somehow Barney knows he's saying it with that derisive grimace he had well practised by then, for all his gentleness and still held illusions. You can't just forget me. I'm haunting everything you do, whatever you say.
Barney scowls and tells the ghost of his younger self to shut the hell up.
Anyway, however irrelevant he insists his past is, it's much harder to justify keeping his writing secret from Valancy. It's not just what he does to put the food on their table; it's who he is. Writing is such a huge part of himself, intricately woven into his perception of the world and the way he thinks. He doesn't have to actually write to be a writer; his mind is putting his impressions and feelings into words and sentences without his conscious thought. They slip out from time to time without him even noticing – Valancy remarked multiple times that his reflections mirror John Foster's, much to his chagrin – and keeping the pretence is growing increasingly tiresome. It would be so easy to just call her into the Bluebeard's Chamber one day and show her his manuscript, he wouldn't even have to use words for her to realise the truth. He imagines her delight at being married to her favourite author – the pride she would feel at being John Foster's wife.
Yet, he hesitates and he knows very well why, much to his shame. He likes that Valancy loves him enough to not care about his shady reputation and all the secrets kept closely to his vest. He basks in seeing her holding her head high as she walks on his arm through the town, among all the disapproving and disdainful stares. He likes to imagine that it means that even if he ever told her the truth about his identity – about being the son of Purple Pills – she would still see him, not the patent medicines.
That she would never smell turpentine when he approached her.
But as it is, he's keeping her in the dark because it feeds his ego and protects him and he is not proud of that – not proud at all. It's beneath him, he thinks, and unfair to her. He's too much of a coward to expose himself like that. For all his genuine conviction that he can trust Valancy with his vulnerability, the pathetic truth is that he's too afraid to risk it. So he keeps his mouth shut but has long since stopped locking the Bluebeard's Chamber's door, silently wishing that Valancy would give in to curiosity and spare him the burden of opening up to her.
She never does, of course. His Moonlight is the woman of her word. If he wants to come clean, it's on him.
He looks at her, walking silently by his side, her cheeks red from the cold and her eyes wide as she's taking in the frozen beauty all around them, and he wishes that he had half of her courage.
xxx
"Would you fancy a movie?" asks Barney one morning on a whim and, after Valancy's enthusiastic agreement, they skate to Port Lawrence to see one. The theatre is quite crowded and half of the audience is coughing, but Valancy sits completely spellbound and Barney doesn't regret his spontaneous idea. He remembers suddenly that this is only the second movie she's seen in her life – the first being the one he took her to last summer – and swears to make it a regular outing. There is something painfully endearing in Valancy when she is engaged in the plot. Her eyes get wide and shining, her little mouth falls open and her breath quickens in excitement – her whole face reflects expressively every thought and feeling passing through her mind – and she's so reactive to it, laughing and gasping and grasping his hand in the moments of tension – how could he have neglected to bring her back here for so long?
The smell of hot dogs from a corner stand hits them as soon as they exit the movie theatre and Barney's stomach immediately growls.
"I'm going to get myself one," he declares, leading Valancy to the short line of equally hungry people. "Would you like one as well?"
She nods eagerly, observing the man preparing the treats with interest.
"I've never had one," she confesses. "My family wasn't the kind of people who ate anything on a public street."
Barney grins at her conspiratorially.
"Ready to slum it with the rest of us bottom feeders?"
She answers with a grin of her own.
"Always!"
The hot dogs are appropriately hot, warming their gloved hands and stomachs wonderfully, and Barney can see that Valancy likes the unfamiliar taste. She explains the etiquette she was raised with between bites.
"The only occasions it was proper to eat anything outside – or at any other place than a table – was a picnic. But it wasn't just a sandwich on a blanket – of course not! – there were proper tea sets and silver cutlery, however impractical it was to bring or use. There was a silver spoon lost once from Aunt Wellington's wedding set on her anniversary picnic and I've never heard the end of it, cause I was one of the people responsible for the cleanup that day."
That joggles Barney's memory and he frowns.
"Isn't your aunt's anniversary the same day as your birthday?" Valancy nods, making his frown deeper. "Then why were you responsible for the cleanup?"
Valancy shakes her head with that wry smile she usually wears when she's mentioning her family.
"It was definitely the less important occasion of the two," she says drily. "Do you know that on my last birthday you were the only person to offer me a genuine smile? No wonder I lost my head for you."
Suddenly there is nothing Barney wishes for more than for Valancy to live until her next birthday, just so he can give her one in her life which can be called enjoyable. He remembers his encounter with Valancy that day – he remembers it very well – and he knows how little this smile she remembers so fondly meant to him. He didn't know her then at all, it was only the second time he ever put his eyes on her, and he only smiled at the stranger she was to him because he remembered that she smiled back at him this one time before – and yet it was the friendliest interaction she had the whole damn day. It doesn't sit right with him, it doesn't sit right with him in the slightest.
Valancy deserves at least one birthday in her life which is about her.
She doesn't notice his anger on her behalf, distracted by her own chain of thoughts.
"When is your birthday, Barney?" she asks, looking suddenly a little apprehensive. "I've never asked – I hope I didn't miss it!"
"You didn't," Barney assures her with a smile. "It's in April – just weeks before yours."
She smiles, clearly relieved.
"You need to give me the exact date if you want me to celebrate it properly."
She would need to still be alive in April to be able to do it, thinks Barney gloomily, and decides on the spot to give her the date just to challenge fate.
"It's April 11th," he says, daring the universe to try to take her away from him earlier. He knows there's nothing he can do to prevent it and yet is somehow convinced that he would fight tooth and nail if death came for her beforehand. They are going to celebrate his birthday and hers next year and he's not going to accept anything else.
xxx
It starts three days after their movie date, with an innocent if irritating itching in his throat, followed by the growing headache and increasingly stuffy nose. Clearly one of the coughing people in the audience must have shared their cold with him. Barney is annoyed more than anything. He doesn't even remember when was the last time he had a cold, but that's what one gets for mingling with people. He's been obviously right to avoid them like the plague they are.
Valancy promptly notices both his irritability and the symptoms causing it and even more promptly sends him to bed, bringing him hot tea with honey to soothe his throat.
"There's no point in sitting up if you feel under the weather," she says sternly, but her hand is gentle on his head as she strokes his hair and massages his temples. "You should listen to me – I've had more colds than anyone I know."
"I hope I'm not going to sell you this one," grumbles Barney, but with real anxiety behind it. He hates the thought of making Valancy ill. "Maybe you should sleep on the sofa and keep away from me."
"Nonsense," she answers immediately. "With our home so small, trying to keep distance is not going to do any good anyway. And I will feel better if I can keep my eye on you."
She unfortunately does have a point about any attempts at distancing being rather fruitless, confined as they are.
"You don't need to keep an eye on me," says Barney, burying himself under the covers and closing his aching eyes. "I'll feel better in the morning."
xxx
He doesn't feel better in the morning. In fact, he is instead woken up by his own cough, harsh, painful and unforgiving. He sits up, trying to make the breathing easier, but it takes ages until he is done and can fall back against the pillows, clutching at his aching chest.
Damn.
Valancy is by his side in an instant, handing him a cup of water which he accepts gratefully, hoping it will soothe his throat which feels scratched raw. She puts her hand against his forehead and it feels wonderfully cool, but causes her to look at him in alarm.
"You have a fever," she says with clear concern. "Do you have a thermometer somewhere?"
He needs to think about it, which is for some reason not an easy feat – his head feels achy and stuffed with cotton – but finally shakes his head.
"I've never had any need for one," he says in a rough, scratchy voice and coughs a bit more. "I'm never sick."
Another bout of coughing seems to mock his words.
"Well, you are now," says Valancy, visibly striving for composure and assurance and nearly managing it. "Should I assume then that you don't have any medication on hand either?"
"You should," rasps Barney, sliding down the pillows and burying himself under the covers. He's so cold he can't stop shivering and his eyelids feel made of lead. He hears Valancy sigh as she pets his hair and lulls him back to sleep with her caring touch.
The whole day is rather a blur in Barney's memory, mostly composed of feeling utterly miserable. But what stands out is Valancy: bringing him tea or milk with honey, piling up pillows behind him to make him lay higher to ease his cough, putting another blanket on him when he is shivering and a cold compress on his head to attempt to bring his fever down. He doesn't have the slightest appetite, but she coaxes him gently into drinking a cup of broth. She's always there, taking care of him, and he feels wonderfully spoiled by that.
The night which follows is in no way better. Barney can barely sleep, rattled by recurring coughing fits and whenever he's coherent enough to think he feels guilty for disturbing Valancy's rest as well – and Good Luck's who stubbornly lies on Barney's belly or legs. In the morning, Valancy's little face becomes set with determination.
"You need a doctor," she says sternly, but Barney can see the fear for him in her dark eyes, however unnecessary. He would have rolled his eyes if they weren't aching so much.
"It's just a bad cold," he says dismissively.
The coughing fit which follows this sentence makes him sound less convincing than he would wish. It's obvious that he hasn't convinced Valancy.
"It might be," she says doubtfully, "or it might be influenza or pneumonia."
Barney shudders inwardly, the very word "pneumonia" bringing up Gem's sudden death instantly to his mind.
"I don't have pneumonia," he insists with exasperation. Of course he doesn't. The very notion is ridiculous.
"Well, maybe you don't," agrees Valancy and he eyes her with suspicion, soon validated by her next words. "But I am going to fetch a doctor to confirm it."
Barney looks through the window at the frozen lake and the heavy clouds and recoils at the thought of Valancy going out alone into this white emptiness.
"Valancy," he says gently. "There is no doctor who will come here. Doctor Trent is still in Europe and I hardly think Doctor Marsh will skate here all the way from Port Lawrence."
He sees the truth of his words dawning on Valancy and the growing desperation in her eyes. He reaches for her hand and squeezes it reassuringly.
"It's just a cold," he insists again, hoping fervently that he's telling the truth.
She squeezes his hand back and nods.
"It probably is," she says, giving in. "I will heat you up some more milk with honey."
xxx
When Barney wakes up some time later, he still feels absolutely terrible. His head is pounding, his eyes are gritty and aching, his throat scraped raw and he coughs as soon as he sits up. He reaches gratefully for the cup of cooling tea with honey left by Valancy by the bed.
It takes him a moment to realise two alarming things: there is no Valancy by his side, as she faithfully was every previous time he woke up, and there is a small note next to the cup instead. He picks it up immediately, squinting his aching eyes at the short message written with a pencil:
"Went to Port Lawrence for medications and to consult the doctor. Should be back soon. There is soup by the stove for you. I've fed the cats, if they say otherwise, they're lying."
Barney's head immediately swivels to the window, but there is no trace of Valancy in the white landscape behind it. His stomach drops as the long list of dangers she could be facing out there flashes through his feverish mind. She is so new to living in the wild – it's her very first winter here. He looks at the frozen lake with his heart in his throat. The ice should be thick enough to be safe – there hasn't been any warm spell – but what if it isn't? What if Valancy doesn't notice a thinner patch of ice and skates over it? What time is it? Does she have enough time to get home before dark? And if she doesn't – or if there is a fog or if it starts snowing – what if she gets lost over the lake and freezes to death? She shouldn't get lost if she follows the shoreline – but what if she decides to take the shortcut and skate across the lake instead? Oh God, what if she freezes or drowns out there, in the merciless cold of Mistawis, and he will never even learn what befell her on her quest to help him?
He gets up, too anxious to lie still, ignoring the mewled protests of the cats he dislodges from their peaceful slumber on him and his blanket. Draping the blanket over his shoulders like a cape, he stumbles towards the oriel, offering a better view on the path Valancy is most likely to take on her way back.
There is no sight of her.
He looks at the clock but not knowing when she departed, he has no way of knowing how soon it would be reasonable to expect her back. He checks frantically the thick clouds hanging threateningly over the vast emptiness of the lake and promising heavy snow. Does Valancy knows to expect it? Does she understand how bad that snowstorm could be, how cold, how disorienting? Muskoka is no Yukon, but the winter here can be dangerous enough in its own right; what if Valancy who barely set her foot outside of her city house during the cold months simply isn't aware of it?
It's Banjo's impatient meowing which pulls him finally away from his nerve-wrecking watch by the window.
"Valancy said she fed you," he tells the cat chidingly, wincing at the pain speaking causes to his raw throat. "I somehow find her more trustworthy than you."
Banjo is all offence at hearing such vile slander and Barney laughs, for all his anxiety. Thinking that dealing with the cats will calm his nerves for a moment, he gives in and walks over to the small kitchen counter where he reaches for the cat bowls and a tin of canned meat, to the lively interest of both felines. He finds another empty can in the bucket with trash, supporting Valancy's version of events, and glares at the cats playfully.
"Liars," he tells them, but bends down to pet their shiny, soft backs. Good Luck, the cuddler that he is, leans into Barney's touch and even Banjo is happy enough with the full bowl in front of him that he allows it. "You should be ashamed of yourselves. Especially you, Banjo."
He gets up with effort and fetches himself a cup of Valancy's soup. He drags one of the chairs to the oriel window and settles there with his soup and blanket, determined to see Valancy as soon as she appears. Sooner than he would wish his cup is empty, the cats done with eating as well and there is nothing to distract him from his worry for her except his frequent and annoying coughing fits. Even petting Good Luck who jumped on his knees and lies there now, purring in adoration and contentment, does little to calm him down.
Where the hell is she?
When the dusk is fast approaching and the snow starts slowly falling down over the lake, Barney has enough. He gently puts Good Luck down, takes the blanket off his shoulders and goes to fetch his clothes and shoes. He is pulling his trousers over his pyjamas, too impatient and frantic to bother with taking them off, when he finally sees a flash of red behind the window.
Valancy's red cap.
He's so relieved he practically wilts against the wall. She's safe and she's back! She's skating smoothly and confidently across the ice, seemingly without care in the world, and within minutes she is taking off her skates on their landing and marching up the stone steps to the house. When she opens the door, her face is lit with a brilliant, triumphant smile.
"Barney!" she exclaims in surprise at seeing him by the window, half-dressed, with his skates lying ready next to him. "What are you doing up?"
"Getting ready to search for you," answers Barney half-sullenly, half-accusingly. Now that he knows she is safe, he's rather resentful of all the worry he had to suffer on her behalf. "You were gone so long I started to think you got lost."
Or worse, he thinks grimly, but doesn't speak out loud.
Valancy has the gall to roll her beautiful eyes at him as she walks over to the table and starts to unpack her backpack on it.
"There was no need for such dramatics," she says, apparently unaware how close he is right now to strangling her. Dramatics, forsooth! He would like to see how calm she would have been if he pulled a stunt like that! "I was perfectly safe and not in the smallest danger of getting lost. It just took me longer than I expected in Port – Cousin Adelaide insisted on offering me tea before I went back."
Barney recalls with effort that one of her numerous cousins is married to Doctor Marsh.
"So you saw the doctor?" he asks, coming over to see what goods she deemed worthy of taking such a risk.
Valancy grimaces in annoyance.
"I did," she says, clearly upset. "And you were right – he said he couldn't possibly come over here. But he did at least give me some advice on how to nurse you through it and what medication to buy."
She starts pointing to assorted jars and bottles.
"Kimball White Pine and Tar Cough Syrup – with alcohol and chloroform – it will make your head spin, but it does help; aspirin for the headache and the fever, throat lozenges – my favourite flavour, I hope you will find them bearable. I am a veteran of colds, after all, I know all the best stuff," she laughs, then picks another little bottle with a grimace. "Now, I know that this thing is vile – believe me, nobody knows better than me – but it might help a bit, so I brought it anyway."
Barney looks at the thing in her hand – a square bottle with a prosperous, beaming moon-face and steel-rimmed spectacles on the purple label – and for a moment his vision goes black. When he comes to, he finds himself grabbing it from startled Valancy and crossing the room in three hurried, long steps to hurl the abomination into frozen Mistawis with a scowl.
"Bring no more of that devilish stuff here," he orders briefly, in a harsh tone he has never used towards her before. "Is that what you were risking your life for?"
For a long moment they stare wordlessly at each other; Valancy with wide eyes and Barney with his chest still heaving in rage, but also with growing shame for his behaviour to her. After all, it's not like she could have any idea why he flew off the handle like this simply at the sight of a popular medicine. He rakes his fingers through his hair, searching in vain for words of apology and explanation.
It is Valancy who breaks the silence though.
"Well," she says hesitantly. "It wasn't exactly why I went there – I bought the liniment as the afterthought really, after I already got everything else – but you're right, it is of the devil. I don't wonder at all that you hate it. Were you also forced to be rubbed with it every time you had a cold as a child?"
He wasn't actually – his dad never used any of his patent dopes on his own son, preferring to consult a proper doctor every time Barney was ill – but it's as good an explanation as any.
"It plagued me enough for me to never want to see it again," he answers honestly if misleadingly. "I'm sorry, Valancy – I feel beastly and I worried over you terribly since I've discovered you gone – but I shouldn't have taken my temper out on you like that."
She smiles at him, forgiving him much sooner than she should.
"Go back to bed," she says gently. "I will come over in a moment with some hot tea and the medicines – only the proper ones, I promise."
xxx
Several days later, Barney wakes up at the break of dawn, feeling well-rested and alert for the first time in ages. He looks down at Valancy, curled against his side and deeply asleep. She must be so tired after spending night after night nursing him, he thinks, noting the deep purple shadows under her closed eyes. A wave of tenderness builds inside him. To know that this amazing woman loves him so – enough to brave the trek over miles of a frozen lake to get him help and to lose her sleep to take care of him – it's simply too much to comprehend sometimes. He knows that Valancy feels she is the one who should be grateful, that it is him who does her a kindness by giving her a home and a husband in her last days on earth, but he can't help but think that she has it the other way around. What he does give her is so little, really – no hardship at all – and when he lists all the things she offers him without a second thought or any expectation of getting it in return: love, so freely expressed, care, friendship, joy, passion – all those things so precious, so priceless – no, it's not an equal bargain at all. He is the one who must – who does – feel grateful to her. He's so grateful that it chokes him sometimes, like right now, when he gently brushes her hair behind her ear and looks at her dear, darling face.
He can't think of anything he's ever done in his life to deserve her.