LXXXIV
A Thousand Years
MATILDA I had wondered how long it would take for me to remember my body, to remember what it felt like to draw air. I had gasped upon waking in the sepulcher as if I were taking my first breath again. My lungs had swelled with a pleasant ache, my heart burning in my chest as if I had set it aflame.
I lay on the stone table, my eyes open to the darkness that had kept my flesh company for seven mortal years, and I took another breath, and then another, drawing all the shadows into me until my heart was warm again. It resumed its dance, mending the jagged wound in my chest with each beat.
Blood soon branched through my veins, luminous. I moved my fingers, flexed my toes. I brought my hand to my face. Flowers, so dry they had become dust, fell from my fingers, and how I trembled, like newly spun leaves on a branch, tested by a storm. But I traced my face, my lips, my ears and the moonstones that pierced them.
I was slowly remembering, but I could not deny that I felt like a stranger in my own skin.
A thought cut through my mind like a sunlit blade. When would I feel whole again, or had I been away for too long?
Slowly, I rose. My first steps were shuffles, but I found the entrance to the tomb. It was sealed, but I was the goddess of iron. I laid my palms to the door and I felt the pulse of the lock. It melted beneath my command and I
pushed.
The door shuddered and gave way.
I stepped out into a rain-streaked night.
The castle was dark and silent, dreaming. I did not wish to wake it as I walked the empty corridors, my memory guiding me to the tower steps. I ascended them, my heart pounding.
I paused before Vincent’s door. A realization flared through me, and I feared I would find him entwined with another in his bed. I should not have worried; his chamber was dark, the furniture draped in white sheets, as if he had not been here for a long time. The ashes had been swept clean from the hearth.
I stood in the center of the chamber, searching for a sign of where he might have gone. If he was not here, then where would he be? A different chamber, perhaps? But no, this had been his sanctuary, and I knew he was not here within these walls. Nor was he on the bridge.
Eventually, I lit a candle and sat at his desk. There was parchment and a glass inkstand. A cup of quills and a signet for wax seals. I retraced our conversations, eventually settling on one that made me pause. He had once said that he desired to have a small farm somewhere, tucked away from the world. To live in solitude.
I closed my eyes and cast out my magic, as if I had a delivery for him. A letter in my hand with his name scrawled upon it.
My mind raced over the river. Over the moors and their wildflowers, the goldenrod that bloomed in the wayside. The road that led to the northern mountains, a place I had once walked with him and his people. I remembered the meadow where I had lain down beside him, and we had gazed at the stars.
I had felt safe in his arms, feeling him breathe against me.
My eyes opened.
I knew where he was.
I took the road beneath my bare feet. It was dark—the storm clouds were a shield over the moon and the constellations—and the rain continued to fall.
But I savored the taste of it, the thrum of it upon my skin. How my dress clung to me like a lover. How my hair was like silk, dripping with water.
I had not run in a very long time. I had almost forgotten how it felt—the thrill of my feet pounding a melody into the earth, my breath sharp in my
lungs.
I smiled as my walk quickened.
Soon, I was running over the hills.
Laughter spilled from me. I could not contain this delight; it still brimmed in my blood when I reached a cottage in the woods. I slowed, approaching the door. He was here; this was the home he had claimed, and I could only wonder what had brought him to such a place. Had he lost his power as lord, or had he surrendered it gladly?
I lifted my hand to knock upon the wood but paused.
Fear gripped me, and I decided to walk away, threading through the trees. It was late; he would be sleeping. I did not know if my words had reached him, and if they had not … I was about to take him by utter surprise. I thought of the child I had carried back to the mortal realm. The boy who had called his name.
He could have a family. A wife, sleeping within. I did not want to disrupt his new life, and I wondered if I should leave. Melt away into the wind or seek a hidden door and go as far and as deep as the under realm would let me. Return to the wasteland, to dwell beside the Gatekeeper.
It seemed like the safest option. But I could already taste the regret, as if I had cut my lip.
I waged this battle for a while longer, standing between an elm and an oak. Eventually, I decided to approach the door again. I shivered as I raised my hand. A shaky breath unspooled from me as I knocked, three times fast.
I waited.
There was no sound, no light.
I decided to leave and spun on my heel. I was two steps away when I heard the locks slide. The door swung open with a creak. I felt firelight wash over my back, my shoulders, and I paused, afraid to look at him. But I
could feel his gaze.
“Red,” he breathed.
My heart tugged. Slowly, I turned to face him.
Vincent stood beneath the lintel, holding a candle.
His hair was longer. There was more silver at his temples, and he had let his beard grow. Wrinkles gathered at the corners of his eyes, and his tunic was homespun, brushing the tops of his knees. He wore no trousers, and his feet were bare, like mine. He smelled like garden soil and bread and green vines, like woodsmoke and pine and wool.
I stared at him, taking in these slight changes, and yet he was familiar to me. I could see the mark of seven years upon him; they had been long years, laced with worry and fear as well as laughter and joy. Sun and cold winters, tempests and firelit stories.
I realized I had not responded. I had not even dared to breathe as I held his gaze.
But then he smiled, and the tension vanished from my bones.
“Come inside,” he said. “I have been waiting for you.”
I stood by the hearth, watching him light the fire.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Thirsty?”
I nodded, afraid my voice would break if I dared to speak.
Vincent wiped his hands on his tunic and rose. There was a black-and- white dog, curled up near the hearth, watching me with beady eyes as if I were a threat. I swallowed and glanced away, taking in the cottage. It was a welcoming place, its rafters adorned with hanging herbs, its space claimed by mismatched furniture. Sheepskin rugs were spread over the stone floor, and a few small tapestries graced the walls.
Vincent had disappeared into the adjoining chamber. I did not know what he was doing until he returned to me, a clean tunic draped over his
arm.
“Do you want to change?” he asked.
I glanced down. My dress was translucent from the rain, its hem mud splattered. I had dripped puddles onto his floor.
“Yes,” I said, reaching for the garment. “Thank you.”
He smiled at me again, and I felt warm as if I had swallowed a handful of embers. He turned away, his focus entirely on the fire and the soup he was heating in the cauldron. I realized he was granting me privacy, and I
removed my belt, letting it clink on the floor. I stripped away my gown, my skin pebbled from the cold air. He kept his eyes averted, and it reminded me of our wedding night. The night we had pretended to be wed.
I drew the tunic over my head and sighed. It was warm and soft, and it smelled like his skin.
When he invited me to sit in one of the chairs, I did. When he set a bowl of soup into my hands, I accepted, grateful. I lifted it to my lips and I sipped the bone broth, tasting all the wild flavors of his garden.
“Did you make this?” I asked, my voice husky.
He draped my drenched gown close to the fire to dry. Then he sat in the chair across from mine, handing me a slice of brown bread. “Yes. Do you like it?”
“It is very good,” I confessed. I could feel each swallow trickle through me, as if awakening my blood again. I devoured the rest, and then scraped the bowl dry with the crust. When he poured me a cup of ale, I drank, relishing its golden bite.
Vincent was quiet, watching me. Then he asked, “May I ask where you came from, Matilda?”
Now that I was warm and dry and my stomach had been filled, I realized it was time for the two of us to talk. I crossed my legs; his eyes flickered down to the movement before meeting my gaze once more, and there they remained, fixed upon me.
“I came from the wasteland,” I said. “I have been there the past seven years, fulfilling a service to the Gatekeeper.”
“You woke in the sepulcher tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone see you rise?”
“No. The castle was sleeping. I went to your room in the tower, expecting to find you. I was surprised to see it empty and cold. How long
have you been here?”
“Six years,” he replied.
I listened as he began to tell me of all that had happened after I had died.
His decision to step down as lord and bestow the title to his brother. How bitter and cold his first winter in this cottage had been. How he had
struggled through spring, learning how to plant a barley field, how to knead bread, how to care for a flock of sheep.
“Do you live here alone?” I asked, my heart suspended as I waited for
his answer.
“Yes. Unless you count Reeve.”
“Reeve?”
Vincent tilted his head. “The dog.”
“Oh.” I glanced at the collie, who was still watching me with one eye.
“But I wanted to tell you … the child you spoke of in your letter? His name is Tristan, and he is James and Lara’s boy. My friends who have helped guide me through each season here.” Vincent refilled both of our ale cups, and I shuddered, a terrible relief clawing through me. I hoped he did
not see it.
“So my words did reach you?” I asked.
“Yes. Nate found the letter in Maiden Tower. In the haunted bedchamber no one wants. He said the parchment was lying in the middle of the floor, as
if it had been dropped there.”
I traced my lips, deeply pleased.
Vincent was watching me intently. “How did you send it?”
“By doorway,” I said.
He stared at me, the firelight dancing over his face. There was a softness in his eyes, and we spoke more of my magic in the wasteland, as well as of his time here. The toils of a farmer, as well as the triumphs. His friends and his sheep, the dog and the boy Tristan, whom he loved as a nephew.
“I will introduce you to them tomorrow,” he said. “If you would like that.”
“I would,” I replied, and then was shocked when I yawned. I felt weary and heavy boned; my eyes struggled to remain open.
Vincent noticed and stood. “You are tired. Here, there is a place for you in my bed. I can sleep by the fire.”
I followed him into the adjoining bedchamber. It was sparse, as if he did not spend much time here. There was a bed, big enough for two, and a window, shuttered against the rainy night. Another hearth, glowing with embers, and a chair with a stack of books beside it.
“I will be just outside if you need anything,” Vincent was saying, spreading the wrinkles from the blankets. But I reached out and took hold of his sleeve, and he froze as if I had charmed him.
“Stay,” I said.
In the dark hour before dawn, when the rain fell in a whisper and the fire crackled into ashes, Vincent drew the tunic from my body. I lay naked on his bed, my damp hair spread around me. I felt safe, I felt warm. He gazed down at me, his eyes taking in my every line, my every curve. I watched as he pulled his own garments away, casting them aside. His skin was pale in the golden light, his body beautiful, familiar. His scar was a faint mark that I traced with my fingers, down to the curve of his hip.
His breath caught.
When he lay down with me, I closed my eyes. His skin was hot against my own. His heart beat with mine, as if the two were aligned, and I could hardly breathe through the pleasure as my legs fell open beneath him, as I wound my fingers into his hair. He kissed the hollow of my neck, and his breaths were rapid, his teeth sharp as he nipped at my shoulder.
I wanted him to split me open, if only to see what would spill from my blood. The secrets, the pain, the shadows, the words. The pieces of me that I was afraid to bare to any save for him. I wanted to set those fragments in his hands. The myth of who I had been, of who I could still become, my life
woven with his.
A goddess who loved a mortal.
My name was destined to be blotted out of the divine myths and perhaps even forgotten amongst the poets and the bards as the seasons wheeled onward. Time did not favor such quiet stories. Once, I had feared this, until I realized my story was not one to be devoured by strangers. No, this was for him and for me. And if we wanted to tell it, we would in our own way.
“I would wait a thousand years for you,” Vincent said. “If you asked me, I would wait for you until only my bones remained upon an altar. But if you must leave again, then let me follow you, Red.”
My throat was too narrow, my pulse too swift, to speak. He caressed the edge of my jaw, the curve of my lips with his thumb.
“I cannot bear to be away from you,” he whispered, kissing my brow.
Again and again, until I realized he was tracing my crown of stars.
Something only he could see. “Look at me, love. Let me see your eyes.”
My eyes fluttered open. Our gazes held, and I felt him press into me.
Soft and slow, gentle as if he was also remembering. But when I curled my nails into his back, a ragged sound escaped him; I felt it rumble through his chest into mine, and he moved faster, deeper. I could no longer resist; my eyes closed and my back arched. His fingers traced the ridges of my scars and then around my ribs, slipping downward. A moan stirred my breath as he filled me, again and again. As his deft fingers caressed me.
“Vincent,” I said.
He kissed his name from my mouth, and we came undone together.
I gazed at him, watching the rapture pass over his face. I kissed the dew from his skin, traced the curve of his back. He was mine, and I was his.
We lay entwined together afterward, our breaths falling into a steady rhythm again. When he drew air, I let it go. And I fell asleep in his arms.
We woke not long after that, just as dawn broke through the storm with pale blue light.
While Vincent stirred the fire, I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and walked out the back door. I stood in the garden, listening to the rain drip from the leaves. The ground was wet and fragrant beneath me. A bird flickered from one branch to the next, trilling as the last thread of darkness faded.
I lifted my face to the sky and watched the clouds thin. The last star of
the night melted away.
“Matilda,” I heard Vincent say.
I returned to him just as the sun broke the horizon.