Page 15 of Bitter Burn
“Just because you’ve lied to them, manipulated them, and you plan to kill Isolde’s uncle?” A knowing laugh. “Sounds like foreplay to me.”
Rome is a wall of teeming grief when I arrive at the crest of late afternoon. The faithful have pressed themselves into Vatican City, holding vigil, praying, crying, while the rest of the city churns with an uneasy mix of decorum and opportunism. I spot black-veiled nonne shuffling between camera operators unpacking tripods and vendors selling coins and plates commemorating the newly exanimate pope. Someone is selling street waffles with his face burned onto one side. A young man sits on a low wall with tears streaming down his face.
I track Tristan and Isolde to a graffiti-splattered apartment block north of the papal complex, and I sit in my parked car for a moment, reminding myself that I cannot storm into this shithole and drag them back to Lyonesse where they belong. Tristan—maybe—would be biddable. But Isolde would be like a cat in a room full of furniture; one wrong move and she’d be darting into the most unreachable corner, hissing at every attempt to retrieve her. But my God, how I want to kick down their door and order them home.
I am furious with myself for wanting this. You have no idea how much. Everything would be so much easier if I felt nothing for them.
But why are they here in Rome? The only reason I can think of is that Isolde is going to her uncle, and that is beyond worrisome for me. It’s fucking terrifying.
I’ve parked a few blocks away from their building, and I don’t bother going in that direction, thinking it better not to risk being seen. Instead, I find a café to sit at while I wait for the blue dots to move on my phone. Behind me, an Italian and a Hungarian argue about which country gets to claim the invention of the espresso machine, and at the far end of the café, a journalist is taking a call on her laptop—an interview about the logistics of the upcoming conclave.
I myself have brought Minch’s Bible, and I page through it as I drink my coffee. Regret is a small burr in my chest as I run my fingertips over years of underlines and notes, in different colors of ink, in handwriting both rushed and thoughtful.
I wish I could have saved him; I wish I’d found him sooner. Faith like this…it’s rare. I remember my father’s Bible, marked up just like this. I remember my hand folded in his warm, dry one as we prayed at dinner. I remember how he’d always, without fail, use the Bibles tucked in the back of the pews to follow along with the readings. Like the words were that important—they couldn’t only be heard, they had to be seen. They couldn’t only be seen, but they had to be understood, felt, ingested.
I flip the page to Psalm 120 and see a list scratched out in black archival ink.
Revelata Scientia, 1682 - National Central Library of Rome
* * *
Geschichte der Geheimbünde, 1761 - Admont Abbey
* * *
A Treatise of Politicks Large and Small, 1697 - Thornchapel (private collection)
* * *
Letter from Thomas Jefferson to Bishop James Madison, 1800?—
Before I can finish reading, my phone on the table gives a little buzz. One of my dots is on the move—Tristan. I close the Bible and follow.
My hair is red at the moment, and I’m wearing all black like a priest would—even without an actual collar, I easily blend into the clerical swarm flooding the city—and so it’s easy to lag behind Tristan and stay beyond the edge of his awareness. He’s good, I don’t mean to imply that he’s not good, but becoming a bodyguard still hasn’t removed him of a certain…soldierliness. He expects a fair fight. He expects enemies to act like enemies, and he doesn’t expect his employer to trail him like a wolf in the woods.
And perhaps, sweetly—heartbreakingly—there is a part of Tristan that doesn’t suspect that anyone would ever follow him, want him—only what he is guarding. Whether it’s me, Isolde, or a patch of rocky scrub overlooking the Carpathian basin…in his mind, only these can be desirable targets, never himself. And right now, Isolde is safely secreted in their apartment, so he thinks there isn’t a need for the alertness I know he’s capable of.
It’s only been four days since I last saw him, but the snarl in the pit of my stomach still tightens with every glimpse of a broad shoulder, of the pale skin between his ear and the collar of the hoodie he wears. If I thought my besmirching of the venerable wood paneling at Morois had been enough to stave off future desire, I’d been wildly wrong, and the hunger crawling up my guts to grip me by the throat is almost enough to make me stagger. I need to touch him. I need to smell him. A single lick of the skin below his ear might be enough to save my life.
He stops at a small grocery store but not for long, and when he emerges again, he has a cloth tote bag, barely filled. Some lumps at the bottom—apples, I think—and then crusty bread sticking up above the top. He doesn’t turn back toward the apartment however. After a moment’s hesitation, he starts in the opposite direction, striking west in the blooming twilight, his head down. Soon we lose the crowds of the town, and save for a handful of intrepid joggers and bicyclists daring the December evening, we’re nearly alone as Tristan climbs a winding footpath up a steep hill. The cool air is made sharper still by the eucalyptus trees on either side of the path; I pull in lungfuls of the pleasantly crisp scent and recognize it immediately. It’s in the simple aftershave that Tristan uses.
As good as the eucalyptus smells here, high above Rome after a day in the winter sun, I know it would smell even better on my puppy.
I keep well behind my bodyguard, far enough that my footsteps won’t carry, that I’m just beyond this curve or that curve, until we reach the top of the hill. There, his perception of his surroundings belatedly grows sharper, and he finally looks over his shoulder. The red hair and the clothes—they’re enough for an instant of doubt, but no longer than that. His pace falters, his cheeks go pale, and he turns.
Eight
Mark
A bike zips by, and then we’re alone—just us and the lights of the city below. Across the valley, the Vatican rears up in a wall of stone and stone pines, lights glowing from within and the massive dome of St. Peter’s lit up like a jewel.
Dusk loves Tristan, even in a hoodie and jeans, and he is painted against the gloom like a knight from a painting, like a hero already snared by La Belle Dame Sans Merci. Except it’s me, I’m La Belle Dame tonight, and I think I could gobble up the fading roses on his cheeks, lay him down on the cold hill’s side, and show him such a dream.
“Sir,” he says, shock all over him.
“Oh, come now, baby. You really didn’t think I’d find you?”
He shakes his head wordlessly.
