"I could not know what the ultimate outcome of your falling in love would be, and I would not wish this upon you. Perhaps you will find this surprising, but my nature is not vindictive. It is simply my duty to show men the error of their ways."
"I believe you. My punishment is of my own making. It has always been of my own making. I do not deserve happiness, after all I have done. I never deserved Mira's love, and I was foolish to think that I might win it."
"Edward, I believe all men deserve a chance at redemption," she said, laying one slender hand on my shoulder. As she did, I felt compassion flow through me, as warm and soothing as a blazing fire on a cold day, as comforting as a mother's caress. "I would not have visited you if not to offer you that chance."
"I am grateful to you." I knelt before her, lifting the hem of her gown and kissing it.
"I am sorry, truly sorry for you, Edward. You have changed, and I would not wish unhappiness upon you now. I, too, am powerless, for I can do nothing to relieve you of your unhappiness."
"No one could, but it has been a comfort to me to see you again."
"There is little time left to you now." Her voice was sorrowful. "I have extended your life to the limits of my power. I can delay nature, but I cannot override her. She will eventually claim her own. I could only offer you the chance to be reborn in love. Do you understand this? Your form, your life, they are all tied to the Edward you were. Had Mira returned your love, you could have been made anew."
"I understand. Even if it were within your power, I would not ask it of you. You gave me much more than I understood. I wish with all my heart that Mira would have loved me, but I would choose the pain of losing her a thousand times over the pain of never having known her."
"I shall not forget you, Edward, king of Organdy. There are those I attempt to assist, but who go to their graves never having learned a thing from me. I shall mourn your passing, but there is some balm in knowing that I was able to help you."
"You helped me indeed, my lady," I said.
"Go gently," she said, bending down to kiss me lightly atop my head. Though nothing could erase the pain of Mira's loss, Oriantha had brought me some comfort. I would hold onto our meeting until my last breath, and would feel some sense of relief as I passed, knowing that she had seen what was in my heart.
"Goodbye, my lady," I said to her. My eyes grew weary. I was so tired. I felt it a breach of manners, but I could no longer support my weight, and I sank back down upon the ground. It felt as soft and yielding as a feather mattress.
"Goodbye, Edward," she said, her voice growing faint.
She was lovely, my lady Oriantha, but it was not her face I would have wished to be my last sight. However, I longed to keep my eyes open, so that I could at least die gazing upon her rather than gazing upon nothingness. I wanted to struggle against oblivion, but I had not the strength for it. The blackness was pulling me down, and I could feel a terrible cold seeping into my limbs.
Thus dies Edward, King of Organdy, forsaken and alone, I thought, for it was Edward who was returning to nature. Lysander had died the moment Mira had fled the castle.
Chapter 40
Somewhere to Belong
As I recovered my health, I did my best to fall back into my old routines. I gardened, cooked, baked, cleaned, and spent as much time as possible with Papa. Though I felt some peace, I could not deny that I also felt a certain degree of restlessness. I would sometimes lose myself, forgetting what I was supposed to be doing and finding myself staring blankly at my surroundings. There was a sort of unreality to my life now, a feeling that I was somehow removed from it and watching it from some sort of distance.
I tried my best to ignore this feeling, to simply throw myself into my old life while doing my best to forget that I had ever known anything different. Naturally, Papa was very curious about my time with Lysander, and even my sisters could not help but be interested. When they questioned me, I usually answered quite tersely. I could see that my sisters were soon satisfied that I would not rave about the beast to any of the other villagers, thus placing a black mark on their reputations, while Papa seemed to think I was too upset by the memories to care to relive them.
Though I would dearly have loved to pour my heart out to Papa, to beg his assistance in making heads or tails of my emotions, I was reluctant to speak with him because I could see he found it difficult to believe me. He did not think me a liar; he simply could not understand how I could have found Lysander's company remotely agreeable. Whenever I mentioned him by my name for him, a look of utter bewilderment would cross Papa's face. The more it happened, the more reluctant I became to share anything with him.
At night, I often dreamed of Lysander. Sometimes the dreams were more like reliving memories of the times he and I had shared. Other times, the dreams were strange. I was able to hear Lysander and to feel his presence, but I was unable to see him. A sea of faces separated us and, even though he should have been very distinct, I could not locate him in the crowd. Most infrequently, but most disturbingly, I had dreams of him alone in that cold, empty castle. I saw him sitting listlessly and felt an overwhelming sense of culpability for having abandoned him. I invariably awoke from these dreams with my heart pounding, my throat aching, and my pillow soaked with tears.
If only I had been braver and had not fled from Lysander. If only I had found the courage to examine my feelings, to try to decipher their meaning. I had endured so much that I had never before thought of myself as weak-willed. Ever since I had left Lysander, though, I had the nagging sense that I was a coward.
"You seem a million miles away," Papa remarked, as I was indulging myself in such thoughts one evening. He was reading before the fire as I carded wool, an activity I had done so many times over the years I thought I could probably do it in my sleep. It was too mindless, for it allowed me far too much leisure to think.
"Forgive me," I said, blinking and looking at him. I was vaguely aware that Papa had asked me a question, but I could not for the life of me think of what it was. "I am poor company."
Papa hesitated, studying my face carefully. "Dearest Mira, you have been poor company more and more often of late."
His words caused my shoulder to tighten, and I had to bite back a defensive response. "There is much on my mind," I settled for saying.
"I imagine there is." Papa thumbed a few pages before looking up at me. "I know your thoughts weigh upon you heavily, and it saddens me that you will not speak to me. You have always shared everything with me. Would your mind not be easier if it was unburdened?"
"There is nothing of which I need to speak, I assure you. If there was, I would tell you."
Papa sighed. "Please, Mira, will you not be honest with me?"
"What would you have me say?" I cried, the words bursting from me out of sheer frustration. "I certainly would not expect Rowena and Thomasina to understand, but even you cannot. You have your own thoughts about what I experienced, and nothing I say can dissuade you."
Setting his book aside, Papa placed a steadying hand over mine. I had not even realized I was shredding the wool, but when I looked down at his hand, I saw the bits scattered over my skirt. "I fear you came to… identify with this beast. It is understandable, certainly, for who else was there? But, Mira, what he did, what he is…"
"You have no idea what he did or what he is," I exploded, leaping from my chair. Papa started, his expression pained and, though I felt a flicker of regret for my outburst, I simply could no longer contain my emotions. "You speak as though I am some sort of saint for having endured his presence. You do not like that I gave him a name. You believe you know what he is like, but you know nothing. Do not try to tell me what I saw, what I experienced, for you know nothing of it." Turning my back on him, I burst into loud, wracking sobs.
Papa placed a hand on my shoulder. "Mira, you are unwell. Please, sweet, allow me to…"
"Leave me be!" Forcefully, I pulled myself away from him. "Oh, what have I done?"
&nb
sp; I felt as though I would burst, and I could no longer bear the oppressive atmosphere of the cottage. Blinded by my tears, I turned and fled through the door, the night air like a slap against my wet cheeks, Papa shouting behind me. It was dusk, and the light was rapidly fading. I could no longer bear the pain of what I had done, and it was made all the more acute by the knowledge that Papa did not understand what I felt for Lysander.
Why should he? He is not at fault; I am. He does not know the truth about Lysander, but I do, and still I left him.
Running was difficult, I was so overcome with sorrow and shame over what I had done. I pushed myself, running desperately, my father in pursuit. I hardly knew where my feet were taking me, but I looked up and saw through my tears that I was not far from the forest. If I could run just a little faster, just a little farther…
Suddenly, my arm was seized with jarring force, and I had no choice but to stop. My breath came in quick pants and I felt rather faint and dizzy as I looked up at my father's stricken face.
"Mira, what are you doing?" he whispered, through white lips.
"Oh, Papa, Papa," I sobbed. "I should not have left him. How could I be so foolish, so cruel, so heartless?"
"You are speaking nonsense. Come, let us return home. I shall give you something to calm you."
"Papa, I beg of you, let me go. Please." I stared desperately into his eyes.
He seemed to have trouble meeting my gaze. "I do not wish to do this to you, Mira, but what choice do I have?"
"Do you not understand?" I asked brokenly. "I love him. If you keep me from him, I shall never forgive you."
My father went terribly still at my words, and he studied me searchingly. I do not know what he saw in my eyes. All I know is that, whatever it was, it caused him to loosen his grip on me. "You love him?"
If he had tried to hide the note of horror from me, he had failed. There was something else in his tone that I could not identify. "Yes, Papa, I love him. I love him so dearly, but I could not face it and so I ran. I abandoned him, and I shall never forgive myself for it."
My father shook his head slowly. "This is madness. You cannot ask this of me."
"And you cannot ask me to stay."
Slowly, his hands released me. "Oh, Mira, my child," Papa said. Tears sprang to his eyes and trailed down his face. "Do not ask me to make this choice. I have always loved you best, you know that. How can you ask me to give you willingly to this beast?"
I took his hands in mine, gripping them so hard I knew I must be causing him pain. "Because I have never asked anything of you, but now I am. You will break my heart if you refuse me this."
He turned away from me, his shoulders heaving. Faintly, very faintly I could hear his voice say, "Go." The word had barely left his lips before I began to run again, my panic driving me so that I felt as if I were flying.
As soon as I entered the forest, I knew the path to take. I could not believe my father had not found it. The path between the castle and Everforest was there, clear as day.
"I am coming, Lysander," I called. "I am coming. Wait for me!"
It did not take long to reach the castle, but my steps did not slow at the sight of it. Rather, I moved even faster, for I felt an impending sense of doom. My heart was in my throat as I raced around the castle, looking everywhere for Lysander and finding him nowhere. It was as if the castle had been abandoned for centuries, and I would have thought myself mad if not for the evidence that I had been there. Here were the clean windows, with the light of the rising moon shining through them. There was the neat library, where Lysander and I had passed many an hour. But no matter how many chambers I examined, no matter how hard I looked, I could not find him. Even stranger, I saw no sign of the servants either.
His chamber was the last place I could think of to search, and I stood before the door for a few seconds, afraid that I would be unable to bear the pain if he was not within. Indeed, as I raced inside, frantically searching everywhere and seeing no sign of him, I felt as if my heart was dissolving.
"I have lost you. I have lost you forever," I sobbed, sinking to my knees beside his bed. I clutched his bedclothes, burying my face in them and smelling his scent, as if he were beside me once more. I sank until I was prone on the floor, lying trembling on the smooth, polished marble, holding onto Lysander's bedclothes with a death grip.
"Why do you weep so, child?" a kind voice asked. The sound scared me half to death and I jumped.
"Who are you?" I asked. It took me a moment to locate the source of the voice and, as she stepped closer, I could scarcely believe I had ever been unable to see her. Light emanated from her, a light so bright, so white, so pure that it dazzled my eyes, and I raised an arm to shield them. She was beautiful beyond imagining, even though her face was suffused with sorrow.
"I am Oriantha," she said.
"I do not understand. Where is Lysander? Where are the servants? Did something happen to them?"
"They are in the garden," Oriantha replied.
Of course! How could I have neglected to search there? I sprang to my feet, ready to dash out to them, but Oriantha halted me with her words.
"It is too late."
"What do you mean?" I asked her. Fright, keen and silvery, shot through me.
"Lysander is no more."
"No," I whispered. Then I began to repeat the word, my voice rising in a crescendo of despair. "It is my fault, my fault. Oh, Lysander. I was false to you, my best and dearest friend. I was such a coward! How could I have abandoned you, left you to die alone? How could I leave you when I love you so?"
Oriantha was silent as I allowed my grief to pour from me. The castle was horribly still around us and would be forevermore.
"Why did you go?" Oriantha asked gently, after some time.
"I was such a fool," I replied in a hoarse whisper. I clutched the bedclothes again, terrified that his scent would leave them, that I would lose every last trace of him. "I feared what I felt for him."
"You were not the only one to have this fear." Wordlessly, I turned my gaze to her. "He was afraid as well."
"He… he told me that he loved me," I whispered, my voice so low that the words were very nearly inaudible. "He opened his heart to me and, like a coward, I fled from him."
"But you returned."
"What does that matter now?" I asked, my tears starting anew. "I am too late. He is gone, and he did not have me at his side to comfort him. But I do not understand. He was well when I left."
"He had no time left."
Clarity unexpectedly struck, and I understood. "This… this was all a spell, just as I suspected. Was it not?"
Oriantha nodded her stunning head. "Your friend doomed himself to a life as a beast as penance for his actions."
"He did not attempt to conceal his cruelty from me. He could not have, even if he had wished. He was cruel to me and to my father. I knew what he was, but it was not what he remained." I was pleading with her, willing her to believe me.
"He changed much," she agreed. "He learned much."
"And it is my fault that the spell was not broken in time." I could taste the bitterness of my own words.
"Lysander is no more, but you may yet find what you seek."
"How?" I asked, angrily. "All I want is Lysander. All I want is to tell him that I love him, that I am sorry for leaving him, that I will never again leave him."
"I am sorry child, truly. We cannot always have the things for which we wish."
"Did he feel any pain?" I had to know. I hoped it had been quick, merciful.
"I cannot lie to you, child. He felt a great deal of pain at the loss of you."
My burning eyes again filled with tears. "I shall never forgive myself," I repeated.
"You forgave Lysander his serious trespasses, and you must learn to forgive yourself yours."
"I cannot."
"Poor child," Oriantha said sympathetically. She extended a luminous hand and caressed my bowed head. I felt fleeting warmth, a fleeting
comfort. "Go, Mirabelle. Say your goodbyes to Lysander."
When my mother had died, I thought nothing could be worse than the fierce ache I felt in my chest, but that could not compare to the leaden weight I now carried. I would never again see my Lysander. I would never again sit with him in the warmth of the library, reading to him and discussing what we had read. I would never again hear the sound of his voice, see the sparkle in his eye as I matched wits with him. There were not words enough to describe the depths of my sorrow, to express the magnitude of my loss.
As I moved slowly from the chamber, I could do nothing more than nod my head slightly in acknowledgment of Oriantha. She did not seem offended, and she studied me with eyes full of sympathy. There was something else there as well, but I could not identify it. It did not matter. All that mattered now was getting to Lysander, now that it was too late. I needed to be with him, to say the things to him I should have said before I lost him. He would not hear the words, but I must speak them, though there would be no absolution for me.
Chapter 41
Second Chances
Dying was a peculiar experience. It was not painful, but there was certainly something odd about feeling my life force begin to gradually ebb. My mind drifted, thoughts floating about me like a river. I remembered strange things, things about which I had not thought in centuries. I remembered one of my nursemaids showing me kindness, which caused me to embrace her, the word mama slipping from my lips. I wondered that I had forgotten about the stricken look that had come over her face. I remembered the distinct scent of my father's study, parchment and dust, and the mixture of sweat and fragrant herbs that emanated from his advisors as they began to speak to him about policy, while a different nursemaid dragged me from the chamber. Truly, my life was flashing before my eyes.
Once my mind's eye turned to memories of Mira, it lingered. I had no concept of time at this point, but it seemed that I dwelt for a much longer period on memories of her than I had on any of my other memories, as if my time with her had lasted a great deal longer than the centuries without her. Blessedly, I felt no sorrow in these memories, simply a strong sense of peace. Perhaps she could comfort me in my final moments after all. She had also granted me the gift of the sense that I had managed to do something good in my life, no matter how small. How I had longed for a life with her, but I was happy to have at least had her in my life.
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