8
…she said, ‘the year the princess comes of age, she shall prick herself on the needle of a spindle and fall down dead.’

 

HIS

 

He needed to do something. While driving Rose home, he had kept talking in order to stop her from asking questions, and his tactic had succeeded. But when he was left alone with silence in the car, the turmoil he had managed to squelch all that day began churning inside him as he drove through the countryside to the remote area where Bear and Blanche lived.

Finally he pulled over at a deserted part in the woods and sat in his car. He turned on the light and pulled out his journal, something a psychiatrist had recommended to him once, and tried to write. But as he pushed past pages of his previous tormented writing, he couldn’t stand it any longer.

Possessed with a sudden destructive urge, he got out the car, grabbed the can of gasoline he kept in the back for emergencies and headed into the woods once more.

Gasoline wasn’t as effective in starting a fire as he had hoped. In movies, as soon as a match went to something covered with gas, there was inevitably a huge explosion and total annihilation rapidly followed. But when he threw a match into the small pile of brush and journal pages, which had been doused with gasoline, nothing so very exciting happened. There was a moment where it blazed up readily, but the flames didn’t catch on the wood. After a few seconds, they went out.

Disgusted, he tried the process again. Maybe the wood was still damp. Maybe the paper was too synthetic. Maybe fire-making was more high-tech than he had thought. Obviously, I’m a city kid, he thought dourly when he failed to start his mini-inferno. He dug around in the woods, found some dry leaves and added them to the pile, sloshed gasoline on the whole, and lit a match. Finally, grudgingly, the pile began to burn.

He set the can down behind a tree and sat on the edge of the circle of ground he had cleared. But after a moment he got up and began to wear a restless circle around the flaming mementos of his past.

Evil. It was evil. The stench, the smell, the apparent delight in inflicting suffering. The twisting of natural desires into monstrosities. The deforming of a human soul. The disease had taken hold of him long ago, and he had been trying to rid himself of the infection. Father Raymond had said there would be victory, good holding sway over evil in the end. Father Raymond had told him it would pass. But Father Raymond had bled and choked to death behind the altar in his own church, at the hands of evil.

Now the flames burned higher and Fish, pacing around them, saw the world around grow blacker around its blaze. Evil hadn’t left him alone, knowing it had a hook buried deep in his soul, and every once in a while, he could feel the insidious pull. Usually it fed upon his loneliness—not his solitude, because he had always preferred to be alone—but the sense of desolation, of abandonment. That mostly happened when he began to remember things. Like losing his mother when he was thirteen. Losing Father Raymond when he was sixteen. And what had happened afterwards...

The musty leaves and ink-stained paper and cardboard gave off an evocative smell. He looked away from the fire towards the darkness as it came back, inexorably. The images were lodged deep in his memory, and he didn’t know how to get rid of them without doing violence to his brain.

His kidnapper might be in prison, but he was still in bondage. The captivity, the deep-set pain, the twisted torture went on. He recognized that part of it was self-inflicted, because of the shame he felt. And he wasn’t sure that there was a real escape. All he could reasonably hope for was to get further and further away from it in time. And to avoid getting put into that situation again in the future.

He often felt that he had survived the first time through ignorance, youthful zeal, pig-headedness and sheer dumb luck. If it happened again, he couldn’t count on any of that to help him. As Rose had experienced, it would be much worse a second time.

Of course, God had been there, he reminded himself. But he knew now that God didn’t look at human suffering the way he did, and that He sometimes allowed it. Fish wasn’t interested in suffering again. After years of trying so hard, with all he had in him, and getting crushed down—Sorry, God, but Your approach to suffering is a bit too nuanced for me.

Suddenly, he was aware of a sound in the trees near him. Someone was coming. Instantly his hand went to his gun—only to remember that he had left it locked in his glove compartment when he went into the courtroom.

It was just as well. The man who had found him had a gun of his own, a rifle, pointed at him. “What are you doing on my land?” a gruff voice came through the trees. “You’re trespassing.”

With a groan, Fish raised his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought I was in the State Forest.”

“That’s a few miles back from here,” the man said. “You can’t come onto a man’s land and build yourself a fire. Might have burnt down my whole lot. I’m calling the police.”

“Suspicious looking character sneaking around my land buildin’ fires,” was how the farmer had described him. The man’s paranoia and Fish’s explanation notwithstanding, the police thought it worthwhile to take Fish down to the station for questioning. Hadn’t realized it was against the law to build a fire in New Jersey, Fish thought as he rode in the police car, twisting his cuffed hands behind his back restlessly and suppressing a groan.

He hated being cuffed. In this situation, he knew the police didn’t need to handcuff him: he had come along quietly.  But he knew he had the sort of face that looked like a criminal’s, and that made policemen cautious.  He had found that out the first time he had been arrested: whatever the “criminal type” was, he definitely resembled it.  Maybe just because I’m dog-ugly, he thought with a grim smile.

In the holding cell at the station house, he called Bear, waking him up.

“Fish? What time is it?” his brother asked in sleepy surprise.

“Two o’clock and all’s hell,” Fish said gloomily. “I just got arrested. I’m down at the police station.”

“What? All this time I thought you were downstairs sleeping on the couch.”

“Yes, you might have thought. Instead, I was trying to defuse my pent-up psychological aggression in what I thought was a socially acceptable manner, and ran afoul of the ‘no-burning’ laws in New Jersey. This is the last time I see a psychiatrist and take his stupid advice. I’m afraid I need you to come and put in a good word for me.”

Bear chuckled. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll be right over.”

Forty-five minutes later, Bear was driving him back out to the woods to retrieve his car. “So can I ask how all this happened?” he queried, rubbing his eyes.

Fish heaved a sigh. “I saw Freet at the hearing today.”

“Ah,” Bear said. “You didn’t tell me that was going to happen.”

“And it was tougher than I expected.”

Bear frowned. “You should have let me go with you. I could have taken off work.”

“I know. I was just trying to be tough, that’s all. But apparently I’m not healthy enough for that.”

The brothers drove in silence for a few minutes.

“You ever talked to anyone about this?” Bear asked at last. “Besides me?”

“Oh, a couple of priests, in confession. And that blasted counselor, although I barely told him anything. I quit after the first session.”

“I didn’t mean professionally. I meant someone like a friend,” Bear said. “Have you tried talking to Rose about it?”

Fish blew out his breath. “That’s the last person I’d tell. She probably doesn’t even know evil like that exists in the world. I don’t want to be the one to disturb her universe.”

Bear shook his head. “But she was down there with you.”

“Yes, after the worst had happened—thankfully.”

“So she might understand better than most people.”

Fish glanced at his older brother. He had always suspected Bear of trying to set him up with Rose, and wondered if this was another ploy. But Bear looked completely serious.

“Just consider it,” Bear said.

 

Hers

 

Saturday, Fish seemed to be in better spirits. Rose and Jean came to help Blanche and Bear do work on the house in the morning. In the afternoon, they all took a lazy ramble over the property.

“So what’s this Blanche told me about you becoming ‘Sacra Cor Lady Rose’ or something?” Bear said humorously as they started off. “I didn’t know they awarded titles like that at Mercy College.”

“I’ve become an honorary female member of the ‘knights of Sacra Cor,’” Rose said solemnly. “Don’t laugh! They really are a lot like knights—well, warriors of some kind. They’re all very different from one another.” She chattered on about Paul, Alex, James, Leroy, and the other various characters who inhabited Sacra Cor dormitory. She recounted with delight the battle between Lumen Christi and the smaller dorm, not mincing her part in it.

“So I’m now one of their ‘ladies’ they’ve sworn allegiance to protect,” she finished.

“Good. Then make sure one of them walks you home from play rehearsal from now on,” Fish put in, a bit shortly. Rose hadn’t realized he had been listening—he had been lagging behind the party.

“That’s not a bad idea,” she said.

“I remember telling you before to have someone walk you home after rehearsal,” Fish said, cocking his head at her. “Have you ever done that?”

“Well, I made sure I always left with someone else, even though I haven’t had to ask anyone specifically,” Rose said. “I haven’t walked alone since that one night I called you.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Rose resented his nearly-parental attitude, but Bear, who seemed to understand better than she did what was bothering his brother, smoothly asked her another question about college, and the conversation continued.

After dinner, Fish consented to join their weekend tournament of Scrabble, and proceeded to crush Rose’s lead soundly and vie with Bear for the winning title. Rose was resentful when people beat her too easily at games, and was deciding that, rescuer or not, Fish was too annoying to put up with. She curled up in an armchair with a cup of herbal tea and resolved to ignore him and talk with her sister. Then he and Bear started talking literature and lost interest in the game (which Bear won), and they both started to pull books from the shelf and read passages aloud. When Fish began, somewhat reluctantly, to read poetry, Rose’s heart started to melt within her again.

 

The poetry of earth is never dead

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead...

 

As he read from Keats’s sonnet to the grasshopper, Rose put her hand on her chin and forgot what she had been saying to Blanche. He was as elusive to her as Shakespeare, as unreachable as William Butler Yeats. By the time he started reading, “Terence, this is stupid stuff,” by A. E. Houseman, Rose was laughing so hard that she coughed up part of her drink at his expressions. She had never realized what a funny poem it was before, and how true:

 

And malt does more than Milton can

to justify God’s ways to man.

 

Poetry so fine was like a harp being stroked by a dozing musician, with a careless beauty that made her insides ache. It made her want to seize a pen and write and have verses dance out of her fingers, but she knew that when the fever was off of her, they would only be dull words. In the same way, the dancing, itching pleasure of his company made her think, eagerly, that he was actually within her reach, that perhaps someday... It was cruel to tantalize herself with thoughts like that.

 

Because I liked you better

than it suits a girl to say

it irked you and I promised

to throw the thought away.

 

To put the world between us,

we parted, stiff and dry;

“Good-bye,” and you, “Forget me.”

“I will, no fear,” said I.

 

If here, where clover whitens

the dead man’s knoll you pass

and now tall flower to meet you

starts in the trefoiled grass,

 

halt by the headstone naming

the heart no longer stirred,

and say the girl that loved you

was one that kept her word.

 

Last night she had recast some of Houseman’s verse into feminine form to fit her own situation. Now as she leaned against the car window, aware that she had the next several hours to spend alone with Fish, she tried to remain self-composed.

Now that she had tasted home again, part of her longed to stay here in New Jersey with Blanche, Bear, and her mother, but part of her couldn’t wait to start out on this journey away, and she said her goodbyes to her family after Sunday Mass with only the appearance of regret.

She looked out the window at the trefoiled grass (what a lovely phrase) they passed in the fields bordering the highway, not knowing how to break out of poetry into prose. But she couldn’t remain in a car alone with someone and say nothing, any more than she could hold her breath longer than five minutes.

Searching for something normal to say (despite the poetry, she was not going to bare her heart to him again), she at last remembered something she had been wondering about.

“What did you have to come back here for this weekend?” she asked. “Did it go well?”

His lips parted in a wry smile, but he said nothing.

“With all the excitement on Thursday night I never thought to ask you what it was you were coming back for,” she explained.

“If you had asked, I wouldn’t have told you,” he said.

Oh. She was silent.

He glanced at her, and apparently picked up on how his remark had sounded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” He sighed and frowned. “I had a court case.”

“For what?”

“There was a hearing to decide if Mr. Freet would be allowed to transfer to a lesser-security prison for health reasons, and Charles Russell, my lawyer, wanted me to go.”

 “Oh,” Rose was startled. “So that’s where you went?”

“Yes.”

She paused. “Did you actually see Mr. Freet?” 

“I did.”

“That must have been awful.”

“It was.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that’s what you were doing? I would have gone with you.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” he said, rolling down his window to grab his turnpike ticket and turning onto the highway. “I wouldn’t have let you.”

“Why didn’t you have Bear go with you?”

“I didn’t think I needed the help.”

“You don’t let people help you, do you?” she asked. “Why is that?”

 “Various reasons,” he said. Then he glanced at her. “It’s difficult for me to become close to people. And there’s a reason for that. It’s something I don’t think you’ve noticed.” He had that faint smile on his face, the smile that had always irked her, that meant he was feeling older than she was.

“What is it I’ve overlooked now?” she demanded.

“Rose, I don’t blame you for not noticing. It’s part of your charm, your innocence. You’re a good person, Rose, and you don’t know all the evil that’s in the world.”

This was the way he always spoke, as if he were sad and amused at the same time. As though he were a much older person.

“So what is it that I don’t know?” she asked, attempting to remain calm.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he inquired, glancing over at her.

“Yes. If that’s what it takes to be your friend.” 

For a long moment, he was silent, looking at the road ahead. “All right,” he said, seeming to decide something. “Rose, as you know, I’ve been beaten up quite a few times in my life. Have you ever wondered why that is?”

“You’ve been in a lot of dangerous situations,” she said.

“But so has Bear.”

“Bear is bigger,” she said carefully.

“That’s right. I’m smaller, aren’t I? And thinner. And when I was younger, my voice used to be higher. Haven’t you noticed that some guys like that tend to be treated differently? Especially in school. Particularly if they don’t like sports and are more interested in things like books, and poetry. Things start getting said about them.”

She began to comprehend what he was saying. “Nasty things,” she said at last.

“Yes, very nasty things,” he agreed mildly. “When you’re born with a certain physique and characteristics in a certain environment, you can be put into circumstances, early on in life, which can start to change you, that can cause you to struggle in ways that other people never have to. You understand what I mean?”

“I think so.”

His voice was quiet. “People who don’t understand think of it as a compulsion. It’s deeper than that. It’s a doubt. A guy with this particular struggle doubts his capabilities. I don’t mean physical abilities. It’s a struggle in the soul. Things that come naturally to other guys—to most other guys—you can’t do, without feeling a constant and persistent, and sometimes, fatal doubt. That’s what it’s like, to live with this. You’re constantly doubting yourself. And that can be, as I said, fatal.”

He paused, then went on, “I’ve come to realize that a lot of girls don’t sense this in a guy. But other guys can sense it. They know there’s something different about you. And some of them have a problem with it, and will avoid you because of it. And other guys will try to take advantage of you.” His voice was calm, as though he were discussing something he had read in a textbook that was faintly interesting.

“And that’s happened to you?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t see that in you,” was all she could think to say.

“I knew you wouldn’t. But think about it. I have the profile for it—the usual psychological aberrations. I had a weak relationship with my father. My parents had a bad marriage. I had emotional trauma in the early teenage years with my mom dying. Bear’s the only real family I’ve had for a long time.”

“Has Bear struggled with this too?” Rose asked.

Fish shook his head. “No. It’s different for every personality, definitely not genetic. This was never his particular cross, although he’s had other ones. I try not to bother him with my struggles, but he knows about them and understands. You know what a great heart he has.”

A darker thought had occurred to Rose, who was rapidly starting to see how all the pieces fit together, in a new and ominous light. “He saved you from a gang when you were in prison.”

A wry smile passed over Fish’s face. “Yes, he did. And if you’re thinking that my problem had something to do with my getting singled out by a gang for drowning, then you’re right.”

“And Mr. Freet—” she said softly, not daring to ask.

“Yes. Freet.”  He paused again, and looked out the window for a moment, then looked back at the road. “When I was a freshman at St. Catherine’s, he used to hang out by my locker and say things to me every morning. You know how it is when you’re a young teenager. You’re changing, you have acne—you’re terribly self-conscious anyhow. And Freet would needle me in the worst ways, asking me things, making evil suggestions. You see, I knew what he was, and I was afraid of him. Because I was afraid of myself, and he knew it. And so I let myself hate him.

“I was also a new Catholic at the time, and I had begun to be around religious people for the first time. I’ve found that’s one of the few things that even some otherwise very good Catholics feel free to ridicule—men who have the kind of struggles I have. It’s ugly to see that. Still, I can’t blame them too much—I used to do it myself, all the time, particularly to Freet. But looking back, I know I did it because I was ruled by my fear. It was wrong—it’s a sin against charity. And in treating Freet the way I treated him, I made Freet hate me. I hated him, and he hated me right back. You see how these little sins can multiply.”

“Did you tell Father Raymond about all this?”

“Father Raymond was the best thing that happened to me at that time in my life. He knew my struggles, and he accepted me as a man, just a regular young man, not someone strange or deformed. He kept telling me not to be locked into it by the evil choices of others—that I shouldn’t define myself by it. And he tried to teach me charity, mostly by his example. He would never deride anyone, even if they were his enemies. He was always respectful of Freet, that twisted soul, but he did tell Freet to stay away from me. Fr. Raymond was a big man—I always wondered exactly what he said to Freet. He tried as hard as he could to get Mr. Freet kept out of the school—you know how he always used to hang out there—but it didn’t work. After all, Mr. Freet was the principal’s brother, and that was before all the scandals in the Church made people more aware of these issues. It didn’t help that the principal and Father Raymond didn’t get along either.” 

He paused. “The day after Father Raymond’s funeral, Freet was right there at my locker again, leering at me. I wanted to kill him. I hated him so much. But I just ignored him and shut him out—almost fatally, as you know.”

She knew what he meant. “And when Mr. Freet kidnapped you—” She stopped.

Fish nodded, and swallowed slightly. “That was after I had been in prison and been out on the streets. I had thought I was tough by then. But when Freet had made me a prisoner in his cellar, he just stripped that all away from me, and got under my skin, the way he knew he could. He went through me like a needle brush through cream cheese.” 

He licked his lips. “I won’t go into what he did to me. I wouldn’t burden you with that. But I’ll tell you what he said. He tried to make me believe that the relationship between Father Raymond and I was twisted—you know, the whole thing about us being his favorite altar boys—when in reality, Father Raymond was the closest thing to a normal dad that I ever had.”

“That was a horrible thing to do.”

“It was pretty grotesque. Fortunately, he didn’t get me to admit it. I didn’t give in to him. Freet was going to kill me, you know, after he had finished degrading me in the worst ways possible.” He paused, and added, almost as an afterthought, “And then you showed up to rescue me.”

“You must have thought I was a fool, didn’t you?” she shuddered.

“I wouldn’t say that. You did succeed. I owe you my life.”

Of course, she thought to herself, she owed Fish her life as well. But it was polite of him not to bring that up.

At last, she managed to say, “I hadn’t realized you were dealing with such horrible things, Fish.”

“I know. I never told anyone else, except Bear. And I wasn’t going to tell you. Although Bear said I should, when the right time came. Assuming that this is the right time,” he cocked his head at her. “Do you understand why I’m telling you all this?”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve had this feeling—ever since we came out of that cellar together—that I’ve been disappointing you. I have this idea that you expect me to turn into a knight in shining armor and whisk you away into the sunset on a white horse.”

She flushed, and under different circumstances, would have made a quick retort. But instead, she dropped her eyes.

“And I admit I’ve avoided you because of that. But that was wrong. I should have faced the matter with you squarely and frankly a long time ago. I don’t want you waiting around for me, Rose, expecting something that’s just not going to happen.”

She looked up at him, and met his brown eyes as he glanced at her insistently, pointedly.

“Why not?”

He looked back at the road and blew out his breath in exasperation. “Haven’t I made you understand, Rose? I’m a broken man, with all sorts of psychological baggage. And your expectations of me are so high that I could never meet them.”

“Are they?” she asked quietly, trying to quell her swelling emotions. “How do you know?”

He frowned, speeding past the truck that had been ahead of them with typical New York impatience. “Rose, you live half in your ideal world of adventures and archetypes, and half in this real world. But I don’t belong in that ideal world. I’m happy enough to share the real world with you, but you can’t put me into that fairy-tale-land of yours. I don’t live there. I’m no handsome prince, and I’m not a knight in shining armor.”

She couldn’t help smiling through her tears. “You’re just a wounded soldier,” she said. “It doesn’t mean you can’t be a knight, someday.”

He groaned and rubbed his hand over his forehead, muttering to himself in quiet frustration. “Rose, Rose, Rose. That’s just not me. What can I say that will convince you to leave me alone with my sordid past?”

“Nothing,” she said, sniffling and wiping her nose. “You’ve been hurt, and you’re struggling...”

“Which is why I probably seem cold and solitary to you sometimes,” he said, handing her his handkerchief. “I don’t have many friends. It’s a real effort for me to initiate relationships with others. Not like you, Rose. You have more friends than I’d ever know what to do with. And you’ll have boyfriends, too. Those guys you hang out with—they’re all good Catholics. Maybe one of them will be like Bear was to your sister. I don’t want you to turn down one of them because you’re waiting around for me, who’s been used like a trash bin by too many thugs and criminals.”

She set her jaw. “Fish, don’t talk about yourself like that. You’re not trash. And not a trash bin.”

He looked at her mildly, then turned his eyes back to the long highway ahead. “I know,” he said. “At least on one level. But there always seems to be that fundamental doubt.”

The rest of the ride home, they remained silent or kept to lighter topics. Rose managed to keep her emotions under control, and when they reached Mercy College that evening, she thanked him and said goodnight with miraculous normality. She deliberately didn’t stay to watch his car pull away, but shouldered her backpack and walked back inside.

Kateri was not in the room, but there was a note from her, telling Rose to call Dr. Morris.

She dialed his home number and he answered.

“Rose, you’re back. Did you have a good trip?”

“Wonderful,” she answered truthfully.

“I wanted to tell you what the Dean and I decided to do, after talking to Donna, Tara, and their parents. I’ve expelled Donna from the play. The school administration is considering whether or not to expel her from school, but that’s their call, not mine at this point. However, based on Tara’s willingness to admit and repent for her part in the mischief, I’m tempted to keep her on and give her Donna’s role. I’m giving Tara’s part to the understudy. But I wanted to talk to you first to find out if you are comfortable with Tara remaining in the play.”

Rose considered. “I think so,” she said. It was true that Tara had always been nicer, particularly in the beginning, before falling under Donna’s influence. “How did Donna respond?”

“Oh, very badly. She denied everything, and tried to take the high ground, saying she was being persecuted. Well, with two witnesses, it was obvious that she was lying. Then Tara broke down and admitted to everything. When I spoke with her alone, she said that she had been too scared of Donna to object when Donna made the plan to trick you. That seemed to make sense to me. The Dean wanted me to expel them both, but I asked that Tara, at least, be given another chance. But he said I should talk to you first.”

“I think that’s fine with me,” she said.

“Good. I’m keeping her on probation. We’ll see how she does on rehearsals—she’s done well so far. I have picked another understudy to study her part, and she knows I will drop her if there are any further incidents. I’m sorry again that you had to go through this, Rose.”

“I think I’ll be all right, Dr. Morris. Really. Thank you.”

“Good. I’m relieved. I’d hate to see you drop out now. I have to tell you I’ve been very, very pleased with all the work you’ve done so far.”

“Thank you. Of course I won’t drop out,” Rose said, a bit indignantly. “Then they would have won!”

Dr. Morris chuckled. “That’s Cordelia’s spirit for you. All right, I’ll see you tomorrow at practice. Be sure to alert me about any more problems. And please thank your brother-in-law for me.”

“I will,” Rose promised, and saying goodbye, hung up. Technically, the brother-of-her-brother-in-law, but she knew who Dr. Morris meant.

Emptying her backpack, she sat for a moment on the floor, looking at one of the pictures Blanche had given her this weekend—a picture of her and Fish dancing at the wedding. She loved that picture. But now it seemed to represent a stage presentation, a story not based on reality.

But wasn’t there a bit of truth to it, still?

Alone, she sought out the dormitory chapel, which was empty. There, she stretched herself out on the carpeted floor, buried her head in her arms and sobbed.

It was as if something inside her had died—maybe an illusory image she had had of Fish all these years. He had seen it, and had killed it, deliberately, with his usual nearly passionless demeanor. Part of her wept from seeing that beloved figure melt.

Once she had quieted herself, she was able to wipe her eyes, look up at the tabernacle and admit that it was a good thing that the phantasm was gone. It was better to live in the chill, stark world of reality, where things were not perfect, and so far from the ideal. Wasn’t it?

But she put her head back down and cried again, this time more deeply. Not for the phantom that had died, but for her friend who was still wrestling, in a daily, invisible struggle, with a demon inside him that few people would understand or appreciate.

It was something he had shared with her alone, something that wasn’t meant for her to discuss with Kateri, her mom, or even Blanche. He had trusted her enough to tell her, and she was going to keep his secret.

She sighed. Maybe, just maybe, the trust between them would be the basis for a deeper friendship, the kind of companionship she longed to share with him.

She shook her head. “Hopeless girl,” she told herself softly, feeling tears drip onto the carpet. “Incorrigible.”  But she couldn’t deny how she felt, could she? Knowing more about him didn’t make her love him any less.

 

Never love unless you can

bear with all the faults of man!

 

Thomas Campion had warned his love. And she could bear this, if she needed to. If that was God’s will.

Of course, she couldn’t tell if it was. In the end, she still had to put it aside, and go on with her life. She exhaled and sat up. The weekend was over.