Page 47 of These Immortal Truths
Anna is not a stranger to being objectified, but she is to feeling wanted. To feeling cherished.
It scares her, because shelikesit.
She likes his attentions, is comforted by his affections. There’s a thrill in being touched, in being wanted. In, possibly, being loved. It makes it all the more terrifying, because for all her fondness for him, Anna knows she doesn’t feel quite the same. She appreciates his attentions, but doesn’t share them the way she knows she should.
So when they find themselves alone between the towering pines and hemlocks, and Frederick takes her hand and pulls her into a kiss, Anna is frozen. Torn between wanting his touch and wishing he were someone else.
Someone with a taller frame and darker hair.
Someone with eyes as blue as they are green.
Anna is the one to break the kiss, her pulse beating so fast, so loud, it sounds more like distant gunfire than a heartbeat.
Frederick’s fingers are threading through her hair, mussing the low bun at her neck. His eyes hooded, wanting. Anna wonders what she must look like—face flushed and eyes wide.
Anna could grow to love him, she’s almost sure of it. If only—
She thinks of Norwich.
Of the way the man she considered a friend flinched away from her the moment her skin was exposed.
“Eliza,” Frederick breathes, his fingers cupping the back of her neck. Anna can feel every syllable whisper against her lips. “I am irrevocably besotted with you.”
Eliza.
Never has a name felt more like a blade. Never has she been more angry with herself for forgetting.
Frederick doesn’t love Anna; he lovesEliza. The woman who doesn’t carry centuries of secrets, who has nothing to hide beneath the cloth of her dress. He loves the version of her that is capable of bearing his children and growing old beside him.
He doesn’t love her. He doesn’t evenknowher.
She pulls away.
“I’m sorry,” she says, the words heavy despite how softly they’re whispered.
The confusion in his eyes is as sharp as her regret. He shakes his head. “I don’t understand. I thought—you must feel the same. You must.”
There are a hundred things she could tell him. Some of them are truths. Most of them are lies. Hands twisting in front of her, she settles for one that feels like both and neither. “I can’t.”
A beat of silence, then a smile. “Do you wish to be wed first? Is that it? I will gladly give you my name and everything that comes—”
“Love you,” she blurts, stomach churning. “I can’t love you, Frederick. I’m sorry.”
He recoils, struck as if her words held physical form. “What are you talking about? What has all this been, between us, if not that?” Eyes narrowing, he retreats a step. “Is there someone else? Are you spoken for?”
Yes. No. The truth is too complicated. It sits, awkward and unspoken, on her tongue a moment too long. Frederick takes her silence and interprets it for her.
“I don’t believe this,” he mutters, words barbed. “All this time, and you’d have me following your every step like a love-sick fool!”
Anna closes her eyes, swallows down the prick of pain settling in her heart. She doesn’t correct him. Can’t. There is someone else, but that isn’t the reason he thinks. She is spoken for, but it isn’t so much a man as Time that claims her hand. Instead, she says, “You asked me to learn.”
Frederick scoffs, shaking his head. “You know that’s not all I wanted.”
Maybe she did. Maybe she saw all the signs and chose to ignorethem because it was easier than addressing the truth. Bracing herself, she straightens her spine and squares her shoulders. “But that’s all I can give you,” she says, meeting his eyes with every spare bit of strength she can muster. “I’m sorry that’s not enough.”
Anna turns away and starts walking. Away from him and away from camp. At her back, there is nothing but silence. No words. No shuffling of following footfall.
It’s better that way.
