The sentence, We ought to talk later, always brewed a vicious maelstrom in me. Twisting and turning like a noose around my neck, however typical that may sound. And it did exactly that when Father said so.

“Lad,” Edmund says from behind me.

Sunlight hasn't had much time to tread on the cobblestone pathway leading to the gates.

I turn around, Edmund standing at the Main Entrance. Only a few gardeners are working, but even they're at the back.

I raise a brow at him and Edmund comes closer, lightly stroking his chin. The black of his uniform contrasts my morbid blue in the light. “If I may ask, what have you been doing?”

I gesture to the gates. “To work.”

“You know what I mean.” He rolls his eyes. “It isn't like you to leave your tracks so… uncovered.”

You mean the obvious James Ryland disguise.

My arms fold across my chest.

“Unless.” Edmund frowns. “You did that on purpose. A well hidden secret wouldn't cause--”

“--As much chaos as an open secret. That is an excellent deduction.” I shrug, no song of trees’ birds accompanying me. “And your asking me this shows that effect on Father.”

Edmund tilts his head to the side, his mouth downtrodden. No trace of his usual humour covers his face. “A question always crossed my mind, one I didn't think I'd need before now: Is that you talking or William Sterling?”

Holding back a grunt, I shake my head.

A man with a gash on his arm prowling; another seeking asylum like a convict.

“Every action has its consequences, Edmund. Father will understand what I'm talking about.” Without looking back at him, I turn towards the gates, out of these gardens, out of this Eden.
Even though, there isn't much light, I shield my eyes with my hand.

“Is that you or William Sterling?”

Edmund question revolves around my mind, despite of initial dismissal of it. It blends itself with the manipulated dream, the one with strange music boxes and lifeless chapels.

Scorching sunlight pattering with the rain; its scar reflecting on the one with no life left in her...

Mathilda’s sigh makes me shake my head. She resigns into her seat, throwing the letter onto the table. We're at her apartment, with me being at her east.

“Is everything all right?”
My fingertips tap on the old wood.

“Just my brother-in-law. He says Della is better, but she's still at the hospital.” Mathilda pulls her loose  hair to her right shoulder.

“It is common for women to stay that long after a miscarriage, along with…”
My gaze travels to the rocking chair on the far left. “She'll be better, much better.”

Instead of older memories, images of the dream bombard my vision. They prance and shift among the shadows, taking the humour with them.

Her fingers snapping in front of me make me blink in waves.
“Matthew… you seem more lost than usual.” Tilda wraps an arm around herself and the other reaches for the book again.

“Only had a nightmare.” I wave a hand.  “It’s all right.” Tearing my gaze away from the rocking chair, I straighten in my seat.

“Nightmare?” She raises a brow, a fisted palm resting on the table.

I try smiling. “It’s nothing.”

She sees right through the fake smile. “That's moonshine, Matthew. You were like this the last time we talked too.” Mathilda glances at the same rocking chair. Her palm clenches and unclenches around the discarded letter.

Reaching over, my hand slides over hers. “You're avoiding your own situation again,” I say, despite the guilt rising at it.

“Just like you are.” The barest of smiles tug her lips, head slightly tilting to the side. Just like the photograph. When my jaw drops, she starts blinking.
“Matthew…”

I shake my head, before rubbing my chin with a free hand.
“I…”
But then she looks at me with those brown eyes that hold all the beauty of the world.

After releasing a sigh, I tell her my dream. Tell her everything about it. But only the one with the photograph. The first manipulated dream seems more… unrealistic.

Have I mentioned my butler is a vampyre? And I'm seeing manipulated dreams? I swear I'm still sane.

Mathilda listens silently, nodding in intervals.

When I finish, a coldness sweeps around me. It isn't even sweat, since there's no moisture on my person nor anywhere around us.

Mathilda taps her cheek.
“Don't photographs… mean memories? And you say the music box opened only when the hourglass was completed. Maybe…”

“Maybe memories unlock in their own time…” My free hand taps the table.

“I wonder why my memories have such convenient timings.”

I suppose that was answered… barely.

Mathilda nods along. “By the way your parents were facing, that usually means they have secrets.”

I nod slowly, the feeling of forgetting something never leaving me. “No doubt about that.”

“As for Mr Henry… perhaps his being translucent means that you know him that well. You know his inside and out.” She pushes back her chair, stepping to the side of the table. “But I don't understand two things.”

My lips purse, as I stand up as well and go to her side. “You didn't understand why you were in the photograph and why Belle was hiding her wrist.”

Mathilda shrugs, our shoulders brushing against each other.
“That photograph seemed like a family photo. Why would I be in it?” The slightest bit of rouge touches her cheeks, just like my own ears right now. Without my consent, my thumb runs across her cheek before pulling away.

This is not a conversation to be made under such circumstances. I should tell Thomas Page that, actually

Mathilda shakes her head, stepping closer to me. “And I really don't know what hiding wrists means symbolically.”

Now an actual smile crosses onto my face. “Now, don't go about searching the library's mythology books for hiding wrists, Tilda.”

A woman near the stained glass: you; alive and not alive...

This time, I do put my hand at the curve of her back in full awareness. An all too known awareness of the way we're touching. Even though we have been like this before, it feels like a drop of rain caressing your lips.

“What's a good story without even a hint of symbolism?” Mathilda lies her head on my shoulder, despite the manner of our conversation.
“Is that all you were thinking about?” The way her words coalesce almost make me drop everything in front of her, everything I've known or done.

Do you really want to give her all your burdens when she has enough of hers?

The clock above us ticks away, pulling me away from my thoughts. “It’s one O'clock; I ought to go.”

Slowly, Tilda nods while I try to shift. Still I end up in front of her, not away. Heart beating faster and faster like a struck tuning fork. When I look at her, Tilda glances at my lips. Without thinking, I press mine onto hers.
Her surprise masks mine, but then she wraps her arms around my shoulders. Like the right notes coalescing together into the perfect symphony.

I take a step forward, her back colliding with the edge of the table. We break away for a moment till Tilda sits on the table.
My thoughts drown in her when we pull each other closer, her legs wrapping around my waist while my hands go down. And down and down. Reliving every moment under the water.
But the course of the tide shifts. The waves of a storm start thrashing and smashing against a quiet shore, creating their own conflagration.

As if broken out of a trance, Mathilda lightly pushes at my shoulders. We both break apart, breathing heavily. Heavily. Heavily. Hers shallower than mine. Two lost passengers back on shore, blistering from the thousand rays of scorching light.

I ran a hand through my hair, and she looks at the clock.
“Five minutes past one.” She looks back at me, folding her arms on chest. A glaze coats her eyes.

“Tilda…” I breathe out, but she walks past me.

Was that... kiss too much... My heart leaps to my throat, choking me.

"Tilda, I'm sorry. We won't do anything, unless you want it. Tilda..." I try seeing her face, but she's busy with her cloak.

Mathilda turns to me, fervently shaking her head.
"No, no... It's not that. It's fine, I'm fine.” She tries smiling again, crossing over to her cloak.
“We should both go back to our work.”

I know I should hold her elbow when she passes by the door. I know I should ask her what's wrong, other than the obvious. I know I should ask about the glaze of water in her eyes.
But I'm afraid, afraid of watching her crumble, drown, afraid of what will happen to her-- to my Tilda-- if that happens. Maybe I'm more afraid of crumbling with her. But the clock ticking away and her fastening her cloak forces me to part from her, to part from everything we have.

Hey everyone, I hope y'all are fine ♥️
And phew, I swear kissing scenes are the hardest to write. Like how do you even talk about smacking lips?
Wow, never was there an author who gave such fine imagery 🤦

Also, if you look carefully, there's also a reference from the synopsis somewhere up there.

P. S. Moonshine means bullshit. Yeah, Tilda just said, "That's bullshit, Matt."
And I spelt it vampYre here, mainly because of John Polidori's "The Vampyre"(1819)

Readers from TGD will know I used vampIre there (which is more common today). So yeah, I'm not trying to overly aesthetic with archaic spellings lol.

I hope everyone has a nice week ♥️
Love,
MS Zame