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Sometimes she would give him a soliloquy. Those days he’d sit and watch her pace a hole in the same rug he used to walk on. He’d never seen anyone quite so lonely before. So content to lock themselves away. There was sadness in her eyes. A weariness he could not understand or place.
“What is wrong with you?” he demanded. “There is an entire world waiting for you. Why are you sitting here, trapped in this castle with me?”
But she never answered.
He heard her cry one morning. Soft, whimpering sobs. Her face was hidden in her hands and he knew if he saw her eyes, red rimmed and bright, he’d do something foolish like nudge the tissue box her way.
Instead he stood by her side, hip braced on his desk, arms folded across his chest. He’d exerted too much energy and all he found himself capable of was a soft breeze against her skin.
He watched the hair on her arms raise and he sighed, head kicked back.
It was all he was reduced to.
Phantom breezes. Closed doors.
He was colorful once. He had a heart that beat wildly. Blood that pounded through his veins. A laugh louder than most. He had dreams. Wishes. Plans for his life. He had all of himself to give and no one to give it to.
He thought that Avery Eden might be the same, a wish of a person with nowhere to go.
How ironic that they were both here in the same place, but still somehow divided.
It was a poor reminder of his life.
The front door banged open and he dropped his chin to his chest. She was always doing that, kicking in doors like she had fires to put out. He heard something smash to the ground and he moved, walking through walls and stairs until he found himself in the main sitting room.
A half spilled bag of groceries was strewn across his floors, a can of dented soup rolling below one of the armchairs.
“What is this mess?” he asked, gesturing to the bags Avery dropped on the ground. “Italian wedding soup? Avery, please. You’re in Ireland.”
She ignored him, crouching on her hands and knees to retrieve the missing soup can.
He followed her to the kitchen, lecturing her on the etiquette of soups and stews. For God’s sake, Ireland was famous for both. Beef stew with braised meat and a splash of red wine. A dark, cloudy stout. Fish fresh from the docks, but no. She wanted Italian wedding soup.
It was an odd array of foods. Crackers. Cold cuts. One tomato. A bag of apples. More chocolate candies. There was barely anything of substance.
“Maybe you’re lucky I’m dead,” he mused. “I’d tie you to a chair and feed you myself if I could.”
That was when he noticed the candles. The bundle of sage. The incense.
“Oh, Avery,” he murmured. “You didn’t.”
He watched her dig the candles out of the bag. The small crystal she shoved in her pocket.
“This is what you’ve reduced me to!” she yelled, voice echoing all the way up to the top floor. There was no need to shout, really. He was standing right next to her. “You won’t show yourself, so now I have to do this.”
“You don’t need to do it,” he said pointedly. “But you will, because I’m learning that there is no possible way that there is anyone more stubborn than you on this earth.”
“And before you start slamming doors in my face,” she continued, and he laughed. “Let it be known this is purely…this is purely for us having to live together for the next several weeks.”
“You can try,” he teased, leaning closer. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to listen, grá.”
“Okay, Isadora said to go somewhere comfortable.”
“Kitchen isn’t it,” he offered. “Sitting room would be best.”
He followed her up the stairs, arms laden with candles, sage, and incense. She dropped everything unceremoniously onto the table in the sitting room and began to set up.
He had a decision to make.
