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In a wonderful way, things slowed down with Emma after that night. Shy smiles and gentle wake-ups abounded. We boated whenever circumstances allowed, exchanged many more stories and secrets until our sunburns stung to touch.
She liked photography and listened to Lili Boulanger, she said. Back then, the only secular music they played in her home was Boulanger -- most of the time it was the choking, churchly counterpoints of Bach.
"You don't like Bach?" I asked, splitting our orange into two halves. "I know a Bach song, heard it at this annual travelling recital."
I hummed the melody stupidly, no doubt off-key. She managed to catch on and sing along anyway, dun-dun-duns carrying over the lapping seawater.
"That's a prelude from the Well-Tempered Clavier. Book one, F Minor, I think? Julia learned it once."
"It's nice, isn't it?"
"In another life, I'll love Bach," she said. "Right now, when I listen to his pieces, I think of everything but the music."
She'd love to play me her favourite Boulanger recordings, she said, if only Miss Peregrine allowed a gramophone in the Home. Also, I shouldn't tell anyone that she used to figure skate, because all the melted-ice jokes would drive her mad. Also also, that unknowable voice in the wind had grown echoey, like a pitched-down train whistle-- she wondered why.
On it dripped, little truths about Emma Bloom. I had all the time in the world to bottle every single rivulet, to get to know her as far as she'd allow me to. I knew for sure which road we took, and the only thing left to do was bask in the breeze as we rode.
I'd never been happier with life – Emma took ample photographic evidence of that.
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