lifted the rose to her face, brushing its petals against the tip of her nose, but he did not think she smelled its sweetness, not with the distance in her eyes.
“Ceci has courage,” she said.
“She does.” He frowned. On the face of it, her remark had nothing to do with his statement, but he did not think them unrelated. He waited for Beatrice to reveal the connection.
“She dares to do things I never dreamed,” she went on, “and in doing so, she fires my courage.”
Courage to do what? He wanted to ask, but something, some angel or demon, held his tongue still.
She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. Once again, he saw the thoughts moving in her eyes, calculating, weighing him. When she looked away, he knew she had once more chosen to hide her thoughts from him. The morning, the afternoon, the rest of his life darkened; there would always be silence, things unspoken, between them.
“Forgive me, Sebastian.” Her voice was harsh, as if she forced the words out. His jaw clamped shut and his mouth tightened. What new game was this? What if it was not a game? He could not think, could not gauge her honesty. “Forgive me for Conyers and forgive me for betraying my husband by intention if not by action.”
Her offenses were not against him and not for him to pardon even if he could. The man who could pardon her lay in his tomb. “Do not ask this of me.”
“You cannot forgive me?” she cried, crumpling the rose in her hand. Its scent, heavy and piercingly sweet, clogged the air.
He spoke through teeth that would not unclench. “I have nothing to forgive. You did me no harm.”
“If I did you no harm, then why are you so angry with me? Why do you hate me so?” Her face between the dark folds of her hood was stark pale, whiter than it had been before, her lips colorless.
“I do not hate you,” he said.
“Liar,” she said softly. Her mouth trembled as though she might start crying, but her eyes were cold, colder than he had ever seen them. Their chill bit through him.
“I do not hate you,” he said again. He was angry with her, angrier than he had yet been, and he did not know why. “I despise you.”
The words hung in the air; he could not snatch them back. She caught her breath and then nodded. “So.” She opened her hand and rose petals fell to the ground like snow. “We are good company, after all. You cannot despise me as much as I despise myself.”
Without curtsying, without asking for leave, she turned and walked away.
“Beatrice.” He had not meant to say he despised her; that was too simple a name for what he felt.
He did not know what had driven her attempted apology—did she try to cozen him, or had she simply wanted to have done with her past?—but in spurning it he had also refused the chance to alter their demeanor toward one another. And he had spurned it in the harshest manner he knew how.
If he had simply accepted her apology, could he have put an end to their endless quarreling? He did not know, but perhaps it was not too late.
There was only one way to find out. “Beatrice!”
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