A Dancer in Darkness by David Stacton

the lock gave, and the gate swung open. She hesitated and then went inside.
    It was a very different affair from their baroque mausoleum at Castello del Mare. The room was long and square, with circular lights let in near the ceiling of the high roof, and a tall open arcade that looked down across the valley towards the sea. It seemed that the Piccolomini had crowded down to death in some haste, following one another pell mell, for the floor was a maze of statuary. She threaded her way to and fro, and let her skirts trail where they would.
    She was young enough to find monuments of this kind full of a curious thrill, a certain charm. Here a woman life-size knelt beside a table tomb, thinking of nothing in particular, while her husband reclined on the lid, tapping with his fingers on a marble skull. There some knight rested with his feet up on an intelligent stone porcupine.
    Farther along stood a marble countess in a farthingale, one hand on her breast, and with a stubborn, but gracious expression on her face. She stood among her children, of which there were seven, together with an eighth that lay in the cradle of her left arm. They were shown shrouded, with only their heads peeping out of their ruffs, and looked like ears of corn, stripped to show the cob.
    It made her meditative. She had no children of her own. She had only the Piccolomini heir, and even he had been taken away from her. She wondered for a moment how ordinary people felt about their children. They must like them even when they were small.
    She turned to leave, and thought she heard footsteps. Shehurried towards the grille and felt herself pulled backward. For a moment it startled her. The hem of her robe had caught a cherub carved low to the floor on one of the tombs.
    Beyond the grille she saw the glow of a candle, and someone was definitely standing there. She gasped with exasperation and tugged once more at her skirt. But it would not come free. The grille creaked and the figure stepped forward. She looked at it wide-eyed. It was Antonio.
    “What are you doing here?” she asked. She felt an overwhelming relief.
    ‘The building is in disrepair. Something might have happened to you.”
    “Have you been here all the time?”
    “I came to check the tombhouse, and the grille was open.”
    “You knew I was here.”
    He hesitated and then nodded reluctantly. He came no closer to her. That annoyed her. She tugged again at her dress.
    “I’m caught,” she said. Her hands moved idly, as though they had a life of their own, and wanted to say something.
    He came forward, set the thick candle on the top of the table-tomb, and bent to release her. He had to kneel to do so. The light flickered restlessly. She looked down and saw the small black hair curling round the nape of his neck, and remembered those early days when they had first gone hawking. The well-cherished gesture of that neck suddenly made visible was too much for her. She watched her hand reach down to touch him, as though it were not part of her. He shook it off, and then, kneeling as he was, put his arms around her legs, and buried his head in the thick, embroidered folds of her dress, with a little stifled moan, that seemed to run up through her. She felt her hands rest in his hair, and burst into floods of tears.
VI
    Tears bring release. They sometimes spring from joy. They are like rain. They renew everything. Tears are a promise. Tears are enjoyable.
    Together they sank towards the floor. They had offered up six weeks to self-control, and now the sacrifice was over. Itmade them solemn. It is curious how much more you can see of the world when you cry. When two people cry together, kneeling on a stone floor, face to face, they see even more.
    He put his head on her shoulder. His fingers began to toy with her hair, and ran over the locket that hung at her throat, clutching it convulsively.
    “Oh no,” she moaned.
    He wrenched away from her, but still knelt there, his hands on his thighs,