Chapter 53
Aurelia arrived a few minutes late to meet Oliver at Highgate, and when she saw him standing alone—no Biscuit on a lead at his side—her steps faltered.
She’d forgotten that dogs weren’t allowed inside, and somehow the absence of Biscuit as a buffer, with his energy and joy, made her a little nervous.
As she got closer, though, she saw that Oliver looked a little nervous too.
Maybe he’d also realized they wouldn’t have any buffers—no dog and no edits to discuss since she hadn’t given him a new draft yet.
But then Oliver waved and started walking over to her, a smile on his face, and she decided maybe they didn’t need any buffers after all.
“What d’you reckon?” he asked once they’d said hello and made the requisite comments about the weather. “Should we start with the East Side or the West Side?”
“The West Side was always my favorite—all those giant gothic flourishes. Start there?”
Once they were through the gates, it only took them a few minutes of slightly awkward fits and starts of conversation before they were comfortable again, just like they’d been the other night in the shop.
“I’ve always loved it here,” Oliver said as they moved deeper inside, where the trees were ancient and looming, and the mausoleums leaned precariously but charmingly against each other.
“I thought you didn’t like old things?” Aurelia teased.
“I like newer books, but I love everything old about London,” he said, looking wistfully at an old headstone as they passed it.
She was surprised by the note of nostalgia coming from Mr. Ebooks Are the Future, but she liked it.
Without realizing, she was watching him, factoring this new aspect into her ever-evolving understanding of who he was.
He looked over and caught her looking at him—gazing at him, really.
She was sure he could see her feelings for him written all over her face.
“You like everything old—is that why you like it here?” he asked.
Aurelia was glad for the question and the distraction from the track her thoughts had been running on.
“It’s one reason. I like the idea that generations of people have walked through here, maybe even reading the same books I’ve brought in to read on one of the same benches, under one of the same trees.
And… This is kind of embarrassing, but… I like looking at the tombstones and mausoleums and writing down names that might work in whatever I’m writing. ”
“I don’t think that’s embarrassing—it’s a nice way to honor someone. Even if you didn’t know them, using their name is a way of keeping their memory in the world, isn’t it?”
Aurelia was at risk of gazing at him again.
“That’s exactly why I like doing it. A little memorial that’s just between me and them, whoever they were.”
Oliver was smiling as he listened when his eyebrows drew together in a frown.
“Are you alright, being here? You’ll have to tell me if you want to leave—it’s no problem if you do. We could go and get a coffee instead.”
“I’m okay, actually,” Aurelia said, realizing in that moment that she was, in fact, very okay. Being surrounded by memorials to lost loved ones wasn’t exactly a cheerful activity, but the good company helped. “It’s nice being back here.”
Oliver smiled again and Aurelia smiled back, the moment stretching as their steps slowed. She’d been looking at him for too long, though, because she tripped over a tree root and had to grab him to right herself.
“Sorry!”
“It’s fine. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine!”
She realized she was still holding onto him and let go, stepping back to reinstate a friend-like distance between them.
“Should we cross back over to the East Side?” she asked quickly, nodding in that direction as she led the way.
Later, as they were heading for the gate to leave, Oliver stopped in front of a small, worn headstone. It was tipping forward with age and he squatted down to gently brush away the dirt and weeds around it.
“‘Vivienne Paumier, 1850 to 1885,’” Oliver read aloud from the stone.
“Oh, she was our age, wasn’t she? How sad.”
“There’s a saying here—a quotation, I think, but it’s too hard to read.”
Aurelia squatted next to him and moved her hand over the carvings in the stone as she tried to read it too, but time and weather had worn the words away. They kept a moment of respectful silence before standing and looking down at the headstone again.
“Her name sounds French,” Oliver observed. “Like someone Vronsky might have met if he’d lived your sequel.”
“It does,” Aurelia agreed, smiling as they continued walking back out into the London bustle.
Even after they’d said goodbye and made plans to meet soon to go over the next round of revisions to Vronsky’s story, the name Vivienne—her short life and lost future—stuck in Aurelia’s head, like a burr that wouldn’t shake loose.