“It’s safe.” His smile flashed, his eyes on hers. “Sleep well.”
Celia stood with both sets of fingertips touching the doorway, as though the frame were supporting her. She gathered her breath and her courage, but it escaped with her exhale.
Back home, there were hardy souls who went out at sunrise on the winter solstice and leapt into the river, even when they had to cut a hole in the ice. Celia had cheered them on but never felt the slightest desire to join, but she felt like that now; trying to push herself into something that was terribly painful and fully within her choice to prevent.
“Good night,” Peter said, slightly questioning, and stepped towards the door. Towards her.
Celia reached out and found his arms, and Peter’s hands cradled her elbows. Gathered herself again, to leap into the cold and the fear.
“Peter”—so very hard!—“would you stay? I want you to stay.”
The words pounded with her pulse in her ears, bold and demanding and foolish.
“Stay…where? Are you afraid?”
He had not laughed, he had not pulled away.
“Just here. With me.” Perhaps that was not clear. “Here,” Celia added, helplessly.
Now Peter moved, but it was just to walk about the room. He straightened the candelabra and the curtains.
Celia closed the door quietly behind her, like when she was a little girl and she wished the castle kittens would not run off to chase mice.
“Do you want me to sit with you until you fall asleep?” Peter glanced at her, that same vulnerable look he had worn earlier. “I could”—he touched the book on her bedside table—“sit here and read out loud. Would that feel better?”
Celia shook her head. “You are myhusband. I want you tostaywith me.”
Peter watched her for a long moment. “In your bed?” he asked.
Celia nodded.
“Do you want…do you wish me to kiss you?”
He sounded so uncertain, it gave Celia confidence. She half-laughed. “A thousand times!”
Peter’s expression melted into playfulness. He was probably faking, but at least this game was familiar. “What about a thousand ways?” He stepped closer, brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “May I kiss you in a thousand places?”
Celia moved closer still, letting his arms loop around her. “I don’t know. Do I contain a thousand places to kiss?”
Peter chuckled and brushed his cheek against her hair. “We’ll see if I can find them.”
Celia leaned against his chest, contemplating a thousand places in which to be kissed. It gave her a warm tingly feeling.
“Celia? Is that what you want?” He brushed his hand over her hair, rested it on the nape of her neck. “I will do whatever you wish, but I want to make sure I have it right.”
It was hardly a declaration of burning passion—but perhaps it was. Perhaps it was right for them.
Celia linked her arms around his waist and mumbled into his neckcloth. “I want you to want me.”
It was so desperate, so raw, so true. She didn’t think he had heard and she couldn’t repeat it, so she nodded. Firmly.
“Very well.” Peter put his hands on her elbows and stepped back, his expression shuttered. “Give me a quarter hour. My things are in the other room. Will you be fine, alone, for a quarter hour?”
Celia nodded again, and Peter bowed, crisp and polite, and left briskly.
Alone, Celia’s hand flew to her throat, as though she could catch a giggle or a sob or a song. She would be fine for a quarterhour, oh yes she would, she would, for her love was coming back to her!
*
