Gallagher was my great-grandmother, and I’m a long, long way from home.”
“Jaysus, lass. I’m so sorry.” I brushed my mouth over her forehead and down her cheeks, following the rivulets that still clung to her skin and trickled towards her mouth. Then I was kissing her softly, chastely, afraid I would break her, the paper doll in the lough in danger of disintegrating.
T. S.
17
A TERRIBLE BEAUTY IS BORN
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
—W. B. Yeats
Like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, everything changed the moment I was believed. The storm receded, the darkness lifted, and I shrugged off the heavy layers I’d been cowering behind, warmed by sudden acceptance.
Thomas had been freed as well, liberated by his own eyes, and he began to shoulder my secrets with me, taking their weight onto his back without complaint. He had a million questions but no doubts. Most nights, when the house was quiet, he would slip into my room, crawl into my bed, and with hushed voices and clasped hands, we would talk of impossible things.
“You said you were born in 1970. What month? What day?”
“October twentieth. I will be thirty-one. Although . . . technically I can’t age if I don’t even exist yet.” I smiled and waggled my eyebrows.
“That’s the day after tomorrow, Anne,” he scolded. “Were you going to tell me it was your birthday?”
I shrugged. It wasn’t something I was going to announce. For all I knew, Brigid had known the “real” Anne’s birthday, and I doubted they were the same.
“You’re older than me,” he said, smirking, as though my advanced age was my punishment for withholding information from him.
“I am?”
“Yes. I turn thirty-one on Christmas Day.”
“You were born in 1890. I was born in 1970. You’ve got me by eighty years, auld wan,” I teased.
“I have been on the earth for two months less than you have, Countess. You are older.”
I laughed and shook my head, and he propped himself up on his elbow, staring down at me.
“What did you do? What did the Anne of 2001 do?” He said “2001” with carefully enunciated awe, like he couldn’t believe such a time would ever exist.
“I told stories,” I said. “I wrote books.”
“Yes. Of course. Of course you did,” he breathed, his wonder making me smile. “I should have guessed. What kind of stories did you write?”
“Stories about love. Magic. History.”
“And now you are living it.”
“The love or the magic?” I whispered.
“The history,” he murmured, but his eyes were bright and soft on my face, and he leaned in and kissed me lightly before pulling back. We had discovered that kissing halted conversation, and we were both as hungry for the exchange of words as we were for each other. The words made the kisses mean more when we finally circled back to them.
“What do you miss?” he asked, his breath tickling my mouth, making my stomach shiver and my breasts ache.
“Music. I miss music. I write while listening to classical music. It is the only thing that sounds like stories feel. And it never gets in the way. Writing is about emotion. There is no magic without it.”
“How did you write to music? Do you know many musicians?” he asked, confused.
“No,” I giggled. “I don’t know any. Music is easily recorded and reproduced, and you can play it anytime you want.”
“Like a gramophone?”
“Yes. Like a gramophone. But much, much better.”
“Which composers?”
“Claude Debussy, Erik Satie, and Maurice Ravel are my favorites.”
“Ah, you like the French men,” he teased.
“No. I like the piano. The period. Their music was beautiful and deceptively uncomplicated.”
“What else?” he asked.
“I miss the clothing. It’s much more comfortable. Especially the underwear.”
He grew quiet in the darkness, and I wondered if I’d embarrassed him. He surprised me every once in a while. He was passionate but private, ardent but reserved. I wasn’t sure if it was just Thomas or if he was simply a man of the times, where a certain dignity and decorum were still de rigueur.
“It’s a great deal smaller too,” he murmured, clearing his throat.
“You noticed.” The sweet ache began again.
“I tried not to. Your clothes and the holes in your ears and a million other little things were easy to rationalize and ignore when your very presence was so unbelievable.”
“We believe what makes the most sense. Who I am doesn’t make sense,” I said.
“Tell me more. What is the world like in eighty years?” he asked.