Charlie watches me curiously, so I go on.
“I know I exist because I think. Because I think, I exist. I have no real proof that anything else is real, but I know my conscious thoughts to be. Correct?”
He nods slowly.
“The same is true for you,” I say, squeezing his hand. “Which brings me to two conclusions I came to earlier that are, in fact, one and the same. Either you think you are a man, therefore you are one. Or my own brain has produced all of this, in which case I am to decide what’s real. And you’re real to me, Charlie.”
His chin wobbles. “So you accept me? As I am?”
“Exactly as you are.”
“Arthur.” My name on his lips is the same as it’s ever been. Lovely and warm. “I thought you were a mathematician. Not a philosopher.”
I expel a soft laugh. “Scientific thought belongs to us all, my dear.”
Charlie’s eyes twinkle with a lightness I’m beyond grateful to see, but then he sobers quickly. “And what of religion? What of our vows to the church?”
My sigh is small. It’s a complication I considered, of course. No one—not in the church, not elsewhere—would understand Charlie’s predicament. It’s unheard of, as far as I’m aware. But I’ve never been devout, and my conviction in my love far outweighs the teachings of faith.
“Despite what they would have us believe,” I say slowly, “the church does not reside within these walls. I will not have you feeling ill at ease in your own home, my love. The rest of the world may not understand nor condone it, but they do notneed to, as far as I’m concerned. Here, at home, you will be who you were always meant to be. As long as that is your wish.”
His inhale is broken, his hand squeezing mine to the point of pain. “And the staff?”
“I will talk with them. If there are problems, we will find new staff.”
“Arthur, I don’t know how to take this all in. You have to understand—I feel as if I’m dreaming.”
“If it’s a good dream, let’s not wake, hm?”
Charlie lets out a laugh, a lopsided smile transforming his face into near radiance. I give his hand another squeeze before standing.
“May I try something?” I ask.
He nods, brushing his hair back as I walk around the bed to my wardrobe. I pull out a pair of trousers that haven’t fit me in some time, as well as a simple white shirt with a cravat tie. Charlie watches me with curiosity as I walk back his way.
“Would you stand for me, Charlie dear?”
His breath stutters again, at the name perhaps? But he does as I request, smoothing the fabric of his ill-fitted dress down, the reminder of its presence seeming to sour his mood. I backtrack to the vanity, returning with a pair of scissors in hand. Charlie’s eyes widen when I tug the fabric away from his skin and cut it straight down the middle.
“Arthur, good grief!” His hands move to cover his chest before he laughs and lets them fall at his sides. I pull the ruined fabric off his arms one at a time before tossing it aside, meeting Charlie’s eye as I pinch his petticoat between my fingers. He throws his hands into the air. “Oh, why not?”
With a grin, I cut the petticoat away. It falls at Charlie’s feet, leaving him nude in front of me apart from his stockings and heels. There’s a heavy pinch in my gut knowing this body isnot one he feels safe in. It’s lovely to me, always has been. But it doesn’t define the person I fell almost instantly in love with.
I crouch down, helping Charlie from his heels, my eyes meeting his as I pull his stockings away. He swallows, cheeks pink, and I kiss one bare knee before standing.
Charlie’s expression is serious as I pull my spare shirt over his head. With his arms through and the cotton covering his modesty, I slowly tie the fabric around his neck into a standard cravat. I grab the trousers next, holding them as Charlie steps one and then two legs inside. It’s too wide around his waist, so I pluck a pin from his hair to keep the extra fabric together. A curl lies loose in front of Charlie’s cheek as he watches me, and he doesn’t protest when I walk around him to tuck it away. I do the same to the other loose pieces of hair framing his face, until every single one is hidden away behind his head.
Stepping in front of him, I hold out my hand. “Shall we have a look?”
Charlie remains unmoving for a long second before finally accepting my palm. I walk with him to the vanity mirror, realizing only once we’re in front of it that Charlie’s eyes are closed.
“My love,” I say softly. “You can open your eyes.”
It takes time. Time in which I don’t rush him. He breathes in and out, preparing himself, I’d wager, for disappointment. Or perhaps precisely the opposite.
Finally, his eyes draw open, the blue flitting wildly from his shirt to his trousers, up to his hair, and then completing the circuit again. It’s not perfect. I know that. His chest still swells the fabric of the shirt, and his hair is not how a man would wear it. But even so, the way his shoulders square at once and how his chin lifts at the sight of himself in the mirror has my happiness ballooning.
I give Charlie’s shoulders a soft squeeze. “You are so handsome, my dear.”
