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“We’ll let the two of you get some alone time,” Dante says. The three of them return to the lobby, leaving Eleanor and I alone.
I settle on the edge of the bed and wrap my arms around her, pulling her close.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” I whisper into her neck. We fall asleep to the sound of the slow beeps of machines and the squeak of orthopedic clogs on linoleum. Eleanor settles back into my arms. She’s here. She’s content. She’s mine.
I stayed with Eleanor overnight, the two of us crammed together on the narrow hospital bed, the plastic bars along the edge digging into my hip bone. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to leave her.
The next morning, Eleanor is given a clean bill of health, so we check her out of the hospital. In the parking lot, we hesitate after I scrape the ice off the windshield of the Cadillac.
“Should we go to the house or the motel?” Eleanor asks. She’s the first one to broach the subject. I hesitate, but then I realize we won’t know if the ritual works unless we go back to the house. Then it hits me:
I didn’t dream about Beatrix last night.
“Let’s face this once and for all,” I say. Eleanor nods and beams up at me. The drive back to Idylewylde House is silent and contemplative.
“Last night, you said something about how you were Beatrix,” I start.
Eleanor’s eyes widen, “Yeah! It was so weird. It was like I was watching a movie about her life, but I was also in the movie. I don’t know how else to explain it.”
We hold hands on the center console. I squeeze her hand. “Some things are better left unexplained.”
The air no longer feels heavy and oppressive when we walk into the house. I struggle to recall the last time I took a deep breath here, but as I stand in the dining room, I can observe the grandeur and feel the air rushing through my lungs. I note the intricate wooden sconces and the trim along the ceiling that are carved to look like vines.
It’s only then that we notice the spoils of last night: a half-eaten Yule log cake with a plastic knife sticking out of it at the end of the table; the rumpled table runner; the scratches carved into the wood of the dining room table. And then, there’s the midnight black scorch mark next to the shredded leather diary. Eleanor dips her index finger into the soot and draws a line.
Eleanor glances between her bloody cuticles and the table, “Did I?”
I nod.
“Holy shit.”
The house is silent, save for the gentle sound of birds chirping outside. Eleanor glances out the dining room window and watches the icicles throw light as they hang from the roof.
“Is it just me, or does it feel calmer in here?”
“I think you’re the first person to ever describe this place as ‘calm,’ but I was thinking the same thing.
“It’s so strange,” I say, wrapping my arms around Eleanor’s waist, “But I get the feeling that we can finally rest.”
That night, we collapsed into my bed in tandem. Eleanor sighs with relief and splays her limbs out across the mattress.
“You look like a starfish,” I say as I collapse beside her. I roll over onto my side and prop myself up with my good arm, allowing myself to take her in. Her cheeks are pink again, and her green eyes sparkle. She looks beautiful and full of life. She offers me a small smile and hefts herself up onto her elbows.
“Come here,” she mumbles, looping her arms around my neck. Our lips collide frantically. I sweep my tongue over Eleanor’s as she slips her tongue into my open mouth. I suck on her bottom lip, and she groans.
Her hands wander down to the waistband of my flannel pajama pants. I feel my cock start to stiffen as I imagine her soft hands wrapping around my shaft. I pull away momentarily.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
Eleanor nods, “Joseph, I miss you. I want you. I- yesterday was so strange. It’s like I wasn’t even in my body. I want to feel you inside me,” she blushes. “Sorry to be so forward.”
“No, no,” I reassure her with a fierce kiss. I use my good hand to help her out of her underwear. I can feel the heat radiating from her center. Her entrance glistens as I slip one finger, then two, inside of her. By now, Eleanor’s body is an open book. I know exactly what spots to tease to make her writhe in pleasure, to make her velveteen eyelashes flutter with ecstasy. I use the pad of my finger to trace and tease her clit, slowly.
“Fuck,” she hisses. Her hips buck involuntarily.
I grin, “You’ve got to tell me, does that feel good?” I curl my fingers upward again, pressing the sweet bud of her clit.
“Yes,” she chokes out.
