Page 62 of Propriety
The wooden door shifted open just enough for a figure to slide in.
It shut behind them.
The lock slid into place.
Had she been more aware, she would have chided herself for leaving her door unlocked.
Nothing mattered.
She let out a quiet sob, fingers crumbling the letter.
“I love you,” she whispered, praying that he might hear it.
That he might know.
She never got to tell him.
“Je sais, mon amour,” the shapeless figure answered. “I know.”
Her heart stuttered.
Guinevere sat up, squinting into the darkness. She rubbed at her eyes, blinked.
Rubbed again.
She couldn’t see past her own hands, her lanterns having snuffed out, the fire in her hearth gone cold.
For the first time since she had received the letter, she let it flutter out of sight. “Is it you?” She asked, trembling. “Or are you another phantom here to break me?”
“Oh, my dove.”
She stifled a sob, pressing a closed fist against her mouth.
Her body shook. She couldn’t stand, couldn’t move.
But that didn’t matter.
She heard his boots moving against the cobbled floor.
One.
Two.
Three.
And he was in front of her. She could see him.
She lifted her hand, but couldn’t bring herself to touch him.
“What have they done to you?” His voice was soft in the air that surrounded her.
It was too good to be true… What if he was a specter?
“Please be real,” she whispered, tears burning her eyes.
His hand moved slowly, so slowly. She watched him move, entranced — enraptured.
His fingertips brushed against her cheek, the slightest touch, the gentlest caress.
