Page 93 of These Immortal Truths
On the last step, she wavers, her knee giving out. Khiran’s hands are there to steady her. It’s only when they’ve crossed the threshold that he lets her step out of his arms. If the exterior is cute, the inside is absolutely charming. Wood floors and painted beadboard that runs floor to high ceilings. Stained glass transoms over the doors cast colored light across the room.
“Do you like it?”
The question is so ridiculous, she can’t help the breathy laugh that escapes her. “It’s lovely.”
“I’m glad.”
There’s a shadow in his voice, a tint of sadness to the words, that set her on edge. She turns to him, a frown on her lips that only grows deeper when she catches his expression.
He’s studying her; his gaze tracing the curves of her face as if he’s trying to memorize them.
She steps closer, takes his hands in her own. “What’s wrong?”
He kisses her, soft and achingly gentle. It tastes like an apology.
Anna pulls away, apprehension rising like a tide. She looks into his eyes, sees the regret there, and feels it crash down on her—sweeping her away into frigid waters and filling her lungs. “Khiran—”
“I’m sorry, Anna.” His voice, his smile, is full of pain and resolution. Anna knows he’s decided for both of them, without her. His lips press against her forehead. A goodbye. He’s never given her a goodbye. “I won’t risk you.”
She gasps, her fingers tangling in his sleeve. “No! Don’t—”
But he does.
He disappears, ripping out of her arms with a violence that’s painful. She can still feel the echo of his lips on her skin, taste the silent goodbye in his kiss, and she knows with heart wrenching clarity that he doesn’t plan to come back to her.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
She haunts him. She has for centuries, but now it feels different. Her memory is less of a nudge and more like the frigid hands of a wraith gripping his heart. So cold, it pierces.
CALIFORNIA, UNITEDSTATES
1942
Anna waits.
She fills her days, her weeks, her months, with little chores she makes for herself. The cottage is brimming with food, the closets full of clothes that fit as if they were made for her. There’s a greenhouse in the back that’s stocked with terracotta pots and enough hand tools to last a century. In the cellar she finds jars upon jars of seeds, lined and labeled, beside the potato stores. There’s even a sewing machine in the spare bedroom, complete with a closet full of fabric and thread in every color, and a box of yarn and knitting needles underthe bed. If she needs a pattern, she’s certain she’ll find a book of them hiding in plain sight in the extensive bookcase surrounding the living room fireplace. Even if she doesn’t, there’s enough money hiding in the sock drawer that she could buy what she wants a thousand times over.
Khiran has supplied her with everything she could need, everything she could want. Everything except for what she wants most. Everything except for him.
So she spends her days starting seeds and prepping garden beds, exploring the surrounding forest and meadows, the beaches and the cliffs. She goes farther and farther each time, mapping out the landscape with both bitterness and awe. An hour in one direction and she’s surrounded by towering redwoods and a mossy forest floor. In another, she’s surrounded by wildflowers and open skies. Another, and her feet are buried in soft sand with the cold ocean tide touching her toes. There’s even a town a few hours walk down the main road, brimming with shops of nearly every kind.
Anna could leave, take the money and go anywhere.
She doesn’t.
Because between her exploring and planting, reading and knitting, the sense of waiting—of expectation—never leaves her. She finds herself searching for him between the trees, expects him to be sitting there in the armchair every time she opens the door. Sometimes, when she wakes up from dreaming about him, she finds her hand reaching out to the empty side of the bed searching blindly for his warmth.
In eight centuries, he was the only constant. Even when his visits were years apart, she was never left without the expectation of seeing him again. Looking at the amount of resources he left her—measuring the amount of planning that went into it—feels like a bad omen. She’s certain he had hopes that she would give up on him, that she would live her life in comfort here until she was ready to move elsewhere.
He underestimates her stubbornness.
She makes a habit of tugging at her ring.
It never slips past her knuckle, but the small act of defiance soothes the bitter edge of anger. She hopes he can feel it. Hopes with every tug, he feels the pull on his heart. He never does show, but Anna decides to embrace the habit, anyway.
She likes the idea of him being forced to remember her existence. Likes to imagine that every tug on her finger is a tug on his heart. She hopes it hurts as much as his abandonment does. Hopes the ache of it fills his days and haunts his nights. Mostly, she just hopes she’s not the only one suffering.
On the anniversary of his leaving, she brings a bottle of brandy to the same field they landed in. She lays in the grass, the flowers tangling in her hair and the clouds overhead turning shades of pink and orange in the evening light.
