𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐚 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦 • To You, From The Pacific Winds 🌬

XII

          Off we went to the beach.

          We wore our blouses unbuttoned over our bathing suits. Beads of sweat glinted on Emma's pale neck as we walked, arms chained together.

          Those times, mourning swathed the Home like tar to roadside. Not an hour passed without somber sighs, or black fabric flashing to and fro. On worse days, the place looked downright abandoned-- some fell ill and remained sequestered in bed, some sought sanctum in town until rainfall. A dead quiet smothered every nook and cranny, and it was laughable to even try to take your mind off the circumstances.

          So, it was pleasant to step outside. The summer air draped over my collarbones, thick and sweet as molasses. It was easier for me to selfishly pretend that Cairnholm was as Heavenly as it looked, this way. If just for a little while.

          Emma brought along enough paraphernalia to make her stumble again and again. Her camera, and along with it, a radio and a hefty basket containing our lunch. When I wondered aloud what they were for, she shrugged cryptically, an impish grin settling on her lips. When she thought something made a good mystery, not even royalty could bribe her to tell.

❧

          We boarded and rowed the boat away from the shores. We liked to moor far enough from the beach to lose sight of land, but close enough that the waves didn't assault us undampered -- there laid the equilibrium of languor and peril.

          I twiddled my thumbs as she organized her things, too exhausted to strike up a conversation. Maybe she meant it when she said we didn't need to speak. But most likely she'd realize I was only going to be a bore, and end the day early.

          But she broke the silence, "A Boulanger-only programme airs at nine-thirty, apparently, from this French short-wave station not too far away."

          "Boulanger?" I rummaged for the name in my mind. "The composer you like?"

          "That's the one. Let me just adjust this..."