The Awkward Love Song of Abigail Archer

Chapter Five

CHAPTER 5

The apartment was cool. All the curtains were drawn, refusing signs of the dawned morning. Marcus closed the door with little noise, and fatigue crashed bitterly in his bones. He dropped his head back against the metal door and his shoulders slumped with a slow exhale. What on earth had just happened? He closed his eyes. And what would happen once Margaret woke?

Any other morning, he would have walked through the door to find Margaret waiting at the kitchen table, a kettle on the oven, roiling steadily. After exchanging simple pleasantries, they would have sat together in loaded silence. It was a quiet that hung heavy with years of unsaid words, lingering resentment, and one-sided hope. Between them, cups of tea would remain untouched, losing their swirls of warmth and growing icy over time.

That was every other morning. Marcus could have dealt with their bitter quiet any other morning.

Not this morning.

Not when his stomach tightened upon seeing his own reflection in the foyer mirror. When Abigail’s pained expression haunted his every breath. When the memory of her retreating silhouette hurt him in a way he didn't understand. To then deal with Margaret’s green eyes gazing at him as she always did, with a tenderness he didn’t deserve nor feel in return? No, he couldn’t sit with her this morning. She would see right through him. With one look, Margaret would diagnose the guilt corroding his every move, his every word. A century at his side warranted that familiarity, that intimate knowledge. She would smell the familiar scent of heavy emotion—of human emotion. Worse, she would ask him what was wrong. Unlike Abigail, Margaret would not concede to unanswered questions, much less to evasive maneuvers. She never did. Interrogation was her preferred method.

Marcus let out a breath. He would have to tell her the truth.

He pushed away from the door and moved into the apartment. He stopped sharply at the sound of a sleepy moan coming from the direction of the sofa. Narrowing his eyes that had since adjusted to the dark, he saw nothing. He didn’t have to. Steady breathing echoed in the silence and pulled him toward the green velvet couch. It was a ghastly thing, but Margaret had loved it. He hadn’t refused her life. How could he have refused her this?

Treading softly, Marcus heard his quiet taps echoing on the wooden floor. He slipped off his shoes lest he waken her and closed the space between them. She lay curled into herself like a child, visibly cold. Her pale figure nestled against a cushion and messy auburn strands draped the green fabric. She held onto a pillow tenderly, just as she’d held Marcus so many times before, but not for a long, long time. Guilt bloomed at Marcus’s core and he looked away.

He pressed a finger to the half-filled cup on the side table—ice cold. She had been there all night, cold and alone.

Marcus retrieved a quilted blanket from the side chair and draped it gently over her small frame. His hand lingered on her shoulder for an added moment, his thumb grazing once against the smooth skin there. He couldn’t deny it. He never had. She was beautiful.

A nostalgic smile curved his lips at the memories of their first encounter, at how terrified she had been standing there beside her father. She shook like the last leaf on a vine, to where a soft exhale would have blown her away. Marcus chuckled lightly. She’d looked scared, but so exquisite. Her red curls had been mounted on top of her head in the ridiculous fashion of old, her slender body accentuated by a lovely silk dress of the same color as her hair. It had been her first Season, the first time the world got to see her for the woman she’d become.

The world saw her. So had Marcus, and she had taken his breath away.

A slight tint of rouge had stained her cheeks when she slid her hand into his. When he placed a delicate kiss on its cool back, her sweet smell of lavender had teased him, torturing his senses. He’d wanted her that instant.