Chapter Twenty-Five
At the Seams
The Bliss
I select a chartreuse top from my closet and lay it atop the edge of my bed.
Next, I open one of the drawers in my modest room and find a skirt that I think will look nice with the blouse.
I do not know how long I allowed my clothes to select themselves and for me to wear whatever was laid out for me.
It never occurred to me to even think about what I wanted to wear, what I would feel good in, what clothes matched my mood on any given day.
But I do now. I step back from the garments to look at them together in the moonlight that pours through my bedroom window.
The skirt is a dark blue color with stitched crescent moons the color of sunflowers, ironically.
The moons curve sharply and are placed in random spots around the skirt at varying angles.
Some of the moons are oriented straight up and look a great deal like the letter U or a horseshoe.
The thought and the word crackle in my mind. My vision glitches, and I blink away the sensation. Blinking may bring the moons back into focus, but it does nothing for my lingering confusion.
I can feel it. The sensation that precedes the rush of memory when I step foot in the River of Remembrance. But I am nowhere near the river, and the pull of this memory may be even stronger than any I’ve felt before.
Something is wrong with this place now. I can feel the fabric of The Bliss ripping at the seams. It is like I have found the first tiny hole in a garment I love.
Rather than ignore it, I find myself fingering at the spot, making the imperfection worse.
If I had left it alone, who knows how long it would have taken for that hole to grow.
But now that I have found it and played with it, I have sped up the timeline of its destruction considerably.
That thought gets replaced immediately by a memory of my past that pours over me as though my entire body were dunked below the river, and I begin to drown in my past.
England, 1868
The young girls dance around the Maypole, their rainbow ribbons painting the sky with color. Their laughter filling the festival with merriment.
How lucky those girls are, I think to myself. Still full of so much hope. The acrid sting of life’s cruel truths has not yet poisoned their springtime hearts. Good for them. May they remain in a state of blissful ignorance for many moons.
Just as I wish I could spend all my moons in the glow of Asher’s embrace.
The sun brings no warmth to me anymore. I have lived my fullest life in the shadows of the moon, and I can return to the daylight no more.
A moment of breath mingled with Thomas’s rough lips, a callous hand pressed firmly against my back—these fleeting seconds fill my heart with more passion than any of my many days with this vile man with whom I am now forced to share a name and a bed.
“Bridget certainly seems to be in full bloom this season.” Alister leers at one of the dancers.
“Ripe for the pickin’, me lord,” one of his sycophants responds from behind us, though I’m not entirely convinced he wasn’t speaking to me. His lack of decorum knows no bounds.
We perambulate through the crowds until we come upon a patch of dirt. The sound of clanging metal and hearty laughter fills the air. Metal objects are flying about, landing near stakes in the ground. As we get closer to the scene, I see the objects more clearly.
“Horseshoes,” Alister says, voicing what my eyes have now seen. “Come, boys. Let’s show these navvy how the game is truly played.”
He drags me deeper into the throng, voice raised amid the fray. Alister removes his arm from mine, stepping to the nearest group of men.
“We’d like to throw,” he states definitively.
“Wait your turn like all the rest,” comes the clipped reply from the broad-shouldered stranger in front of us.
“Excuse me,” Alister says, affronted, his nasally voice squeaking on the phrase. “Mind your tongue when speaking with your superiors, boy.”
“Not even my Daddy calls me boy, and I ain’t never had any complaints about my tongue,” the deep voice rumbles again, rolling his shirtsleeves to the elbows as he turns around.
My eyes scan the veins of his forearms before catching sight of his face. A countenance that has been burned into the center of my very soul. Thomas Asher. My smoldering flame.
Alister is about to make a fierce rebuttal, but Thomas’s gaze locks with mine, and we both falter.
Alister’s disdain turns instantly to suspicion.
I try to collect myself, but how does one recover from having an arrow shot directly through their heart?
How does one hide the pleasure of a love as dangerous and beautiful as the fiercest red rose and the pain of not being able to linger in its garden?
“Thomas.” His name stumbles past my lips, part warning, part supplication.
He does not voice a reply, but his eyes are a bound book of promises, warnings, and longings.
Alister’s shrill tone breaks our spell. “Do you two know each other?”
I begin to say no, before Thomas speaks over top of me. “Yes. She came into my shop the other day. Fixed her wheel, if memory serves.”
“Ah, the blacksmith who delayed us by a day. I remember now.”
“Some things require a bit more time and attention to really get going. I’m sure you can appreciate that, my lord.”
The innuendo behind Thomas’s words ring clear to me. I only hope they are lost on Alister.
“Let’s play … boy.” Alister cruelly hurls the explosive insult back at Thomas before Asher hurls precise throws of the metal rings to beat Alister in three straight matches.
Humiliated and visibly frustrated, Alister turns to walk away, summoning me to follow. “Come, Madeleine. We have more important things to do with our time.”
Thomas stops us with an outstretched hand. “A parting gift for my lord? I forged these shoes myself.”
“Keep your foolish toys.”
“Then perhaps I might offer it to your lady. Horseshoes are said to be good luck. May the iron give you strength and the crescent shape remind you of the moon.”
The moon. Our moon. Thomas hands me the horseshoe, our fingers touching ever so briefly during the exchange. The heft of the item does not come close to the symbolic weight of what Thomas just gave me—his heart.
Though based on the look on Alister’s face and the tone in his voice, I must immediately wonder, at what cost?
“I can take care of my own possessions, peasant. She belongs to me.”
I pocket the horseshoe quickly before Alister can insist I return it. He yanks me further from the other half of my soul.
“Property does not make for proper possession of the human heart, Alister Sullivan. It must be given freely.”
“Laws written down in the book of fools. In the real world, our women must be owned to be obedient.”
“A real man does not cower at the true wildness of a woman.”
Alister bristles, pauses, and finally storms off. I dare to steal a final glance back to Thomas. Telling him with my gaze all that my voice dare not speak.
The Bliss
The unpleasantness of the memory prickles my skin. Something has shifted. Something fundamental has broken.
I feel I should return to sleep, though I have no idea how much time has passed since that memory overtook me. Or was it a nightmare? I should close my eyes again and allow The Bliss to soothe away this disturbance.
Instead, I find myself rising from the bed and moving toward the window.
Outside, The Bliss stretches in all its pastel perfection. The same cottages. The same gardens. The same cobblestone paths.
Everything is as it should be.
Everything is as it always is.
So, why does it suddenly look like a painting rather than a place? It’s flat and lifeless. It’s … wrong. Unpleasant.
The next moonturn seems to be upon us. The restful period has ended, though it wasn’t that peaceful for me.
I turn away from the window and notice the clothes laid out on the chair.
I remember now. That was the task I set about doing before that memory pulled me from this place. But these clothes are not the ones I selected. The greenish top and moon-adorned skirt have somehow been replaced by a dress in soft yellow, stockings, undergarments, and a sensible pair of shoes.
I stare at the ensemble and feel something I have never felt before in The Bliss.
Irritation.
Who selected this dress? Who decided yellow was appropriate? Who determined that I would wear this particular shade on this particular day without consulting my preferences or desires?
Is this place trying to undo the choices I am trying to make? Are there limits to what I am allowed?
I grab the garments laid out and walk to the closet. My brows furrow in determination as I rip open the door and am met with several rows of clothes. I toss the unwanted dress into the corner of the space and seek out the garments I selected earlier.
I find the pieces among so many outfits that have been chosen for me in the past. I run my fingers over some of the crescent shapes on the dress, and whispers of Tommy’s words from the garden fair tickle my ears.
I dress in the clothes I want to wear, then step outside my cottage to make my way to the schoolhouse.
The woman with the white dog passes by precisely on schedule.
“Beautiful tidings!” she calls, her voice bright and cheerful.
“Beautiful tidings,” I respond automatically.
But this time, I take note of something I have never noticed before.
The dog does not bark. Does not pull at the leash. Does not sniff at the flowers or mark its territory or display any of the behaviors I would expect from a living creature.
It simply walks. Placidly, without variation or personality or life.
I watch them continue down the path, and for the first time, I wonder, Is that even a real dog? Or is it another fixture of The Bliss, as carefully arranged and controlled as the eternally verdant trees?
I continue my walk, but now I cannot stop seeing all the inconsistencies.
A bird chirps from a nearby branch. The same three-note melody. Precisely the same. Never varying. Never changing.