I apologise, I don't even know what this is. I MEAN IT IS IN SECOND PERSON. I apologise.
You reach out a hand, slowly oh so slowly you inch closer to the porcelain skin of her wrist, and then dark eyes are fixed on you. Your hand falls back down to rest on the bed. Your attempt to discover if the thin pale flesh was as soft as the silk nightgown she has lent you has sapped your remaining strength, and you find your eyes clothing as Mary leans down with soft words and a cold flannel.
***
The sun burns the next time you open your eyes. Matthew is asleep, hunched over, at your bedside. His hand grasps tightly, so tight, onto your still sticky hand.
You are better.
You feel it in the bones the way the fever has broken; it still is exhausting to draw your hand from Matthew's. For a second the love you feel is overwhelming, he stayed. Mary's lips against his, her long pale fingers tangled into the short hairs of his neck. You turn away from him.
She sits there staring at you, and perhaps she sees the lucidity in your eyes, because she smiles. It is not large. It does not rival the brightness of the sun that filters through the window, it barely shows her teeth; but she is Mary and you would not expect anything more, not for you. And then Mary shifts closer in her chair. You see her eyes. They are warm. Like a hot water bottle to curl against in the middle of January; like a fire to read against; like coming home from a downpour.
"You stayed." Your voice is hoarse, your lips chapped.
Mary's smile tightens, grows just a little bit too far for it to be genuine. "I-"
"Thank you."
The smile softens again, and though it pulls at your dried lips you return the gesture.
***
She is there as often as Matthew is on the path to recovery. Matthew sits in the sun by your bed, his hair gleaming his golden and his pale eyes translucent as he talks to you and makes plans for a future you believe he wants less and less.
Mary comes at night. Her hair fading into the dark walls that are only illuminated by the fire. Mary comes and stretches alongside you. Mary reads to you.
You do not talk when she comes in these hours where she is in her nightgown. You merely pat the bed beside you and she climbs on top of the covers to read you to sleep each night.
Her voice carries you to Verona, to Crete, to India, to the lost palace of Kubla Kahn. But she is beside you as you dream and so you are not afraid.
***
"You should set a new date for the wedding." The Countess' voice is kind but firm as she sits of the foot of your bed (in her bedroom, in her house, you do not need to remind yourself of this even as her words suggest it will someday be yours).
"I-" your voice falters, for what do you say? Your engaged daughter is in love with my fiancee and I would quite happily stay ensconced in this room forever to see them happy. Is that would one would say? No, you have a feeling it is not what one would say.
"Mother, let Lavinia decide her own matters."
You need not say anything, for she is there to protect you.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2012-03-26 11:59 pm (UTC)You reach out a hand, slowly oh so slowly you inch closer to the porcelain skin of her wrist, and then dark eyes are fixed on you. Your hand falls back down to rest on the bed. Your attempt to discover if the thin pale flesh was as soft as the silk nightgown she has lent you has sapped your remaining strength, and you find your eyes clothing as Mary leans down with soft words and a cold flannel.
***
The sun burns the next time you open your eyes. Matthew is asleep, hunched over, at your bedside. His hand grasps tightly, so tight, onto your still sticky hand.
You are better.
You feel it in the bones the way the fever has broken; it still is exhausting to draw your hand from Matthew's. For a second the love you feel is overwhelming, he stayed. Mary's lips against his, her long pale fingers tangled into the short hairs of his neck. You turn away from him.
She sits there staring at you, and perhaps she sees the lucidity in your eyes, because she smiles. It is not large. It does not rival the brightness of the sun that filters through the window, it barely shows her teeth; but she is Mary and you would not expect anything more, not for you. And then Mary shifts closer in her chair. You see her eyes. They are warm. Like a hot water bottle to curl against in the middle of January; like a fire to read against; like coming home from a downpour.
"You stayed." Your voice is hoarse, your lips chapped.
Mary's smile tightens, grows just a little bit too far for it to be genuine. "I-"
"Thank you."
The smile softens again, and though it pulls at your dried lips you return the gesture.
***
She is there as often as Matthew is on the path to recovery. Matthew sits in the sun by your bed, his hair gleaming his golden and his pale eyes translucent as he talks to you and makes plans for a future you believe he wants less and less.
Mary comes at night. Her hair fading into the dark walls that are only illuminated by the fire. Mary comes and stretches alongside you. Mary reads to you.
You do not talk when she comes in these hours where she is in her nightgown. You merely pat the bed beside you and she climbs on top of the covers to read you to sleep each night.
Her voice carries you to Verona, to Crete, to India, to the lost palace of Kubla Kahn. But she is beside you as you dream and so you are not afraid.
***
"You should set a new date for the wedding." The Countess' voice is kind but firm as she sits of the foot of your bed (in her bedroom, in her house, you do not need to remind yourself of this even as her words suggest it will someday be yours).
"I-" your voice falters, for what do you say? Your engaged daughter is in love with my fiancee and I would quite happily stay ensconced in this room forever to see them happy. Is that would one would say? No, you have a feeling it is not what one would say.
"Mother, let Lavinia decide her own matters."
You need not say anything, for she is there to protect you.
***