"I'll get it cut tomorrow," Eliot said. He paused for a second, then shifted in bed.
"Goodnight," I said. I turned away to face the window. The moon outside was thin, waning. This bed felt different than my bed in the other room.
"Goodnight, princess," Eliot said. One of his arms curled around me and pulled me backwards into his embrace. He spooned me, kissed my shoulder, and lay his head down close to mine on the pillow. His breath was warm and tickled my back. His chest rose and fell, pressing against my back. The skin was seamed with scars. I nestled into him and kissed the arm closest to me. His hand reached out and stroked my hair back behind my ear.
I loved it when Eliot told me stories, when he shared books with me that he loved. Although it made me feel like a little girl, I longed to have him cradle me in his arms and tell me all of the stories of his childhood.
One time I was reading a newspaper and landed on the advice column. A guilty pleasure of mine, the advice column always made me think that there was no question in this world that did not have an answer. A man had written in about a woman he'd just started dating.
"She's a wonderful person," he wrote, "but she keeps giving me books to read. I have a pile of books now on my night stand, and a to-read list that's a mile long. Have you ever heard of a relationship that came with a reading list attached?"
The advice columnist wrote back: "I have never heard of a relationship that didn't."
Sharing books is one of the most personal, most frightening things you can do, after all. When you give somebody else a story that you have loved, you are risking so much. Will they like the story as much as you? Will they take the same meaning from it? And yet, the reward if they understand the book you love, if they love it as much as you!
There are studies that say that reading fiction makes you a better person. More empathetic. When you read a novel, you become the main character, if only for a while. Living in someone else's shoes makes people more generous with each other. And when you read the same book as another person, you are becoming the same character. When your lover reads a book you have read, you are sharing another experience, in a way, one that you might never get to share in real life.
I bugged Eliot to tell me stories because I wanted to understand him. But there was one story he didn't tell me until much later, and now I know why. It would have given up too much of his heart to me, and he was not ready to do that. Not yet.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Eliot
Eliot woke up earlier than the sun, but when he rolled over he found the other side of his bed empty.
"Brynn?" He wiped at his eyes and looked around. The thin light of dawn filtered through the curtains of his windows, illuminating the dust that hung in the quiet air of morning.
He quickly pulled on a robe and went across the hallway, but she was not in her bedroom either. He wasn't about to scream her name from the rooftops, but a small ringing of panic sent its way through his body. His feet padded down the stairs one at a time, but with some measure of quickness that was not normal for him so early in the morning.
The kitchen light was on, and when he passed through the entryway Lucky jumped down from the counter where he had been licking at the saucer of cream to rub against his ankles. Eliot's mind was still fuzzy with sleep, but he saw the kettle on the stove still steaming and recognized that Brynn must be close.
Out in the backyard, the air was still cool from the night. Brynn sat alone at the patio table, sipping a cup of tea and reading a book. She looked up when he opened the door and smiled sweetly.
"Good morning," she said.
"Good morning," Eliot said, walking over and leaning down to kiss her lightly on the lips. "It's early, isn't it?"
"A little early," Brynn admitted. "I slept well, though."
"I'm glad," Eliot said, pressing his hand on top of hers as he sat down next to her. They sat there for a minute in silence, enjoying the morning. The forest was bright and alive with birdcall, and two sparrows bathed themselves on the step of the pool, splashing water with ruffled feathers and tumbling over each other in play. The rose garden was in full bloom, and stripes of red and yellow and white lined the edges of the garden. From so far away the colors blended together in an impressionist muddle.
"What's the book?" he asked, leaning over.
"It's a book of legends," Brynn said. "My mom used to tell me the stories when I was a little girl, just before bedtime. I thought about it when you were talking about the other book. The Little Prince." Brynn held out the book of legends, waving it in the air. "But this book of legends—this was my favorite book when I was a kid."
"What legend are you reading now?" he asked.
"Orpheus and Eurydice. Do you know the story?"
"No," Eliot said, leaning back in his chair. "Will you tell it to me?"
"Sure!"
Brynn's half-smile made him ache to reach out and take her into his arms. She was so young, so innocent, and yet whenever she smiled he saw behind her beautiful face the intelligence that had made him first fall in love with her. She settled back and her voice took on a deeper tone.
"Orpheus was half-man, half-god."
"Isn't this supposed to start out with 'Once upon a time?'" Eliot asked.
"This isn't a fairy tale," Brynn said. "It's a legend. Now don't interrupt the story."
Eliot grinned.
"Sorry."
Brynn continued, her face becoming more animated as she went on.
"Orpheus could play music like no other, and animals would flock around him whenever he played his lyre. He enchanted Eurydice with his playing, and she fell in love with him. Remind you of anyone?" The teasing look on Brynn's face twisted his heart. It was so good to see her in a joking mood.
"Are you saying I enchanted you?" he asked.
"Maybe. But this story doesn't end happily. Just after their wedding, Eurydice was bitten by a snake, and died instantly," she said.
"That is a tragedy. He must have been heartbroken."
"More than that. He traveled to the underworld, the land of the dead, to get her back." Brynn's voice dropped into a lower register as she spoke.
"To bring her back from the dead?"
"Yes. He played a song lamenting her death and Hades, the god of the underworld, was moved by his music so much that he let Eurydice go. On one condition."
"There's always a catch," Eliot said.
"This one wasn't so bad. He told Orpheus that he must lead Eurydice back up to the world of the living, but that he could not look back at her until they were both out of the underworld. If he looked back, she would be gone forever."
"I can imagine what comes next," Eliot said.
"Can you?" Brynn asked, her eyes wide, lost in the story. "Can you imagine walking through a dark tunnel for hours, tormented souls wailing at every turn? Your lover is supposed to be following you, but is she really there? Has she really come back with you? He would have done the impossible, brought the dead back to life, if he had only walked bravely out of the underworld into the light without looking back."
"But he didn't," Eliot said
"He didn't." Brynn's voice swelled into the tone of a storyteller, her hands moving in the air dramatically to demonstrate the action. "At the last moment, as he stepped out of the underworld into the light of day, he spun around to see his beloved. But she was just inside the tunnel. He reached out to grasp her hand, and she vanished in his arms. He heard the ghost of a voice calling Farewell and nothing else. Hades would not let him return to the underworld a second time."
"The end?" Eliot asked.
"The end," Brynn said.
"It was his own fault," Eliot said, crossing his arms.
"You think so?"
"If he had trusted her, if he hadn't been so impatient, it might have been a happy ending. Wouldn't it?"
"Would you have been able to keep yourself from looking back?" Brynn asked.
Instantly Eliot saw Clare's face in his mind, and he winced in pain. Brynn saw and the realization on her face made him wish that he was better at hiding his emotion. She should not have to think about his dead wife, no matter how much it clouded his own mind.
"I'm sorry," Brynn said.
"No, don't. It's not—"
"It's just a story," Brynn said, closing the book.
"A legend," Eliot corrected solemnly. Brynn smiled at his didactic tone, and he squeezed her hand, trying to fix the connection between them that had strained at the mention of Clare.
"It's beautiful here," Brynn said, looking out at the forest.
"Do you want to stay?" Eliot asked before thinking.
"With you?" Brynn asked. Her eyebrow lifted in a slight question.
"In Hungary. Would you want to stay here?"
"Yes! It's so pretty, and I'm really happy I have the chance to study at the Academy."
"It's an excellent program," Eliot said, trying to hide the disappointment that had suddenly sprung into his thoughts. "It's a different country, though. I know it can be hard to acclimate."
Brynn sipped her tea before answering.
"It's a great opportunity," she said finally. "I wouldn't want to miss out on that. And being in a different country isn't so bad. I'm learning more of the language."
"That's wonderful," Eliot said. He sat back and looked out into the greenery of the forest. He knew it was a fantastic opportunity for Brynn. He would not ask her again. It was enough that she was not upset with him any more, that she had come to him and slept in his arms. He would not push her into anything.
"You do need a haircut," Brynn said, reaching forward and tousling his hair, then smoothing it back.
He leaned toward her and kissed her as he stood, sweeping her up out of the chair and into his arms.
"Ohh!" She cried out softly as he pulled her into a tight embrace, his lips pressing against hers. Such sweet lips, such a sweet face that masked a keen intelligence. He loved her, he loved her, and at that moment he would do anything for her. As he broke the kiss his lips lingered on her cheek.
"Come to dinner with me tonight," Eliot whispered. He could feel her smiling against his face, and his heart swelled.
"Yes, of course," Brynn said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Brynn
“Myths are the stories we tell ourselves to explain the world around us and within us.”
Pamela Jaye Smith
Did I want to stay in Hungary? I asked myself that question over and over again as I walked to the address Mark had given me. Budapest was beautiful, old stone buildings and so much history soaked into the ground. But now that summer had come and the streets were no longer white with snow, the city seemed dirtier. The heat was sometimes oppressive. And although I loved Eliot and living with him, I could not see myself making many friends here. Everybody was polite but also standoffish when I tried to make conversation. Part of that was my halting Hungarian, but another part of it was that I was an outsider, not one of them, and I could feel it.
Crossing the street, I looked up at the large building where Csilla's family lived. The apartment was on the top floor, and when I entered the building the doorman waved me in. Seeing my hesitation, he asked me where I was going. I responded in halting Hungarian, and he led me back to an elevator, pressing the buzzer. A woman's voice answered, and he spoke to her rapidly; I could only make out a few words: "an American girl."