Chapter 8 #3
Nathaniel’s forearm across her back flexed, drawing her a tiny bit closer.
She went willingly, absorbing comfort from his solid presence beside her, and drew a broken breath, determined to rally.
Something happier. “She loves the sea. We lived on the coast of Scotland for a handful of years when she was young. She loved to walk the shore, collecting shells and gazing out at the water. Endlessly, it seemed.” She peeked at Nathaniel.
His head was angled towards her, his mouth less stern than she was accustomed to seeing it. “There was a small shell wrapped up in your pocket.”
“Yes, a periwinkle.” He hadn’t commented on it at the time, but then again, it hadn’t been relevant to his interests at the time, unlike her papers and the locket miniature.
“It was one she found for me. The day she found it, we’d packed a hamper of food and taken it to the strand—the two of us and Maman and Da.
It was one of those glorious summer days where the sky is the bluest of blues, and the clouds are so fluffy you fancy you can climb them and ride from one place to the next, anywhere in the wide world.
” She smiled a little, remembering. “Lucy and I lay on our backs, making shapes of the clouds and dreaming of the places we’d travel if we had such freedom.
I was nearly too old for such fancies—I was seventeen and considered myself grown—but I was not quite too old for that sort of dreaming.
Lucy found the shell just before it was time to leave. ”
Sometimes, holding it, she could summon the sights and sounds of that day in her mind, vivid and clear: Lucy’s girlish laugh as they gazed up at the clouds, the earth warm beneath their backs; the earnest love that shone from Lucy’s freckled face when she carefully presented the shell: So you’ll have a piece of home, Issy, no matter how far away you go.
It was a touchstone to a cherished memory and a piece of Lucy’s heart that she’d kept with her all these years, no matter where she went: around England and Ireland, with Jamie. To Flanders, when he was sent to war. Now, to France.
She drew a deep breath and released it. “Lucy loves stories. From a very young age, she’d crawl into bed with me at night and beg me for tales.
I’d tell her stories from the books I was reading—Da was a bookseller, so there were many to choose from.
Sometimes I’d sing to her, for there are many wonderful stories set to song as well.
But of books, she loved Perrault’s fairy tales most of all.
Maman had brought with her from France an edition of Histoires ou contes du temps passé.
Lucy’s favorite story from that was La Belle au bois dormant, the princess who is frozen in sleep for many years and is rescued by the only man who can break the curse, the prince destined to be her beloved. ”
“And which was your favorite?” he asked softly.
“Of Perrault’s tales? I admit I was morbidly fascinated by La Barbe bleu.
” She laughed. “Although that one is rather gruesome, and certainly I would not wish to be Bluebeard’s wife for even an hour, even if her cleverness revealed the truth of his crimes and she inherited his whole estate.
But of the stories with princesses, I liked best Cendrillon ou la petite pantoufle de verre.
The benevolent fairy godmother and the pumpkin turning into a gilded coach .
. . The beautiful gown made of cloth of silver and gold, with glass slippers that allowed her to transform long enough to meet her prince .
. . It seemed quite romantic to me. Who would not wish to be someone else for an hour, someone so enchanting a prince is enraptured upon first sight?
Lucy and I debated as we got older which prince was the more romantic counterpart.
” She smiled, remembering. “The one who breaks his princess’s enchanted sleep by falling to his knees before her?
Or the one who sought Cendrillon to the ends of the kingdom, marrying her even once her enchantment wore off? ”
His mouth quirked when she glanced at him. “Did you ever come to an agreement?”
She laughed again. “Never. Although I still feel my argument truly was superlative. My prince’s mother was not an ogress bent on killing Cendrillon, unlike the Sleeping Beauty.
But no, Lucy and I have never stopped trying to convince one another of the superior merits of our chosen tales.
” She stumbled slightly on an upraised cobblestone, a physical jolt that reminded her of her body’s limits.
“I believe I’m ready to return to your rooms now. I am still rather weary.”
Although her mind was also quieter now, more at peace.
“You had run yourself nearly down to nothing,” Nathaniel remarked. “Tomorrow will be soon enough for us to be seen together again.”
He was not wrong; she had not taken much care of herself for some weeks now, consumed as she was by both grief and purpose.
Once back in his rooms, he offered her the bed. “I’ll sleep on the floor. You may trust I slept far rougher with the Rifles than this.”
She might have argued about displacing him once more from a bed, but truly, she was exhausted. Amélie had provided a soft, warm night rail; she changed into it and slid gratefully beneath the heap of blankets.
As she laid her head down, she thought of the many times she and Lucy had whispered and giggled to one another beneath the blankets, heads resting close together on the same pillow. Sharing a little of that tonight had brought back those simpler times. Happier times.
Nathaniel had asked about Lucy to lift her spirits—she’d realized that while reflecting as she undressed—and it worked. His consideration warmed her. She felt just the slightest bit lighter than she had in a long time; perhaps her sleep tonight would be peaceful.
She was smiling as sleep claimed her.