Chapter 30
Hope Dies Hard

he night was like death. Deacon crawled into his bed and lay on his back. His limbs felt weak and nerveless. He tried to feel relief and freedom. No longer would she burden him. But he failed in finding comfort in his resolution. A dull ache in his chest persisted. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to sleep, without success. Frustrated with the struggle, he laid his forearm across his eyes and tried to banish all feelings, only to have them return to him more forcefully than before. He thought, with bitterness, how devoted she had been, how willing to comfort and submit to him. He tried to forget her bloodless face when he so brutally withdrew from her. The thought of her crying alone in the night cut into him. All the night he lay in wretched wakefulness, haunted by the recollection of her face.

The days were bitter for Deacon. He did not return to the grove but instead wasted miserable hours at the library, sitting in a quiet corner, isolated within himself. He found he could not study. Each time he tried to commit himself his mind would go back to her and left him powerless. Hot tears would come from his eyes, but he would swallow them like a bitter poison. He hardened himself with all his might.

Deacon took up his old book but laid it down again. His mind and body were not his own, and he loathed his lack of self-command. He ran his fingers through his hair and down over his face. He was provoked by how poorly he endured her absence. Worn with the struggle, he returned to the woods in the poor hope of a chance at seeing her. Five times in three days he had gone there without finding her. He waited for hours without weariness, tormented by her absence from him. He had suffered so bitterly when she did not come that when he returned home the sight of him tore at Cedrik’s sympathetic nature. He saw Deacon’s bowed head, his pale, expressionless face and knew something was gnawing at his heart. Her shadow was upon him.

Deacon fell semi-conscious into his bed. His mind burned with the recalled presence of the woman. He shuddered at how very near he had come to giving her everything of himself. She had ruined him. She was the only being who existed for him on the earth. She was ever-present. Her beauty pervaded his heart little by little and remained there like the point of an arrow. Thoughts of her came undesired upon him, unmerciful in their torment, like a sickness. He felt he was in her power. He was gnawed with restless desire, a violent craving for reconciliation, which he fought against. At times a sensation as though he could not breathe attacked him. The scent of flowers seared him. He began to grope restlessly for self-command. He wanted to cry, to smash things about him in a fury. He hid his face in the softness of the pillow. Against her he persisted in steeling himself, but her voice ever whispered in his head.

Weariness finally stole over him, and he fell into a tortured repose. Even in his sleep he was not free from her. He could feel her in his dreams, tempted by visions that were almost a physical pain to him. They burned in his blood, and his blood ran hot for her. When Deacon opened his eyes, he did not move. He could not rouse himself from the bed. He was done. The effort of will was gone.

There came into his consciousness a faint sensation. He woke a little. Something was urging him in his brain. He would exert his will, and he would be gone from here, away from her. His aching heart again was crushed in a hot grip of hatred. With fearsome resolve he decided to make another attempt to find the man who consumed his heart and made it bitter. He would go to his father, and there his pain would end.

Recovering himself, Deacon went out of the house and down by the lake. He stared with fixed intensity across the water toward the isle, transfixed, as if he could will her to come to him. He must see her. It possessed him utterly. He suddenly started down toward the wooden dock that he had so often seen Magenta go to.

The temple was cold and forbidding. Deacon approached with a sense of unease. Already he could feel its oppressiveness. At the entry were two great flames, burning like beacons for the damned and an immense statue of a maiden, both terrible and beautiful. Her imposing expression gave the impression of eternal watchfulness and of denying all the world entrance. He looked at it scornfully.

The moment he entered, Deacon was struck by its extravagance and haunting architectural beauty. He saw beauty of the highest degree, the architecture sparing no detail, yet it had an atmosphere of emptiness, a feeling of self-denial and repression. The terrible loneliness of the place was inescapable, the air heavily perfumed with a cloying sweetness that oppressed him.

He continued on, observing the evil-smelling hall and vaguely aware of the bent forms of the worshippers. He soon caught sight of a girl, a sharp, neat little thing, who appeared to be a serving-maiden, for she went about perfuming the place with incense. She was not a priestess but was dressed in a rich gown the colour of blood-red wine. Deacon approached her with purpose. “Can you help me?” His voice was handsome, resonant, and level.

The girl glanced at the grim, dark-haired young man disdainfully, then continued to laden the air.

“I’m here to see one of your priestesses,” he said, undaunted. “Magenta is her name. Will you retrieve her for me?” He was exceedingly uncomfortable in his surroundings. He grew impatient when she failed to take action for his request. “Are you going to find her for me, or am I to go up there myself?”

The imperious girl stopped and looked at him. “Wait here and I shall return,” she said, as if it were a trouble and a bore. She glanced back at him. “What name shall I give?”

“She’ll know who I am,” he said. Gathering the folds of her dress she disappeared up the stairs. He blinked with heavy lids, half-smothered. The air was almost too scented to breathe. While he stood, suffering, he looked about with distaste. He thought of Magenta being here her whole life. The bleakness of such an existence would be enough to oppress most natures.

Passing by him were several priestesses. The effect of their coming was immediate. The air became darker, heavier. An unease which was almost superstitious came to him, at the sight of their long, dark forms. All had the same smooth black hair, as if made that way by their pernicious, evil practices. He observed how unlike they were to Magenta. It seemed they moved with no sight or thought of their surroundings, as if they lacked a will and consciousness of their own. Their eyes, dispirited and cast down, were filled with the blackness of death, yet when turned upon one, those haunting gazes could penetrate like a knife. He knew not whether to pity them or despise them.

For a long time he waited with the outward appearance of calm, but inward anxiety. The more he observed her surroundings and the controlling influences of her life, the deeper became his impression that she was a prisoner in this bleak and unhappy place.

In a moment the serving-maiden returned and Deacon came forward impatiently, “Is she here?”

“Yes.”

“And does she know that I am here?”

“Yes.” The girl’s manner was cold.

“Well, may I go to her, then?”

“I do apologize, but she’ll not see you.”

“Will not see me?” he said, without believing it, yet angered by the mere thought of it.

“No.”

“What has she said?” he asked, growing excited. “Tell her I am here and that I must see her, if only for a moment. Tell her, go!” He leaned nearer, with hostility, and said very carefully, “It is best you don’t refuse me.”

There broke in a commanding voice. “Do not forget, young man, that this is my home!” The sharpness caused both Deacon and the girl to look up suddenly. Coming down the grand staircase, in all her regality, was the high priestess. She had a terrible quality, something contaminated and venomous, her poisonous beliefs absorbed into the very pores of her being.

Her long, slender form was adorned with a striking gown, befit for some unholy deity. Her hands were bound with black scarves, so only the fingertips could be seen. Had her hands been uncovered and displayed, they would have revealed an unpleasant sight: the flesh rotting from many atrocious acts. A greater portion of her body would have suffered this misfortune had not the priestesses possessed a degree of regenerative qualities.

“You must forgive my intrusion,” said Deacon. “It is important I see one of your priestesses. There has been a grave misunderstanding. If you would give me but a single moment, I’ll trouble you no further.” He spoke in low, even tones and kept himself composed. However, there were signs of desperation that he was not able to conceal. He was about to press the issue, when she raised a finger to him, indicating he should be silent.

“She has been sent for?” came her question to the serving-maiden. The girl, rendered timid by his previous forcefulness, cast a nervous glance at him before nodding. “And she refuses?”

The girl nodded again.

The high priestess turned her full attention to Deacon and said, with feigned disappointment, “It seems she is in no condition for company. Another day, perhaps.” She circled round behind him. “Though I must tell you,” she said, resuming her antagonistic speech, “we are a religious order, bound by vows and devoted to prayer and contemplation. You’ll find each priestess is sincerely committed to her course and would have little time for you.”

He pressed his lips tightly, as if striving for composure. Inside he was burning, yet he managed to command his temper so far as to receive her words in complete silence.

“Only those women of few wants, who devote their time to reflection and worship, without distraction, can possess a divine consciousness and secure for themselves happiness in this life and the life to come.” She stopped before him. “Do we understand one another?”

The look she gave him enraged Deacon. He felt now she was purposefully withholding Magenta from him. “Where is she?” He moved hastily toward the stairs, but the high priestess barred his way.

“Let me warn you!” she said, scarcely restraining her temper, “This is a sacred temple. You have no right to pass into any of its apartments. Attempt to proceed one step further in this direction, and it shall be at a great cost to yourself.”

The forcefulness of her bearing took him aback. He knew there was little he could do to force entry, and there was no reasoning with her. He turned to leave when he felt her lay a hand familiarly on his arm. She was about to speak, but instead a curious expression crossed her features. It seemed, almost, he had given her a shock upon contact, for she flinched with a sharp intake of breath, closing her eyes. He stared at her, confused as to what had passed between them.

He had given her no shock, but for the surprise of knowledge. She was able to enter his bloodstream and mingle her contagions with his blood. Because of this ability, she could detect that his life force and magical energies were interwoven, that he was Riven and that he might prove useful. Quickly she regained her self-possession and said in a tone more cordial, “Return tomorrow, and I shall insist she sees you.”

The high priestess gave a smile that was more ghastly than her previous look of fixed vexation. Deacon’s features underwent no change, but he regarded her with suspicion. He could feel her touch contaminating him. Impatiently he shook her off.

In her personal quarters Magenta was oblivious to the nearness of him. No word of his presence had made it to her ear. The high priestess, having become aware of her long absences, now kept stricter watch upon her. Magenta had not forsaken him. Deacon had left her with a bloodless wound, but her love lay deeper and would have borne a great many more sorrows before ever turning from him.

Deacon left the hall in a silent rage. As he vanished round the corner, Magenta had happened to come down the stairs. She managed to glimpse the back of him before he disappeared from view. At the sight of him, brief as it was, her heart beat fast. Gathering her gown, she hastened her step, but upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, her arm was caught in a fearful grip and she was pulled roughly the rest of the way down.

“You will insist on betraying me,” the high priestess said. “Fortunately, this time it will prove to my advantage. You will account clearly how intimate your acquaintance is with this man. Tell me all you know of him, to every last detail of his character.”

In the plainest of speech Magenta told briefly of his kindness and his good nature but mentioned none of his abilities, insisting she knew nothing more. The high priestess knew Magenta was lying, believing that a young man could not help but reveal his talents to the young woman of his choice. For the time being she would let it pass. She wanted time to reflect on her discovery.

The moment she reached the seclusion of her chamber, Magenta leaned against the door for support. She felt out of breath. He could not come to her, and she could not go to him. She began to cry in a convulsive, soundless fashion.

In a state of apathy Magenta spent her days. Finding the impossibility of returning to him, she hoped he would find a way to come to her. When all else seemed to fail around her, surrounded by falsities and uncertainties, one thing she believed in was the love she held for him. It was real, complete, eternal. But she could not yet believe in his. Weary hours waned away and Deacon did not come. She was beginning to believe he didn’t exist. She went to her chamber window, listlessly, marked where the stab of his words fell. He had hurt her deeply, yet her patient and hopeful heart clung still to the love that had seemed to drift away, leaving her alone amid her cold suffering.

It was a grey, oppressive afternoon. Down by the cottages Deacon stooped over the black water. His heart beat quickly and strongly. This form of magic was unfamiliar to him, and he was forced to verbalize to achieve his objective. He intoned the strange words, hoping he pronounced them correctly, and looking down into the still water, waited intently. At first there seemed no remarkable happenings, then, very slowly, he began to see vague forms in the water. They took shape of their own accord, and he could see plainly now that they were of old structures, darkly clustered together as a village.

“Terium, ouch. That’s a long way away,” said Cade. Deacon rose to his feet, agitated by the intrusion. Harsh words were on his lips, then he meditated a moment. “Your boys are in the market,” said Cade. “In case you’re wondering.”

“How is it you know that was Terium?”

“I recognize it. I’ve been there twice. I have a cousin there, you know.”

“Of course you do.”

“You thinking about going there?”

“Thinking about it,” said Deacon. He left Cade and made his way down the length of the lake.

“Why? What’s in Terium?” Cade called after him. “Other than my cousin! Hey, if you see him, tell him I said he still owes me three silvers!”

Deacon crouched over the water again. This time he had a clearer idea of what he wanted. Growing very still, he repeated the process. The images he saw caused him to pale visibly. It was many years since he had looked upon that face, and it was much changed, yet he knew him at once. He felt it was him. Deacon had seen him in his mind almost every day, haunting him as a ghost that would not die.

Deacon gripped the rock upon which his hand rested as if he might shatter it, like one crazed with trembling agony. For long minutes after the vision had vanished from his sight, he sat benumbed in his soul. After a moment he rose from his trembling and despondency. His breathing quickened as if he might give way to more violent emotion. Back toward the house he began to walk in a tense, absent-minded manner. There he found himself alone, the old woman asleep upstairs.

Deacon paced the room. At times he seemed agitated and anxious, then he would fall into a dangerous calm, all the while his blood running hot. He could still see clearly in his mind the image of his father. It pierced him like an agony and made him clench his hands tight in order to subdue the pain. He wanted to bring the walls down around him in a fury. He didn’t know what to do with himself.

The heated thoughts of his father tore at him, along with the painful thoughts of Magenta. He had a restless desire to see her before leaving, and she was withheld from him. He quite unexpectedly seized a vase from the table and hurled it across the room, shattering it on the wall. He gazed at it a moment, breathing heavily. The flowers looked lovely still, even among the broken pieces of pottery. He crouched down and begun to pick them up, carefully removing them from the broken shards so as not to lacerate the tender stems. He looked up and saw Cedrik standing at the doorway with a look of concern heavy over his features. Deacon carelessly let the flowers drop from his grasp.

“I’ll replace that for her,” he said, with barely breath to utter the words. Derek came in shortly after, clutching to his chest a bag loaded with bread and other baked goods. Deacon’s appearance was enough to make him pale and stop in the doorway. Coming up from behind, Cade pushed his way past. His gaze fell on the shattered pottery.

“My Grandmother’s vase,” he said, horrified, through a mouthful of sweet-cake. “Anything else you feel like breaking?”

Deacon passed a tremulous hand over his dazed brow, lost for an apology.

Cade let out a sigh. “Not to worry,” he said, pushing the broken pieces with his boot. “She never really liked it anyway. I’ll get something to clean it up.” He made no move, however, and showed great uneasiness. His glance passed back and forth between Cedrik and Deacon. “I’ll take my time,” he said with little subtlety, and going out, took Derek with him. “Let your parents argue alone,” he said as he passed, clutching the front of the younger man’s shirt and urging him outside.

The two left standing there remained motionless. Soon Cedrik came in from the doorway, assuming a more casual air. “Your mother loved roses, I remember,” he said, motioning to the flowers, though no roses were in the arrangement. Deacon said nothing but watched him from under dark brows, as if Cedrik were a stranger in whom he had no trust. He knew Cedrik was leading somewhere with the conversation.

Cedrik was a good man, with a less complex heart. When he went to his bed at night his conscience was light on his mind, but of late his mind and heart were heavy. He missed his cousin. He needed him back. “I think of her sometimes,” he said. “She was a good sister to my father—”

“Cedrik, what are you doing?” Deacon asked, annoyed. “Leave it be.”

“A fear has been growing upon me! Ever since your mother passed.”

“Mind what you say,” said Deacon and shuddered violently.

“You will not let me speak of her to you!” Cedrik’s voice rose in despair. “You hide away in this grief. You keep it gathered to yourself as if it was yours alone. As for your father, I don’t dare to speak of him,” he said, as though it was a lesson well-learned. Deacon looked up, his black eyes flaring a caution. “It seems there are many things you no longer wish to speak to me about.”

Deacon’s eyes sought the ground. He folded his arms and compressing his mouth, made great efforts. He seemed to be suffering such a bitter grief it tore at Cedrik’s heart to see. A long silence ensued before either felt inclined to speak.

“I’m concerned,” said Cedrik. “Are you ill?”

There was no answer, save a shake of the head.

“What’s the matter with you, then? Where have you been all these days?”

Still no answer.

“Have you been off with that woman?”

“I wasn’t aware I was in the habit of discussing such things with you,” Deacon said slowly as he looked up into his eyes. Cedrik became exasperated.

“I don’t wish you to share with me every thought to pass through your head, but I need you to tell me what it is you suffer. And I want to know what aim your will is bent on. I know you well enough to perceive you have your sights set on something. Why did you come here? Answer me truthfully. I’ve held back from you long enough.”

“I have told you once why I’ve come,” said Deacon. “I’ll not repeat it.” Cedrik looked at him with a gaze that challenged and doubted.

Deacon brushed past him on the way out. “We leave tomorrow,” he said with a brutality bred of frayed nerves rather than anger.

After dinner, Cade lit a fire in the hearth and Cedrik, Derek, and the old woman settled down in the sitting room, each with hot spiced tea.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” said Cedrik.

Derek groaned, sinking down into the couch. He tried not to think of the long journey ahead of them. The mere thought of getting back on a horse hurt his spine. Cade looked surprised, if not a little disappointed. “Early?”

“No. I’ll go into town and buy provisions first.”

“We should buy something to take back as a gift for mother and Brielle,” Derek suggested.

Cedrik nodded and sipped the hot drink, then said to Cade’s grandmother, “I should like to give you compensation. You’ve been very good to us.”

“Nonsense,” said the old woman, affectionately. She had taken a real fancy to Cedrik and his tight-laced way and perfect manners. “You can fix that step for me in the basement, and we’ll call it even. I’ve damn near broken my neck on it three times. This useless thing,” she motioned to Cade, “has been promising for months.”

Deacon came down the stairs and in passing, announced to no one in particular that he was going out for a time.

“I shall go with you,” offered Derek, starting up from the couch. His brother caught the back of his shirt and pulled him back down. Deacon passed out of the room without so much as a glance.

“You might convince that villain to stay in one of these nights,” said the old woman. “Tonight is going to be cold. And you can tell him to take back that poor excuse for a vase.” She pointed over to the pretty thing sitting as a replacement. It was expensive and characterless, she thought.

“What are you complaining for?” asked Cade. “That one’s better than the old cobweb collector.”

“That was my favourite,” she said. “Your father bought me it when he was not much older than yourself.”

“I am sorry.” Cedrik apologized again.

The old woman waved it off and sipped her tea. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it. It’s evident you have enough to worry about with that black devil.”

“I caught him scrying down by the lake today,” said Cade. “As if that water isn’t black enough.”

“What was he scrying for, do you know?” asked Cedrik, sitting up with interest.

“Place called Terium, I believe. Except he didn’t know it was Terium; I had to tell him that. Whatever he was looking for wasn’t the city itself.”

In the cool evening air, Deacon stood by the water’s edge. He stood absolutely motionless, transfixed, staring out toward the isle. He held his cloak tightly round his body. As the night closed in, he watched the death of day, heavy with a sense of impending separation. He had a pallor about his mouth as if he suffered some consumptive illness. The thought of leaving her behind bled silently like a hidden wound. The night grew very dark about him. She could not come to him. He knew this, in agony. At last he decided he must go to her. She would be bound within that terrible darkness, but he could get to her. It would be his last indulgence. He would subdue his passion to see her one last time, then be free to part ways with her. A man never lies more convincingly to himself then when he has persuaded his conscience it is the last weakness in which he means to indulge.

He went to the dank cottage down by the little wooden pier and knocked. A thin, care-worn man came to the door, holding a lamp in his old, brittle hand. “I need you to take me across the water,” said Deacon, tossing him a pouch of coins.

The air was cool and heavily perfumed. Quietly and with purpose Deacon approached the temple. His heart pounded so loudly he feared he would wake the dead. He did not go to the entrance but passed round the side, through tangled plants, looking for means of ingress, but which room she was in, he didn’t know.

Magenta stood by the long window of her room, gazing vacantly down upon the black mass of garden. It was too dark for her to make out any of the details below. A tall figure stood among the shadows. She passed her eyes over him several times without seeing.

Her listless attitude was of gentle, patient sadness, her face paled by much waiting and suffering. She knew not when she would see him, but with her strength of heart she would endure however many hours, weeks, or years, for him to come. He alone would ever be in her heart. Turning, she went back inside, unaware of his proximity.

Deacon stripped off his cloak. He found placing for his boot tip on the side of the wall and looked up. He let out a resolute breath and began his ascent. It was difficult to get past the pernicious plants that consumed the side of the structure. They seemed to cling to him with claws, hurting. A number of times he nearly lost his footing and fell, the thorns cutting his hand. He swore beneath his breath, wondering if it was not mad what he attempted.

When he reached her window, Deacon saw that she stood alone. She seemed so wan, yet so lovely. The soreness of trials had made her youthful light less brilliant but more pure, like the tender light of night. He touched his fingers to the cool glass, asking mutely for her to turn and see him.

Magenta clutched her arms about herself, a dull ache in her breast. Soon there crept upon her a sensation of one drawing near from behind. She turned, hesitantly, and saw him whose image she had seen each night when her eyes were closing. Her heart grew faint. She felt she could weep with the heavy relief of his coming.

He stood waiting, his countenance entreating her to allow him admittance. She crossed immediately to him and pulled open the two great windows. With subdued thankfulness he entered, softly brushing by her. He looked weary and worn, never more serious and never more handsome. For a moment he didn’t speak, looking about the room with interest. It did not exude the vibrance one would expect from a young woman’s bedchamber but was cold and empty as a forsaken heart. Even in the subdued light he could see that it held no pretensions to beauty.

She hung back from him, watching him. She marvelled how it had been possible for him to climb so far. Soon his gaze settled upon her heavily. He went to her and took both her hands in his. She looked down and saw that his were cut and scratched.

“I will get you something,” she said. “It will sting at first but will stop the pain.”

She drew away, but he caught her back. “No, I don’t want it,” he said. He would rather the pain in his hands than in his heart. In a manner somewhat restrained, nevertheless with the familiarity of a lover, he passed his wounded hand down her face. “Have I broken faith with you?” he said in a very different tone to which he had ever spoken before.

“No,” she said, with scarcely breath to utter it. Nothing broke the silent absorption they had in one another. He stooped nearer to her. She watched his eyes; they were full with a peculiar dark blaze, almost sad. There was a moment of breathless intensity. She let her eyes close as he lowered his face to hers and kissed her mouth with warm, trembling lips. Her heart contracted with pain for love of him. His kisses were soft, tender, prolonged in their stillness. His arm stole quietly round her, and it seemed all her soul was gathered into the dissolving flow of his kiss. All he could breathe was this moment. He let himself go to her. The blood mounted slowly, making his heart ache with burning but suppressed passion. In his arms she was all soft and warm and clinging.

She shuddered slightly after his kiss. He hid his face in her hair, holding her clasped. His throat was tight and ached, the bitterness of farewell upon him. She was calm and at peace against him, conscious of nothing in the world but the dark pressure of his body. His scent was warm and deeply comforting, like the vague smokiness issued from smouldering wood from a distance. She felt him clasp her more tightly in his arms, with the tenseness of a man dreading to be sent away. His heart was crushed in a hot, painful grip. He knew he shouldn’t have come to her.

Magenta noticed for the first time that he trembled. A melancholy and a fear began to touch her heart. She tried to cling to him. He felt like mist perpetually dissolving. He gave her a hopeless, desolate feeling, yet she was clasped firmly against him. She began to feel the distance in his body. “I should go,” he murmured. His face still hid against her.

“Will you come to me again before long?” she asked, still in his arms. A grimace flickered across his face, and he pressed his lips together. For a moment he could not speak to answer. He wanted to tell her he was leaving, not to return, but his heart failed him when he came to it. Finally he uttered something that bound him to nothing and said no more. Slowly, she drew back so she could look into his face. Tender words were on his lips, but he hesitated. Her very breath seemed to pause and wait on his words, longing for him to say something meaningful.

“I don’t wish to go,” he said truthfully, stroking her hair with a soft, lingering gesture. And all her fears were dispersed. His eyes, his touch, told of more love than could be put into words. He drew a deep sigh. He had to rouse himself from the sleepy warmth to break from her. He would have liked to hold her all the night. “Are we at ease with one another?” he asked with a new energy, clutching her gently.

“Yes,” she said in the earnest fullness of her love. He gave a satisfied nod, took her hand, and pressed it fiercely to his lips. Only a thin thread held him back from bursting forth and giving all himself to her. With a haste born from nerves rather than passion, he kissed her a last time. At the window he took his leave with a lingering look. He wanted to impress her image in his mind so that he may carry it away with him.

Then, without any hesitation, he stepped and dropped down a distance that would have broken another man’s legs. Her breath caught in her throat, and she crossed quickly to the window to catch a glimpse of him. A wind caught her hair as she bent over.

The moon coming out from thick clouds afforded her just enough light to see him passing through the garden. She held her breath and, it seemed, kept her heart from beating, waiting for him to turn back to steal another glance. She remained at the window, cherishing the hope he enkindled within her. She watched him passing away from her, till her vision could follow him no longer.

Already her heart ached for him, but though this pain was acute, it was half pleasure; to have someone to languish for was sweet suffering. She would suffer for him. She had not seen the look of regret on his face as he turned and stole silently away.

Sobering in the night air, Deacon dragged in long restorative breaths. His heart had been torn and had bled. He returned to the cottage feeling fulfilled, destroyed, determined to put it all aside, turning from all thoughts of her.