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“Because death is but the prelude to life. Who could show us that hidden path but a god?”
He lit all the lamps in the room, making the room blaze with light. Silver and gold, Ilse thought, watching him. The sun and the moon.
Raul turned. His eyes were wide and dark, the golden irises eclipsed by dark centers. “Now,” he whispered.
“Now,” she answered.
Keeping her gaze upon his face, Ilse unbuttoned her shirt. She paused a moment, feeling the cool air brush over her skin, then she slid the shirt off and dropped it onto the floor. Her skirt came next, and then the rest of her clothing—item by item—pausing each time that he might memorize how she looked. Once she had finished, he did the same for her, the candlelight gilding his skin with gold, the moonlight reflecting from his eyes.
Their last night—time to employ all their senses. Time to strip away every pretension, every barrier, as they had not dared before. They gave until their bodies collapsed, spent and exhausted. Raul traced patterns upon her breasts and belly; he caressed her thighs, and kissed away the spendings from between her legs.
I cannot refuse you anything, she murmured. Ask whatever you will, whatever you desire.
You are the elixir of my joy, he murmured. With you I am immortal.
Lir and Toc’s words, in their season of love.
“Lie back,” Ilse whispered.
Raul obeyed, lying quiescent while Ilse ran her hands over his body, combing her fingers through his hair, brushing her palms over his cheeks, kissing his neck and chest and groin. Wordlessly, she slipped her hand between his legs, urging them apart, and heard the quick intake of his breath as she kissed where the mage-surgeon had operated.
We are one. One heart. One desire.
They made love until dawn stained the sky with silver and white and palest red. “I will love you forever,” Raul said. He buried his face against her neck. His cheeks were damp.
“Raul.”
“Hush.” He kissed her tenderly. Again, softer still, each one an infinitesimal distance further from passion until they were lying apart, not touching.
“Now,” he whispered.
Now, she thought, but her throat would not let the word pass.
Silently they rose from the bed. Raul wet a cloth in the washbasin and ran it lightly over her face, her throat, and down the curve of her hip. His expression had left carnal passion behind, and watching his face, Ilse felt a stirring in response—an emotion beyond desire that she could not name.
When he had done, he sat cross-legged on the bed and watched, his expression still intent, while Ilse dressed for her journey. He was a witness to her departure, she thought. He would remember every moment, and thus they would not truly be separated.
“I’ll fetch breakfast,” Ilse said softly.
Raul smiled pensively. “I’ll stay here and make everything ready.”
She nodded. They must leave no traces of this last night together.
Down in the kitchen, only a few scullions remained from the night shift. No one greeted Ilse. No one questioned her presence in the kitchen. Most likely they all knew she left today. For a moment, Ilse wished she could unwind the months to a point between today and her arrival. When she still had friends here. When Kathe smiled and Berthold Hax was alive.
Today isn’t yesterday. It cannot be.
Silently she prepared a breakfast tray herself with coffee and freshly baked meat pies. When she came back to her rooms, she found Raul fully dressed and pacing the outer sitting room. He paused. “Trouble?”
“None,” she replied. “The house is asleep.”
They shared coffee from a single cup, and ate from a single plate. They talked little except to make a few commonplace observations—how good the coffee tasted, a comment about the pastry cook’s gift for crusts, whether they heard birdsong outside or someone was whistling in the lane below.
Finally, the dishes lay empty before them. Outside, the bells rang six times. Ilse drank the last of her coffee. She stood, but sat again immediately. I cannot leave him.
Raul kissed her. “Until forever, my love.”
She stood—she hardly knew how—and walked from her rooms, down the
