cried out from another graveyard. Her voice was so strong. It cried out to them both—
He awoke, sat up suddenly, chanting his sanity verse:
“Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done.”
He broke into a sob, half-awake and half-asleep. Her face was so clear—it seemed so real. He slid off the chair and onto the cold stone floor. “Help me, Lord. Please, please, help.”
AFTER HER SISTER left, Scarlett fell back into the pillows, her stomach full and contented. She thought of Christophé. Of that kiss. It had been little more than a touch of his lips to hers, but it had made her feel more than any intimacy she’d shared with Daniel. She thought back on the days after her wedding. They’d only had four months of marriage before he left for the battlefield in Nantes. Four months of confusion, sometimes hurt, sometimes anger.
It was during that time she learned how the hand’s movement on the clock could seem interminable. There were days when she lifted her head at every carriage sound below her window in hopes that Daniel would walk through the door. But even when that finally happened, even when she tried to say something sweet enough or witty enough that he would come out of his world and notice her, it was as though she wasn’t even there.
Daniel was passionate, but only about his street speeches to fire the citizens’ blood-thirst for revenge. The Révolution was his mistress, and Scarlett was beginning to hate it. In that world, there was no room for her at all. The clandestine meetings in her parlor, which she wasn’t allowed to attend. The speeches he sat up late at night to write while she blinked, alone, in the darkness of their bedroom. The faraway look in his eyes when she spoke of everyday things.
It hadn’t taken more than a few weeks for her to fade into the background of his life.
She tried one night to speak with Daniel, have him reassure her.
He was turned on his side, away from her. He hadn’t touched her in weeks, but he wasn’t asleep and she felt brave enough that night to reach out and stroke the suppleness of the muscles of his arm with a light touch.
He sighed. “I’m sorry, my dear. But this body is tired.”
“Do you still love me?” She wished she could take the words back the moment they left her lips, but she waited to hear his answer.
He turned over, took her hand, and brought it to his lips. “Of course.” He looked over at her, their gazes locking. “How can I make you understand?” He looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t belong to myself now. I belong to the Republic.”
“You certainly don’t belong to me.”
He looked back at her, his eyes bright with the passion of his beliefs. “Neither of us can belong to the other until this battle is fought and won. We must deny what we want for the greater good. Do you understand?”
She’d nodded, but didn’t really. How was this liberty? What face wore the name freedom? But she agreed outwardly, determined to be better, demand less . . . let go of the man she’d only just won and begun to know.
It was a bitter pill indeed. She’d met her prince. Married him within a fortnight of that meeting. But she grew up little by little, and in the process faced a sad realization:
The world around her—and, more to the point,
her
world . . . her marriage—was nothing like she hoped it would be.
Chapter Ten
The household was in an uproar. They had two more weeks to prepare for the trip to Paris, and Scarlett had decided to have a dinner party.
“Tell me again, Scarlett, why are we having this man to dinner?” Her mother turned from the stove, wiped curling tendrils of dark brown hair out her face and stared at Scarlett.
Scarlett turned from lighting the candles on the elegantly set table. “Mother. I’ve explained it. He is a scientist. I met him in the graveyard where he walks every morning to—oh, I don’t know, to clear his head. He’s brilliant and so, so smart. And I like him. I think he could be
He awoke, sat up suddenly, chanting his sanity verse:
“Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done.”
He broke into a sob, half-awake and half-asleep. Her face was so clear—it seemed so real. He slid off the chair and onto the cold stone floor. “Help me, Lord. Please, please, help.”
AFTER HER SISTER left, Scarlett fell back into the pillows, her stomach full and contented. She thought of Christophé. Of that kiss. It had been little more than a touch of his lips to hers, but it had made her feel more than any intimacy she’d shared with Daniel. She thought back on the days after her wedding. They’d only had four months of marriage before he left for the battlefield in Nantes. Four months of confusion, sometimes hurt, sometimes anger.
It was during that time she learned how the hand’s movement on the clock could seem interminable. There were days when she lifted her head at every carriage sound below her window in hopes that Daniel would walk through the door. But even when that finally happened, even when she tried to say something sweet enough or witty enough that he would come out of his world and notice her, it was as though she wasn’t even there.
Daniel was passionate, but only about his street speeches to fire the citizens’ blood-thirst for revenge. The Révolution was his mistress, and Scarlett was beginning to hate it. In that world, there was no room for her at all. The clandestine meetings in her parlor, which she wasn’t allowed to attend. The speeches he sat up late at night to write while she blinked, alone, in the darkness of their bedroom. The faraway look in his eyes when she spoke of everyday things.
It hadn’t taken more than a few weeks for her to fade into the background of his life.
She tried one night to speak with Daniel, have him reassure her.
He was turned on his side, away from her. He hadn’t touched her in weeks, but he wasn’t asleep and she felt brave enough that night to reach out and stroke the suppleness of the muscles of his arm with a light touch.
He sighed. “I’m sorry, my dear. But this body is tired.”
“Do you still love me?” She wished she could take the words back the moment they left her lips, but she waited to hear his answer.
He turned over, took her hand, and brought it to his lips. “Of course.” He looked over at her, their gazes locking. “How can I make you understand?” He looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t belong to myself now. I belong to the Republic.”
“You certainly don’t belong to me.”
He looked back at her, his eyes bright with the passion of his beliefs. “Neither of us can belong to the other until this battle is fought and won. We must deny what we want for the greater good. Do you understand?”
She’d nodded, but didn’t really. How was this liberty? What face wore the name freedom? But she agreed outwardly, determined to be better, demand less . . . let go of the man she’d only just won and begun to know.
It was a bitter pill indeed. She’d met her prince. Married him within a fortnight of that meeting. But she grew up little by little, and in the process faced a sad realization:
The world around her—and, more to the point,
her
world . . . her marriage—was nothing like she hoped it would be.
Chapter Ten
The household was in an uproar. They had two more weeks to prepare for the trip to Paris, and Scarlett had decided to have a dinner party.
“Tell me again, Scarlett, why are we having this man to dinner?” Her mother turned from the stove, wiped curling tendrils of dark brown hair out her face and stared at Scarlett.
Scarlett turned from lighting the candles on the elegantly set table. “Mother. I’ve explained it. He is a scientist. I met him in the graveyard where he walks every morning to—oh, I don’t know, to clear his head. He’s brilliant and so, so smart. And I like him. I think he could be
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