LXXVII
To Hold the Wind
VINCENT I fell to my knees and pulled her into my arms. The snow had gathered in her hair; she was cold and stiff, but her blood was warm and bright, spilling over my hands like fresh-pressed oil, staining my clothes like illuminated ink. When I cradled her against my chest, she opened her eyes and looked at me.
“No,” I said to her when she granted me a sad, soft smile. “Don’t you dare leave me, Red.”
But in my heart, she had always been the wind, never staying in one place for too long. I had always known that I could not hold on to her. I could run in her wake for as long as I had strength, but I was destined to grow tired and slow. It did not matter how much I desired it; some moments, I could draw close enough to share the same breath as her. I could seal her mouth with my own, I could dream of growing old at her side. But there were other moments when I knew I could not follow her.
“Stay with me,” I whispered, a hoarse, broken sound.
“Vincent,” Matilda breathed.
She closed her eyes, solemn, peaceful. I held her tight against my chest, aligned her with the pounding of my heart. Her crown of stars remained,
gleaming in the darkness.
She died in my arms.