She was going to be all right, Lawrence told himself. “Very well, but it’s only postponed.”
She propped herself up on her elbows and her smile became a wince. “Where is he?”
Lawrence gestured to the left with his chin. “Over there. With Grub and Christopher.”
“Is he dead?”
“Not quite.”
Tuesday could not read the tone in his voice. She took his hand and held it tight and for a moment they stayed that way, in complete silence, each of them lost in the reflection of how close they had come to losing one another again.
No one noticed the flicker of movement behind Grub and Christopher. No one saw what the Lion slid from his waistband. They almost did not notice the soft swish, no more than a whisper, like the sound of fabric rustling. But then Lawrence made a strange gasping noise. Tuesday looked at him, and for a moment he stayed kneeling next to her with a perplexed expression on his face. He opened his mouth to speak, and a line of blood began to trickle out of it. He reached up to touch it, stared at it unseeing for a moment. And collapsed.
As he went down, Tuesday saw the hilt of the knife with a W engraved on it, buried deep in his side.
“NO!” Her cry of anguish rocked the church.
It had worked! the Lion commended himself. He had tricked them to the very end! “I Won,” the Lion whispered blissfully. “I won, my Lady. I am the Winner.”
Tuesday did not hear him. She did not hear anything. She was hanging over Lawrence, wiping the blood that poured out of his side away with her skirt as fast as she could. Her tears rained down his cheeks.
“No, Lawrence, no!” she urged him, as if she could keep him, hold him with the power of her voice. He was getting pale and his breathing was short, shallow. “You can’t die,” she told him. “You can’t die. No. No. No!”
Lawrence’s eyes had been unfocused, almost stony, but now they locked on her face. He gazed up at her with a strange, almost peaceful expression and his lips moved but no sound came out. She bent closer, bringing her ear right to his lips and she heard him.
What he said was: “Your father was right. You do look like an angel.”
Then he closed his eyes. And was gone.
Chapter 40
She sees him in her dreams all the time. Sees him standing at the side of the Thames, his linen shirt stretched across his shoulders, his hair slightly ruffled by the wind. In her dream he turns to smile as she comes over. He reaches for her hand and pulls her close to him.
Everything reminds her of him. Smells, sounds, even the feel of linen against her body. The sun dancing in gold circles on the surface of the water becomes the gold coin he used to toss; the sound of the wind rustling leaves is his sigh of contentment when they made love.
In her dream they stand at the edge of the river, his arms wrapped tightly around her, watching Jack row a golden-haired boy who already has his father’s smile around in a skiff. Jack and the boy wave at them and in her dream she can feel his heart quicken at the sight of his son.
In her dream they always stand there until the sun sets around them. He kisses her hair, her cheek, her neck, and she turns around to face him. When she wraps her arms around his waist she can feel the edge of a scar on his side and she kisses him harder to keep back the memory of that night. In her dream every kiss is like their first kiss, and every touch of his hand is like a stolen gift.
In her dream he lifts his son, Rafe, out of the boat, and the two golden heads rub together. He hoists the boy onto his shoulders and wraps an arm around her waist and she takes Jack’s hand and together they watch the sky fade from blue to pinkish-orange. In that moment, the final moment of her dream, they are completely happy.
In that moment there is no memory of the funerals. Of the inquest. Of the endless reports and explanations, endless days spent next to endless sick beds. In that moment no one has died and everything is as it might have been. In that moment, that single moment, there is only joy. Joy and the feel of his lips pressed against her forehead, whispering, “I love you.”
She always comes out of the dream crying. And when she does she always stretches out her hand. And when she does she always finds him where he said he would be. Right by her side.
Tuesday reached with her fingertips to stroke Lawrence’s cheek, as she did every time she awoke, just to be sure he was real. His lips hovered near hers.
“You see, sweetheart, you are not the only one in the family who can wake someone from the dead with a kiss,” he told her, catching one of her still-wet tears with his fingertip. “You were having the dream again, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” She looked at him as the March breeze rustled through his hair and the leaves of the tree shading them cast dancing shadows across his chest. It was nearly impossible to recognize in this vibrant, almost entirely recovered man the lifeless figure at whose bedside she had stood guard for three horrible months. Three horrible months of talking to him and arguing with him and cajoling him and yelling at him and begging him to please, please come back, please show some sign of life other than breathing. Three months of sleeping in fits, and only when Bianca made her, three months of painting horrible paintings, painting out her memories of the days that followed those final moments at their wedding. At the beginning she had shuttled between Lawrence and Tom, who lingered on the edge of death solely because he was waiting to be sure that Lawrence would die. Twice they caught Tom trying to crawl out of his bed in order to finish off the Knight of Knights for good. Finally even his quest was not enough to sustain him, and he had been buried behind the prison in which he died.
They had searched his chambers, trying to understand what had made him that way, and found dozens of cheap editions of courtly romances, with every use of the letter “W” circled. The same letter had been carved into the walls, except in one place in the corner behind the bed where someone had written “William Thomas Watson is a Wicked boy,” incising the Ws deep into the wood. Eventually they found the same words written, in a different hand and much larger, over a ratty bed in the corner of the kennels in a house in Worcester. Tom’s grandmother’s bones, badly mangled, were found scattered outside the house, which was now overrun with wild dogs.
After Tom died, there was only Lawrence, Lawrence who did not move or speak or do anything other than stay slightly, barely alive. He got thinner and thinner as Tuesday, carrying their child, got rounder and rounder. For three months she did everything for him, fed him and bathed him and turned him and cleaned his wound. She slept in his bed with him, at first careful about not letting him feel her tears against his chest, but later uncaring. Her grief was huge inside of her and one night she had let it burst free in a torrent of words and sobs and threats so vehement that it exhausted her.
That was a turning point. After that night, after her hollering had done nothing to break through his unconsciousness, Tuesday had to accept that he was gone. She climbed atop him, to look at him one last time, and was awed by his beauty. Working to keep back her tears, she brought her mouth near his, whispered, “I’m sorry, Lawrence,” then kissed him once, passionately, on the lips.
That was when he woke up.
Tuesday’s laughter then had brought the entire household into Lawrence’s sick chamber. They assumed it was caused by the sheer joy of having Lawrence back. None of them ever knew that his first words to her were, “No, sweetheart, I am the one who should apologize.”
After that he healed quickly, regaining his strength and stamina as much by eating everything that Tuesday put in front of him, which was nearly everything that walked into the house, as by his need to rush around finding good hiding places for what he could not manage to consume. He was large and sturdy again, no longer frail, but something inside him was different. He was calmer, as though he now possessed a contentment that went all the way into his bones.
Tuesday was lying on her back on the blanket under the tree gazing up at him with a small, illegible sm
ile.
“What are you thinking about when you look at me that way, sweetheart?” he asked her, twisting a few strands of her hair around his finger.
“How lucky I am to have you.”
“No,” Lawrence corrected. “I am the lucky one.” He was trying to be better about accepting gratitude, but he still tended to respond by changing the subject. “Tell me, in the dream this time, was it a boy or a girl?”
“Boy.”
“And was he called Rafe or George?”
“Rafe. It’s been Rafe the past three times. Would that be all right?”
Lawrence put his mouth on her round belly, whispered something, and felt the baby inside, his baby, kick. “He says that will suit him just fine,” he reported. He kissed her stomach gently, eliciting two kicks, then moved up to kiss her on the mouth.
“Ugh. Are you two doing that again?” Crispin demanded, strolling up to the blanket they were lying on. “Can hardly walk around here for three minutes together without finding you two kissing.”
“You’re just jealous because you are no longer the only person who has saved my life,” Lawrence told him, rolling back on his elbows.
“Thank goodness,” Crispin agreed. “I am glad someone else now has responsibility for making sure you make the most of it. Speaking of which, I just wanted to tell you that I’m finished with that project you asked me to see to.” He gave Lawrence a cryptic look, which was returned with a nod, and left.
“What have you done, Lawrence?” Tuesday asked, suddenly suspicious.
“Nothing. I don’t know what you are talking about.” He could barely get the words out he was working so hard to conceal his grin. “Come on, we’d better go.”
“Go where?”
“You’ll see.”
As they walked toward the Doom Manor boating lake, Tuesday noticed how quiet and empty it was.
“Where did Crispin go?”
“Home probably. He just came to help me with some things.”
“What thin—” she started to ask, and then saw. Tethered just off the shore of the lake was a raised platform that was covered with a yellow silk canopy, which had a rainbow of pennants waving jauntily from the corners. The pathway leading to it and the entire surface of the platform itself had been covered in sweet peas and gardenias and jasmine and roses whose fragrance floated on the air. Without saying a word or answering a single one of her questions, Lawrence led Tuesday across the bridge and stood her in the middle of the platform.
He took both her hands in his and looked into her eyes. He smiled gently. “Lady Tuesday Arlington, you have been a challenge to me since I met you. All I have wanted to do was dedicate my life to you, but each time I get close to doing that one or both of us end up nearly dead. I refuse to let this pattern continue. You deserve to have a huge wedding with hundreds of people and a bishop, but we tried that already and it did not work. Besides, I do not want to wait. I am taking matters into my own hands and marrying you right now, this instant.”
His voice changed tone, becoming more somber. “Tuesday, you resuscitated me even before I was dying. You reminded me of what it means to be alive and taught me what it means to love. You showed me how to give my heart, and what you gave in return was infinitely more precious. Everything good and strong and virtuous that I am, I am because of you. I want to spend the rest of my life, my life that you gave me, making you as happy as you make me. Will you be my wife?”
There were only the two of them there, on the platform on the lake. It was completely silent but for the sound of the pennants snapping in the breeze and the music of Lawrence’s words. If Tuesday could have dreamed of a perfect wedding, this would have been it, just the two of them, pledging their love, dedicating their lives to one another, hand in hand. It was the best gift he could have given her. She reached out and stroked Lawrence’s cheek, just to be sure he was real. Then she said, “Yes.”
The applause that burst from the bushes and trees and overturned boats that lined the lake then was almost deafening. All the boys from Doom Manor and all the Arboretti and Maria and little Lawrence and Grub and Christopher and CeCe and Morse and all of Lawrence’s men and the Burns children and the half of London that either Tuesday or Lawrence had at one time in their lives aided were all there, cheering for them.
But the sound of their cheers was nothing, at least not to Lawrence’s ears, compared with the sound of Tuesday’s joyful, ringing laughter when she saw it—or rather, them. All of them.
Because every person standing on the shore was wearing dragonfly wings.
The wings were exquisite, completely covered with enamel except where they were studded with what Tuesday—knowing Lawrence as she did—was afraid were real rubies, sapphires, diamonds, emeralds, and topazes. Each set of wings was unique and each caught the sunlight and sparkled just like real dragonfly wings, making the entire party look enchanted.
“It was Jack’s idea,” Lawrence confided to her as she kissed him for the hundredth time in gratitude and Jack ran up then, wearing the biggest wings of all, and sporting a set of gold antennae. He hugged Tuesday and Lawrence and jumped up and down in transports of joy and danced around in three circles, and then abruptly ran off. When he came back, he was holding out a pair of wings that was unlike all the others. This pair was uneven and scraggily and crazily decorated. There was no enamel and instead of gems it was encrusted with mirrors and buttons and little pieces of rocks, stuck on haphazardly.
“These are for Tuesday,” Jack said, grinning hugely. “Jack made them himself. Does Tuesday like them?”
“Oh, Jack, they are the most beautiful wings I have ever seen,” Tuesday stammered, and it was the truth.
“Jack’s friend Lawrence helped with them,” Jack explained, and Tuesday’s only reply was to kiss each of them. They both blushed and looked at one another and burst into laughter like old friends and conspirators and neither of them understood why Tuesday had tears in her eyes. Wiping them away she put her wings on and wore them for the rest of the day, to Jack’s unending glee.
It was a day of immense chaos and disorder, a day during which every punch bowl was overturned at least once, a local dog ran off with half the roast pig, and at least three boys, wings and all, ended up in the lake.
“I think I could get used to wearing wings,” Tristan said as they all lounged together on blankets along the lake shore. “I feel just like an angel.”
Lawrence almost choked on the lemonade he was drinking. “I’m sure this is the closest you or any of the Arboretti will ever get to being one,” he said.
Tullia, Ian and Bianca’s daughter, listened to this with the studious attention she gave to everything, then grew very serious. “Daddy,” she asked, “can I be an Arboretti, too?”
“Of course, carissima,” Ian told her as Bianca groaned. “You already are one.”
“And will my children be, too?” she went on.
“Yes.”
“And their children?”
“Yes.”
“And their children? All the way to forever?”
“Of course,” Ian assured her, tousling her hair.
She was silent for a moment. “What do you think the Arboretti will be doing then? In forever?”
“I really cannot imagine,” Ian said.
“Funny, I can,” Bianca put in then. “Getting involved in things that are none of their business, making trouble everywhere they go—”
“—And wreaking havoc on the lives of innocent women,” Sophie finished for her.
“That is not fair,” Miles protested, holding his wife Clio tighter. “We never get involved with innocent women.”
Sebastian sat up. “I for one hope that is exactly what they are doing. I’d like to know someone followed in my footsteps.”
“What a terrifying thought,” Lawrence said with a shudder.
Crispin exploded with laughter. “Oh certainly, Lord Pickering. As if your progeny won’t b
e right there alongside them, giving them all their best ideas.”
Tuesday clutched her stomach in mock horror then, but what she really felt was alight, as if she really were in paradise among the angels.
The feeling was still with her hours later as she and Lawrence stood at the open window of their bedchamber, watching the stars come out and being serenaded by the sounds of their remaining guests’ laughter. People were still celebrating on the lawn below them, their wings catching the light of the lanterns and making them truly look like dragonflies.
“That was the most beautiful party in the world, Lawrence,” Tuesday said, gazing at the remaining guests.
“I wanted to do something special for you. To give you a present. But it is so hard. You never want anything.”
“That is not true. It’s just that I already have what I want.” She looked at him. “Thank you Lawrence.”
“For what?”
“For making my life feel like a dream.”
Something about the way she was gazing at him gave him a lump in his throat. “It is so much less than you deserve, Tuesday.” When she started to protest, he said, “Very well. Tell me what happens next in this dream.”
She frowned for a moment, then her look became mischievous. “Take this and this off. But leave these—” she pointed to his wings, “—on.”
And because for all their years together he continued to make all her dreams come true, she was never sure if she was awake or asleep. And to test it, every morning, she woke up and kissed him.
And he always smiled his special morning smile at her and always said the same thing.
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
Then she knew.
“Good morning, Lawrence.”
She was so very very lucky.
The inhabitants of London still talk about the strange and miraculous spring of 1591 when the Lion was unmasked, when a spell cast on Doom Manor caused its inhabitants to grow wings, and when England’s greatest hero was brought back to life by a woman’s kiss.