topcoat he could feel her cold grip. "Gran is dead, Warren. Now he's buried the way they wanted." Closer, almost touching. "I don't think I want to stay in his house tonight."
Harcourt's expression was befuddled as he attempted to sweep aside the alcoholic fog he carried with him. When her hands moved to the back of his neck, when his skin felt her fingers idly twirling the ends of his hair, he tried not to shudder. She was bereft, he reminded himself; now she wants to go home. But he almost wept when he realized he couldn't remember where she lived.
"Atlantic Terrace," she whispered, as if reading his mind. "Just down from Peg Fletcher's, you know that. It's late. I'm a little frightened with all this," and she looked skyward, back to his eyes.
A slow and deep breath to steady himself, and he nodded. "I quite understand, Lilla. If you need someone to accompany you, you only have to say the word. I am always at your service, as you know."
She dropped her hand to his elbow and smiled at him broadly. "You'll be a gentleman?"
Offended, he almost drew away. "Always, Lilla. Surely you know that."
She giggled softly, kissed his cheek, pressed her forehead to his chin. Her voice was muffled. "You and I, Warren, we're alone on this island now. The others, they think they know what we go through, but they don't. Not really. They feel sorry for us, but they don't care." She looked up at him. "Do they care?"
He wanted to say yes, and knew instantly it was a lie.
"You see?" she said.
The wind was a hint of winter, and before he knew it he had his arms around her, drawing her into the warmth of his coat. So small, he thought. He hadn't realized how small she was, the girl-woman, the child. So small, and so soft; he startled himself by feeling things he had thought were long dead. One hand slipped down to the slope of her buttocks, the other into her hair.
They kissed.
Soft, he thought while her tongue searched for his. Soft. So soft.
He felt her trembling against him, and wanted to open his coat so he could feel her stomach and breasts and the ridge of her hips. But to open the coat would mean breaking the embrace, and it had been so long, so terribly long… so he hugged her instead and closed his eyes at the low groan that warmed the side of his neck.
"Are you shocked, Warren?" she asked softly.
He shook his head once. "It is a trying time for you, Lilla. Solace, comfort, it's what you need, what you deserve."
"Are you sober?" she asked then, and he almost laughed aloud.
"I would say, my dear, that I am about as sober now as I have been for years. That isn't saying much, I grant you, but it's the best you'll get tonight."
They clung beneath the wind and the lightning, against the battering of dead leaves, against the dust devils that leapt from the verge to the road.
She kissed him again, gently, not insisting, and when she lay her head tenderly on his chest he felt a thrumming through his clothes. He frowned for a long moment until he realized she was singing. Very quietly, virtually unheard as the wind brought the first rain. Then a connection was made, and he remembered El Nichols pushing him down the road, remembered turning around, remembered Lilla's night songs.
"Warren," she whispered, "are you alive?"
There was more than the night cold now working down his back. He pushed her away, but she held onto his arms.
"Alive?" she asked again.
"Of course," he snapped, trying to pry loose her grasp.
She smiled, and in a sudden blue-white flare he saw her eyes, the death there, and would not believe it. Nor could he believe the power in her hands.
He could think of nothing else to say but, "That singing…"
"You know the words?" she said, turning her head to see him sideways.
"I have had French, yes, and I've
Harcourt's expression was befuddled as he attempted to sweep aside the alcoholic fog he carried with him. When her hands moved to the back of his neck, when his skin felt her fingers idly twirling the ends of his hair, he tried not to shudder. She was bereft, he reminded himself; now she wants to go home. But he almost wept when he realized he couldn't remember where she lived.
"Atlantic Terrace," she whispered, as if reading his mind. "Just down from Peg Fletcher's, you know that. It's late. I'm a little frightened with all this," and she looked skyward, back to his eyes.
A slow and deep breath to steady himself, and he nodded. "I quite understand, Lilla. If you need someone to accompany you, you only have to say the word. I am always at your service, as you know."
She dropped her hand to his elbow and smiled at him broadly. "You'll be a gentleman?"
Offended, he almost drew away. "Always, Lilla. Surely you know that."
She giggled softly, kissed his cheek, pressed her forehead to his chin. Her voice was muffled. "You and I, Warren, we're alone on this island now. The others, they think they know what we go through, but they don't. Not really. They feel sorry for us, but they don't care." She looked up at him. "Do they care?"
He wanted to say yes, and knew instantly it was a lie.
"You see?" she said.
The wind was a hint of winter, and before he knew it he had his arms around her, drawing her into the warmth of his coat. So small, he thought. He hadn't realized how small she was, the girl-woman, the child. So small, and so soft; he startled himself by feeling things he had thought were long dead. One hand slipped down to the slope of her buttocks, the other into her hair.
They kissed.
Soft, he thought while her tongue searched for his. Soft. So soft.
He felt her trembling against him, and wanted to open his coat so he could feel her stomach and breasts and the ridge of her hips. But to open the coat would mean breaking the embrace, and it had been so long, so terribly long… so he hugged her instead and closed his eyes at the low groan that warmed the side of his neck.
"Are you shocked, Warren?" she asked softly.
He shook his head once. "It is a trying time for you, Lilla. Solace, comfort, it's what you need, what you deserve."
"Are you sober?" she asked then, and he almost laughed aloud.
"I would say, my dear, that I am about as sober now as I have been for years. That isn't saying much, I grant you, but it's the best you'll get tonight."
They clung beneath the wind and the lightning, against the battering of dead leaves, against the dust devils that leapt from the verge to the road.
She kissed him again, gently, not insisting, and when she lay her head tenderly on his chest he felt a thrumming through his clothes. He frowned for a long moment until he realized she was singing. Very quietly, virtually unheard as the wind brought the first rain. Then a connection was made, and he remembered El Nichols pushing him down the road, remembered turning around, remembered Lilla's night songs.
"Warren," she whispered, "are you alive?"
There was more than the night cold now working down his back. He pushed her away, but she held onto his arms.
"Alive?" she asked again.
"Of course," he snapped, trying to pry loose her grasp.
She smiled, and in a sudden blue-white flare he saw her eyes, the death there, and would not believe it. Nor could he believe the power in her hands.
He could think of nothing else to say but, "That singing…"
"You know the words?" she said, turning her head to see him sideways.
"I have had French, yes, and I've
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