8You don't bother to turn on the lights as you make your way into the library. You're drawn to the shadows by a kinship cemented in a century of bronze. The incessant hum of the B&B is drowned out by rain and wind; the tempest reverberates under your fingertips as you draw close to press against the glass. Following the trail of a rogue raindrop streaking across the width of the windowpane, your eyes slide shut as your finger effortlessly continues along the drop's trajectory until it falls from sight.
It's all so achingly familiar-
The lullaby of an afternoon storm; the cool press of glass beneath your palm; the smell of leather bound books; the thrumming of thunder against your ribcage—
It's a tempestuous mélange of sensation; with eyes shut tight it's almost enough to forget, but for a moment. Your lips curl as your memory overtakes you,
"Cynthia from down the street says that when it rains it is the windows to heaven opening. That it is God's will." You bite your lip to hide your smile; the look on your daughter's face- one of disgruntled inquisitiveness- churns a gentle swelling of pride deep within your breast.
"Hmm. There are many who believe that, but what do you think?" Christina's fidgeting with the hem of her dress now, glancing from you to the storm roaring outside of your two-story London home and then back again,
"Cynthia says that she is older, that one's elders are always right." Your scoff quickly becomes a sigh as you turn from the window to give her your full attention, bending down until your dark eyes are level with her own. At times she is so very similar to how you remember being at her age-albeit with a nobleness of heart you could never dream of having-you yearn to nurture this curiosity in a way no one ever did for you.
"And when your friend Lily's mother said she could not play with you because I am a perverse woman without scruples? Was she right?" You watch dark eyes grow hard, shoulders bristling and small fingers curling into fists,
"Of course not Mummy-"
You interrupt, as sweet as her defense of your character will undoubtedly be it is not the point of this lesson, "Or when your last tutor said to go to Uncle Charles instead of me for help with your lessons for he was the cultured mind in the family?" Raven tresses swing loose of their braid with the vehemence of her shaking head,
"No. You're the one who writes the books you read to me every night," her nose scrunches up as she continues, "And when I went uncle Charles for help with my maths he got it all wrong and the tutor was very cross with me."
You're not hiding your smile now as you take her cheek into your palm, "You see Christina, age does not equate wisdom, nor does sex or authority. Anyone can be wrong, even your mother," your voice drops to a mock whisper, "on rare occasions."
Her melodic giggling curls pleasantly in the air around you like the inky lock of her hair wrapped around your index finger, "It is up to you to discern if someone is to be believed," you place the lock tenderly behind her ear, "so I ask again, what do you believe causes the rain?"
She turns back to face the window, gazing imploringly towards the gray expanse of sky, she does not look at you as she answers, "I don't think God makes it rain. It's...too easy to say that. I think it's an exchange."
You're grinning widely now, nodding for her to continue before you realize she cannot see it, "And why do you think that?"
"After it rains the streets are filled with deep puddles, but they disappear and stone does not absorb water. The shoreline of the lake by our summer home changes with the season, something is taking the water...I think it does this so it can rain again." Her eyes find yours now, brimming with excitement as her mind fits the pieces of the puzzle together, "and the places I read about in my books, deserts where it hardly ever rains, it is because there is little water for nature to take back and use again."
You shake your head absently; astonished as ever at the intellectual leaps your precocious eight year old is able to make, "You are not the first to think this. I have a book somewhere, of Bernard Palissy. I can read you his theory tonight before bed if you wish. It is very similar to yours."
Christina's nodding as her small fingers slip into your own, and suddenly she's pulling you from your study and your work, you laugh as you trail after her,
"And where are we going?" She glances back, her expression making clear that the answer ought to be apparent,
"Into the rain Mummy." You're dragging your heels although your hesitancy is mostly for show. This is yet another thing she learned from you after all,
"Ruin my dress, and a breach of etiquette darling..." Her impish grin incites another to match,
"I don't believe in etiquette. I think it is the creation of the small-minded and those afraid to have fun." You have created a monster. You couldn't be prouder.
"And if we get sick?" You're already in the parlor now, and Christina has released her grip on your hand in order to put on her galoshes,
"Then you'll call Aunt Magnus to come make us better. Now stop being silly Mummy, and come play with me."
You feel wetness on your face and you hold your hand out to feel for a leak before you taste the salt. You're crying; it is the first time you've cried over Christina in this new world (you do not count the time in Warehouse Two and the bewitchment that cruelly made believe you were holding your daughter again). The hurt is still there, an echo in every beat of your heart and every labored breath, but it no longer drowns you. The leaden cloak of grief no longer wrapped tightly around your neck. You wonder if this is what healing is. You're not sure if you like it, it feels frighteningly like letting go.
Her absence, you always feel it, it is your constant, almost a tangible presence. You never want to lose that, and if the cost is never healing, so be it. But then you sense it. A very real presence, the only one besides your Christina to ever provide you with any sense of peace-the reason for and the cause of this healing-you whisper her name just before arms slip around your waist to pull you back into a warm embrace.
"Myka." A nose nuzzles against you, the gentle exhale tickling the little hairs at the nape of your neck and you struggle not to squirm,
"I had a feeling I would find you here." As ever Myka is a soothing balm to the ache of your tattered soul, the gentle tracing of her fingers along your stomach easing the tension from your frame. You've long since stopped wondering how she manages it.
"Am I that predictable darling?" Your voice wavers ever so slightly, but you know she hears it, and you internally curse yourself for being so overcome by a simple memory, and one of the good ones no less.
She pulls you tighter against her, "Only to me." And you smile faintly at the meaning behind her words. Oh yes, does she know you well. The younger woman is well aware of your emotional state- happening less and less of late but by no means uncommon- and so too she knows to keep silent, grounding you with the strength of her embrace and unwavering spirit until you break free of its clutches.
But somehow, somehow this time is different. Perhaps it is because the memory was a happy one, perhaps it's because you're healing, perhaps you're simply tired of the silence, whatever the reason you're speaking and the words only register after they fall from your lips,
"Christina always loved the rain. It was a fondness we shared. Did you know she once worked out the general mechanics of the water cycle all by herself?"
Myka lets out a small noise of encouragement at your back, beckoning you to continue but your throat is already closing up, and you reach up to wipe away the fresh tears but her left hand leaves your stomach to halt the motion. She's spinning you around in her grasp and you have to struggle not to turn away, to let her see you like this, vulnerable, weak. You remind yourself that she has loved you at your most broken. You manage it with difficulty, and it shows in the tension of your jaw.
You expect her to wipe away your tears like she has in the past, but she does not. Instead she simply looks at you. The intensity of the compassion in her eyes takes your breath away, the molten warmth of her gaze still as astonishing as the first time. And then, inexplicably, she smiles. It starts slow, a lopsided quirk at the corner of her lips, but then it blossoms into a wide grin and even as you raise an eyebrow in question, even with tear tracks drying on your cheeks, you feel your lips moving to mirror hers, more subdued but no less genuine for few things provide you with as much pleasure as seeing Myka happy.
"Come outside with me."
"Into the rain?" Your smile falters, and you're stalling for time now. Your eyes grow wide with wonder for how could she possibly know? How could she effortlessly understand and give her that which she could never ask? How can someone like her possibly exist and more still, love her? You're shaking your head now and Myka mistakenly takes it as a refusal,
"Come on Helena, a little run through the rain would be good for you..." she pauses and you realize there is more to her proposition that you do not understand, "for the both of us." You're nodding but she's already pulling you from the library, fingers wrapped tightly in your own, larger than the ones in your memory but you find yourself just as helpless to deny their will, and just as disinclined to try.
Once out the door, Myka breaks into a run and your shorter legs struggle to keep up. She has not released the grip on your hand as she leads you through the pasture that lies adjacent to the B&B. The rain is beating a rhythm against your skin, your trousers and blouse are sticking and heavy against your flesh and when Myka slows and spins around to face you it is not the cold that makes you shiver.
She's beaming at you now, eyes dancing with ill-contained merriment and she's urging you to feel it too, to fall into the arms of this tempest with her. Her curls have unraveled under the weight of the rain, long chestnut locks clinging to the sides of her face and neck. Her clothes are similarly plastered to her frame, highlighting every glorious curve and line with such unabashed transparency that you do not resist the urge to reach out and trace along them with your fingertips.
You pull her close; you're both breathing heavily, too in shape to be a product of the short run, instead a result of the emotions whirling in the wind between you, in the effect you've always had on one another.
"There it is." Her words are but a whisper across your face and you feel them more than hear them for the wind is whistling loudly in your ears now. As your fingers slide down the lines of her torso and across the dip of her hipbone, hers are tracing the smile you did not realize was gracing your lips.
She's so close now, you can see the raindrops clinging to her eyelashes, the raindrops sliding alluringly down the opening of her shirt. Her breath warms your face just as the salaciousness of her gaze heats everything else.
Thank you. I love you. All the words are the same now and you see in her eyes that they are unnecessary. She already knows. And just as you lean the remaining centimeters in to capture her lips with your own, that absence is gone, no, not gone but changed. As you kiss your love you swear you can feel Christina dancing in the rain by your side. Her laughter ringing out in chorus with the thunder.
