Chapter 23

May Day found Clara alone, though it seemed the entire nearby village of Fairworth celebrated before her. Everyone had spilled out of their homes and onto the lawn at Briarcliff. Every face possessed a smile, every smile possessed a song, and every voice flung happiness to the blue spring sky.

Yet Clara stood at the edges of the crowd, feeling foolish. Atlas said he wanted to stay with her, and that made her heart sing to drown out all the other voices. But how could she know that he stayed because he wanted to when every action he took answered the needs of others? She'd proposed the best solution. He should leave, and when he was ready, when he'd healed, he could return home.

The dancers wore ribbons in their hair and held them in their hands. The wind picked up those slices of color and curled them skyward. Souls taking flight. Beautiful. She laughed, a harsh little sound. Look at what that poet of a husband had done to her; he had shown her how to see beauty in the smallest thing.

To think… he had once seen such beauty in her.

But she did not want him to love her as she loved the ribbons curling toward the sky. Such love lasted only as long as the ribbons did, becoming nothing more than a fond memory as soon as they were packed away or ripped from hands by the wind and tangled in the branches of the nearby woods.

She did not want to be loved like that, because as soon as Atlas stepped aboard a boat, he'd forget her. He said he loved her. But did he love her as she loved the ribbon? Did he love her the same way he had loved her the first day he saw her—as a thing of beauty to be admired, to offer a bright moment in the wells of his shadows?

Or did he love her as she loved him—in a way that would not fade with distance, that would not become less pleasurable nor less painful with time?

She should join the dancers. She did not wish to. No one from Briarcliff danced, not even Zander and Fiona.

Franny had elected to stay above stairs, and every once in a while, her pale, happy face would peer down at them from a window. But more often, that window remained empty. Because Franny was too busy tending to Matilda and little Katherine to mind the celebration outside. Franny had been planning May Day since February, revising her preparations over and over again until she thought them just perfect. She'd been so excited. But this, Matilda and little Katherine, the beginning of a new generation, mattered to her more.

Raph would not leave his child and wife for long. They'd not even hired a wet nurse. Clara had even had one. Matilda called it being economical. Clara knew better. They just wanted little Katherine all to themselves.

Clara would not mind another child of her own, with Atlas's blue eyes. But it would have to wait for him to leave and heal and then come home again. And then it would depend on whether he still wanted her; on whether he viewed her as an obligation, a burden, or as his true wife. On whether he still loved her.

A heavy weight, warm and comforting, settled at her side. She knew without looking and smiled into the greeting. "Atlas. Come to celebrate the spring with all the rest?"

"No. I have something to show you." He threaded his hand with hers. "Will you come?"

"Of course."

She followed Atlas to the music room where the rest of the family, Matilda and Raph and the baby included, waited. But waited for what?

Raph fussed about Matilda, who was stretched on a low sofa, draping blankets across her legs and tucking a swaddle around little Katherine's sweet face. Matilda swatted him away, and he pulled a chair close to her, settled himself into it, and stretched one leg long before crossing his arms over his chest.

Atlas took up residence by the pianoforte, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot under the gazes of every single person in the room. Raph and Matilda, Franny, Zander and Fiona, even Alfie, who ran to Clara's side when she entered.

"What's happening?" he asked.

"I confess I do not know," she said. "I suppose we shall see."

Atlas cleared his throat and seemed to focus on a point somewhere on the wall above everybody's heads. "Thank you for assembling. I wish to play a song for you."

Franny lifted halfway from her seat then plopped down again, clutching her hands to her chest. "Is it— Are you… finally giving me a song? For your inheritance?"

He nodded.

She inhaled deeply and exhaled with a nod. "Very well. Go ahead."

Clara and Alfie sat as silence descended on the room, and Atlas sat at the bench behind the pianoforte. Breathing slowly, he bent his neck and dropped his gaze to the keys. His fingers poised above them flexed and curled, froze, and then he inhaled deep and strong and raised his head. His gaze caught Clara's, and he gave a little stretch of his fingers.

Then the opening note of a song thrilled through the air as he parted his lovely lips and sang. "On distant shores I lost my way, the sky came crashing down. Star-shaped wounds across my skin, the clouds my burial gown. Home was lost and beauty dead, until she gave me life."

Clara's chest tightened. This was not his usual sort of song, jolly and sweet and about the first buds of love in a man's heart or the rowdy spiraling of lust through a man's body. This was shadowed, and this was raw, and this brought tears to her eyes. She dared not look at the others.

She looked only at Atlas as his lips parted once more.

"The ocean brought me home again, but night still held my soul. Home welcomed me with open arms, but my heart had become a coal. Home was lost and beauty dead, until she gave me life." His voice was the most perfect thing she'd ever heard, deep and rich, a warm bath she wanted to soak in. It possessed the bitter taste of sorrow and yet the notes did not wobble or shake. They rose into the air with the heat and strength of the summer sun, promising something beyond the sadness.

"An unexpected joy did rise before my eyes, a woman's lovely form like welcome springtime skies. Her tears, they gave me purpose. My heart, it leapt to life. The dark lifted from my shoulders every time I kissed my wife." He lifted his head and met her gaze on the final word. His fingers stilled, dropped into his lap, and the pianoforte's tremble disappeared from the air.

A sob escaped her lips, and she clapped it silent behind both hands.

The rustle of skirts broke the spell of silence that had gripped them, and Franny glided like a ghost across the room, sank to her knees beside her son at the pianoforte bench. She folded his hands between hers as if they were sacred relics and rested her forehead on top of their hands. With a breaking voice, said, "I am filled with sorrow."

"Bollocks, Atlas." Raph pinched the bridge of his nose, his gruff voice quiet. "Why didn't you tell anyone? Have you been… miserable? All this time?"

The bench scraped across the floor as Atlas stood, tugging on his cravat and pulling his mother to her feet. "Not miserable. Not all the time. But not truthful, either. My leg has never quite been the same. And I am… troubled at times. Guns. Gunpowder. The mere scent—" His face paled, and he closed his eyes. "I didn't want you to know." He walked his mother back to her seat. "It's fine, Mother. Truly."

But tears rolled down her cheeks.

Zander paled. "All those things you've always done for years around the estate. Have you been in much pain?"

"No. It's manageable." Then he shook his head, said softer, "At times it's not. Truthfully, at times it's not." He swallowed. "Truthfully, it hurts here more." He pushed his fingertips into his chest. "Not all the time. Very little recently." His gaze locked onto Clara's once more. "I had planned to leave."

"And go where?" Matilda demanded.

Atlas shrugged. "Europe. All places I've been before. I wanted to see them differently. Without the sounds and smells of war. I thought I needed to, but I'm not going to go anymore."

Clara rushed to her feet. "I told you! You must!"

He strode to Clara's side, cupping her face with both rough hands. "And I told you. I want to be with you. If I left, I would miss you too horribly to feel well. If you insist I leave, then I insist you come with me. You and Alfie."

"Told you, Mama!" Alfie said.

Atlas reached out and gathered him under his arm, held him tight with Clara. "When we are able, we will make a trip of it. But I will not go alone. I intend to park my arse in that giant chair you made and stay here with you. I did not sing this song in front of everyone for my own pleasure. I'd rather not have. But I'd hoped it would convince you that I am serious, that I am telling the truth. I chose to speak about this with everyone because I no longer need to run to survive, no longer need to face those nightmares to find beauty in the world, in my life, to earn my place in the world, in this family. There is beauty and love right here in my home. One day, I will visit those old fields and hopefully see grass growing green, covering the scars I helped put there. But until then, I wish nothing more than to stay here. With you and Alfie and my family. If you want me, if you'll have me."

He dropped to his knee, holding her hands, his gaze locked onto hers as if he would never release it. "Clara, will you marry me? Not because you need to marry me. There is no need now but what you desire. No danger keeps you here. If you wish to leave, you may leave. You may go anywhere you like, do anything you please. It will kill me. Better than a bullet, I think. But your happiness is my north star. It alone gives me marching orders. Your pleasure, Clara, is mine, too. In every way."

"Atlas, I?—"

"Marry me. Not because you need to, but because you wish to."

Clara could feel the burn of every set of eyeballs on her. But as she stared into Atlas's eyes, that burn melted away, and he became the only man in the world and her the only woman. She pulled her husband to his feet and folded herself into his chest. "Well, then. You've given our secret away."

"Our secret …?"

"About why we married? Not for love."

"Bollocks." He lifted his head to stare at his family, and so did she.

Only Franny seemed shocked, her mouth wide open. The rest appeared slightly amused.

"You all knew?" Clara asked.

"I told Raph and Theo and Zander," Atlas admitted.

"And I told my wife," Raph said. "Because of course I told my wife, Atlas. Did you truly think I would not?"

"Fair point. You too, Zander?"

Zander shrugged. "Naturally I told Fee."

Franny huffed and pushed to her feet. "You may have thought you married for practical reasons, but you're both wrong. Of course you were in love. Anyone could see it."

"Well?" Fiona clasped her hands beneath her chin. "Will you marry him again or not?"

The baby squeaked and then cried, and Raph and Matilda jumped.

"Oh no." Matilda sniffed, and her nose wrinkled. "Take her, Raph. Straight to the nursery." She held the wiggly bundle out to her husband who, to his credit, took the child without hesitation and cuddled her to his chest even though his face contorted with all the discomfort of olfactory torture.

Matilda followed him out of the room, Franny helping her along. Then Xander and Fiona melted away, and only Atlas, Clara, and one wide-eyed, silent Alfie remained.

He did not remain wide-eyed or silent long. He poked Atlas in the chest. "If you do not marry my mother again, I'll ruin all your boots."

Atlas dropped down to one knee. "Aren't you listening, son? It's your mother's boots you need to threaten."

Alfie turned narrowed eyes Clara's way, dropped his gaze pointedly to her feet. She laughed and pulled him into a hug as Atlas stood and wrapped his arms around the both of them.

"I can't have that, I suppose." She tilted her head back to kiss her husband's chin.

Alfie shook them off and paced toward the door, hands in pockets. "Good. I'm not at all sure why he's asked you to marry him when you're already married. Will I be as odd when I'm grown up?" When he disappeared into the hall, they heard his rapid footsteps carrying him toward the outer door to join the merrymakers outside.

One arm anchored around her back and the other tangled in the hair at her nape, Atlas said, "I love you. Every song I write is about you. If I let you go, the world would be entirely without music, without beauty, without love."

She pulled him out the room, down the hall, and outside. They walked hand in hand toward the dancing and the ribbons, and she spoke without looking at him, his hand warm and strong in her own. "I love you, too. The words don't seem strong enough, do they?"

He tugged her to a stop and pulled a small box from his chest pocket. It opened with a soft click and fell to the grass as he pulled something from it. The ring he slipped on her finger glowed in the sunlight. An opal, green and pink and blue and milky white, a pool that dipped toward eternity.

"The Duke of Crestmore sent me this. A wedding present. I put it in my pocket the day we wed, but I could not bring myself to give it to you then. Because I could not see the future. Yours or mine. I lived day by day. But—" He folded her ringed hand between both of his—"I see my future with you now. And just as I cannot fathom an end to the colors I see in this stone, I cannot fathom an end to us, Clara." He kissed her, soft and sweet as a spring day.

And in that kiss she could not fathom an end, either.

Only a beginning as boundless as the sky.