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| The Wonder of
Winter's Darkness Part Eight by Marcy Wilson-Cales |
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Barnabas
cleared his throat, feeling uncomfortable."
Bridget...told me enough of your family that you
needn't trouble yourself explaining to me."
He spoke quietly enough, but inside, he was
cringing at what his eyes were seeing. How could he have EVER deceived himself that indifference was kinder than outright brutality or cruelty? Long before he had ever been a possibility in her life, she had already learned there were some things not worth feeling, compared to their penalty. Kara Hoffman had taught her daughter that lesson very well, so that when Julia had entered his life, she had been equipped with a full suit of armor and a barbed flail to keep people from getting too close. How she had managed to lower her defenses around him, he did not know...but she had proven the braver, when she lowered her weapons FIRST. "Pathetic summer." Julia said softly. At first he thought she was repeated the book. "Helen Hunt Jackson." "Pathetic summer seeks by blazonry of color to conceal her swift decrease...mPoor middle-aged summer! Vain this show! "..." She closed her eyes briefly. "Sorry. I've... had a little too much to drink." The fume of alcohol was faint, but telling, and the bottle of aged Irish, shockingly empty. He risked much, then, and stood, and wrapped his arms around her. He felt her body consider that, and slowly, permit itself to relax. "I am sorry, he thought at her. It is YOU who has nothing to apologize for. Aloud: "Julia..." He said in her ear, "Any time. Please. Don't think you must face matters such as these by yourself." Her silence was deafening. His words had struck a chord, even as they puzzled her. Barnabas felt the familiar wave of blame all over again. It had been too long. She could not really see what he was saying to her. His mouth was open, to speak, but she was already pulling away, having stayed no more than was needed to take a modicum of warmth from him. She felt as if she had stolen even that small amount. "Look...I'll be going to bed soon, but feel free to stay up." She picked up the bottle as she spoke, and his heart wrenched to see her pour its lastings into her empty cup. "Straight up the stairs, and above this room against the chimney there're two bedrooms; take whichever one you want." She drank as if it were nothing more than water. Barnabas nodded, and slowly turned to go. Behind him, the sound of an empty bottle on the table. That had to be one of the loneliest sounds in the world. Barnabas stopped at the doorway, and wished for words that could salve and balm the wounds he was sensing--wounds thickened and nearly insensitive with stiffened scars that had tried to heal, but had only trapped the cause of the pain underneath. She lifted her head up, sensing he had not left, and those eyes struck him all over again. Barnabas, aware that he did not know how to stop the silence properly, did not break it. His hands lifted, and spread open, his palms pointed up in a soundless plea with his goldstone gaze. I do not want to be alone, he thought, nor, Julia, do you. The silence grew even more difficult. She looked at his hands, and she looked up at him. She said nothing, but he was patient and did not give up or turn away. He saw her throat, under the soft scarf, tighten once, and her eyes openes...slowly...a cautious approach of trust again. One last time, Barnabas told himself. And he would not ruin this chance. He stepped forward as her hand slowly lifted. His large hands closed over hers, gently, gently...and he pulled her backwards, out of the kitchen, into his arms, up the stairs... To Be Continued |