Irene leans back, satisfied she’s reminded me, and resumes fanning herself with measured ease. To anyone else, she looks like the picture of Sabbath composure. But I know better. She misses nothing.
I force myself to focus on the sermon, the minister’s voice rising and falling like a tide. Yet no matter how many times I fix my eyes forward, I feel him. His presence hums across the aisle, quiet but undeniable. And though I sit straighter, hands folded properly in my lap, my heart sings with a rebellion no one but Irene could ever suspect.
The greenhouse sitsat the edge of the gardens, its panes clouded by years of sun and dust, though the roses climbing its frame still bloom defiantly. Irene ushers us there after church with an ease that feels rehearsed.
“Marcel, would you be a dear and have a look at this door? It sticks terribly.”
He nods, his voice even. “Of course, ma’am.”
But Irene only smiles—far too brightly—before glancing at me. “Clara, why don’t you keep him company? I’ll be inside, attending to my correspondence. Don’t rush, the house is well in hand.”
And just like that, she disappears, skirts swishing toward the back steps, leaving me alone with Marcel in the muted green light.
He tests the door, pulling it open without the faintest resistance. His lips quirk. “Doesn’t seem broken to me.”
I roll my eyes despite the thundering in my chest. “She lies so easily, but I have trouble being mad at her.”
“I can’t be mad at her either,” he laughs softly. His gaze flicks to mine, holding, lingering. Then he steps inside.
The air is damp and sweet, thick with the scent of soil and bloom. I follow him, trailing my fingers along a wooden bench where clay pots wait in neat stacks. On it rests the letter Phillip sent—the one I’d carried here earlier, thinking I’d find a moment alone to read it again on my own.
Marcel notices it before I can move it. His brow creases. “From him?”
I nod, throat tight. “Yes.”
He doesn’t touch it, only looks at me with something raw in his eyes. “Does it make you happy to read his words?”
I shake my head before I can stop myself. “No. Not even a little.” The confession scrapes out of me. “But it makes me feel guilty not to feel what I should.”
Marcel leans against the workbench, his hand brushing a stray petal aside. “Is he a good match for you? I’m sure he has more to offer you than I ever could.”
Anger rises in my chest. “Do you think that’s all that matters to me?”
He shakes his head, his fingers reaching for a rose bloom. “No, but a small, stupid part of me wants to make sure you’ll be well provided for…in the future.”
“This isn’t what I was hoping we would spend what precious little time we have together speaking about.” I press my hand against my middle, trying to hold myself together. “I know what’s expected. My family has arranged everything. The wedding is only three weeks away.”
“And what doyouwant?” The question cuts, simple and devastating. “I know this isn’t the time or place, but Clara, I want better for you.”
My lips part, but no sound comes. Because the answer is standing right in front of me, shoulders broad, curls catching the light, eyes that undo me without a single touch. But I can’t say it. Not when saying it would change everything.
“I want…” My voice breaks. “I want to feel free. Just once, before my life isn’t mine anymore.”
He closes his eyes briefly, as though the words wound him. When he opens them again, the force of his gaze nearly brings me to my knees. “Then don’t let them take it from you, Clara. Don’t let them decide for you what your heart already knows.”
Tears burn hot in my eyes, blurring the lines of his face. I shake my head, my voice trembling. “You speak as if it’s simple. As if I can just…turn my back on everything. On everyone.”
“I don’t think it’s simple.” His voice drops, thick with something unspoken. “But I think it’s crueler still to submit your life to a man that will never truly love you back.”
Silence swells between us, heavy and trembling. I can hear my heartbeat, the faint rustle of vines against the glass.
I want to cross the space. To tell him the truth. That he’s the one I see when I close my eyes, the one whose voice I crave morethan breath. That I am already his, no matter what the world says.
But I don’t.
Instead, I press my palm against the letter, crumpling it slightly. “Sometimes, what we want doesn’t matter.”
His jaw tightens, but his voice is gentle. “Then may God forgive the world for that sin.”
