“Where is it?” I hiss, shoving past his door.
“I have it,” he whispers from behind me, a yearning in his voice that I’ve grown long tired of hearing.
“Yes, I’m quite aware you have it, Your Grace,” I quip, impatient in a quick glance of his room, “It’s your having it that keeps me here.” My gaze draws towards his library, the only place I’ve yet to check. “Is it in here, Your Grace?” I press, reckless in my withdrawal of the books from his shelf.
“No,” he sighs, before the creak of his mattress tells me he’s taken a seat along the edge of his bed. Oh so very tired he must be.
“It’s in here–isn’t it?” I scorn, the sound of pages falling to the ground in several harsh thuds.
“No,” he laments.
“Really?” I retort, frantic in my gripping of the books, “Perhaps you hid it in one of these texts, then?”
“No.” I begin carelessly skimming past the pages, becoming ever more enraged with each novel that came up short. Wedging the book open with my thumb, scouring the texts for written memos, the fold of a corner, and anything that might suggest the brooch’s location. Slamming the spines shut, throwing each down at the floor, yanking another from the shelf. Where is it?! In a fit of temper for my ploy having failed, I swore to myself that I would find it, here and now.
“I’m sorry, Ava,” he interjects, followed by the shaky inhale of… tears? “I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there for you, Ava…” he continues, his voice croaking. I turn back my gaze at him, noticing he’s hunched over, seemingly peering at something within his hands. Am I to believe he’s apologizing now? I eye him suspiciously, uncertain of this side of him, before awkwardly returning my attention to the shelf. While my hand grasps for another text, however, I feel my eyes drawing towards him. Perhaps it was an undeserved pity I felt for him that tempted my gaze, but in my own curiosity, I allowed myself another quick glance. Peering over at him in his presumed despair, I can’t help but feel I could almost recall the sound of his wavering breaths. Perhaps he’s cried before in my presence? Had I heard him sometime prior? Furrowing my brows at him, I part my lips to speak.
“What are you sorry for, exactly?” I ask doubtingly.
“For leaving you,” he bemoans, with a deep sigh. “And for being so contentious,” he says bitterly as though sore with himself, “as to expect a relationship could ever hope to resume between us.” I stare at the back of his head strangely, the tilt of my head involuntary in my confusion. Leave me? When did he leave me? Thus far into our exchange, I remain dumbfounded by the intent of his words. What did he mean by resume?
Although it appeared unclear to me just what he was struggling to convey, I nevertheless set my gaze back at the bookshelf, knowing I’d much rather find a brooch than an answer to his ramblings. In my scan of his library, I can tell I’ve been indiscriminate in my conduct, having pulled out books at random at the height of my temper. With a ledge of the shelf almost cleared, I reach for one thick and seemingly old in its yellowing pages. Unlike his earlier recommendation of The Triumph of Barclay, the leather of this novel felt worn and used. It was visibly untaken care of, the belt buckle stretched and growing thin. Examining the nameless title of the book, it was in stark contrast to the rest of his obviously maintained collection. Turning the cover open, the pages felt stiff and crinkled, seemingly as though it may have been dropped in a lake during its prime. The first several pages retain scribbles and watermarks, but in skimming through them, I discover texts handwritten in ink.
‘... Ava and I snuck out to the lake last night. It was cold so I brought a blanket to share between us…’
My eyes furrow in bewilderment at the page, recognizing the penmanship in the wake of his love letters.
“What is this?” I whisper, my attention fixed on the pages.
‘... The night air sent a shiver, but we huddled close wrapped together in the quilt’s warmth…’
He wrapped his arm around my waist. The thought, almost seamless in its familiarity, hits me. Why do I remember this? I glance down several lines later.
‘... She wrestled me into the lake, which was hard to explain afterwards to Father…’
I begin flipping a few pages forward, continuing to scan his words but failing to find another similar spark of recognition.
‘... Ava insisted on a dance together, where we waltzed barefoot in a clearing of the forest…’
‘... I showed her some of my poetry, and though she liked them all, she said she was partial to the ones about her…’
‘... Ava kissed me for the first time, but later teased me for having blushed…’
Why am I being referred to in this? Why, when he’s done so often in our recent affairs, do I vaguely remember his hand at my side so long ago? Did I perhaps know him before? Peering at the top corners of the page, I notice these date back almost six years ago. Darting my gaze back at His Grace, I hasten towards him with my interrogation of the book.
“What is this?” I inquire, gesturing to the book. He remains still in his dejection with his gaze lowered, motioning only his limp arm towards me.
“The brooch…” he says despondently, the glint of a purple stone between his fingertips, “Here.” My sight lingers on the brooch in frozen disbelief whilst my hand hesitates to reach for it.
“Why?” I whisper, feeling cautious of his seemingly genuine offer. Breathing a heavy exhale, he answers.
“Because,” he replies, with a sniffle, “you need it.” Hunched over with his sight narrowed and only his profile visible, I realize he hasn’t noticed I came here with my question regarding the book. His hand remains outstretched for me, and he hasn’t moved at all, almost as though truly defeated. I could extract the brooch from his hand and it would appear he would no longer fight me for it. So… do I take it? As my indecision thaws, I find myself reaching for it, but at the same time, my eyes beg to draw back towards the handwritten text once more. I slowly graze my fingertips towards the end of the book for the most recent entry and skim through a passage dated less than a mere month ago, a time slightly prior to the night we met.
‘... I’ve never known someone so brilliant and kind, and so much more dear to me than to merely refer to her as my one and only. A kindred spirit whose eyes of sapphire have flooded my soul, whose crimson hair I hold fear may one day burn me, and whose waltz with my heart I’ve never felt more entwined with…’
My sight lingers on the word ‘kind.’ Kind? I… I don’t think I’ve been very kind to the man seemingly distraught over my sake.
“No,” I say softly, putting a tender hand to his shoulder. “W-What is this?” I ask, motioning the open book past the brooch and in front of his gaze. He tilts his head curiously at the page, before peering up at me, his face marred with streaks of tears.
“It’s my diary,” he manages to breathe out.
“But,” I reply, flipping through the pages prior, “Some of these are written almost six years back.” I point to the corners of the dates, identifying the exchanges of seeming memories spanning a two year period. “However, the entries stop suddenly around four years ago, and then oddly resume this year - the strangest thing is that during this time, you journal about experiences involving me - why?” His frown lingering, he furrows his brow curiously.
“Because I would always journal about our time together,” he affirms, sincerity in his tone. His answer only serves to stir my confusion further. I shake my head at him, compelled to have my mind made finally clear.
“No,” I respond, tapping my finger definitively now at a date from four years ago, “But this would have had to have taken place slightly over several years back.” Gesturing the page even closer to him, he sets his hand on the opposite side of the diary, adjusting its placement. “Meaning I had to have been seventeen, making you…” My voice trails off in a sudden pause, realizing I have no recollection of his age… at all. I tear my attention from the book and to his face, unfamiliar in my assessment. “H-How old are you-” Wait…no. “No,” I repeat, furrowing my brow at him, “h-how old were you?” For once, he looks at me with the most concerned bewilderment, followed by the most gentle blink as though he had been made truly dumbfounded by my question.
“I was sixteen, Ava,” he says innocently, with his lips remaining parted, “It was then when I told you that I have to leave.” I have to leave? I have to leave. ‘I have to leave, Ava,’ a familiar voice calls out to me.
“I have to leave, Ava?” I repeat tentatively, the words replaying in my head, not knowing why they feel so hauntingly familiar. “I have to leave, Ava,” I can’t help but say again, dropping the book in my hand’s sudden clutch to my head, a throbbing pain pulsating to the rhythm of the phrase’s echoes. “I have to leave, Ava,” I assert for a third time, flinching as the pain sharpens like broken glass, as though a crack was tearing through my skull. Why do I remember? Why does the memory cut through my thoughts like a splitting headache? My fingers gripping onto my hair, my body writhing to cradle the ache, and my breaths becoming terse against the grit of my teeth, I hear two voices overlap. ‘Ava,’ a voice echoes.
“Ava,” a desperate voice calls out to me whilst the room goes dark.
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