Sweet Agony (22 page)

Authors: Charlotte Stein

BOOK: Sweet Agony

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Or at least I think so. I think so.

But then he speaks.

‘I am not incapable of it,’ he tells me, in a rush of something that might be fear and could be realisation but is most likely shock. He is shocked, I think, by this new understanding. And I understand why. It rocks me almost to my core when he finishes the idea off. ‘I just
want
to be. More than anything, I want to be. It hurts to feel – like cranking up a machine that has run to rust and ruin from long disuse. But I would do it for you, my lovely one. By God, I would do anything for you.’

‘Cyrian…’ I say, though it doesn’t sound like his name.

It sounds like the dark glass, as it melts away.

‘No one has ever been more generous to me than you, and it moves me more than I can say. Some days, I wish it were not true. But still, it remains,’ he tells me, and then I just blurt it out. Guilt makes a fool of me, not him.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I was upset, that I thought something stupid. But we can forget it now. It doesn’t matter at all, it wasn’t important.’

‘Of course it must have been. Anything you feel is important to me – do you not understand that by now? I might not be able to deal with emotions properly, but at the very least I can honour yours,’ he says. But I suspect he still doesn’t know what this is going to be about. He seems to tighten all over when I tell him that I saw him at the house.

And all he can reply is:

‘I see.’

After which everything just pours out of me in a great flow.

Quickly, like the ripping of a bandage.

‘And I just thought…I thought that you might have kept all that from me because maybe you’re ashamed. You have this big, secret Lordly life and I’m just so clumsy and silly and common. People like that would never understand me. That woman with the fancy hair would think I was a nightmare. I could never talk to people like that or fit in with that life and though I know – I know – you kind of hate it anyway I just…I had to wonder. I mean, you said that about not exposing them to me –’ I blurt out.

And am so, so glad when he cuts me off.

‘I said I did not wish to expose
you
to
them
.’

I had no idea how much it had been playing on my mind, until he just made it so clear. I had it the wrong way around all along, and now I know that I can go to him. I don’t even care about the embarrassment of it. I just cross that last small distance and stand by his side.

‘Oh. Oh. Oh, you meant…’ I say, but he still does not disappoint me.

I’m starting to think he might never do so, in any ways that matter.

‘Yes, I meant I would rather pluck out both my eyes than have to endure those hideous people picking you apart. Though I want to stress, this is not because I feel any shame over the person you are. Quite the contrary: I am ashamed of
them
. Could you not tell that I am ashamed of them? You must be slipping, Molly.’

I love the way he looks when he says this. He gazes at the glorious scenery, as though the matter is so simple it barely needs his attention.

And he looks way too beautiful – that hair, all wild and tangled, and those eyes now bright with an ever-ready gleam.

‘I’m always slipping around you. I don’t know why you think I’m so clever.’

‘I think you are clever because you see right through me, not because you are always and forever right about everything. Honestly, what fun would it be if you were?’

‘Probably as much fun as if you always understood me.’

‘We are not psychic, you and I. We are simply…’

‘Simply what?’ I ask, and hold my breath.

I don’t know why I do. As soon as he glances down at me I understand what is coming, and after that it’s just a matter of bracing myself for impact.

‘Soulmates,’ he says, as though it was always that simple. We were made for each other, he and I. Not perfectly, but in all the ways that mean the most. I know we are, because when he meets my gaze I see all the things he can never say. It practically sings out of him, so warm and good I feel my eyes overflowing again. I have to swallow seventeen times just to keep the tears down, but even then my voice sounds insane.

It strains over a concept I didn’t even realise was paining me until it comes out.

‘I don’t even know your real name. Cyrian isn’t your real name, is it?’ I ask, but he doesn’t look away. He takes in all of my messy emotion, and he doesn’t look away.

‘The groundsman’s daughter could not pronounce my real and frankly ridiculous one. She turned St John into Cyrian, and so I simply adopted it. To be clear, though, this adoption had nothing to do with you. It is only a representation of the person I wish to be, instead of the one I actually am. And when I met you, when you spoke to me as you did in the library, I could never have given you anything but the sweet dream, instead of the reality,’ he says, and I just have to laugh. Partly because of the utter perfection of his name being St John, but also with a kind of joy I never thought I would feel.

It sings through my soul. It shows in my voice.

‘Cyrian
is
the reality. I know that now. I could never doubt.’

‘Even though I am hideously and ridiculously wealthy?’

‘Even though. Even though everything.’

‘And if I can never be the man you deserve?’ he asks, but only because he is as blind as ever when it comes to knowing what he’s really worth. Not that that matters now, here, as I take his hand – because from this point on I will always be there to tell him.

‘Oh, my love,’ I tell him. ‘You already are.’

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