Music filled the room—rich, full sounds unlike anything Flanders had ever heard. Even the orchestras at court had never pulled this emotional response from his breast, and he had the odd urge to catch it in his hands. So, he tucked them beneath him so he didn’t prove himself a fool. After all, it wasn’t as if the music could be seen…
Players appeared as if they were in the very room with them. As if the stage were suddenly before them. Words appeared on the screen in what James called "New English," with smaller words beneath them in "New French." But Flanders found he hardly needed the words at all. The music spoke directly to his heart, and the images told the story more clearly than any language could. And he began to recognize the characters he’d been reading about.
He kept his grip on Brigid's hand, his eyes wide as he tried to comprehend what he was seeing. "How can pictures move?" he whispered. "How can they speak?”
"Wheesht," James hissed. "Just watch."
The story unfolded before them—Jean Valjean, the man who stole the bread and was imprisoned for it. But this was different from the mere tale, more immediate. The colors, the faces, the music that swelled with emotion—it was overwhelming.
When a chorus of voices rose in harmony, singing of dreams that would never die, Flanders felt a tightness in his chest he hadn't experienced since he was a boy. He glanced at Bella and saw her similarly affected, her hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes glistening in the reflected light of the screen. Perhaps she wasn't as hard as she pretended to be.
Then came a moment when a young man named Marius wandered into a garden and saw Cozette for the first time. Their eyes met across the space between them, and though they exchanged no words, there was a recognition, an instant connection that transcended explanation.
The music swelled, magnificent and heart-wrenching, and Flanders felt his own eyes grow damp. He recognized that moment, that feeling. It was what he had experienced when Brigid reached out and touched him, just before parting, in the forest at Gallabrae.
When he saw her for what she was—the other half of his soul.
He turned away from the screen to look at her, finding her already watching him. A tear slipped down her cheek, and he knew she was thinking the same thing. His hand tightened around hers, and in that moment, he knew that whatever doubts Bella might harbor, whatever challenges this strange new world might present, what existed between them was real and true.
And suddenly, he understood why James and Phoebe had chosen this particular tale to show them.
44
“ENOUGH!”
* * *
By the time the “play” had ended, and the music had faded to silence, Flanders thought it was cruel of James and Phoebe to expose the three of them to such violent emotions. If he hadn’t been clutching Brigid’s hand, he might have watched most of the performance on his feet, he was so moved, so tortured. They’d been on their own emotional odyssey for a week, and by the time the lights were turned on, they’d suffered through the equivalent in a matter of hours.
Flanders’ shirt was soaked with tears. He was spent.
Brigid and Bella were sniffling and mopping tears from their faces while their eyes adjusted to the brightness. But by way of consolation, however, so were Phoebe and James.
Without asking for permission or anyone’s leave, Flanders slipped his hands beneath Brigid’s legs and lifted her into his arms. He didn’t bother looking back as he marched out of the room and toward the center of the house. He just prayed Bella would be wise enough not to follow. He was finished trying to prove himself to her. It was time to prove himself to Brigid.
“Flanders?”
“Quiet, you. I don’t want to talk about it.”
She laid her head against his shoulder and allowed him to continue in peace.
No, he didn’t want to discuss what they’d just gone through. And no, he didn’t care to explain what he intended…
* * *
On the farside of the foyer, there was a solar of sorts, packed full of large settles covered in cushioned cloth of blue and white and gold. Though the room was rarely used, a fire was always laid and waiting in the hearth. And it was to this room Flanders carried Brigid, bypassing her bedchamber, though the nurses had been excused and she now had the space to herself.
If Bella did follow, she would be disappointed to find the room empty, and disappointed again when she couldn’t find them in his chambers either.
Brigid was his, and he wouldn’t suffer any more interference. And when he carried her into their sanctuary, deposited her onto a settle, and turned back to lock the two doors together, he told her as much.
She laughed, though quietly. “Ye’re done then, are ye? Ye’ll take yer Cozette and leave the country, will ye?”
He didn’t see anything amusing about it and gave her a sharp look. “I’ll do what I must. Now, be still, woman.” He knelt and lit the fire with the magical matches James had showed to him just that morning. Then he went back to the doors and pushed on the wee square beside them that turned the lights off. “There,” he whispered. “No light to lead them to us.”
“Them, now? Not just Bella?”
“Wheesht!” Once again, he picked her up and carried her to the farthest settle by the outer wall. There, he sat before resting her on his lap and giving her a chance to speak. But first, there was some kissing to get out of the way.
