Page 76 of Sonnets and Serpents
Even so, he said, “Eliza,” letting each sound roll slowly off his tongue.
Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she drew in a long, slow breath. For a moment, his heart sped, thinking she was savoring the way he’d said her name, until he realized she’d been recalling one of her sonnets.
“Love, my crown,” she whispered,“most precious gems within its settings gold; patience abiding, unceasing hope, and mine endurance bold.”
Poetry within a prison cell. Idealism and reality colliding, irreconcilable.
Though Silas normally chose reality, he pushed away his awareness of the prison, focusing instead on the girl beside him, on the lilt of her voice as she recited. To better hear, he shifted closer, his leg pressing into hers in a line of thrilling warmth. She opened her eyes and leaned in to match him, imparting a sonnet like a secret.
Love, my armor, gleaming steel, the guard above mine heart;
To pointed axe and hardened falchion, ne’er will it part.
Love, my sword, a sharper blade will ne’erwhere be found;
Which severs lies, defends the truth, and holds me honor bound.
Love, my cup, and to it raised;
Drink deeply now and all my days.
For with thy love, a king I’ll be;
And with my love, all’s well with me.
Eliza’s voice faded into poignant silence. Silas was close enough to count her freckles and the copper threads of her eyes.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, the word nearly catching in his throat.
She lowered her eyebrows, taunting him, the smooth curve of her lips puckered in a frown. “But you don’t believe in love like that.”
“I don’t.” He allowed a slight smirk. “But I’ll admit, a good poet makes it sound enticing.”
She filled his passive senses—sight, smell, hearing—leaving his mind to wonder about the ones left out. Touch. Taste.
He swallowed heavily. “What’s your favorite line, Eliza?”
She took a moment to think, her eyes studying his face. He wondered what she saw.
“The sword,” she said softly. “Which severs lies, defends the truth, and holds me ... honor bound.”
Sword. He should have known. Of course it wouldn’t be the crown; she didn’t seem to care about being royalty at all. Not the armor, either, because she had no interest in defending herself. The sword, because Eliza fought for what she wanted, because she went on the offensive, even when her plans for doing so were irresponsible. She was a warrior.
Heart pounding, Silas closed the little distance between them,and she tilted her head in response. Her soft lips brushed his, so lightly it might have been another whisper of poetry.
Then something crashed in the hallway, startling them both upright. Silas held rigid, poised to transform, until he heard one guard berate another for carelessness.
The shift change.
Eliza scurried away, rolling to her feet and brushing dirt from her trousers with devoted franticness. No doubt she was grateful for the interruption.
He was too. Or at least he told himself so and refused to look back on the emotions of the last few minutes.
Standing, he peered through the bars at the guard, barely visible past the curve of the hallway. Thirty feet, maybe? Silas grimaced, then waved Eliza over. She approached hesitantly, eyeing him like he might suddenly kiss her again. But reality was back, present in the scent of a rotten cell and the shadows of dim lanterns along a gloomy wall.
Quietly, he said, “You’ll have to lure the guard closer. I can’t reach him if you’re still in here. But wait until I’ve transformed and gone through the bars.”
Eliza’s eyes widened, and she whispered back, “What if he steps on you?”
