Light in the Darkness

by CJ Brightley

  He had picked up the copy of Magical Research that had slipped between the cushions and was trying to read the few parts that weren’t in Elvish or Dwarvish when he heard feet hit the floor in the bedroom and pad towards the door. He stood.

  A bleary-looking Hope emerged, in a robe, nightdress and slippers, and gave a jump when she saw him. She pulled the robe more closely around her and tried to haul her hair into shape.

  “Patient, what… how long have you been here?” she asked, in the dull, toneless voice of someone who has just woken up and wishes she hadn’t.

  “Not long,” he said. “I got the horse bus from the wharf.”

  “Oh!” she said. “I was meant to meet you. Sorry, I fell asleep.”

  “So I see. It’s all right. Get yourself fixed up, take your time.”

  “I… you got yourself a cup of tea? Do you want anything to eat?”

  “I’m fine. Just do what you need to do.”

  She padded into the bathroom, and he heard water running and various ablution noises. He boiled the copper kettle on the range, and made a fresh pot of tea for them both, hoping he’d picked the right tea-herbs.

  She emerged, still in the robe, crossed to his side and sat down with him on the cushions. “Sorry,” she said.

  “No problem.” He handed her the cup of tea he’d made for her.

  “Oh. Thanks.” She sipped, and set it down on the floorboards.

  “Patient.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m a terrible lady friend.”

  “No you aren’t.”

  “I am.” She leaned back on her hands. “The one time I’ve kissed you, I threw up on your new trousers. You come to see me and I forget to go and get you and fall asleep, and then come out looking like I grew up in a bush. I’m whiny and forgetful and I get headaches all the time and now I’m going to cry for no good reason.” A big tear tracked down from her doe eyes across her smooth cheek, finding its way through the downy fuzz that shone in the sunlight.

  He put his own cup down and wrapped his arms around her, gathering her in. Her head fitted onto his shoulder exactly, and she began to sob, tears falling onto his shirt. She sniffed periodically.

  “I think you have every reason,” he said after a little, and held her more tightly. She clung more tightly back, and sobbed harder.

  “Sorry,” she said, when she had sobbed herself out. “I’m hard on your clothes, aren’t I?” She swiped ineffectually at the wet spot on his shirt.

  “Think nothing of it.” He held her silently for a while, and then her stomach rumbled. His answered immediately.

  “Is it dinnertime?” she asked.

  “Past,” he said. “I’ll make something.”

  “You’re the guest.”

  “Doesn’t matter. What would you like?”

  “I don’t think there’s much. We usually shop on Fourday. There’s bread in the bin, and some cheese in the chill cupboard.”

  “You have a chill cupboard?”

  “Energy mage, remember? Not that I can work magic right now, but a chill cupboard isn’t hard. You just open a gate into one of the spaces that has less heat than ours, and stabilise it with a few crystals.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” he said, assembling bread and cheese on a couple of plates. He went to sit back down on the cushions, but she gestured him to the table, a plain, rustic piece with matching chairs.

  “Let’s eat like civilised people, at least,” she said.

  They chatted over dinner, once the first couple of bites had pushed away the hunger pangs. Patient described a commissioned piece he was carving, and Hope told him about the adding machine and how Rosie was fitting in. “It’s a good thing she’s there, really,” she said. “I’m not there much, and oddly enough for a man who has essentially no social skills, Dignified works best when he has a collaborator. It helps him focus, I think.”

  “I’m just the opposite,” he said. “I do my best work when I can get lost in my carving.”

  “I’m very distractible at the moment,” said Hope. “And my memory is like leaves in harvest-time. I don’t know how long that will last. The healer says not forever.”

  “Was that a real possibility?”

  “It was something I worried about. What if I could never do magic again, or concentrate enough to work? I’ve spent my whole life from the time I was eight years old working on becoming a mage. If I can’t do that, I don’t know who I am.”

  “Eight?” he said, not knowing what to say and looking for a way to distract her from that line of thinking. “That’s young.”

  “Yes, my father found me bending sunlight in the window-seat and called the mage. Sincerity was her name. She didn’t like children, but she was a good teacher despite that.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  Her story wound about and backtracked. She lost the thread sometimes. She repeated herself, forgetting what she’d already said. He tried to keep his worry behind his eyes, but it must have leaked out, because she stopped in the middle of a story about an old Elvish book and said, “I’m not making much sense, am I.”

  “I’m following it. It’s probably good practice for you, telling stories.”

  “Patient, I feel like I’ve lost myself. I… my brain is who I am. When it’s not working right…”

  “Shhh,” he said. “It’s all right. The healer said it will get better, right?”

  “How do you know that?” She looked puzzled.

  “You told me.”

  “Did I? I don’t remember.”

  “Come and sit on the cushions,” he said, “and tell me some more stories.”

  She grew tired after about half an hour, and her voice slowly dropped into a mumble.

  “Come on,” he said, “time for you to go back to bed, I think.” He helped her to her feet and supported her into her bedroom.

  “Will you stay with me tonight?” she said fuzzily.

  “That’s what I came here to do. Where are your spare blankets?” He didn’t want to sleep in Briar’s room, even though Hope had said she wouldn’t be home tonight, and wouldn’t mind. It seemed an invasion; he hardly knew Briar, having met her exactly once, at the demonstration airhorse race last year, and exchanged no more than a greeting. But the floor cushions felt comfortable enough, better than an army camp by a good way.

  “No, what I mean… will you sleep in here with me?” She looked at him with those big dark eyes, and he froze, his diaphragm fluttering with an emotion that had so many elements he couldn’t separate them.

  “Hope, I…”

  “I’m sad, and afraid,” she said. “And I think if you’re here I won’t feel that so much.” Her voice was high, uncertain.

  “Hope…”

  “I’m not asking you to sleep with me in that sense,” she said, blushing.

  “I know. It’s just… taking me a minute to get used to the idea.”

  “Will it be too difficult for you? I mean, just because I can’t feel… desire, I know you do, and if it makes it too awkward…”

  “No, I’ll be all right. Here, let me help you into bed first, then I’ll go and get ready.”

  He went into the bathroom, took off his boots and washed his feet, then changed into his nightshirt. He had brought a small bag, part of his military issue, with a spare shirt and socks and things for the next day. He cleaned his teeth thoroughly, not concentrating on what he was doing, but thinking about the woman in the next room.

  It was true that he desired her. Difficult not to. She was beautiful, and, when not struck on the head, competent, highly intelligent, and self-assured. But he also liked her, and felt affection for her, and wanted to make up for the fact that when she’d been in danger, falling on a hard surface, he hadn’t been capable of saving her from injury. He took a long breath, calmed himself, thought chilly thoughts towards his midsection and returned to the bedroom.

  She had moved over from her earlier position, offering him the left side of the bed. He s
hook his head as she looked up at him sleepily. “I have to sleep on my right side,” he said, “because of the leg. I can’t hold you if I’m there.”

  She smiled, a beaming, beautiful smile like the sun breaking through a bank of clouds, and shuffled over.

  “I have to sleep on my right side too, at the moment,” she said, “because of my face. But that’s probably good. I want you to hold me, but we really shouldn’t face each other.”

  “No,” he agreed. He walked around the bed and climbed in behind her. Hesitantly, he reached out his left hand and laid it on her hip.

  She shuffled backwards until her back contacted his front. She was shorter than he by enough that he could tuck his head over her shoulder and be able to breathe while not grinding his crotch into her buttocks, for which he was grateful. They were, he couldn’t help noticing, soft and well-rounded buttocks.

  “Ow,” she said, “you’re on my hair. Just a moment,” and she sat up, picked up a kind of cap from the bedside table and tucked her long dark hair into it. “That’s better.” She snuggled down again and took his hand in both of hers, moving it round in front of her so that his arm tucked under her arm. She stroked his fingers briefly, and then clutched his hand in front of her stomach.

  “All right?” she said.

  “Fine. You?”

  “Lovely. You’re nice and warm and… solid.”

  “You’re nice and warm and soft.”

  “Are you calling me fat?” she muttered sleepily.

  “Not at all,” he said, smiling at the fact that she could joke more than at the joke itself. “You’re a beautiful shape.”

  “Good,” she said, and squeezed his hand again.

  She fell silent, and her breathing gradually deepened and slowed. Patient lay awake for longer, enjoying the sensation of being close to her, smelling the herbal soap she used, drifting eventually into sleep as well.

  He woke at dawn, as usual, still cuddled up to her back. Her arms were loosely wrapped around his, and somehow or other his left hand was resting between her breasts. She was still sleeping peacefully, and he stayed still as long as he could, but eventually had to unwrap himself carefully and slide towards the edge of the bed. As he stood, the bed moved and she woke with a jerk and an incoherent noise.

  “Wha?” she said, blinking, and turned over. He sat down and, as casually as possible, pulled a blanket across his lap.

  “Oh, Patient,” she said in a vague, sleepy voice.

  “Just heading…” he said, jerking his head towards the bathroom.

  “Right,” she said, turned over again and almost immediately fell asleep again.

  Patient dressed and set about preparing breakfast for two. When it was ready, he entered Hope’s bedroom again and said her name in a voice that hesitated between trying to wake her and trying not to wake her. He repeated it more loudly.

  She started awake again, sat up, stretched (a diverting sight), and rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?” she said.

  “Breakfast time. Here, I brought it on a tray.”

  He climbed back into bed with her and they shared the food, which she exclaimed over. “I’m a terrible cook,” she said. “My father wasn’t much good, and my mother just refused to do it. And Briar isn’t very good either.”

  “It’s not hard,” he said. “I’ll teach you sometime.” That won him one of her brilliant smiles.

  “Thanks for staying over,” she said. “I didn’t hear you get up?”

  He decided not to mention that she’d woken up and gone back to sleep. It probably wasn’t anything to do with her memory problems, and if it was she didn’t need the reminder. “I tried to be quiet,” he said instead.

  “I’ve never spent the night with someone before,” she said, blushing.

  “You and Faithful…”

  “Our relationship wasn’t like that,” she said, in a brisk tone that told him to discuss it no further. She had told him about having a lover before, and the circumstances, but she didn’t like to talk about it.

  “How did you find it?” he asked.

  “It was nice having you here,” she said, looking at her plate and speaking in a low voice. “I felt safe. Slept better, I think.”

  “Good,” he said. “Finished?” He clattered plates and collected food scraps, avoiding further discussion, took them through to the kitchen, then walked back to stand in the doorway.

  “What would you like to do today?” he asked.

  “Let’s go walking down by the river. I feel better when I walk.”

  “All right. I’ll do the dishes while you get ready.”

  Because of the way the river bent, the flat was not far from part of it, though it wasn’t the part with the ferry wharf. They strolled gently, arm in arm, along a paved path under bare-limbed trees, still well short of getting their new leaves. It had rained the previous night, and the air smelled fresh. Assorted waterfowl waddled away from them in a leisurely manner and launched themselves with tiny ripples into the stream. They said nothing about anything that wasn’t in front of their eyes.

  After a while, they passed a bench, and Hope steered them towards it. They sat, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

  “You’re good for me,” she said.

  “I’m glad.” He put his arm around her and pulled her close.

  “Why did you talk to me, the day we met?”

  “Well,” he said, “as I said to you at the time, going to war had changed my view of what was frightening. I saw you there as we waited in line, and I thought, not long ago I’d have been afraid to talk to this woman, but now I know what fear really is. So I said something harmless, and you didn’t seem averse to talking, and we had a nice conversation. You seemed interesting, as well as being, obviously, beautiful and intelligent. So I thought, Why not offer her my card and ask her to write? The worst she can say is no. In fact, she probably will say no, because after all, a woman like that, what chance do I have? But that’s all right; it’s good practice in asking and not being afraid of the outcome.”

  “I like that story,” she said. “Especially the part where I’m beautiful and intelligent.”

  “And interesting.”

  “Are there beautiful, intelligent, uninteresting women?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I’ve never met one. But what I mean is that you’re easy to talk to.”

  “We’re talking right now,” she noted.

  “Yes, we are.”

  They fell silent briefly, and then he asked, “Why did you write to me?”

  “Well,” she said, “you didn’t press. And you seemed nice, like someone I’d like. And I thought, what would be the harm? As long as I was honest about the curse and gave you every opportunity to back out…”

  “Which you did.”

  “Which you didn’t. Why didn’t you?”

  “Well, as I mentioned: beautiful, intelligent, interesting.”

  “Yes, but… you can’t… we can’t… it must be frustrating for you.”

  “I’d prefer things to be otherwise, that’s true. But I don’t expect someone as clever as you to be defeated by this curse permanently.”

  “But what if it’s years and years?”

  “Why would it be? It didn’t take you years to develop the farspeaker, and I’m sure that’s more complicated.”

  “But I’m not as good at mindmagic as I am at energy magic.”

  “I imagine you could learn. And there must be other clever mages. The Master-Mage…”

  “The Master-Mage doesn’t know.”

  “Then it’s probably time you told him.”

  She glared at him, then dropped her eyes.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I haven’t… I’m embarrassed. He told me off so badly for placing the curse in the first place. And besides, he’s like my grandfather.”

  “I’ll talk to him, if you like.”

  She looked up abruptly, staring at him, then shook her head. “Tempting. But I need to do it myself. You could
come with me, though.”

  “Make the appointment. I’ll be there.”

  “I’ll try to make it at a time when it won’t be too inconvenient for you, but the Master-Mage is busy…”

  “I’ll be there,” he repeated, with extra emphasis.

  “Oh, Patient,” she sighed, “I don’t deserve you.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  They sat for a little longer, then he said, “I need to walk again before my leg stiffens up.”

  “Oh, does that happen? Sorry, I thought a rest would…”

  “Oh, I thought you needed a rest.”

  “No, I was doing it for you.”

  They laughed.

  “Let’s ask each other next time,” she said.

  “All right. Back to the flat?”

  They didn’t do anything serious all afternoon. Hope had to rest from talking now and then, but they enjoyed sitting together silently, too. When he left to catch the horse bus to the ferry, she held his hand between hers and said, “Will you come back next Threeday evening and do this again?”

  Before he could answer, she let go of his hand and turned aside. “No,” she said, “I can’t ask that of you. It’s not fair. I never like it when people want me to do things because of what they will get out of it. I feel like a piece of machinery. And I don’t want to do that to you.”

  “All right,” he said, “let’s imagine you never asked me that, then.” She nodded, head still turned aside. He reached up his hand to her cheek and very gently turned her head to look at him.

  “Now, Hope, would you like me to come back and do this again next shift-round? Because I’d like that.”

  She held his gaze, measuring, and smiled slowly.

  “Thank you, Patient. That would be lovely.”

  As he waved goodbye to her from the little ferry’s deck, he smiled to himself. His late parents would have been scandalised at the idea of him sleeping in her bed every fourth night, even though they weren’t... doing anything. It just wasn’t how things were done.