"I thought you loved me," he said in a failing whisper.
"I wanted to. And I like you very much. But she was right. I cannot forget her, though God knows I have tried."
It came to him then clearly, terribly, that she was not lying. Those letters with their strange paper and stranger ink, the knot of hair with its shifting colors, the fabulous roses--all those things forced him to face the idea that Violet held secrets from him, that there was something in her he had never even guessed at.
"She found me," Violet said, and he knew dimly that she was no longer speaking to him, "when I was eighteen. There was a spinney at the bottom of our garden with a stream running through it. Marian and I went there to read novels and write poetry and do other things Mother disapproved of. Sometimes we would talk of what we meant to do when we were grown. We would never marry, we told each other solemnly. I wanted to be a poet. Marian wanted to be an explorer and find the source of the Amazon. But that day I was alone."
It was another thing he had never known about her. He had never known that she wrote poetry at all, much less that she had dreamed of poetry instead of marriage. It was another fragment of her that he had not held, when he thought he had held everything that she was.
She had drifted across to the mirror, the massive heirloom cheval glass in its mahogany frame. She was running her fingers over the carved leaves and flowers; her reflection in the glass seemed like a reflection in dark water.
"I can't remember what I was doing. I just remember looking up and seeing her. She was standing in the stream. I knew what she was."
The eyes of her reflection caught his eyes. He watched Violet remember where she was and to whom she spoke; her face closed again, like a door slamming shut.
"She seduced me," Violet said, turning to face him. "We became lovers. At night I would sneak out of the house and cross the stream to her court. One week, when my parents took Marian to visit her godmother, I told the servants I was staying with Edith, and I spent the entire time with... with her. She begged me not to go back, but I could not stay. Do you understand, Philip? I could not stay."
She seemed to see in his face that he did not understand, and the vitality drained out of her again. "The night before I married you, I asked her to let me go, to give me a year and a day to try to be your wife. She did as I asked."
"But then she began writing letters," he said, because he had to prove, to Violet, to himself, that he was truly here.
"Yes. I have not answered them. I have been faithful to you."
He held up his hands, palms out in a warding gesture, as if the bitterness in her voice were something he could push away. But he could not keep the reproach from his tongue: "You kept the letters."
"Yes," Violet said, her tone too flat to be deciphered, "I kept the letters."
---
The third letter:
Violet, my only heart,
I know that your silence must mean you will not return, that you have chosen your other life. I could compel you to return, just as I could have compelled you to stay. I hope you understand that my choice not to do so is itself a gift, the only way you have offered me to show you that I love you. I do not know what there is in your life to treasure: your husband, as blind and senseless as a stone? Your fat, stodgy infant who will surely grow up to resemble his father? The mother whose love you cannot win, the father who has never noticed you? Your sick and clinging friend? The infrequent letters from a sister who thinks of nothing but her husband?
You know the wonders and joys I can offer you. You know that in my realm you will be honored as you are not in your own. Violet, it is pain to me to know how you are treated, how little those around you see you--much less recognize your beauties--even as they use you and destroy you. I know that you will not heed me; I feel in your silence that your mind is made up. You are better than the mortal world deserves.
I will give you three gifts then, since you will not let me give you more. Your freedom, even though you turn it into slavery; this token--I wish that perhaps you will wear it next your heart; my roses, that your house, too, may become a garden. And I give you, still, my hope that you will return.
---
The silence in the bedroom was as heavy as iron, heavy as lead. Philip could not find the strength to lift it. In the end, it was Violet who straightened her shoulders and said, with an odd, crooked smile, "Well, Philip?"
"You don't love me," he said.
The smile fell from her face. "No. I am sorry."
"What about Jonathan? Your son?"
The Queen's careless description, "your fat, stodgy infant," hung unspoken between them. Finally, Violet said, "I will do my duty by him."
"My God, Violet, I'm not talking about duty! I'm asking if you love him!"
"You are asking too much." The color was gone from her face; for the first time, he was forced to admit that the solemn photograph captured something that was really part of Violet. Before he could compose himself against that realization, another hit him: that he did not know her, that the sparkling, marvelous conversations, on which he had founded his love, had given him nothing of her true thoughts, nothing of her heart. He had worshipped her as her suitor; he had worshipped her as her husband. But until now, he had come no closer to her; truly, as he had thought earlier, she was a stranger to him.
In the pain of that revelation, he said, "You used me. You're using me and Jonathan." Then, with a gasp, "You're using my love!"
"I have given everything I have to give in return!" Violet cried. "Is this all there is, Philip? Have I no choice but to give everything to her, or to you? Either way, what is there left for me?"
"Violet--"
"No," she said, so harshly that he was silenced. "I see that I am like Ulysses, caught between Scylla and Charybdis. To neither side is there safe haven."
He looked away from the bitter anguish in her face. He still loved her. He did not think he would ever forgive her for what she had done, but her despair struck him like barbed arrows. "I am sorry," he said at last. "I did not realize I was asking so much."
"You have asked no more than any man asks of his wife." She sank down slowly onto the chair by the window, resting her forehead on her hand.
"I did not wish to... to crush you," he said, fighting now simply to make her hear him. "I did not know you were so unhappy."
"I am not unhappy," she said without raising her head. "I chose between love and duty, and I am living with my choice. I had not... I had not expected to be offered that choice again. That makes it harder."
"Will you go back to... her?"
"No. I cannot. Her love will destroy me, for I am only mortal, a moth, and she is like the sun. My poetry was immolated in her ardor, left in her garden with my heart, and I cannot sacrifice more to her." He thought for a moment she would go on, but she said only, again, "I cannot."
"Will you... will you stay with me?"
She raised her head then to stare at him; her face was set, like that of someone who looks on devastation and will not weep. "Have I a choice?"
"No, I mean... I meant, only, will you stay? With me?"
"You know that I do not love you."
"Yes, but..." He could not think how to express what he wanted to say, that he needed and loved her whether she loved him or not, and was forced to fall back, lamely, on, "You are my wife. And the mother of my son."
"Yes," she said, her voice inflectionless. "I am."
He said, in little more than a whisper: "Don't shut me out, Violet, please."
"Very well," she said. Her smile was a faded reflection of its former luminous beauty. "What is left is yours." She turned away, but not before he had seen the brilliance of tears in her eyes.
He wanted to comfort her, but he no longer knew how. He stood, awkward in the fading afternoon light, and watched her weep.
On the landing, the roses of the Queen of Elfland, as clamorous as trumpets, continued to shout their glory to the uncomprehending house.
Sarah Monette was born and raised in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, one of the secret cities of the Manhattan Project. She studied English and Classics in college, and has a Ph.D. in English Literature. Her series of novels from Ace Books feature several same-sex relationships as does her collaboration with Elizabeth Bear, A Companion to Wolves. Her short stories have appeared in lots of different places, including Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, Alchemy,Weird Tales, and Strange Horizons.
The Kings of Oak and Holly
Kenneth D. Woods
The Oak King grows.
Sap surges thick and golden beneath his wooden skin and twin green-burgeoned trunks lift skyward skyward in supplication to the. The sun sun that rises bright and warm over the city. and a A gentle wind caresses bough and leaftwists through the avenues of skyscrapers to the park, caressing bough and leaf in greeting, in understanding, in commiseration. It is an unexpected kindness, and he chokes back a sob, reining in the urge to thrash branch and leaf against the deep blue sky in grief and fury at the passing of his brother. The King of Holly lies dead upon the hill, and the King of Oaks cannot forget that it was his own hand that did the slaying, or that his own time will come soon enough.
The Oak King cherishes life; this day is nearly enough to make him forget that the King of Holly lies dead upon the hill by his own hand. So too, he can nearly forget that his own time will come soon enough.
He sighs, and in the ebb and flow of sap remembers he has work to do. For if the sun sings it is but an answer to his own song. Each Yule he is reborn and sings the Song of the World and the light once again grows strong. On Beltaine, this day, he sings once more. Sings for the passing of his brother, sings for the quickening of the world.
On rivers of light his song is carried, nourishing and healing the world. On the wings of his song hope takes flight. In his song he lives.
---
Danny McCaffrey paused beneath the boughs of an old oak. The tree had split at waist height and twin trunks curved away to form a narrow seat. Danny was new to the city had discovered the tree his first week as he cut through the park on his way back to his apartment, nerves frazzled after a job interview that had gone poorly. Something about the tree had calmed him, and he'd been back almost every day since..
He'd never considered himself to be a tree hugger, but as he hitched himself up into the bole of the tree he ran the tips of his fingers along the warmth of its bark, pressed his cheek against its roughness, and imagined he heard a song.
The melody was elusive, but imperative, and he found himself humming along, his mind and it seemed as though a presence gathered around him pulled down from the stars. And when at last the song faded away completely, leaving only tattered fragments behind to blow fitfully in his memory, he jerked to attention, back straight, eyes searching the park.
The fine blond hairs at the back of his neck stood on end, and his skin prickled the way it did when he knew he was being watched, but other than a few early morning joggers, no one was about. A strange buzzing filled his ears and he flared his nostrils, inhaling the heady scent of warm, damp earth. An odd, phantom taste of salt rolled across his tongue, and the feeling of being watched intensified.
For the first time since he'd begun spending time with the tree he felt uncomfortable, and couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. Nervously, Danny hopped down from his perch and looked around. A few early morning joggers meandered along the paths of the park, but otherwise no one was about. No one watched. Shaking his head, he hopped down and retrieved his backpack from the ground and hitched it up around his shoulders.
As he made his way along the paths, a light breeze tousled his hair, and it seemed as though someone whispered in his ear, "Stay."
---
Danny hurried across the street to the little coffee house on the corner across from the park, glancing over his shoulder as he pushed open the door and plunged into the dimly lit interior. He blinked, giving his eyes a second to adjust, gaze roaming walls painted in lavender and violent orange. A couple of shabby, black leather couches lined one wall and stained commercial carpeting rippled like waves at uneven intervals across the floor where it was coming loose. Years of smoke permeated everything and its stale blaring pushed away the lingering, softer notes of the park. An unassuming place with the best coffee in the world, the coffee house's tawdry appearance kept the shirt-and-tie set out. That suited Danny just fine.
At the counter, he ordered the house blend from a girl with spiky green hair and hematite plugs the size of quarters in her ears. The girl was slow, but when she at last handed him his coffee, he thanked her politely and headed over to the coffee station. Danny preferred his coffee to be sweet and dumped two packets of fake sugar into his cup before swirling it with a little plastic spoon.
He'd hardly sat down and taken his first, tentative sip before the stranger was there, standing over him. He met the stranger's eyes over the chipped rim of his cup, heart skipping a beat and groin stirring as he made eye contact. Soft eyes like green-gold light filtering through a lush canopy stared down at him, and when the stranger grinned Danny heard the rustle of leaves. Dark hair, wooly and wild crowned his head, and when the stranger extended a nut-brown hand, heat flushed the back of Danny's neck and Danny almost overturned the coffee cup in his hurry to set it down.
"Hello, Danny," the stranger said. "I'm Jack."
"How do you know my name?" Danny stammered.
Jack laughed, rich and rolling and deep. "Oh, lad, how could I not?"
---
Danny reclined on the sofa in his tiny little apartment, idly picking at a snag in the red and brown plaid upholstery. His head rested on Jack's chest, and he relaxed by listening to the soft rising and receding rhythm of the man's breath and the muffled, metronome beat of his heart. Danny turned, his bare feet dangling off the arm of the sofa. He looked up through the skylight that had sold him on the apartment, at the few stars bleeding through the city's penumbra, and idly played with Jack's fingers. Jack hummed a tune he didn't recognize.
"What song is that?" Danny asked.
"I don't believe it has a name. Or if it does, I've long since forgotten it."
"Sing it for me?"
"Of course," Jack said.
He loved Jack's voice, its rich, deep sound. He closed his eyes to enjoy the beauty of the melody and the words.
There is a bonnie lad I know,
His eyes they shine so bright,
My bonnie lad he loves me so,
Love, like silver light.
Danny squeezed Jack's hand as the last note fell away. "So if it's a love song why do you sound sad?"
"I'm sorry. I suppose I'm just a little melancholy tonight."
"Over?" Having to ask him troubled Danny. The past two months since meeting Jack had been the best of Danny's life. Since that first unlooked-for meeting at the coffee house they hadn't spent a single night apart, and for the first time in his life Danny felt like he was really, truly in love. The money situation was looking up, too. He'd gotten a job teaching summer classes in art appreciation at community college, and it looked like they would keep him on for the fall term. He was even thinking about buying a car. He smiled, imagining his first drive out to the country with Jack to meet his parents.
"It's nothing," Jack said. "Forgive me."
Danny sighed. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't get Jack to open up. He did know that Jack loved him, it was written plain across his face, and manifested in his touch. There were some things one just couldn't fake, yet. Jack had secrets. Danny knew there had been something very different about Jack the moment they'd met. Jack was a mystery Danny had been eager to figure out, but as one month turned to two, that eagerness had turned to frustration. Danny stood on the edge of the perfect life; he could feel it, if only Jack would let him in.
"Are you poz, Jack?" Danny asked suddenly. It had been a question that had been preying on his mind of late.
"What? Why would you think that?"
"Because you never make love to me," he said.
Which wasn't entirely true. They did make love, spending long hours kissing and pressing their naked bodies against each other, exploring, until bringing themselves to orgasm. But whenever Danny had pushed Jack for intercourse, Jack had denied him, always saying, "Not yet."
Jack grabbed him by his shoulders and lifted him away, standing. Danny leaned back against the couch while Jack paced before him. "Look, Danny, why can't you just let things be what they are? Why do you always have to push?"
"Because I love you, Jack. I want to have everything with you."
Jack stopped his pacing and headed for the door where he'd left his shoes and thrust his feet into them. Danny wasn't going to let him get way that easily.
"Where do you go, Jack? When you think I've fallen asleep?"
"Look, Danny. I'm sorry, but there are some things I'm just not ready to talk about right now. I have to go." And then he was gone, slamming the door behind him, leaving Danny to sit bewildered on the couch.
What the fuck just happened?
---
Over the course of the next month things changed between Jack and Danny. Danny still loved Jack, still saw him every night, but the easiness of the relationship was gone, and had finally led Danny to the dark paths of the park at 3 a.m., sneaking out behind Jack to finally see where it was his lover went each night. Of all the places he thought Jack would go, somehow the park had never been on the list. Jack had just never seemed like the whoring type.
The end of July was a miserable time in the city, and already the cotton fabric of his shirt clung damply to his skin. To his left, behind a stand of bushes, the sound of grunting and heavy breathing carried on the heavy summer air. In a way he envied whoever they were, envied their unbridled fucking. To his right, a man leaned up against an elm and rubbed his crotch. He hurried past, Danny averted his eyes and hurried past,
So Fey: Queer Fairy Fiction Page 10