Page 42 of Ladybirds

His eyes close, pained. “I’m aware.”

Sara looks at him—really looks—and wonders. “Do you regret it because of what happened or because it was wrong?”

A long moment passes between them, Seth staring upward as if the answer were hidden in the shadows playing off the ceiling. Ansel jumps into his lap, offering a demanding mewl until Seth’s fingers scratch behind his ears. “Both,” he confesses, turning his attention to her. “I’m... not sure if I would have arrived at one without the other.”

“Then... at least you’re a better person because of it. Right?”

The laugh he gives is short and breathy. “If you consider me a person at all.”

“You are,” she says, surprised by her own conviction.

The smile teasing his mouth is soft—sincere in ways that make him look painfully human. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she murmurs, hugging her legs tighter. There’s an odd feeling curling in her chest, coiling dangerously around her heart. It sets her on edge. “So,” she says, desperate for distraction, “was it your, uh, lover? That cursed you?”

“No.” Seth shakes his head, both hands now working under Ansel’s chin. “Her grandmother.” He frowns, lips pursing as if tasting something bitter. “The crotchety old bat.”

“How do you know?”

“She spent her last five years on this earth rubbing my face in it,” he grumbles. “She was the only one who ever saw me despite never having struck a deal.”

Sara stares, eyebrows raised. “And?”

“And what?”

She can’t tell if he’s being purposefully dense or not. “How do you break it?”

Seth snorts. “As much as I appreciate your optimism, I’m not entirely sure it can be.”

“She—the grandmother never told you?”

He goes quiet, gaze drifting to the window. “I asked once, if it was possible. Do you know what she said? ‘Time will tell.’” His eyes are like flint—sharp at the edges and ready to strike. “As if that’s any answer at all.”

“Well, it could be worse. She could have just said no.”

Seth looks at her, his gaze piercing. “If the doctors told you, with certainty, that David would never regain his memories, would that truly be worse than never knowing? Doesn’t it hurt?”

Sara sucks in a breath. Her first instinct is to lash out, to let the pain sharpen her answer to a point, but there’s an openness in his expression that makes her pause. There’s no mocking smile, no cruel edge in his tone, and Sara knows his question was an honest one.

Doesn’t it hurt?

Every day. The thread of hope she carries is so thin, it cuts. When she’s alone and things are quiet, she feels like she’s drowning—clawing for the surface, for the light, when it would be so much easier to let go. To sink.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs, but she can’t meet his stare while she says it. When she looks up, his eyes are too deep. Too knowing. Curses weren’t the only thing Sara looked up at the library. Judging by his clothes he’s had over two hundred years experience with tentative hopes—has had to face them every time someone looked through him, every time he spoke, knowing no one could listen.

Sara wonders how deeply the thread he carries cuts; if there are scars left over or if it’s still bleeding freely.

The way hers are.

Sara takes her time.

Scouts out the best hill to plant herself on, sets up the tripod, measures the light. Sunset is still an hour and a half away, but she doesn’t mind the wait. Here, overlooking the city, the quiet almost matches the fields surrounding Oma’s home. The wind whistles a bit through the trees, and the grass doesn’t share the same nostalgic rustle of thousands of swaying cornstalks, but the feeling of solitude—of peace—is the same. Both are things she’s been sorely missing lately.

“You know,” Seth says, slanting her a look. She hates that he’s followed her here, but she can’t even summon the energy to tell him to buzz off. “You should really be spending the evening catching up with Mr. Darcy and Miss Bennet. I do believe they’ve been rather neglected by you as of late.”

‘Neglect’ is probably a lot kinder than she deserves. She hasn’t made it any farther than the fifth page, and the deadline for the exam has only been creeping closer. Still. “There’s always the movie,” she quips, trying to sound more confident than she is.

“And here I believed you to be above cheating.” Sara can’t tell if he sounds disappointed or impressed. “You don’t know what you’re missing, truly. Miss Austen is a treasure.”

---