Prelude in E Minor, Op. 28 No. 4

The women exchanged glances—pale-faced and wide-eyed—in the aftermath. The silence that enveloped the living room was more deafening than the terrifying tumult that had just transpired. The confrontation, which seemed to stretch into eternity had ceased, and overpowering stillness echoed back through the house.

“Jack,” Anastasia whispered, her voice scarcely a breath in the hushed chamber. She almost flew down the stairs towards the lounge.

Upon nearing the dark figure sprawled in the doorway, she halted abruptly and brought her hand to her mouth.

Trailing behind her with a candle, Lucy gasped at the sight of Jack’s torn shirt and the painful-looking gash upon his upper arm. She knelt to examine the wound with great fastidiousness.

“It is not as bad as it looks,” said Lucy, “the cut does not seem too deep.”

“Why has he lost consciousness?”

“He is not precisely unconscious,” clarified Lucy after a moment’s observation, “he is asleep.”

Anastasia peered more intently, observing the steady rise and fall of Jack’s chest and the faint smile playing upon his lips. A flicker of fear rose within her. “Do you suppose he is aware…”

A knot formed in Lucy’s stomach. They had not heard much of the confrontation, save for the final commotion, and if Thomas had revealed to Jack the reason he could remain here…

“We must take him indoors,” said she, shying away from the thought.

Anastasia concurred, anything to remove her mind from the distressing notion that the man who had come to their aid might not desire her after all.

With considerable effort, they conveyed Jack indoors and at length managed to position him upon the hearth rug. Anastasia sat on her legs and cradled his head in her lap, gently smoothing back the dishevelled locks from his forehead as Lucy attended to cleaning and bandaging the wound on his arm.

Several of the top buttons on Jack’s shirt had come undone, exposing tufts of hair upon his chest. She reached out to touch them; his eyes blinked open.

Jack found himself gazing up into a celestial apparition. He smiled, closed his eyes, and whispered contentedly, “Copper.”

Upon hearing him, Lucy’s thoughts inexplicably wandered to Jack’s garden and the manner in which he appeared to utilise it as a means of expressing what he could not articulate. Anastasia regarded her with surprise.

He sat up, prompting the women to pull back, yet all he did was stare reverently at Anastasia.

Everything else ceased to exist for Jack. There was no chaos, no tangled tapestry, no divided attention. She was doing this to him, and he would gladly perish now knowing what it was like to feel true peace.

It dawned on Anastasia that he had looked exactly the same at the ball, in the bookshop, and amidst the rain. He appeared to regard her with a sense of stunned wonder, the very fact of her existence beyond his comprehension.

He extended his hand tentatively, as though reaching for an iridescent bubble that would burst if simply seized.

Maintaining eye contact, Anastasia reached out and a promising thrill radiated through her at his touch. She savoured his features—the strong jaw; the aquiline nose, slightly bent to the left; and the full lips slowly, unbelievably, moving closer to hers until there remained no space between them but for their mingling breath.

Lucy observed the couple for a moment, smiled to herself, and then silently retreated back to bed, her work for the long night finally over.