Chapter 46
Celeste dipped her quill in the inkwell, blotting the page beside a diagram of a French-style drainage trench. She had underlined “irrigation” thrice and could not remember doing it once.
A bee floated in the open window, then darted away again. Below, the courtyard stirred, but up here in her tower, the air was still and green.
She had taken up gardening, she told herself, to make something useful in her exile.
Something strong, rooted, patient. But she knew the truth.
She had turned to seeds and soil because they did not remind her of war.
Digging in the dirt made her feel less hollow.
Watching plants bloom was better than waiting for a man who would never come.
Who would rather send her to another than yield to his own feelings.
She reached for the next page. More on compost ratios. If she could just keep reading, perhaps the pain would break apart, like clumps of clay in the sun.
The breeze shifted, bringing the sounds from outside—a cheer? Laughter? A distant shout?
“He’s here!” Rue’s voice burst through the stillness. “Celeste, he’s here!”
“About time. I’ve been waiting for these tulip bulbs for a fortnight.”
“Who said anything about tulips?” Rue straightened her soldier’s jacket, cheeks flushed, eyes alight. “The general is here. They’ve ridden straight from the Peninsula. No rest. No stop. Right into the courtyard. The horses are still foaming.”
Hawk was back. Whole. Alive.
Celeste stood, her chair scraping against the stone floor.
Her heart pulsed in her throat, and she pressed a hand to her middle, steadying herself.
Warmth flushed through her, starting at her core, spreading to her cheeks, her scalp, her fingertips, like sunlight breaking a cold fast. She wanted to run to the window and see for herself.
He had come back.
But he hadn’t come back for her.
Her eyes closed. Heat spiked sharply behind her ribs, the pressure of containing her joy into a space too small to hold it.
Celeste’s hand crept to her lap, gripping the fabric of her skirt. “He must want his men.”
“Love, he brought the regiment to reclaim you,” Rue said.
“I’m sure he wants his household in order. You know how he prizes his routines,” Celeste’s voice felt thin like paper. “Tell everyone they may go back to him if they wish. I’ll not keep anyone prisoner.”
Rue crossed the room and poked her forearm. “He came for you. Don’t be daft.”
No, it was impossible. The curtain had already fallen on the play of the ballerina who surrendered everything to the brooding general. And she had no intention of reliving it. It had hurt too much.
Cautiously, Celeste returned to her chair. Chin trembling, she opened the book. The words blurred, then reformed. Organic matter, compost, and fertility.
“He’s the general,” Celeste said, her voice quiet again. “He is here now, but for how long?”
Rue did not press further.
A tear had slipped down Celeste’s cheek without permission. She brushed it away with her hand and forced her eyes to the book’s margins. They were safe. No heartbreak lived in footnotes.
“Soil doesn’t leave you,” she whispered. And it didn’t break one’s heart.
Shouting surged from below. The clash of iron horseshoes in the courtyard, cheers.
Rue crossed to the arched window, brushing aside the curtain.
“Hawk is atop his white horse. And the stallion’s even posing, blast him. He’s wearing his dress uniform. The dark one. I daresay he cuts a finer figure than any of those heroes you sigh over in your bard’s verses.”
Celeste pressed her lips together until they ached.
Think of gardens, she ordered herself. The neat rows of lavender, the steady patience of rosemary, the honest work of soil beneath her nails.
Safe thoughts. But against her will, the image burst through—Alexander astride Oberon.
The stallion’s white flank flashed like lightning against the hills, mane streaming, hooves striking sparks from the ground.
And upon him, her general. His dark blue coat a slash of command against all that brightness, shoulders set, jaw carved, eyes fixed on a horizon only he could see.
She willed herself back to tulips. But the thunder wouldn’t stop. It pounded in her chest, shook her ribs, rushed through her blood until she felt she was galloping too, swept away by his power.
She hated that she could not master her thoughts. To give vent to her imagination was to feel the ground crumble beneath her, and surrender to the dream once more. But she had surrendered to him too many times. She was done.
“Isn’t this what you wanted? A fairytale ending for your love story?” Rue asked.
Celeste’s throat tightened. Her fingers curled over the book’s spine. She dared a heartbeat’s hope that she might yet live in her favorite play, where misunderstandings turned into declarations and broken hearts found their menders before the curtain fell.
But her mind—the one that had lain awake for nights, her stomach hollow, her chest aching—spoke louder.
“No,” she said quietly. “The drawbridge stays closed.” It had served her well in keeping the solicitor at bay. “If people want to shout, they can go to the parapets. Please close the window. I need silence.”
Rue hesitated by the door. Her chin lowered in a rare expression of retreat. She gave a small nod, the kind that said she would obey—but not agree. Then she slipped out, boots soft against the stone.
Celeste released the breath she hadn’t meant to hold. The hush returned like an old shawl, frayed, but familiar. She dipped her pen again, eyes steady on the page. Soil didn’t leave. Soil didn’t give love away to another. And soil never asked you to pretend it hadn’t broken your heart.