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  “Norma,” Raquel says softly.

  “Yes?”

  “…Come home with me?”

  Norma closes her eyes. She’d been planning to tell her today; she’d sworn that morning that she was going to tell her. But Raquel is standing so close now, her skin so warm and her perfume so sweet and Norma knows she’s too weak to say no.

  She leans in and just barely brushes their lips together.

  “All right,” she whispers.

  The smile that curves against her mouth feels like a knife twisting in her chest.

  She gets the same feeling later that night. Much later, when tomorrow feels too close but still too far out of reach, and the only other people awake are the ones who are contemplating doing something they’ll most likely regret.

  Norma is no different. She knows she’ll wake up sometime tomorrow afternoon and wish she’d made a different choice. She knows she’ll wake up every day for the rest of her life still wishing the same thing.

  But it doesn’t stop her from carefully sliding out of Raquel’s arms, from leaving the bed they’d shared and silently getting dressed in the dark. It doesn’t stop her from leaving the note on top of the dresser, and then opening the front door.

  She pauses in the doorway, one foot still inside and one foot already out. She watches the rise and fall of Raquel’s chest as she sleeps, the streetlights outside casting a pale glow across her face.

  Take the step, Norma tells herself. Take the step and shut the door and walk away.

  Raquel is going to be famous; Raquel is going to be a star. She doesn’t need some scandalous love affair to come to light just when she’s about to hit it big.

  Norma takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. She turns around before she opens them again, and doesn’t look back as she picks up her coat and her handbag, or when she shuts the door behind her, or when she’s out on the street and hailing a cab.

  She thinks of Raquel waking up in a few hours, and finding herself alone. Imagines her catching sight of the note on the dresser, eyes turning dark as anger replaces confusion when she reads it. Raquel was sweet and calm most of the time but her temper could flare without warning too, burn hot and harsh and terrible, and Norma hopes that Raquel stays mad at her-hopes that her memory of their time together is forever tinged with something bitter and sharp.

  It’s easier to wish for that than it is to imagine Raquel with a broken heart.

  Norma listens to her own heart beating, and thinks that the hollow feeling in her chest will probably never go away.

  She decides she probably deserves it.

  *

  “SO YOU SAY you were a woman, and that’s the only thing about it that you remember?”

  Roland raises a dubious eyebrow and Gareth bites back a laugh.

  “I did mention it was just a dream, didn’t I? They don’t always make perfect sense.”

  The two of them are in the study, Gareth sorting through piles of books and Roland pacing-floating, really-by a long table against the far wall. Sunlight filters right through him and turns a peculiar silvery color whenever he passes by a window.

  “What did it feel like, then? To be a woman?”

  Gareth pauses in his inspection of what appears to be a text on Roman Britain.

  “I’m not quite sure, to be honest with you,” he says, after a moment’s thought. “At the time I felt I’d always been a woman, so I cannot say how different it feels to being a man now.”

  “Hmm.”

  Roland walks over to him, idly pushing his hair off his face. He’s grown increasingly more solid-looking over the past few weeks, though there’s still a definite air of the immaterial about him.

  Nevertheless, it’s clear that Roland had been a gentleman in life. He wore no ring and had mentioned once, off-handedly, that he’d left no-one behind-no family or sweetheart, nor any close friends. Gareth was surprised by the news. Surely someone as handsome as Roland must have been spoken for, if not actually settled and wed.

  He tends to appear in the evenings, but recently he’s begun to materialize during the day, too. Most nights they end up chatting together over dinner, talking of inconsequential things as often as having deeper discussions about philosophy and religion and politics. Gareth finds himself able to speak more freely than he ever has in his life, knowing that there will be no rebuke in Roland’s eyes, no matter what he says. Perhaps death makes one unflappable, Gareth muses.

  Nevertheless, he has never asked the one thing he’s most curious about.

  “Gareth.”

  He glances up. Roland is hovering only a step or two away. Gareth has grown used to the chill in the air whenever Roland is near and no longer flinches when he’s this close.

  “Yes?”

  Roland simply looks at him for a moment, before lowering his head with a sigh.

  “You are more than welcome to ask, you know.”

  Gareth doesn’t pretend to not understand but still, he hesitates.

  “I will answer,” Roland adds.

  Gareth takes a breath.

  “How did you die?”

  Roland smiles. It’s an odd expression, equal parts amused and sad and a little regretful, too.

  “It’s not much of a story, I’m afraid,” he says eventually. “I was fine one day, and then…” He makes a vague gesture with his hands. “No one knows what happened, really. The last thing I remember is having a terrible headache and the next thing I knew, I was looking down at my own body, sprawled out on the floor.”

  His gaze goes distant.

  “Did you know, then?” Gareth asks quietly. “That you’d… gone?”

  Roland meets his eyes and smiles again. Gareth feels a strange flutter in his stomach and for the briefest of moments, for some unfathomable reason, he thinks that Roland looks like a lord-or a king.

  “I knew,” Roland says, his own voice turning soft. “I’m not sure how I knew, really. But I knew.”

  Gareth gives up the pretense of sorting through the books and settles down in an armchair.

  “Were you afraid?”

  “Strangely enough, no.”

  Roland floats past the window again, making the sunlight twist and casting odd patterns of light and shadow onto the floor. He glances over and hesitates.

  “I have never been… a very religious person,” he adds, eventually. “But I did wonder why I appeared to be stuck here. Why I hadn’t-moved on, as it were.”

  “Stuck here?” Gareth repeats. “You mean here, in this house?”

  “Oh, no.” Roland shakes his head, making his hair fall across his face again. “That’s the strangest thing of all, really. I don’t know how I ended up here. Or why I seem unable to leave.”

  Gareth leans forward. This is new information.

  “What on earth do you mean?” he asks, quite astonished. He’d assumed that Roland had been here since he’d died, that perhaps he’d worked in the nearby village or was an assistant to his great-uncle.

  “I lived in London,” Roland says with a shrug. “And I died in London. But shortly afterwards, in the blink of an eye, I suddenly found myself here.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. And then later-I’m not sure how long, time moves quite strangely for me-you arrived.”

  “How strange,” Gareth murmurs, marveling at the coincidence. “It’s almost as though you were sent here to meet me. Though I can’t imagine why.”

  “Nor can I.”

  They fall silent. Gareth watches Roland move through the room, occasionally pausing to nudge another pile of books or leaning down to examine some trinket on the shelves.

  He still doesn’t have the ability to maneuver things with much finesse but often, Gareth will glance up and find him attempting trickier tasks, like lighting candles with matches or using a fountain pen to write short notes. Diligent even in death, Gareth thinks fondly, and wonders if Roland had been like this in life, too. He feels a pang of regret, unexpectedly intense.

>   “I wish we’d known each other before,” he says.

  Gareth knows he doesn’t need to explain, but he does wonder why the words don’t feel quite right.

  Roland goes still. But then he smiles again, so warm and genuine that Gareth’s heart starts thudding in his chest.

  “As do I, my friend,” Roland says. “But I’m glad we know each other now.”

  *

  GARETH SHIFTS ON the bed, restless as he sleeps, the sheets twisting around his waist as he tosses and turns. His eyelids flutter rapidly and his hands twitch against the mattress, looking for something to cling to.

  But his fingers find nothing but empty air.

  *

  “HE IS A very handsome man,” Robert says, as they take a turn through the east gardens.

  Abruptly, Georgiana stops walking. The words are so unexpected that all she can do is stare at him.

  Robert laughs. The sound makes something in her chest ache but she quickly pushes the feeling aside. She is nothing if not practical. Yet something of what she is thinking must show on her face because Robert quiets immediately.

  “Oh, my dear Georgie,” he says with a sigh. His voice is so soft that she has to turn away, lest he see any more of what she’s been keeping so determinedly hidden. “Georgiana. Pray, look at me.”

  She does as requested and meets his calm blue eyes. There is sadness there, and regret. But understanding, too, and compassion.

  “It is an excellent match for you,” Robert says earnestly. “I understand that. You owe me nothing and I bear you no ill will for accepting the gentleman’s offer.” He smiles and Georgiana cannot help but smile back, though she knows her expression is not exactly a happy one. “Indeed,” he adds, “I could never think ill of you. Never.”

  Georgiana hesitates. She doesn’t need to say anything more-she could simply leave things as they were now and allow this to be the beginning of their end. She can see it all unfolding before her, two paths in parallel; she would get married to Mr. Fallow and move away and Robert would get married himself too, someday soon.

  Perhaps they would remain friends. Perhaps they would not.

  They’ve known each other all their lives, practically siblings and closer than friends. Georgiana has never made a confession and Robert has never made a declaration, but she knows that had either of their families possessed a decent fortune, their lives would have been mapped out from the start.

  But she doesn’t want it to end like this. Robert was mistaken, she does owe him something-she owes him the plainly-stated truth.

  “I would, you know,” she says, and is distantly surprised that her voice is so steady. “If you asked me, I would say yes.”

  Robert takes a deep breath. The silence seems to go on for an age, and when he finally does speak, his voice is barely above a whisper.

  “I know,” he says, eventually. “And that is why I will not ask.”

  Georgiana inhales sharply. The beginning of the end, she thinks again. The future is uncertain, but at least she has something solid to cling to-the knowledge of Robert’s feelings for her, and of her feelings for him. And that, she realizes, is already more than many people will ever have.

  It’s enough, she tells herself. They will be fine. They will both be fine.

  She nods, once, and they resume their walk.

  The sun is warm on their faces and the scent of spring blossoms are in the air, and if their fingers brush as they wind their way through the narrow garden path, they both pretend not to notice.

  *

  OUTSIDE IN THE overgrown gardens, Roland looks up.

  He turns towards Gareth’s bedroom window and for some reason, he starts to think of flowers, of lilies and roses and the springtime sun.

  He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so sad.

  *

  IT’S STILL DARK when Gareth wakes up.

  He blinks into the gloom a few times, listening to the irregular beat of his heart. His first thought is of Roland-of the deep thrum of his voice, his dark hair constantly falling across his face, his eyes so very, very blue.

  Gareth hauls himself out of bed. It’s not yet dawn but there’s little point staying in bed when he knows he won’t be able to fall asleep again. His mind is full of strange fragments, scattered images that don’t make any sense: the lace hem of an old-fashioned dress, the crunch of gravel beneath his feet, the velvet touch of rose petals against his skin. He doesn’t understand, and it makes it him feel unsettled.

  He doesn’t bother with a candle or a robe, just makes his way slowly down the stairs and heads for the front room. He passes a window that looks out into the garden and stops-Roland is out there, standing by the hedgerow.

  Gareth moves closer to the window and touches the glass. It’s cool beneath his fingers and the chill reminds him of the shiver he gets whenever Roland stands nearby. He watches as Roland glides along the grass, one hand held out and passing through the tangled leaves and twigs of the hedge. His form glows silver-white in the moonlight, his skin almost pearlescent, the fine lines of his clothing accentuating the leanness of his body. He looks ethereal, like something out of a dream. He looks, Garethrealizes, beautiful.

  And then Roland turns and their eyes meet, and Gareth feels something inside him shift, like the axis of the whole world pitching forward. He falls against the window, his forehead hitting the glass with a dull thud, heart hammering painfully in his chest.

  Roland is there beside him in an instant.

  “Gareth?” he asks urgently.

  His hands hover near Gareth’s face and he makes a frustrated noise.

  “I wish I could touch you,” he bursts out, and Gareth lifts his head and stares at him.

  Roland looks away. Gareth gets the distinct impression that he would be blushing, were he still alive.

  “Because you look distressed,” Roland adds quickly. “Are you unwell? You look quite pale.”

  “I-I’m quite all right,” Gareth stammers, and Roland narrows his eyes, not believing him for a second.

  “If you need a physician-”

  “No, no, that’s not it,” Gareth interrupts, then mentally kicks himself for his choice of words.

  “What is it, then?”

  Roland’s hand comes up to his face again, brushing past his cheek, not quite a caress. Gareth’s breath catches and he can’t stop himself from leaning forward, chasing the chill, imagining how different it would feel if Roland were flesh and blood-how the cold would be heat, a soft touch of skin against skin instead of a trail of cold air.

  He shivers, and knows now that it has everything-and nothing-to do with how close Roland is standing to him.

  “Gareth…”

  Roland’s voice has gone soft. Gareth watches the way his lips move as Roland says his name.

  He looks up and again their eyes meet, blue on blue, and once more, the world seems to shift. But this time it feels more like an anchor dropping, something to hold him steady instead of casting him adrift.

  “Roland,” Gareth says. He opens his mouth to say something more but nothing else comes out, and Roland leans forward until their foreheads almost touch. They both close their eyes.

  “If,” Roland starts, and stops.

  Gareth understands. There’s nothing more to say.

  And so they stay like that, eyes shut and silent, as dawn begins to paint the sky pink and gold.

  Standing face to face and close enough to touch, life and death forever keeping them apart.

  *

  “WOULD… WOULD YOU like me to stay?” Roland asks, watching as Gareth turns down the bed.

  “I’ll be fine,” Gareth assures.

  It’s been several days since he’s had another one of his odd dreams-and several days since the incident by the window. The coincidence isn’t lost on either of them, though they don’t discuss it directly.

  “If you are sure,” Roland says doubtfully, and Gareth turns to look at him.

  “I’ll be fine,” he repeats.
“If-if something should happen, I’ll call for you.”

  Roland eyes him a moment longer, searching his face, before he takes a breath and nods.

  “Very well.”

  He steps closer. Gareth hesitates, then raises an arm and brushes it over Roland’s shoulder, just shy of letting his fingers sweep right through it.

  “Goodnight, Roland,” he says, and smiles a little.

  Roland looks at his mouth for a moment before his gaze flickers up. There’s a smile on his lips too, and something soft in his eyes.

  “Goodnight, Gareth.”

  He leaves soon afterward and it isn’t long before Gareth starts to drift off, feeling more at ease than he has in a long, long time.

  *

  HE’S RUNNING DOWN the hill, sword gripped tight in his fist, wielding it with fierce and merciless skill. Bodies fall in his wake and all around him men scream and shout, but whether it’s in pain of being wounded or the ecstasy of battle, Gethin does not know. Blood turns the earth to mud and pulls warrior after warrior down into what will become their graves and still Gethin runs, still he fights, slaying any who are swathed in the colors of his enemy.

  When the battle finally dies down he stalks silently among the fallen, sword still at the ready. These southern clansmen were not to be trusted, and Gethin is careful as he picks his way through what remains on the field. The bodies of his kinsmen lay side by side with those of their enemies, sometimes piled one on top of the other, and the sight makes something twist in his gut.

  He stops abruptly when he sees movement at the corner of his eye. Gethin hurries toward it, careful not to slip on ground that is slick with things he does not care to think about.

  A young man-too young-lies pinned under two other bodies. His clothing is stained and torn but Gethin can see that he wears the garb of the south and that one of his arms is twisted at an unnatural angle. Dirt and blood streak his face and make his eyes seem intensely blue, even through the haze of pain that clouds them. He coughs, weakly, and Gethin feels something unexpected stir in his chest.