Page 58 of Roses & Ruin

A strange part of me is envious. I, of course, am being flayed by the pain of what we once had and lost. The agony on his face is my agony too, as his witness.

But at least he has these memories. At least he knows everything we ever whispered to each other. The little jokes, secrets, moments are lost to time for me.

And those are the moments that are sometimes the most precious. I don’t know Hayden’s pet peeves. I don’t know if he finds slugs gross but doesn’t mind earthworms. I don’t know if he prefers snow or rain. If he likes spring or summer.

I’ve never known Hayden in the spring or summer.

There’s so much I don’t know.

“Don’t apologize,” I end up saying, unsure how to say the rest. “Show me. I want to know as much as I can, Hayden. Please show me?” He lets me hold his hand, squeezing my fingers as we enter the museum.

Hayden pays for us both and walks us to a section labeled Local Artists. He walks us past old seafaring equipment, old pewter cups, and preserved household things. He walks us past a gallery of portraits, straight to a painting in the far corner, one not terribly remarkable at first glance.

The title is simple. Winston, the placard reads. Oil on canvas. Unknown artist. Painted circa 1821.

The painting is of a brown-haired girl, in a plain woolen dress, standing in the doorway of a salt-soaked wooden house on a cliff. In the ocean fog, the girl cradles a gray pigeon to her chest, pressing a kiss to his small head with her eyes closed, her cheeks a blushing peach. In her other hand she clutches a small, unfurled note. On the horizon, the silhouette of a lighthouse looms over the ocean.

The stirring in my chest spreads, exploding into longing and fondness and ache. I’m suddenly having a hard time breathing.

“Recognize her?” murmurs Hayden, his lips brushing my ear, and then I do. I do, I do, I do.

“Is that really me?” I scrabble for his hands behind me, and he takes them, squeezing my fingers just north of too hard.

“And Winston,” Hayden says, pulling me against his chest. “Your father kept a dovecote at the lighthouse, pigeons meant to send us warnings of sudden storms, dangerous winds. I tended to them, and Winston was your favorite.” I feel him drop his forehead against the top of my skull. “He was the one that carried our letters back and forth from your house to the lighthouse, sometimes several times a day. Drove your dad nuts. Your neighbor was an artist, and you were there all the time, learning how to mix pigments, find new colors.” He pulls back to look down at me. “You’ve always had a knack for that sort of thing. Bringing beauty to life in the world.”

“Winston,” I echo, trying not to cry.

“I know,” Hayden says faintly. “For the longest time, I wanted this painting for myself. Went to auctions, tracked it down. But as soon as I had it, I…” He steps away from me, and even though he has no body heat, the air is frigid in his absence. “I wanted to share you. Letting others fall in love with you felt like a tiny resurrection. I…”

I want to turn around, touch his cheek. But I can’t look away from the joy in my face, my lips on Winston’s tiny feathered head. I wish I could remember the warm flutter of his bird heart against mine. I stare at the note in my painted hand. What had Hayden written to me? There are a thousand notes I don’t know, a million words of love I’ll never hear.

“Come on,” Hayden says, more composed. “You’ll like this next place very much.” I’m about to ask him how he knows, but of course he knows.

It’s because once, a very long time ago, I already told him so.

Chapter 21

The Raven and the Stag is, if the brass plaque is to be believed, “the third-oldest pub in New England.” The swinging wooden sign above the door shows the feathered silhouette of a magnificent, nearly arterial set of antlers. This…this does seem familiar.

Hayden pushes inside, and the warmth is immediate, a lit fireplace on the far wall filling the cozy bar with a rich glow. It smells like old, polished wood, woodsmoke, and amber spirits. The stretch of windows overlooks the harbor and ocean, and I feel as if I’m in the cabin of a large, ancient ship, the captain’s quarters.

“It hasn’t changed much, has it?” I breathe, following the tightening in my chest. Hayden looks down at me, something like hope flickering in his eyes.

“No,” he says. “It hasn’t.”

It’s not very crowded, being a weekday. A few tourists are scattered along the bar, and the odd table is taken by a family here and there. But when the hostess grabs two menus and attempts to show us to a table, Hayden shakes his head.

“We’ll wait for that one.” He points to a table beside the window, the one that overlooks the lighthouse. I arch a brow at him when the hostess goes back to her stand.

“Look at you, the stuffy, fussy vampire,” I scoff. Hayden’s smirk is knowing.

“You’ll see,” he says.

Will I? I feel so out of the loop sometimes, a strange thing to feel, as it’s my own life. My own love. I look up at Hayden as he casts his eyes across the bar, that tinge of melancholy taking shape once more.

Something occurs to me.

“How do you know?” I blurt. “How do you know that we met in my original lifetime?” Hayden’s expression gets thoughtful. He worries his soft bottom lip between his teeth for a long moment.