Katherine
Dinner concluded with rather less fanfare than it had begun, which I daresay came as a mercy. Once the last of the syllabub had been consumed and our glasses drained, the clatter of footsteps signaled the arrival of the remaining household staff, who bustled in to clear the remnants with practiced ease.
"Lady Amelia, Miss Shirley," said Cillian, rising from his seat with genteel. "I am most obliged for the announcement delivered during the course of the meal. And Lady Katherine," he added, inclining his head toward me with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes but charmed me nonetheless, "I thank you for arranging such a delightful dinner."
I offered a smile in return, as was expected, though my cheeks flushed without my permission. There was a warmth curling inside me, unexpected and uninvited, like a hearth stoked on Christmas Eve.
"Magnus and I shall be leaving for a smoke, we have matters to discuss about war and his plans now that they're over."
Magnus rose in tandem, ever alert, and made his way around the table toward my husband. As he passed me, Cillian caught my gaze. There was something unreadable in his expression, no smirk, no sneer, just a lingering look that made my breath falter. His hand came to rest lightly on Magnus's back as he guided him from the room.
I lowered my gaze at once, ashamed to acknowledge the blush that stained my cheeks, or to examine too closely the flutter in my chest at the mere weight of his attention. Was I, in earnest, coming to crave it?
Soon after, Lewis rose, excusing himself with his usual tenderness. He made his way around to where my mother sat and bestowed a gentle kiss upon her cheek, one that made her eyes shine with that strange, girlish joy she'd not worn in years. Then he took his leave.
The door had barely closed behind him when Shirley, unable to contain herself any longer, let out a squeal of delight.
"Mother!" she exclaimed, eyes wide with mischief. "You never said it was that serious!"
Our mother merely beamed, clearly too elated to conjure words. It was a happiness that softened her whole face, erased the tightness that had once lingered there.
"You must allow me to plan it," I said, voice lighter than it had been in weeks. "A proper wedding. Mine was… well, mine was hardly worth remembering."
She turned to me then, her expression fond, as though she beheld me anew. "Katherine, my dearest, I shall grant you the entire affair. While I take my rest at Lewis's cottage and indulge in the wickedness of idleness, you shall oversee every detail."
At this, both Shirley and I gasped, before dissolving into helpless laughter at the scandalous suggestion. That our mother—once so decorous—should abandon all propriety so freely!
"You are the eldest among us, so we shall trust your wisdom to manage yourself without a chaperone," I said, half-teasing, half-wistful.
For the first time in what felt like an age, my happiness was full. Whole.
*
It was not long past midday when I awoke the following day, roused by the rhythmic patter of rain against the glass panes of my chamber window. The branches of the old oak outside rustled in soft accompaniment, and somewhere in the distance a bird sang a plaintive note, as though mourning the sun's absence.
I stretched beneath the bedclothes, limbs tangled in the rumpled sheets. As I sat up, the book I had attempted to finish the night before slipped from the coverlet and fell to the floor with a soft, padded thud.
I reached for it and cradled it in my hand a moment, then cast my gaze toward the corridor.
I was not in the mood to resume the same story. I craved something else. Something older, perhaps. Sadder.
I crossed the corridor and entered the library, still wearing my dressing gown, my slippers silent against the wooden floors. The scent of paper and dust wrapped around me like a shawl. My fingers traced the spines of the leather-bound volumes until they paused on one in particular: the cracked and faded binding of Romeo and Juliet.
I do not know what compelled me. Perhaps it was the gloom outside. Perhaps it was the gloom within.
Book in hand, I made my way to the window seat, drew up my knees, and allowed the storm's distant thunder to cradle me as I opened to a familiar page.
"I never pegged you for a romantic," said a voice.
I startled and turned. Cillian stood at the doorway, one shoulder pressed against the frame, arms crossed. His hair was slightly mussed, as though he too had only just risen.
My heart stuttered. "I suppose you've come to laugh at me?"
"Not at you," he said, stepping into the room. "At your choice of reading material, perhaps."
I arched a brow as he came to sit on the opposite end of the seat, his presence consuming even in silence.
"You mock the greatest love story ever told?"
He gave a low chuckle and crossed to the opposite end of the seat. His presence altered the air—made it heavier, somehow, more intimate. "I merely call it as I see it. Two children who died for a fantasy."
I closed the book, holding it against my chest. "Or two hearts who dared defy the world."
His gaze flicked toward me. "And would you do the same, Katherine? Defy the world?"
"I think," I said slowly, "I'd rather die for something real than live forever in a cage."
That silenced him.
For a moment, all we could hear was the tap-tap-tap of rain and the echo of our own restraint.
At length, I reopened the volume. "Shall we read it together?"
He hesitated, then leaned forward and took the other edge of the page. His gloved fingers brushed mine, and my breath caught.
I began. "'With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls—'"
"'For stony limits cannot hold love out,'" he replied, his voice low, steady.
"'And what love can do that dares love attempt,'" I continued, "'therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.'"
Our eyes met. His were darker than I remembered. There was no humour in them now.
"You're trembling," he murmured.
"So are you."
Then his lips were on mine—deliberate, reverent. The kiss was not rough, nor hurried. It was the sort that felt like prayer. His hand rose to cradle my cheek, thumb stroking the skin there as though memorizing the shape of me.
I let the book fall, forgotten. My hands reached for the fabric of his shirt, anchoring myself in him.
The kiss deepened, sweet and aching. I heard myself sigh—a sound I did not mean to make, and yet there it was, heard and answered.
One hand found my waist. The other, bolder, slid down my side and beneath the hem of my skirts. My breath hitched. I ought to have pushed him away. Ought to have spoken.
But I did not.
Instead, I shifted forward, welcoming the warmth of his touch against my thigh. He lifted me then, deftly, settling me onto his lap. The motion was seamless, as though we had done this a thousand times before. I gasped, clutching at his shoulders. He was already there, holding me steady, grounding me against him.
Our bodies met in rhythm, his movements deliberate but restrained. I felt the pressure of him beneath me, the desire, the ache. His breath warmed my neck, his lips brushing the skin below my ear as he whispered my name like a sin he could not repent.
"Katherine."
My skirts were haphazard around my hips, his hands firm on my legs, guiding, teasing. I matched him, pressed down harder, surrendering to the urgency he awakened in me.
But then—
His fingers toyed with the first button of my bodice, and something in me cracked.
The room snapped back into focus. The bookshelves. The silence. The storm outside.
I wasn't Juliet.
He wasn't Romeo.
I pulled back, breathless, one hand splayed against his chest to keep the distance I hadn't before. "We're not them."
His chest heaved, the heat of him still tangible in the space between us. His eyes searched mine, raw and unreadable.
"No," he said hoarsely. "We're something much worse."
He eased me down as though I were spun of porcelain, then stood. He did not look at me as he adjusted his cuffs, did not offer another word. He merely turned and left the room, silent as a ghost.
I remained where he'd placed me, skirts twisted, breath uneven, heart pounding like thunder on the windows.