Your Ribcage Never Meant To Hurt You (Your Windpipe Doesn’t Know How To Be Pretty)

You watch Dani Clayton and wonder how did she begin.

It must have been someplace long ago and distant in space, someplace bruised and sad and with a hard biting accent. It must have been a pink-colored, hand-suppressing place, with dusty sunlight and a lot of shouting in it – thick and twisted and angry behind which must have been a wild desire, a thing out of sight and hinted at only by a scent of two people in love.

A nervous smile and deep blue eyes, hair so blonde you could spend your whole life burying your hands in. A little perplexed, a little eager, with an edge of anxiety and a blossoming passion, this is the first impression you are left with after stumbling upon her, a foreign presence at the dinner table, her fingers shakily reaching for a glass of lemonade.

(So much have changed since then, so much have been stripped and erased and bandaged over, that you aren't sure anymore, and you wonder)

(How did she being?)

The pink fluffy sweaters and the big innocent eyes and the wide smiling mouth are all a front, a false shield put up for the world. Beneath it there's a history of halting darkness, of cool, defiant anger, of confusing guilt and freezing sadness and something you want (you need you need you need) to figure out.

You don't know why you care. She is who she is, nothing more. What's done is done, the past remains the past, and talk of causes or beginnings or motives is beside the point, especially for you.

Dani Clayton is trouble. You see it right away. She's a jumpy weirdo with no regard for her own safety. She's an American paradigm, an anomaly in your rather pleasantly boring life. She's what a white spot undetached on a green leaf might be.

(Bad business).

But something in the way she taps nervously at the table, something in the way her eyes (blue and magnetic like a shot of electricity through your body) always search the shadows, something in the way she looks at you and bites her fingers and tries to play it cool when her anxiety is spilling over, makes you inch closer (even closer, dangerously closer).

(There is something irresistible in the way she moves and talks and stares and it makes you want to find a loose end and pull, makes you want to watch her as a great deal of things come free).

The first few days you just absorb from a distance, you don't dare to get closer.

(You don't dare to get closer because despite your messy hair and muddy boots and carefully placed snarls, you like clear outcomes and easy days and lazy hours. You like things uncomplicated. You like them clean-cut and obvious).

Dani Clayton, for all her soft clothes and pastel colours and magnificent blonde hair, is a war wrapped in a cute package and there is nothing simple about her. Whether she knows it or not, she's an unofficial battlefield with no enemy, and you've been in too many wars to walk into one with your eyes wide open.

(That is what you tell yourself, anyway).

It's a bright clear day when you first see her. A definitive moment you don't catch at first. You're hungry and distracted and muddy and when you round the corner, her eyes are raw and she looks at you steadily as you make your way into the kitchen. You catch her staring and the blue of her irises shoots right through your heart, all the way to your soul.

(You think you deserve some sort of medal for keeping your cool).

A tiny fire sparks inside you, flashing up and burning out, an electric flower of the right kind springs open in your chest. It's a bright, lethal flower that blooms like a short circuit, a thistle of molten steel going to seed in a burst of sparks and you're falling falling falling, falling for the same person you've been speculating over for the last two weeks.

(In all your late-night conversations with Hannah and Owen, over cups of warm tea and tin-boxes filled with home-made biscuits, you've never thought, not for a moment, that the new au pair would be quite like this; so magnificent and bright and dangerous in the worst kind of way).

Dani just sits there, clad in pink and chewing slowly on the food she just forked into her mouth. She's very very pretty, like a high fashion photo, like a vision from another world. She has a full pink mouth and an oval face and beneath arched blonde eyebrows, there is a pair of huge deep bright ultramarine eyes that leave you with the impression she can see right through you, the saddest eyes in the world. Her hair is thick and soft around her head, a dense cloud of very light gold, very deep blonde.

It's a sunny, unseasonably warm day. The plants are green, the flowers are blooming, Owen's Bangers and Mash fill the air with a crispy smell, and someone shrieks at the table, Miles probably, because Flora managed to smear something on his cheek. Hanna scolds them, tired and loving but stern enough to produce two matching apologetic looks, and you make a joke. Far aways In London, Henry is busy with the real estate market and a crumbling firm, in Bly, people start making their way to the local pub, tired after a long day's work, and here in the kitchen, Owen lets out a laugh as you spray water on the kids.

Outside, a slight breeze blows over a wretched lake. Owen gives Hanna a smitten half-smile, she pats the new addition to the household on her hand in a motherly fashion, and something potentially dangerous blooms in your chest, under your ribs, besides your heart.

It has Dani Clayton's name on it.

//

"Miss Clayton," Flora pipes up. "Do you think I'm good?"

"Well," Dani taps her mouth with a paper towel, "For what it's worth, I think you are".

"Are the ghosts good?"

Dani smiles as if Flora made a cute joke. It's a lovely smile. A solemn one. It isn't dismissive or condescending or full of hidden meanings. It's a genuine smile that means well and you wonder what sort of skeletons are hiding inside her closet, what kind of a past can she possibly be dragging all the way from America to make her produce such noble and philosophical grief.

You've never been scared of ghosts. Even as a child.

Your brother used to tell you that if you recite the Lord's Prayer backward, or if you hang a cross upside down, or if you listen to certain music on the popular channel on the radio, you'd invoke the devil.

You've always known it was bullshit made to scare you, that evil can't be this tedious, but when you've landed in a foster home after foster home, where you were beaten and forced into dark closets, when you got punched and pushed into muddy puddles and imprisoned behind tall walls and iron bars, only then you fully realised evil doesn't require such childish invocations, such silly rituals, such earthy means. Nothing so complicated. It was also very easy to find. Evil was everywhere.

Good, you realised while pacing a small space of concreate and itchy sheets, is really the thing you need rituals to invoke. While evil was scattered all over the world, goodness was rare and far in-between, like sprouts of stubborn green through hard pavement.

Your psychologist Tamara was good. You tried your best street-wise ways to push her away, but she was relentless. She didn't take any bullshit and she kept on pushing you, softly and tenderly and stubbornly, till you gave in. Even after years and years, you can still remember with great detail her rich brown skin and big dark eyes, and steering conversations that got you through tough nights.

"Are the ghosts good?" Flora had asked in her innocent childlike manner.

(Are they?)

Plants are good, you think in a warm sort of familiarity. But they are good only because they don't know how to be anything else.

(Pushing fingers in wet soil and getting mud under your fingernails and watching things grow is good, but only because it doesn't know it can be evil. It's good because it's neutral. An honest kind of good, the good you appreciate and understand).

Lord and Lady Wingrave were good. Even better because they listened and nodded and offered you a job anyway (a job that pays for a flat above a pub and a place to call home). They were good not in a neutral kind of way, not in a thankful kind of way, but because this is who they were. They, too, like the plants, didn't know how to be anything but kind.

(You watch Dani Clayton walking next to Flora, her jeans dark against the pink of her blouse and the green of the grass around her. She's bent a little to the side so that Flora wouldn't have to crane her neck too much, and her eyes are trained on the little girl's face. She's listening more than talking and Flora has already forgotten her previous question and now talking in a deranged speed about something you don't quite catch from across the garden).

(You watch her and you wonder what kind of good is Dani. She seems too involved in the world to be of the neutral kind, but there is an air of careful thankfulness around her, something like a gently placed screen meant to distract people from looking into her, like a magic illusion, and you can't see past it to figure her out).

//

Dani always has the same slightly sad, slightly surprised expression on her face. A kind of incredulous note-taking, like a time traveler, or a martian stuck on earth, and for someone who has to deal with children on a daily basis, she is incredibly lovely. She's calm and level-headed and grounded. She has sparks of anxiety falling from her and she breathes too heavy sometimes, but she still manages to give off a vibe like she knows exactly what she's doing as if everything is under control.

She fascinates you. More than that. She makes your stomach turn and your ears colour bright red and something in your chest hurts like crazy. You try to figure it out while Dani lets out a razor-sharp laugh, one on the verge of complete panic or complete nervousness, and you think she reminds you of a moment when a planted flower begins to show signs of life.

Flora is frowning down at her plate, tearing the crust of her sandwich with mean little fingers. Miles digs into his breakfast like he's been starving for days, making a mess of his own.

Dani doesn't scold them for splashing milk or leaving crumbs or smearing jam all over the table surface, and they look happy. You haven't seen them this happy for a very long time, even with Rebecca. There was always some sort of careful air about them, something cold and not entirely human.

With Dani around, everything is fresh again, still. Childish.

It's amazing what she can do with the little gremlins, really. It's nothing short of magical. You're fascinated by the way she never talks down to them. When she wants their attention she calls their names, no trace of twitchiness, no darting eyes, just a calm steady voice of a woman familiar with the quirks of little children. When they've done something naughty she gives them a pat on the shoulder or a stern shake of the head and they drop their chins and mumble apologies. She never talks down to them. She speaks calmly, equally, as if they are miniature adults. In turn, they treat her as one of them.

"You really are, you know." Flora isn't looking at Dani, she's too busy brushing her doll's hair with a small brush. The day is almost over now and everybody's tired. Hannah is nowhere to be found and Miles is up in his room, getting ready for dinner.

Your teacup freezes halfway to your mouth and Dani lifts her head from her task of mixing something in a bawl, a little surprised and a little lost and her full attention on the little girl. Blue eyes burn a path to Flora, across the table.

(You make sure to keep your eyes on the governess, hiding behind your cup).

"I am what?" Dani asks softly.

"Perfectly splendid".

It makes Dani's smile grow wider, threatening to split her face before she says "thank you, Flora" and she goes back to the bawl she has cradled in her arms, courtesy of Owen. Flora smiles to herself and goes back to playing with her doll and you wonder if this is really making Dani happy or is she just the kind of person to draw good from bad.

At the dinner table, after Owen's put the last plate in front of Flora with a flourish and bows to the 'ooh!'s and 'ahh!'s that are mostly coming from Miles and yourself, you watch Dani talk, waving her fork in rhythm with her story. You watch her chew carefully, sip slowly. You watch her mouth, her jaw, her teeth.

(You don't dare watching her eyes, not yet).

Dani has a funny air about her. clumsy and apologetic like she spent her early years trying to fit into something that wasn't meant for her. She has a clumsiness about her but it's not the ordinary kind of poor coordination. It seems to you that her clumsiness comes from not being sure where the edges of her body ends and the rest of the world begins.

(Maybe, you think, this is what made her become a teacher in the first place. She seems to have a need of mending the world, of making sure things keep their designated shape).

"Close your mouth or you'll catch flies." Owen lowers his head and whispers in your ear, making you jump.

You feel caught out, you feel trapped.

(You feel guilty).

You don't want to think about her. Dani is a trap you cannot fall into and Owen's off base. You're not staring, you just want to know what makes her tick. You need it for your mental health. Figuring her out is your only hope.

(But of course, Owen's not wrong. Even if you swat at him and call him names that earn you a scolding look from Hannah, even if Dani snaps her head up, eyebrows a perfectly confused arc above her eyes. He isn't wrong. You're staring and you shouldn't).

When you look at Dani (clad in light-blue jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, her hair falling in golden locks around her shoulders) you feel your heart clench, clench, clench like a fist.

Then plummet.

You felt safe this morning, before seeing her tight-smile, her sad eyes, her nervous twitches. As you climbed into your car, at the crack of dawn, you didn't have to put any effort in keeping it together. You didn't have to will an illusion of comfort and stability. You didn't have to deal with blue-eyed stares and fishing words and steady, shifting moods.

Now, underneath the forced calm there is darkness and you can tell you're not fooling anyone. Your darkness is chaos and a world aflame, and you were never good at hiding your feelings.

(Deep inside you, towers are crashing down, alarms are going off, the ground is shaking and splitting and sliding from under your feet).

When you go back to work, full but a little shakey from Dani's close proximity in the kitchen, you will yourself not to think about her. You repeat it to yourself.

She isn't for you. She's interesting because she's new, a stranger. What you need is to distance yourself. Not to be involved. Do your job and go straight home.

You dig and dig and dig, your hands are getting gradually dirtier, your muscles are burning with labored work. You plant new seeds and tend to plants across the perimeter. Gradually, your heart settles.

It's soothing to be among the plants. They require from you no mental effort, no explanations, no reassurances.

The sun declines an hour and a half later and you walk back to the house, scuffing through fallen leaves, nothing but green and sprouting plants on your mind, the American au pair is an almost none-existent spot at the back of your head.

In the distance, the house is no longer a thick, solid fort of old bricks and secrets. Instead, it looks like it's about to get sold. It flickers a little and in the windows of the second floor, you see Dani, pacing through the rooms, no doubt in the midst of putting two spoiled brats to sleep.

(For fuck's sake).

Go home, you tell yourself as you march to the house.

Inside, Hannah gives you a tired look and a heavy sigh. She's a good, beautiful, impressive woman. She never fails to make your heart calm down.

"Jamie - !" her voice rises sharply, and then she sighs, her shoulders sagging, and something like hope flickers off in her eyes.

"What is it?" You ask, worried all of a sudden, surprised at her unusual tone.

She glances pointedly at your feet. When you drop your chin, it downs on you just how dirty your boots are, and that yet again you have forgotten to wipe your feet before storming in. Behind you, there is a very visible trace of muddy footprints.

"Fuck." You mutter and hang your head low.

Hannah wraps her arms around your shoulders and gives you a hard loving pat on the back. She smells like cleaning chemicals and roses. You think this is how mothers should smell.

"No worries, love," she says gently and kisses your head.

//

You drive through the village and pear around, a little curious and excited. It's dark but you see a great many spaces with nothing in them except patchy lawns and some diseased trees. You think about how you could have fixed them, make a sort of woodland, plant violets, and mayapples and things that grow in shade. Some ferns. Nothing that will require people to work hard around it, nothing to weed. You can never depend on people to do it right.

As you park your car and make your bone-tired way up to your small flat, you think that it's been a week now and you haven't exchanged any words with Dani outside of group chats.

It makes your heart ache a little.

There is an idea of Dani Clayton forming in your head. Not even an idea. A blank balloon with no writing inside. Just a vague notion that something is up with that young woman and you don't know what.

You tell yourself not to care too much because people are people and you've already learned your lesson trying to figure them out. Becca didn't interest you in the same way Dani does, but still, you managed somehow to come out of that particular battle with some ribs broken and a very specific wish to meet again with Peter Quint.

You can't let yourself be interested. Not in Dani Clayton. Not in anyone else. You need to stick to your life, a life you like very much. A nice life. A boring life.

//

You make your grumpy way to the house in your beat-up truck. You like your job as jobs go, but it has shackles attached to it, square brackets, and you find yourself fantasizing a little about a life where there isn't a stern-looking boss examining your every move.

The house looks calm this morning. The view of the garden is clear as you make your way through carefully groomed vegetation, and there is a smell of mown grass and damp earth and standing water in the air. The sun is shining behind a heavy cloud, yellow but cold, and there is a hint of rain in the way the sky colours grey. Cool wind tones up your skin and you're glad you put on some extra layers today.

Trees and plants and flowers are greeting you when you enter the gardens on your way to the greenhouse and you do your best not to think about Dani Clayton and her soft hair and hard mouth and the way she knows how to handle kids. This girl isn't for you to figure out. Nothing to spend your hours thinking about.

Instead, you set your tools and get to work.

It's easier said than done, because, at half-past eleven, Dani appears in the garden, with Miles and Flora at her side. They have a basket full of cold meat and a bottle of lemonade and Dani is holding a blanket close to her chest. Miles is talking, so Dani's full attention is on him. She doesn't see you stare.

Every time you lay eyes on Dani Clayton, a storm of emotions threaten to overwhelm you and you just have to frown and grunt and stump away, trying very hard to maintain a certain air of coolness.

Dani, you've decided on the second day of her arrival, is simply too good looking for you to get involved.

She's the type of gorgeous you always steered away from. The shoulders, the blonde hair, the blue eyes, the bone structure, she looks like a movie starlet, too good to be true. You think that nobody should be allowed out in public looking like Dani. It's a good thing Bly didn't get much traffic, or she'd cause car crashes.

You try to find little things that might be wrong with her, something to put off the shiny air about her, but everything about her just looks too pretty. Even the slight way her ears are sticking out makes you want to put your palms on either side of her head and squeeze lightly.

Dani is soft. So soft. Too soft. The kids use it against her but you know they feel bad for her when she says she isn't mad but disappointed. When she wipes tears under her eyes and puts on a brave smile. When she tells them to go to bed in a too level voice.

She's hard enough to get by but still soft. Soft like a breeze and like baby powder and like languorous heat.

She smells like clothes in the sun and sweet flowers and hair gel, though she doesn't use any. Her smell haunts your dreams and you wake up with her name on your lips and embarrassingly wet thighs.

When you watch her up close, she's not as soft as it might appear at first. She's a marble statue; a roman nose, tight-lip commanding mouth, forcefully squeezed fists. Her up-close hardness makes your heart beat even faster. Something inside her is fighting whatever battles are going on in her head and it's heartening to see her real self winning.

She's an elementary school teacher, you remind yourself. Just how soft can she be?

//

The children have a knack for trying to rile you up, especially Miles. Flora just stands there and stares, as if she isn't sure if she can come closer or is it better to run away. They turn identical eyes to you and smile their identical heartless heart-crushing smiles. They know it worked before and they try it now.

(Little monsters).

They are showing their slightly feral teeth, shaking their heads. Dani shakes her head too when she catches them circling you like little tiny vaulters and her fluffed-out mane bounces. You catch your breath as you do almost every time you see her because she is small and gorgeous and you wonder, not for the first time since you laid eyes on her, how can someone manage to give birth to her.

Flora and Miles laugh a lot these days. They tease each other, though they don't try it on, Dani. They seem to have enough presence of mind not to test her any further. (They test you enough to leave her alone).

You like them well enough, so you show them around the garden and you play hide and seak with Flora when the workday is over and you're waiting for dinner, and Miles asks you about sad little stuff that breaks your heart, so you don't get very angry when his mood shifts.

"You shouldn't do that," he likes to tell you, when you knock your boots against the wall, just outside the front door, or when you whistle or when you smoke.

"You shouldn't smoke. It's bad for you".

"You better don't let Mrs. Grose catch you do that".

"Do you want to know what they did to us in school, if we'd done something like this?"

You always roll your eyes and laugh or bare your teeth or sneer, just a little, because he's getting bolder and bolder.

"It's bad for you," you say, emphasizing the last word, taking a deep drag from the cigarette.

"Can do what I want. Don't actually need permission, mate." A shrug. A smile.

"If I catch you do that again, I'll beat the living shite out of you, no bullshit".

It might not be the best approach, but it usually works.

Miles and Flora look at you with big unsmiling eyes, appealing eyes, accusing eyes, because their parents are dead and it's not fair.

Dani's approach is different, and it works wonders on them.

//

Sometimes Dani Clayton gets herself down. It's something you've picked up after a few brief encounters with her, and you look closer into it, careful not to stare.

It's something like worthiness that does it, a pressure on her to be nice, for some deranged reason, to be more than ethical, to behave well and have a smile on her face, even when It's evident that she'd rather scream her head off. It's the ray of good behaviour, of good nature, of cluck-clucking good, goody-goodness, beaming out from around her head.

It makes you wonder what her life must have been like to set her on this particular edge. This over neediness for polite happiness.

You look at her, when she isn't looking, and try to imagine what she would look like if she'd cast off her muffling politeness, stopped tip-toeing through life, cut loose, not in minor ways as she does now when she frowns at one of the children and sets boundaries with a pleasant but stern voice, but something really big. Some great whopping, some thoroughly despicable sin.

You have to wonder if she has something devious and archaic and bloodthirsty inside her. Something complicated. Something mean. What if she has some big secret she is scared to let out, some treachery inclinations, some ugly betrayal.

But she doesn't snap and doesn't lie and doesn't cheat. She makes horrible brews (which must be some kind of American defect, or else a seed of evil, you haven't figured this one out yet) and she has a superhuman goodness around her, clad in pink blouses and hair restrained in a single braid and a kind smile with hints of something sad in it.

(You yourself are not s decent person, and you've known it since childhood. You act like one, most of the time, but you have another self, a more ruthless one, concealed inside you, and this other self is angry and doesn't condone violence and knows how to shoot a gun, how to aim and pull a trigger and make holes in legs and shoulders).

So when Owen tells you about how to children locked her in the closet, you pause and stare, wondering what kind of mean you have to be to hurt a woman like Dani.

"Little fucking monsters!"

He nods. Hannah has a disturbed look in her eyes. It's a dark expression that doesn't sit right on her face. She looks more worn down these days. she has a stringy look as if the soft parts of her are scrapping away as if her bones are getting closer and closer to the surface. She has a somewhat confused expression, not entirely present, grey at the edges. Her eyes are unfocused.

"Locked her in a closet? Last night?"

You imagine Dani's face, framed by a closet door. You imagine it indistinct. Murky. A white face streaked with tears.

"They made a mess in the hall, too." Adds Owen and Hannah shushes him.

Little buggers. Hannah spends her days cleaning after them, the least they can do is not drug mud into the house. She brushes the stairs and vacuums the second-floor hall and scrubbed the linoleum in the front and waxes it and does the same to the kitchen floor when Owen is busy cooking. She cleans the bathrooms and the toilets and the windows. She washes the curtains, scrubbing the floors, does the sheets and towels by hand. She dusts and out drain cleaners down all the drains and she cleans and cleans and cleans.

If you had to clean half as much as she does, you'd make sure no little muddy feet were spoiling your front hall.

(Little fucking monsters).

You glance at them, and it occurs to you just then that they are sitting at the table, sipping tea, completely unfazed. Something about their laziness, easy and earned, makes you wonder.

"What are you up to?"

Owen mixes sugar in his tea, the spoon making clacking sounds against the ceramic edges. "Hannah," he says and his tone is far too satisfied to be random. "Has got the day off, it seems".

"The new missus put the children to it." Hannah takes a sip from her tea and doesn't look at you.

You chuckle. "Yeah".

(You'd like to see that).

//

As it turns out, Dani's idea of a punishment is assaulting your garden with small hands and eager smiles and enthusiasm you're not sure the roses will appreciate.

You don't say anything, at it is. They are digging in the soil and planting new flowers and Dani doesn't look like someone who will murder everything that is green and alive, so you let yourself enjoy the relatively good air. You put your feet on the chair opposite you and watch the three laboring figures, crutched on their knees.

"I could get used to this." You say with a smile.

Hannah scratches the back of her neck, a languid motion, tired and distracted. "I don't know. I feel lazy…"

"Go on, admit it. You love having this wee break".

Hannah smiles, glancing at you and you wiggle in your chair gleefully.

"I don't know," she says at last. "I suppose".

You take in the crispy air into your lungs and you light a cigarette and you drink cold Jin with Tonic, the taste somehow weird on your tongue, mixing with sharp nicotine. It's a nice break and even though Hanna and Owen do their best to poke fun at you for paying too close attention to a certain au pair, you don't let it bother you.

"Though maybe a bit too pretty, do you think she's pretty?" you push Owen with the tip of your mud cooked foot and he blushes, the English language evaporates from his mind.

"Jamie!" Hannah hisses, shocked.

"What!" You laugh in defense. "Just Christian concern." It's a lie and they both know it.

You look at the garden around you. the vegetables pushing up the swiss chard, there are carrots and green tomatoes Owen begged you to plant. There is a rusty-orange bloom in the corner and the soil is reach and smells like home.

The children dig compost and inspect roots. You tilt your head back, your lungs burn with familiar smoke as you push it out of your nostrils and you think it's almost time to plant new seeds. Expend the vegetable garden.

You look at Dani and wonder if she likes gardening just as much as you. She is kneeling in the dirt, with both hands deep in the ground, rummaging among the roots with the earthworms slipping away from her groping fingers. She looks satisfied, but she always looks this way, so it's hard to tell.

Flora is enveloped in flowers. Miles inspect carefully his handy work.

"How they doin'?" Dani calls, her American accent piercing your ears and you don't hate it.

"Perfectly." You call back and it's only half a tease. She laughs, open and young and care-free.

She must enjoy helping things grow, you think as you watch her, though maybe in a different manner than you. It's more about nourishing with her, than spending her days thinking about nothing. She isn't much of a gardener, her eyes trained on the kids more than on her own work.

It's becoming on her, this gentle attentiveness, this mild concern for someone else's children.

Kids, you figure, are a lot like plants. You must tend to them, weed them, sort them, thin them out in a way. You must be cautious when it seems they give the slightest indication of falling apart. If you do your job right, they bloom.

Dani, by the looks of it, does it right.

//

You draw in the house, breathe in its smell. There are some flies buzzing, distant cows, chuckling of wild geese, a car going by, way down on the gravel road at the front of the property, but it doesn't turn to the house. There are other sounds too; Owen's whistling, Hannah's secret sighs, Dani's footsteps. On the second floor, two high pitched voices argue from across the corridor. The tap is dripping in the sink, in the pantry. From a distance, as if from another dimension, comes the sound of footsteps somewhere in the front parlor, a creaking of a sort, that you don't recognise. Something rocks and you stand in the middle of the foyer, very still and chilled, the small hairs on your arms liftings, as if you're waiting for something inevitable to happen.

//

It really shouldn't surprise you, seeing Dani leap out of the double front doors, breathing heavily, face wet with tears, mouth twisted. It was bound to happen, eventually.

You're not prone to panic attacks, too composed to give a shit, you like to think, but Dani Clayton seems like the kind of woman to break down, rewind, recharge. Her tears make your heart aches, but you know the power of a good cry and you learned a long time ago that tears don't equal weakness.

If anything, they're a sign of strength.

(They must be because tears come easy to you. They are always a little painful when they come. The pain is red and it hurts but you never wipe them away, always remember Tamara's deep chocolaty voice telling you it's alright to cry).

(Once you started to cry, after you landed in jail, a record you cannot scrub clean no matter how hard you try, it seemed for a long time like it was impossible to stop. After you got out, you cried too. You cried in the daytime, in the lamplight, in the darkness of your own little flat. When you work you can keep the weeping locked away, but the tears are always fatal. Fatal and unavoidable, like sleep).

You want to do something for Dani. You don't want to tell her to stop crying, but you need to let her know she is not alone. It's a no brainer, really.

You put down your tools, tentative and careful as to not scare her off.

"You alright?"

She makes a gasping sound like she's surprised to be caught. Then she draws a breath, a long sigh.

"Yeah." She pipes up.

You watch the back of her head. You'd like to look at her, but her face is hidden from you. All you can see from where you're standing in her hand coming up, dabbing her eyes, shakey fingers wiping the tears away.

Dani has a strange quality to her. She's so tough and wiry, resilient, and it's obvious she has deep wounds. Sometimes, when you watch her across the table or on the other side of the garden, hidden behind vegetation, behind a tree, too busy with the children to catch you staring, you wonder just how deep her wounds are running. She seems, in these moments, when she's smiling and blonde and with the sun in her eyes, like a woman who licks her wounds and bounce right back up.

Now she looks different. She has an exiled look to her, the look of a lost traveler, as if she's stuck in some no man's land, between borders, and without a passport. It pains you to see her so lost. So sad.

Trying to figure Dani out is proving to be a problem. She is a mystery wrapped in fluffy sweaters and soft smiles (eatery eyes). She is a road out of signs and you were never good with finding your way even with a map draped over your knees and a clean destination forward.

(You want to do the right thing, right here, right now).

You make a joke (a part joke) and Dani laughs. She is looking at you, peering behind her shoulder. She still has her back turned to you, and she plants her feet in the ground as if to prevent herself from turning towards you. You suspect she just doesn't want you to see her crying, though you both know you just did.

The small dignity maintenance is lovely. You find that you have to let her know how brave she looks, fighting herself with all her might. You need her to know you appreciate a good fight, even a hidden one, a secret battle that happens far away.

"Look, you're doing great," you say and you mean every word. The kids can be real monsters sometimes, but better monsters than broken dolls, and after they arrived at Bly after their parents were killed, they scared you. They were quiet and shaken, like ragged little things, like things nobody wanted. Now they smile and laugh and run up and down the corridors, squealing and laughing and screaming in delight. They pester each other, they poke fun, and even though Dani doesn't know it, it's all thanks to her, this blonde weird Mary Poppins, crying behind a pillar, breathing heavily.

Guilt and sadness descends, billowing softly like a huge green parachute. Riderless, the harness empty. Dani's sniffling weights heavy as a lead on your chest and you should dump these pathetic attempts to sheer her up because you're really not good at this.

(Something in Dani seems so vulnerable and sad and small, all you want to do is make her smile. Not for your own satisfaction, but because this teary expression is wrong on her bright face. Her wide mouth is meant to stretch in laughter and you want to fight heaven and earth, and all the demons in hell for making this woman believe her scolds worth more than her smiles).

So you try again because she needs to know, even if you're trying are too small to make a change. Even if you're not good with words and even if you can't say half the things you want to.

"You're doing great".

"Thank you," she says levelly. She's smiling a small smile but there is a particular light in her eyes you recognise as sincerity.

It's only partly a response. Only half an answer, but it's all the answer you're going to get, so you gather the tools and stretch your back, arching a little, readying yourself for work.

There's a beat, in which neither one of you is saying anything. Dani shifts her gaze and you find blue eyes watching you steadily.

"Well, back to it then," you contemplate for half a second before you're mouth takes the better of you and you blurt, as easily and cheerfully as possible. "Chin up, Poppins".

And you bravely, stupidly, turn your back on Dani Clayton and walk inside the house.

You don't wait for her response.

//

The day that had started with warm sunny weather starts crumbling into a stormy fright. By mid-afternoon, the sky turns a baleful shade of grey and the branches of the trees around the grounds of the manor begin to thrash around as if some huge, enraged animal is fighting her way through. The storm is quick and it passes over head, flickering snakes' tongues of white light, stacks of rambling thunder, and mean rain. The storm is gone a few hours later, but it's still dark as a drain.

Dani is playing with a strangely familiar rose when you step into the house. Her fingers turn the rose thoughtfully. She's staring through the floor, gazing at something deep inside her mind, and she doesn't notice you until you call her.

"Poppins," you inch closer, eyes trained on the rose instead of the woman. Your voice is small and guarded and on the verge of panic. "Where'd you got that rose from?"

Dani's head snaps to you and a blush covers her cheeks. "Oh," she says. "Miles gave it to me," and her lips curve into a very unsure smile that looks nothing like happiness. She has a lost expression on her face as if she isn't sure what she's doing or how she got here.

You have a very unsettling feeling in the pit of your stomach and your voice is very distant in your ears. You have a bad flashback of Peter Quint cutting roses from your garden, whistling, laughing in your face when you made an angry attempt to push him away, and something snaps inside you.

"Jamie," Dani says and you are swimming, drowning in bad memories, so lost in thoughts you don't even notice that she uses your name in such a gentle manner. "What's going on?"

"Care to take a walk with me?" your voice shakes. Dani grabs her jacket and follows you out of the house, no questions asked.

It's dusk and the smell of mowed grass comes from the muddy ground, mowed grass, and dead roses and you are drowning in red hot anger, red hot burning anger that leaks from your fingers to the crushed flowers and you could kill the little shit.

The air is moist and still, and it's very cold. You didn't grab your jacket when you leaped out of the house, so now your skin is prickling, rebelling against the icy weather.

You're puzzled, walking slowly around the butchered roses. You feel like somebody slit their throats, like their crushed petals and torn leaves are blood, dripping from branches and soaking into the ground.

You stand there, shocked, trying to hold yourself together. Behind you, a very surprised gasp escapes Dani's lips.

Your head is cloudy, red fragments are swirling behind your eyes. Your roses. Your beautiful roses!

You are seething.

You feel like splitting in two.

You're beyond words.

You're about to go get an axe and chop Miles' head off and watch the life goes out of him, just like he did to the poor innocent flowers when a burning palm is pulling you back and Dani stares right at you.

You rage, out loud and shouting and she flinches away, surprised at the force of your anger.

You want to make her understand. She frowns a little and you don't know how to explain about flowers and colours and how soil isn't just soil and how one cannot just stroll into a garden and cut at it mercilessly, just like one cannot enter a house and slaughter it's inhabitants.

All you do is take a deep breath. You know people don't see flowers the way you do. They are green and immobile and fucking everywhere and nobody cares about the pain they cannot hear.

"Look, I have a way of doing things and I don't like people messing about in my garden – " you don't want to sound insane.

But Dani is nodding and she doesn't look like she thinks you overreacted or overstepped or you have no right to spit fire. She doesn't move away. She doesn't step back. She doesn't call you names.

What she does is put a hand on your arm. What she does is telling you that you're right.

What can you do? All the fight leaves your body at once and there is just Dani, beautiful soft understanding Dani, who's been locked in a closet and came out of it triumphant.

Dani is speaking, taking control over your whirlwind of emotions. You are angry and desolate and sick with disgust. You want Miles to pay. You want him to hurt. He's just a kid and you are so angry you're ready to kill.

Dani is speaking and she moves your emotions with soft words, shifting them slowly. Her foreign accent and sweet tone are taking control of you, moving the pain away. Fierce blue eyes stare deep into yours, bright and shining. She takes your anger and crumbles it gently, pushes it away as hard as she can, as soft as she can. Back into the shadows.

"You're right," she says and then more firmly, somehow more softly. "You're right. I'll talk to him".

"Sure," you feel like an idiot for lashing out, it's a kind of warm shame you don't want and Dani doesn't mind.

(The roses, you think with a sniffling. The roses were lovely. They were innocent).

Dani is lovely too and though she is smiling softly, her smile is something you understand. There is no humor behind it. No soul. It's an angry sort of smile. Dani's smile at this moment is sharp and you wonder

(If you lean forward and catch her smile with your lips, will it grow? Will it fall? Will she grab your face and kiss you back, sweet and soft and testing?)

She looks ready to cut things with this smile, and you don't try to get closer. You don't dare test this woman's calm anger.

"Look," you say. "Can we just go back to the bit where you were acting mental and I had to talk you down?" you aim for deadpan but Dani laughs nonetheless.

//

The day moves on. The cold sun travels up across the sky, the shadows flatten. Food that Owen's brown fingers made with so much love appears and is eaten, words are spoken, though not very much. Dining table objects are gathered together and washed. Hannah has still the same misplaced expression on her face. Owen's mouth is twisted downward, Miles and Flora are unusually quiet. Even Dani, who was determined on keeping a cheerful front in the face of the gloomy weather is moving in a haze.

You work the fence around the house as it gains a coil of wire. You remove weeds from the garden and watch Hannah deploy the laundry. You proceed through your daily tasks steadily, dutifully, counting the hours. The shadows begin to stretch again, the afternoon clouds gather.

Owen makes dinner.

You go inside and the rain rains, with impressive thunder that makes Flora jump in her seat and hold your hand.

"Just a bit of water," you tell her in a whisper. Dani is smiling at you and you try to pretend your heart doesn't plummet in a crazy beat. Flora's eyes are big and round and worried like she doesn't quite believe you.

"Just a bit of noise".

The sky clears soon after and night birds resume their contests.

Owen makes hot chocolate.

You and Dani circle awkwardly around each other, a desperate dance of intrigues and unfolding feelings. Dani, you realise, is not what you'd call raw sex, though she isn't the eggs-for-breakfast kinda girl. She's raw alright, and she has plenty of sex dripping from every tentative smile and every stroke of fingers and every shift of blue eyes (not sinful, far from saint), but it's a sweet kind of desire, hot and burning, but in control.

(Dani is like a fresh wound, like dangerous wildness timid with years of practice. She's gin at midnight and a perfectly brewed cup of tea and you can't figure her out for the life of you because how can a woman be both at the same damn time?)

She's magnificent and unique and so fucking weird, you don't even know how to look at her right. When you do, your heart resumes a dangerous beat, and your cheeks are burning. It's hard to look straight at her.

She's glowing like the sun.

As you dance around each other, Hannah is eyeing you. You hear her murmuring, and Owen nods, approving and happy and too invested in your awkward little game.

"Ask her out already!" He hisses at you when you hug him goodnight. He's big, you can barely circle his shoulders. He has an arm around your waist and he's crushing you lovingly to his front.

"You one to give advice?" you laugh in his ear. "Ask Hannah out, why won't you".

Dani is standing a little to the side, next to Hannah. She's watching your ritual of exchanging 'goodnight's, smooth and dark and silent in the shadows, all menacing potential and awkward gestures.

When Dani is watching you, you become conscious of your heart, and of dizziness. Also, of breathlessness, as if you are in over your head. But over your head in what? Not love. Something thicker. Maybe time. Old-time and lost potential and sorrow and something that settles down in layers like silt in a pond.

(Maybe you're wrong. Maybe you've actually fallen quite in love with her and you're too much of a coward to admit it, even to yourself).

Then there is a shrug of a shoulder, half a smile, the side-eye Dani tries very hard to ignore.

There is a step forward. Then, there is a step back.

//

It's raining a thin absent rain of summer days when you are told Peter Quint is back.

In the garden, the flowers bloom happily, ignorant to the fact something dangerous is going on. The daffodils have their snouts above ground, the self-seeded forget-me-nots are creeping up, getting ready to hog the light. You look at them and enjoy their vegetative hustling and jostling. They never seem to get tired of it, plants have no memories, that's why. They can't remember how many times they've done all this before.

It's surprising you to hear Peter Quint's name again, but Dani doesn't know him, doesn't know the history behind his name, and the only thing between him and her is the fact that she saw his face and the undeniable terror-grasp he seems to have over Miles.

You watch Dani Clayton carefully. You wonder who is responsible for such a creature. She walks the house, fists balled, back rigid. She is both hesitant and confident and you know how Miles and Flora must feel when she peers into their faces with her big blue eyes, demanding respect and answers, and no more fooling around.

And Dani is smart. Not street smart, it turns out, but the kind of smart you've always admired. She knows names and times and places. You overhear her talking with Owen about Paris, with Hannah about history. She's curious and full of useless knowledge that is found in books.

But she isn't smart in the sense that keeps one safe. You keep wondering when she will wander out into the darkness, or be squashed by a mystical force, or be robbed and killed because who the hell goes out at night, with nothing but a stick, looking for a man who is the definition of danger?

No street smarts at all and the monster you are facing is a street fighter. He kicks hard, hard and low and dirty, and the only counterploy is to kick him first, preferably with metal cleats on your boots.

That's why you have a rifle at the ready, and Hanna's fair warning to stay safe, though you don't see any sign of him when you do a sweep around the manor's grounds.

"That man doesn't even have blood flowing in him," you mutter when you make your way back to the house after a long patrol, Dani quick on your heels. "Pure latex. Or molten steel, the fucker".

When you're back inside and the kids passed out on the floor before the lit fireplace, you think you ought to feel better but you don't. You're too worked up. Now that you're sitting, now that you're not in motion with nothing to hold on to but a spiked cup of tea, you start to drift back to observing the blonde au pair and you're heart starts its unsteady rhythmic beat.

You're almost ready to go out again and do another swipe when Dani moves to the sofa and inches close. Hannah and Owen are sitting across from you, a little to the side, and are having a hushed conversation.

Before Dani came to sit next to you, you were impatient and irritable, you were angry and your skin was crawling with potential danger, tensed with anticipation. Now you're on edge for a much different reason, you're body's vibrating with something else you don't want to think about.

"They look so good together," Dani says with her usual half-smile. You look at her and follow her gaze. She's eyeing Hannah, her head placed carefully on Owen's wide shoulder. Dani looks at them with such tenderness, such loving approval, that you're taken by surprise by your own treatures heart.

Instead of soft gentle happiness, there comes anger and an ugly splash of chokingly familiar envy. It blinds you. You try to rationalize your reaction, try to push it away. It's not the sort of feeling you want to have, not tonight, and this one's worst because Owen is family and it's stupid and you know better.

(You're just jealous. No. Not just, because jealousy is ugly and destructive and angry, like a hot spike inside your guts, and it's not your place to have any sort of envious feelings toward Dani).

It's a bad feeling you don't like because it's incoherent and confused and shameful and at the same time self-righteous and focused and hard as glass and you have no business being jealous, because who are you, really? Why Dani shouldn't eye Owen? Why shouldn't she enjoy him? He's handsome and good and even though he's clueless, he will be a good match for her. They will make a stunning couple.

You're jealous and it's a feeling of total concentration, but total powerlessness.

It's very angry.

Very tiring.

Next to you, Dani doesn't seem to pick up your sudden frustration. She cradles her cup of tea and watches the couple in front of her, watches the children snort lightly, watches the flames dance in the fireplace, behind the iron bar.

//

Wild birds of the night fly south, creaking like anguished hinges, the lights from the house burn dull red and yellow. Summer in Bly smells like mothballs and rain, made out of mists and dew and slippery front steps.

It's late afternoon, spilling into evening when the thunder is over and you all are settled around a fire, a little tired, a little wiped, very much exhausted. Dani is flushed, Owen's brow a little sweaty. Hannah seems to be miles away.

Dani is nursing a picture of Peter and Rebecca. It's a polaroid square, a little smudged at the edges. In the picture' he's holding her from behind, one massive arm across her bird chest. She's hugging him with desperation and fear as if letting him go is some grand horrible notion she cannot fathom.

"They look like Bonnie and Clyde," Dani says wistfully and you snort.

Bonnie and Clyde your ass. Peter Quint is a slick arsehole and Rebecca Jessel paid too great of a price. A blip of rage travels through your body. The air is sticky with moisture.

"If Clyde fucked Bonnie over".

Dani's smile is abrupt and when you grumble, it falls from her face, then reappears. It's less like a breeze and more like thunder and you think her smile is the beginning of everything, sudden and insidious. It creeps up on you sideways, keeping the shadows on her face, lurking unrecognized, springing all of a sudden, and then dissolve into nothing.

Dani is gazing at the picture between her fingers and you remember a face, from long ago, when you were less settled, more wild. The image behind your eyelids is dark and smudged, the woman this face you're trying to conjure is long gone and almost entirely forgotten and you think you know how Rebecca must have felt when she stumbled upon Peter Quint. A little scared and a little spooked but intrigued and curious.

You landed in jail. Rebecca found herself in the lake, face down and dead.

You don't want to talk about any of it, but you grind your teeth and let out a frustrated sigh.

"The wrong kind of love can fuck you up. And those two, believe me, that was the wrong kind of love".

"We've all been in the wrong kind of love for one reason or another," Dani's tone is defensive and you're not sure she's talking about Peter and Rebecca. There is an edge to her words, a weird music of defense and attack.

You try not to think about Rebecca's body floating in the lake, her hair a cloud of darkness around her head. Another wave of anger rises in your, twisting your words into small daggers of pure rage, and Dani's gaze burn holes in your skin.

"I hope she haunts that fucker forever." You grit through clenched teeth.

There is silence after your furious declaration. Dani breathes evenly at your side. Flames crackle and pop in the fireplace, a snapping sound. Dani is an immobile figure next to you.

"People do, don't they? Mix up love and possession".

"Yeah," you're still deep in thought. "They do".

"I don't think it should be possible," Dani is whispering and she has a wet quality to her words. Not tears, exactly, but something that might turn into sobs any second. She doesn't cry. "Love and ownership, I mean. They're opposites, really".

"Yeah," you say and Dani shines in the dim-lit room, the orange light dances on her cheeks and you've never seen anything as beautiful as her in your entire life. Solemn and radiant and beautiful.

She's like a thing of wonder. Like a distant fairy in the woods, only half-real. You fall into her like she's a mysterious creature, a creature of outer space, and you're an explorer. You search her eyes as if something familiar is hidden behind them, layers of rustling truths, something that maybe, like you, longs for a thing it cannot grasp.

You know you're staring, and Dani is staring too.

//

The season is turning on its hinges, a typical English summer, the earth swings farther from the light, under the bushes leaves turn crusty and the air is dry as if preparing for the coming Sahara of centrally heated weekend.

The phone call cuts a disturbing act and the ends of your fingers are fussing, your heart withering at the sound of an old voice apologising again and again.

You turn to Owen and your eyes catch sight of Dani, her hair a beautiful wave of golden waves, her eyes so deep and sad, you think she must know who's on the other side of this line.

"Owen… I'm so sorry," you choke out and a glimmering light goes off in his dark eyes.

Owen's car disappears on the horizon and Hannah leaves, lower lip trembling, mumbling something about lighting a candle.

Dani is standing next to you, kicking the dust. The urgency and flattering are over. Something heavy weights you down. Peter Quint is forgotten and the air smells like ashes.

Dani walks you to your truck. She smells like warm clothes and old tweed and wine, a singed odor that makes your head spin. There is an undertone of salt and a whiff of flowery perfume and she is there, right next to you.

"I'm so glad," she says, somewhat strangled and a little shakey. "That you stayed".

Something about Dani Clayton defies all laws of nature in your mind. You answer because you feel the same, and Dani doesn't touch you. She doesn't put her hand on your arm, even though you know she wants to.

You expect her to touch you. You feel it in advance like birds feel shadows.

(Your lungs burn for a smoke).

Then she does reach for your hand and her eyes are full of unsaid truths. You wonder what will she do if you lean forward and kiss her, but the thought is gone as fast as it arrives.

Dani's touch is suave and deft, under her fingers you can feel the flowers blossoming and the water flowing out of your own skin. It's a sure grip, not a faint one, her fingers are squeezing your palm. It's soft as a moth brushing against skin, but burning and present.

You draw back from her when she drops her hand. You can still feel her holding your fingers.

The leaves around you stir fitfully. The thunder is nearing. You slide the truck door open and you won't kiss her. Not tonight.

You stand and stare at her, brows knitted together, mouth twitching. Dani shivers a little.

"Who the hell knew." You say with a sort of relief, a sort of breathiness, and Dani's lips quiver a little, not enough to produce even the tiniest of smiles.

Nobody is smiling tonight.

It starts raining. It's going to pour before you reach the town.

//

The memorial service is at four and you squeeze yourself into a tight black dress and a nice jacket you bought for a similar purpose some time ago, comb through your hair, put a red lipstick, and make your steady way to your truck.

Your neighbour John, the owner of the only pub in Bly, is standing outside his dark establishment, smoking a cigarette. The pub is empty, too early even for the heavy drinkers, and secretly you're glad for the vacancy of curious eyes. The exterior is charred and shattered from bad weather and not enough care. John has enough money to repair it, but he's fighting the insurance company and the city hall.

He makes a gasping sound and whistles when he sees you and you're feet are icy and you're shivering in your thin jacket. Above your heads, the sky is dimly illuminated, a black spangled empty surface that makes your skin crawl.

"If I knew all you need is a funeral to have you in a little dress, lassie, I'd throttle half this goddamn village, ey?"

"Sod off." Is your predictable reply and he keeps on laughing long after you backed off from your parking slot.

You drive slowly, carefully. Outside the front window, the road is empty and it's dark. It's been a pretty warm summer so far, but the weather is changing. The kissing sound of the rain against the glass is unsettling so you press down your foot and make it to the house in record time.

When you enter Dani's room, the sun is on its way down, though not yet set, and the clouds have cleared out a little. The curtains are drawn halfway and Dani stands in a rosy glow. She looks torn to pieces in her black scandalous dress, her hair's a brushed mane of very light gold you have the urgent need to sink your fingers into, and everything about her screaming for an escape.

"Oh!" She gasps and a smile is splitting her troubled expression. "You look - "

(Just as much as your little black dress is a stray from your usual denim and boots outfits, Dani's dress is standing out to you as well. She pulls it off beautifully because everything looks beautiful on her, and you can barely maintain eye contact. The setting sun is behind her, shining through the window, so she's but a small shadowy figure, smiling and faceless, in a big foreign room. The contrast of the blonde shine of her hair against the black fabric is making it hard for you to breathe).

(Your mouth is very dry and the pure delight in her eyes doesn't make it easier).

"I can scrub up when I need to." You choke out and Dani is making a weird sound, something like a laugh and something like a cough and something like a broken instrument.

You close the door behind you.

Up close, Dani looks guilty, somehow. Disoriented. Almost sick. She looks upset and lost and tired and she's talking a mile an hour. You watch her and then come closer and put your hands on her arms, trying to stop the verbal assault she's stumbling over.

"Poppins," you say and you do your best to keep it light. "I promise. I don't need you to be my date to Owen's mum's funeral".

Dani's eyes are big, her mouth pressed tight. She looks on the verge of tears (tears of anger or of relief you don't know) and she lets out a breathy strangled laugh. Under your palms, she's trembling.

"Okay," she says, fidgeting. Nervous. "Okay. Now can you help me get this thing off?"

You panic. For a brief second, Dani is asking you to remove her dress and your brain short-circuits.

"Blimey!"

Dani is laughing, choking on a laugh through unspilled tears and panic of her own and you clear your throat and move behind her. It's all very surreal. You tug down gently on the zipper, she makes a frightened gasp and you step back.

"Did I pinch ya?"

"No!" There is another miserable attempt at a laugh that threatens to break your heart. It's a startled noise. "I'm sorry!" And you've never met anyone who deserves a break more than Dani Clayton.

When you reach your truck, you turn back at look at the manor, as you often do. You admire it. Admire its gardens and it's tall, large frame. It looks solid and reassuring, like a fort or like a keep or like a castle.

It's a good place, you think. These walls and roof, red darkened to purple-brown by weather and soot.

Inside is Dani, squeezing out of black dresses, changing back to everyday clothes, safe from harm. You would like to hug her, hold her in your arms, make sure she's well-fed and safe and happy. How can you protect her? and from what? You have no idea.

The service is wet and grey and it turns sleepy later. There are so many people, you're having trouble breathing and Owen turns up his coat collar and looks small and sad and lost. He tries to hide behind people, avoid the front row, but he's too big and he fails.

You're craning your neck as you riffle through the faces. You don't expect to see Dani there, because you were the one who told her to take a break, but there is a small irrational part of you that expects her to show up anyway.

Owen catches your eye halfway through. His face is scruffy and unshaven and he looks like he hadn't had much sleep the past few days. You make your way to him, unsteady on your fancy heals, and when you hug him his cheeks and chin is sandpaper. He smells like gin.

"Thank you for being here." He says very calmly, his usually cheerful voice a croaked whisper.

"Wouldn't have missed it." You promise him.

The service is unsettling. It's a nice place with several bunches of flowers, and you wonder who could have sent them.

Owen reads a short tribute to tell about his mum, and there are a lot of black-suited gentlemen and ladies with veils around their hats that talk about Mrs. Sharma. Owen looks smaller and smaller with every word they say until he is shrunken into himself.

They talk about her courage and her love for her son. They talk about things you say when you don't know what to say. They talk about god and innocence and things they remember and it makes you wonder if any of it is true to who Mrs. Sharma really was.

Owen looks pitiful, so pulled apart, so lost – as if he's been on the rack, as if every one of his bones had been disconnected from every other bone, leaving only a kind of anatomical jelly. He makes you want to care for him, to pat him back to shape. He will reemerge from his drowning soon enough, you know, but it seems like even if he returns, even if he starts smiling again and will stop looking so greenish-grey, so sagging and sad, it will only be a shadow of his former self.

A need arises in you. an inspiring foray, a motivation of a kind.

You don't go to the cemetery after the service. It's depressing and cold and it's getting darker still and you give Owen a big hug before you drive back to where you know you'll be welcome.

//

When you look back on the late eighties, when you remember your time at Bly, you never quite sure how it all started.

First, it was a warm sunny day, balmy, kindly, and dry. Seasonally warm. Nothing special. Wednesday or Thursday or any other day in between. You did your job, you drank lemonade, you teased Owen, flicked Miles' ears, looked sheepish when Hannah scolded your and went back to work.

Then there was a magnificent creature at the dinner table, with large bright eyes and an eager air around her and you couldn't talk for almost five minutes because you weren't sure you can be trusted with words. She was a shivering fountains of blonde leaves, swaying tree branches. She looked like someone who can be easily run over, the edges of her smile always shaking, her eyes so very wet.

(To your surprise and complete shock, she was glimmering faintly).

How did it all start?

She made a remark, offhanded and marginal. A man on the parapet. You answered, absentmindedly, gingerly, a little too stern.

How did it all start?

One minute you were free, the next you were stumbling over words, over blue eyes, over blown-out blonde hair and pink sweaters and an accent that up till that exact moment, you couldn't bear. Your life was simple and easy and quite boring until you met Dani Clayton, and you like it. You did. You read a lot and tended to the house's huge grounds. You repaired things. You drank beer with John and his band of colourful friends on the weekends and teased Owen a lot. You were dug, plodded on nose to the ground, wrapped in a protective numbness.

(After Rebecca died, you stayed away from most people. You figured that if you weren't too close to anyone, nobody could disappoint you. nobody could hurt you. nobody could demand or provide or poke you. there was no painful suspense. No one to please. Nothing to lose. And you wonder, sometimes, if you turned and walked away, that very first night, if you didn't hold her hand if you shut your mouth and never told her about your flat above the pub or your sob little story or a hundred different other things).

(What if she didn't like you back? What if you have only imagined it all?)

But if you had another chance, you never would have turned. If you had another beginning, you wouldn't act differently. You already know too much and Dani is not the new au pair with the trembling fingers and weird little walk. She's Dani. She's your friend and your soulmate and your love. She's your wife.

So how did it all start?

You think you have invited her into your life just at the same moment she invited you into her own. Because stories like yours never happen out of spite or by accident. Stories like yours are not some random act. You walked into this with your eyes wide open and she in return entered your story, overlapped it easily and securely and so softly you can't even remember the exact moment you were not merely you, but also an extension of her.

Stories like yours call for recognition, an offer of friendship and hospitality, at first. For greeting. For companionship.

How did it all start?

Dani materialized out of thin air. She began by sitting at the breakfast table, then asking questions, then making remarks, or laughing at one of your biting jokes. Then, all of a sudden, she was what you were looking for when you made your way to work. Just like that, without any intention or elaborated plan, she was part of your routine. Part of your life.

(Worst, even. She was shining like a beacon in the dark).

You didn't know how it all will turn out when you invited her in, but you had no doubt about it. You opened the door wide and in came Dani Clayton, like a long-lost friend, like a lover of ancient times. Like a wind. And you welcomed her.

It was a sensation of having lost your footing, of being swept away out into a strong current.

It all started because nature abhors a vacuum.

How inconvenient. How simple.

//

Hannah's voice is distant. The flames dance around her face, drowning her features in strange shadows, causing her to look almost like a ghost. Like she's part of the shadows behind her more than part of the material world.

Her voice is drawling, with a slight hesitation in it, a slight foreign flavor when she mentions Rebecca. There is a hint of anger and despair, low, succulent, but with a hard surface that you don't usually associate with her. Hannah makes a point of being soft, kind, never harsh. But now her voice isn't gentle. Her voice is a thousand years old, the voice of a goddess who has seen girls being drowned and cheated on and killed and torn apart, Rebecca being just the very last of them.

"Why is it always the young brilliant women who get punished?" she asks, her voice is a glazed chocolate, with a soft buttery deceptive center. Sweet and good and never harmful. The flames hiss and fuss, an angry replay to a sad question.

The cross around her neck catches the dancing light of the bonfire and she looks eternal, unearthly. When you look at her you think Jesus must be hiding his loving face in shame. You know you would have, has she directed her unforgiving question at you.

Dani sighs a heavy sigh at your left and brings the wine bottle to her lips. She drinks from it, tilting her head a little. Her throat undulate as she swallows. She has a beautiful neck.

You drink too. The wine is good but your eyes are stinging and you avoid spluttering. It's not the alcohol, you realise. It's the girl at your side.

Your nose is full of prickles.

Owen's voice is sad when he lowers his glasses and puts them neatly in his pocket. You put the wine bottle down and you notice it's half empty. You must have drunk the other half without realizing.

Sitting next to Dani makes you alert to your surrounding. It's so sudden and unexpected, the way she makes you feel, that you don't know how to react, so you act cool. You know that sometimes Dani buys this act, all big eyes, and innocent smiles. Sometimes she doesn't. She's too smart and too good to give in to your indifferent juvenile act.

You're out of control, being dragged, your ears full of sloshing waves. You're racketing downhill with no breaks, and Owen is crying now.

Dani sniffles and the small hairs on your arms and the back of your neck are standing straight up.

The combination of Dani and the darkness and some of the wine is making you dizzy. Something reckless awakens in your heart.

You lean forward, your elbows on your knees.

You look at Owen and Hannah. There is a quiet, gentle glow around them. They are full of small joys and endless giving and you wonder if they would ever stop running, stop pretending, stop fearing, and tend to each other's wounds. They're tender, broken pieces fit perfectly together and it pains you to think of them suffering alone when they can mend each other.

Their love is gentle and discreet, soft in a different way to yours and Dani's scared little dance. If their love were a flower, you think it would be a fern, light green and feathery and delicate. They both are very strong and very smart and their souls are large and beautiful, but together they are more of pastel renditions, liquid depths, and it's reflecting on them in different, yet similar light.

Dani glances back at them, eyes soft and a hint of loving jealousy visible in the way she furrows her brows.

You smile at her. she hovers, growing impatient and jittery, growing fearsome, and you lead her quietly to a dark greenhouse, away from the bonfire and the memories and the two people who are yet to figure out how their story goes.

//

Sitting so close to Dani Clayton, who radiates warmth like an open flame, is proving to be inconvenient and you start questioning your own motives.

You want to cheer her up a little. The last few hours were tough and even though she's amazing with kids and she is, to be frank, practically perfect, she's a human being and she needs more than constant worries and labored breaths and children who sleepwalk and sleeptalks and being difficult for no visible reason.

You are having a moment that reminds you of an adrenaline rush when Dani flops heavily into the sofa and takes a swig from the wine bottle you offer her. You pay close attention to her tensed shoulders and her quivering lower lip and her wide, open, frightened eyes.

Something deep in you hurts when you look at her. Hurts and yearns and pleads and you refuse to make contact. You refuse to touch and caress and do anything rather than move a little to the side, try and make some physical space between you, because if you don't you're afraid you're going to do something very very (very) stupid.

(Namely, kiss Dani Clayton).

So there is a cold dark pool inside you, an ominous pool. A pool of browny-green septic acid, forming somewhere below your chest. There is stubborn resistance inside you, the malign contagion of perversity, or animal need, and you clench your teeth and fists your hands and you wait, even though sitting next to Dani is like being roped to a boat and dragged through ice-cold waves and hot flaming inferno.

You sit there, leaning a little to the side, and you wipe your lips with trembling fingers.

"I won't ask you if you're okay because I don't particularly like being lied to. So, what's wrong?"

Light glitters in Dani's eyes, no longer sad but curious. A little guarded, with an endless need of sharing.

To your surprise, Dani is talking. She's talking of dead fiancees and bad endings and sad truths you hate because they had hurt her. She's talking about guilt and about fear and about ghosts and you don't know if you entirely believe her story, but she believes it and it's enough.

The air is heavy, prickling like there is electricity in the space between you. Dani somehow managed to creep into your life, when you weren't paying attention, and possess every space in your head. In one single, beautiful, snatch and grab, Dani stole both your future and you're past, smiling her wide, unhappy smile the whole time.

(The worst part is that you don't care. You give it to her willingly).

"I've never told anyone before…" her voice is a little more than a whisper and you are drawn to her sadness, to her fragile little attempt at making light of her story.

You don't let her belittle it. You don't want her to feel embarrassed or sick or like she isn't anything but one hundred percent sane. Her story is tough and painful and full of heartbreak and you really have no idea how she is sitting here now beside you, so gentle and so loving and so real.

And because she needs someone to believe her, you do.

"Is he here now?" you ask.

She surveys the dark greenhouse with wide scared eyes. "No," she says.

"Good," and you make a point of shrugging casually, leaning back. "Cuse I'll sort him out for you if I have to." And you make a small joke, a thing that shouldn't be possible in this type of a situation.

She giggles, the laugh bubbles from inside her. Her eyes are still sad but you think something has lifted in her.

"Seriously, Poppins," you say because you want her to know you've heard her and you've listened and you need her to know that there is nothing she can say that will make you see her in a different light. You need her to know she's not alone. That you're here and you'll be here as long as she will have you. "How are you still standing?"

Dani's face crumbles. "Think I'm crazy?" she breaths out and you are closer now, your hand is resting on the back of the sofa, almost circling her shoulders. You can smell the wine on her breath and her shampoo, something exotic and lovely.

The fabric of the sofa is cold under your hand, almost damp, and Dani is shivering a little, though you don't know if it's because of the cold or her story or the implication of her words.

"I think you're surprisingly sane, considering." And it's the truth.

The mist is rising outside of the greenhouse, leaking inside the open door. It's dripping from the bushes and the plants and the trees, hanging from twisted branches like burned Christmas decorations. You can see the lake from where you're sitting, the mist blots it out. But you're not looking at the lake or the middle of the green plants that are surrounding you. You only have eyes for Dani now and you're having trouble breathing.

Dani smells like apples. Like grapes. Like summer in the middle of a deep cold winter.

You move closer, inching in. Dani doesn't look you in the eyes. Instead, her blue gaze is focused on your mouth. She has a strange, hungry, and slightly helpless look on her face. Her lips are parted and her nose is blocked with snot and you find it all mesmerizingly beautiful. Adorable. Irresistible.

(You resist. You don't want her to think you dragged her here for something other than pure friendly concern).

"Look," you say, and you breathe through your mouth. "I know what it feels like. It feels like you can't find your – "

Dani surges forward, her mouth crashing against yours. She has one hand clutching at your coated shoulder, balled into a fist like she's holding on for dear life. Your head is completely blank, and even though you know this is a bad idea, even though you know Dani just confessed to something horrible, the gentle sucking of Dani's mouth against your lips raising a wave of uncontrollable arousal and overwrites the rational parts of your brain.

Because you're worried and because it's wired into you and because you need her to say it out loud, to realise what she's doing before you go any further, you push her gently away, just enough to draw a breath, enough to look her in the eyes.

"You sure?" you whisper because any louder and you'll break the spell. A spell you're not ready yet to break.

"Yes!" Dani's voice is small but sure and her eyes are glimmering with determination. You can't fight the smile that spreads on your lips.

"Thank fuck," you murmur and kiss her again.

Dani groans into the kiss, whimpers when your hand slides around her neck and you cradle her head in your palm, digging your fingers through her ponytail. She's arching up against you, searching for contact, her eyes shut tight. Dani's palms are pressed to your sides as she pulls you closer and her mouth is taking you apart, piece by piece. Dani is shaking, shattering in your hands and then the spell is broken by a sharp gasp. Dani jumps back and you know you've crossed a line you shouldn't have.

"Okay!" you say, too loud, and wipe your hand against your mouth, discarding any evidence Dani's kiss has left behind. Your ears are ringing with Dani's heavy breathing and your lips are tingling. You can still feel her mouth pressed to yours. You can still feel the exact way she moved her lips. "Right!"

Dani gasps for air. "I – " she stutters, high pitched and scared. "I don't know what to say –!" her voice is shaking, and her next words are gentler, quieter. You don't look at her, but you know she has her eyes fixed on you.

"I don't know what to say…" and it's a broken little thing, her voice, but your pride is wounded and you feel like an idiot.

"Just forget about it, it's my fault. I'm sorry," you grumble, balling the blanket in your hands, trying to keep your voice level. "I'm sorry… just – " you turn to look at Dani's face and it's a sight you are not prepared for.

Her eyes are huge and unfocused and glassy, her lips are slightly parted, her tongue is picking from behind them. She makes a little gasp, a small whimper that you think is your name, desperate and sad and shattered.

"Jamie…"

"You were just telling me…" you're wiping your mouth, Dani's taste is still very present on your lips. "Literally just telling me that you aren't up for this." And what a special kind of stupid idiot you are, to ignore the signs, to jump headfirst into something you knew would never work.

(Fuck, you think. Fuck, Jamie. Fuck. You're the village idiot).

Dani's hands are grabbing at you, weak and small, but you shake her off of you.

"Let's just get back," you hold back your tears, biting the words with a humorless smile. "Another night, maybe," you mumble and you're already halfway through the door. Dani is still plastered to the sofa. "Another time… maybe".

You head straight back to the bonfire, where Owen is visibly more drank than he was when you left him. Hannah is watching him with concerned eyes and when you turn up, a little wild and with your lips swollen, her eyebrows shot up but she doesn't say anything.

You grab Owen's arm. He's very drunk and he makes a stupid pun in Hannah's direction and you're still not looking at Dani. It's only when he sways when Hannah frets when you bite back a replay, that you turn your head.

Dani is looking sad, broken almost. She looks lost and like a part of her is missing and it's like a punch to your gut because you're the one responsible for this look on her face, for the tears in her eyes.

"It's all good." You say even though it isn't and she shrinks into herself.

You lead Owen into the car. He'd very warm and he smells like wine and mothballs and it's freezing.

You tell yourself it is good. Good, and right. What do you need to complicate your life for? Why would you let Dani Clayton in?

Snap out of it, you tell yourself as you drop him off at his place. What do you want with glowing hearts, with incandescent lips, and rapid breathing?

It's a lie you cannot accept.

//

You are so hurt, you hate yourself a little. You feel like you've broken some unwritten law, violated some unwritten contract when you kissed Dani and now you're off the grounds and you have no real excuse visiting the manor, and Dani is far far far away.

In public, you maintain your grin, your crooked, tooth-filled grin you mastered with hard labor. The muscles of your jaw ache with it and you wish to preserve a bit of your dignity, put up a bold front, pretending you don't want to kiss Dani again, pretending you're not thinking about her silky hair sliding between your fingers, the way her head fit perfectly in your palm or how hot her lips were against your own mouth.

It's no point thinking about any of it because you've made a mistake and you might have hurt her and pretending otherwise will be running from the truth. It's not easy, to go about your empty day, lazying about, smoking more than you should, as your chest is ripped open like this and your heart exposed for Dani to see, for everybody to see, your stupid heart which is on fire and dripping blood.

You should, of course, have known better. This is what you tell yourself. You should have listened to her, to the way she talked about her dead fiancee, the way she told you her most private troubles, the way she whined softly, quietly, your name. Instead, you let your desire take over. Instead, you kept on playing the knife thrower's assistant, with your arms and legs splayed out, with your eyes glowing, with your tongue hanging out. You kept on cheering and smiling and playing the fool as you were standing still and letting the knives thud into the wall behind you, outlining your body.

You knew that by accident, or on purpose, you'd get hit.

And you did.

There is no one to blame but yourself.

Hannah phones you, so does Owen. He even comes down to the pub and has a pint with you, before he has to leave for a forced holiday. You hear the concern in their voices. They know something, they've heard or guessed or figured it out, but you put both of them off, you hold them at arm's length, where you should have kept Dani Clayton as well.

People, you know, are complicated and they have a tendency to complicate your life. You don't want your life to be more complicated than it already is. So a week goes by and you straighten your back and tighten your lips and clench your jaw so hard you sure your teeth are being ground to stumps.

You tell yourself to stop thinking about Dani.

You don't.

How lost to yourself you've become.

//

You start your day in the dark, the trees are glum and the sun rolls uphill lazily, giving the summer morning a wintery cold promise. There is no snow and no sleep, no howling winds, but it's very cold. It's ominous. It's the delay, you think gloomily. A dun-coloured hush that is more your doing than the natures'. The world seems squat and cramped, a mist settle above the ground.

The main house, huge and solemn and lonely against the black sky is dark, deserted, everyone is still fast asleep inside their warm beds.

You shove your hands in pots of soil, lift the dirt and turn it. You dig your fingers in, cold and steady. Worms suck themselves into tunnels. Silver little things you always liked. You never understood how people could be disgusted by such small creatures. White and soft and curly, with no agenda and no bad intentions and no harm on their minds.

You pick the watering can and water the flowers.

A drizzle tattles outside, making sharp sounds against the roof of the greenhouse. A racket of nature.

You can't wait for the right season to come. For spring. When it does come, you will see new weed poke through in the garden, then you'll have to do it all over again. Now it's summer but the cold advances, frost on fallen leaves you think shouldn't have been there until much later in the year.

You're still nursing your wounded pride, the space between your lungs empty and all your own, almost a week after you kissed Dani when there is a nock on the greenhouse's door-frame and a scent of something you think might be coffee reaches your nose.

It's early. Very early, not even six AM yet, but Dani is standing there, all smiles and blonde hair and two mugs in her hands. She has this look in her eyes, the stubborn happiness, the fighter's glee, that you don't really understand, but you like it, so you just look at her, standing in the doorway, and it's all you can do not to jump on her.

Instead, you furrow your brows and try your well-oiled mechanism of distancing yourself.

(Seeing her, you think this is it. This burn and drip. Your heart fluttering, beating like crazy, something screaming deep inside you. this it, you think as an invisible hand tightens around you, holding you shut. This is the bit where Dani apologises, explains, says it was all a misunderstanding and you will be forced to do your shrug-don't-care routine because you don't intend on hurting her even if she'll hurt you).

Dani has an essence of Dani-ness about her. Something that is unmistakably her. You're not sure if it's the golden hair or the fair skin or the shine in her smile like she's alight from the inside. You don't know if it's the jumpiness of her body or the busy hint in her walk or her blue blue blue eyes (like forget-me-nots, like mountains in the distance, like oceans on postcards and like thick ice).

You try to act annoyed because you're heart is in your throat and you're happy to see her but you want a little blood, though not Dani's. Maybe your own. After your stupid mistake, it's only fair you will be punished.

"Don't usually see you this side of the eight AM." You say as a greeting and turn your back to her.

Dani is maintaining a smile that flutters just a little at your cold words. "Ah…" she stammers. "Yeah. Well, I– I knew you were erm… I know that you- you start early on Thursdays…" her voice is dying in a little disappointed whisper.

You glance her way, fingers buried deep in a pot of soil. You need your hands to stay busy because you're not sure you'll be able to keep yourself from touching her, not after you learned how warm her skin is against your palms.

Dani's smile brightens again. She's determined to not let you ruin whatever she has planned and when she speaks, her voice has a hint of nervousness in it.

"So, I thought I bring you some coffee!" Dani's cheerfulness is making it very hard for you to stay mad. She's rushing her words and you almost lose focus.

You try again.

"You Yanks and your coffee".

You can't see her but you know she's stubbornly smiling at you, refusing to let your sulkiness ruin her carefully laid traps.

The smell of the coffee is closer now, and so is Dani.

"You might like it!"

You're still getting used to her chrippy American accent. It's undoubtedly part of her, but your ears are still ringing. You find yourself turning the sounds over, silently in your mouth, tasting it. Cherishing, storing away. She even has a special sound for your name.

Dani is an unscratched surface, despite the suffering she's gone through and is still going through. There is something shiny about her. shiny and new. Or else, impermeable. It's like whatever slams into her, whatever covers her and tries to tear her down, bounces right back.

When you spit the bitter, burned but somehow faint taste of her coffee, she just snorts and stumbles over her own words, smiling still, laughing her gentle strangled laugh.

"Yeah… I'm not the best at coffee, either".

You realise it's a kind of hardness, a coping mechanism, as Tamara would say. Whatever hurts her is either dismissed or absorbed and makes her smile in defiance, as if she has her mind set on never letting anything spoil her mood.

Her cheerfulness exists apart from her sadness or melancholy or anxiety or guilt.

You can't keep yourself from wondering if her sadness will ever burst open and spill over her stubborn brightness. You push, just a little, not enough to hurt but enough to keep her at a distance, and nothing blows through her.

"How's your week been?"

"It's been okay!" Dani says immediately and then changes the tone a little. There is a whole lot of emotions going around, coming at you. watery and chaotic and melancholic blue, like a great wave of exhausting tears. Dani seems so lost and wounded and you wonder if she's been thinking about your kiss, fretting over it, analyzing it, turning every second of it in her head, like you.

"Sometimes people just need to be alone." You say, bitter but gentle, stilling the runway train Dani's thoughts have boarded, and her nervousness evaporates. You can tell she's losing patience. She closes her mouth and roots her feet in the ground. Her shoulders tense. She looks ready for battle.

You wonder how it will turn out.

Dani tiptoes around a bigger subject and you're too cold and too embarrassed to let her keep going on and on in circles.

It might be a little cruel, but you blurt it out anyway, mouth twisting, hands clenching into small loose fists.

(Dani's eyes are terrified. Her voice is choked and you wonder if it's sorrow or fury).

"Did you wake up just for this?"

"No!"

"You just waited for me to come back?"

"I knew you were coming back, but… No! No particular reason," and you learn something you've suspected a long time ago but never had the pleasure of witnessing first-hand.

Dani is a rubbish lier.

"Are the kids awake?"

Dani is such a rubbish lier, she doesn't even see where you're leading her and this is the most fun you had all week.

"No. No, they're asleep".

She looks so young and so horrified and so at a loss, all the anger evaporates and you're left feeling a sort of exciting amusement at her big doe eyes and clutching fingers (the tucked in thumb) and confused stares.

"So you got up with the sun, and you're tip-toeing around the kitchen, making awful coffee by yourself – " Dani's eyes are opening wide wide wider, getting bigger, with every word you say and it's very very difficult to swallow the smile threatening to break out on your face. "Just to come say 'hi' at six in the morning, for no particular reason?"

Dani's face breaks into a very satisfying sort of expression. A lot of things happening at once. It's almost a smile and almost a grimace and almost a frown. She looks part happy, part sad. She looks like she's trying to decide how to react to a compliment she wasn't expecting, or to a very elaborated insult.

She looks a second from bursting into laughter.

Bursting into tears.

She doesn't have time to do neither because you arch one eyebrow, and say, offhandedly, as if the thought doesn't rip your apart and makes your head buzz; "Poppins, you flirt".

But Dani is done being poked fun at and she chases you, eyes hard and her mind set, and the cup of undrinkable coffee is still clutched tight in her hands.

"Fine! I don't like the way we left it!" she says.

"And how did we leave it?" you say but she's not having it.

"Wrong!" is her answer and then, when you decided you made her suffer enough, and after she makes an awful joke, you laugh. You laugh because if you don't you will jump her and you have learned to keep your hands to yourself. If you don't laugh, she'll think you're upset and you don't want her misinterpreting the situation. Dani has a knack for it. She isn't fragile by any means but she's dealing with things you don't understand and you don't want to complicate her life further.

"There is a pub, in Bly," she says, suddenly so very close, you can count her eyelashes. She says it like a question, but not quite.

"There is." You confirm with a single nod.

She says, "Would you like to get a drink? Away from the house? Away from all this?"

You stare.

She says, "It could be kind of boring, right?"

You stare. Her mouth twitches a little in encouragement.

"Could be dreadfully boring," you say and think there is nothing remotely boring about Dani, or about Dani in a pub, or about Dani with the slightest amount of alcohol in her system. The thought alone makes your mouth go dry.

Dani nods, breathing heavily. Her voice trembled just a little. "So why don't we get a boring old drink in a boring old pub, and see where it takes us?"

Dani is glowing, like a candle in the dark. Like a bonfire. Like the sun. outside, the rain falls slowly at first, then in hard pellets, knocking on the roof of the greenhouse-like needles. The sun is rising behind the clouds, mist is pouring from all around the garden outside.

Dani's breath comes out of her mouth as a white smoke, steaming and frozen, almost solid.

"You know I live above that pub, right?"

The tender glow around her comes from the inside and shines through her skin. Suddenly, it's warm in the greenhouse, so warm that you're sweating in your washed-out overalls and rubber boots. You feel the blood pulsing in your veins, your heart throbbing in your chest, and the heat runs all the way through your body, to that one hot, painful spot, between your legs.

Dani is just standing there, biting her lower lip, eyes dancing all over your face. She's smiling a goofy smile because she's been caught flirting, she's been caught suggesting something you thought she'd never suggest. She's been caught, and you have to believe her burning ears and her pinkening cheeks and the newfound cheerfulness in her eyes are because you were the one to catch her do this.

It's almost too hot to breathe.

You stand there, breathing in and breathing out, the scent of the greenhouse and the coffee and Dani's special hot smell, because it's the best thing, it's what you want, what you always wanted and this mysterious creature is by some grace of God, by some divine intervention, by some miracle or mistake, wants you too.

//

People, you know, are exhausting. Even the best ones. If you wait long enough, people will disappoint you and fuck you over and let you down. You have learned this lesson a long time ago, in a different setting, in colder weather, when you were much younger.

The evening is quiet, now that everything has settled down. The clock strikes nine, then ten, and the world is frozen in solid dark colours. Miles and Flora are asleep, Hannah has promised you earlier to take care of everything, so you and Dani will have some time alone. Owen made happy faces, but what you're planning isn't happy. It's dark and ugly and inevitable. You've thought it over and over, tried to find a way around it, but there isn't one.

So you turned your car and you went back to the house and you took Dani's hand and pulled her to your secret spot, where you've planted the moonflowers earlier this year, where they will bloom and wither and die soon.

The night is deep blue-black, riddled with icy stars. The moon is small, a white bone floating in the sky. You look at Dani, look at the branches and the leaves around her, look at the intertwining moonflowers, then turn your eyes to the woman who's going to leave you behind. Not because she wants to, but because you know the drill. You know how the story goes and you have to do it now before you two are in too deep.

You do it for her benefit, as much as your own.

Dani is looking at you with tears in her eyes. She doesn't try and make it light. She doesn't try and convince you otherwise. She's just standing there, with a flashlight in her hand and a sad smile on her face and a hopeless hope in her eyes.

Even in the dark, you see her face clearly. She's framed by the Moonflower plant, and she has her eyebrows raised. You see she's sad and you see how badly she struggles to keep it in check.

"All of them?" she says and there is an unsaid truth in her question.

"All of them." You deadpan because it's true and because you need her to understand.

She gives you one of her unsure tiny smiles.

"Even you," you say and her face falls. "Even me" and her head shoots up. "Especially me." You shrug and motion for her to join you.

"I figured I could save you time," and it's a horrible assumption but you know what her wistful looks and her lingering stares and her nervous laughs mean and you don't want to lead her on. You don't want her to get closer and peak into your soul and be repulsed by the amount of violence and instability and darkness you've been subjected to since the day you were born.

"You ready?" you say and you clear your throat. Suddenly it doesn't seem like such a great idea, because she's staring and you don't know where to start.

(Suppose she will run? Suppose she will leave?) (But you've got to take this risk. Better now, than later. Better before you learned each other's soft spots. If she leaves now, it won't hurt as bad).

Dani nods.

"Okay, here we go".

Your skin is prickling with the awareness of her. you talk and you can smell her. you glimpse at her, just once, and her blue-blue eyes are trained on you. She's listening carefully, to every word you say.

You move your shoulders with anxious trepidation. You're not at ease being the subject of such an intense gaze, of being in the spotlight, even if your crowd is made of one person.

You tell her about your mother and father and two brothers you can hardly remember the faces of. It's the first time you had ever said this much to anyone about your family, beyond the bare bones, that is. You've told a bunch of times you're not close and it's been years since you've talked to them and everyone always nods and says it's dreadful and how sorry they are. You figured why say more? Who on earth will be interested in your story?

As it turns out, Dani is. She's sitting across from you and she can see it's a painful subject for you. she doesn't deter you. If anything, she spurs you on. She doesn't push and doesn't prod and doesn't make a sound when you stop to breathe in some air. She makes all the right noises in all the right times, curious and sad and amazed and horrified.

You indulge her. Your story is a tough one, a sad one, and you keep talking relentlessly. You don't stop and you don't sugar coat it. You pull yourself inside out, you tell it how it is.

It takes time to tell the whole story because you don't have a clear image of either one of your parents anymore. The memory is composed of shiny fragments, like a vandalized mosaic, or like something brittle, that's been dropped on the floor. You don't remember your mother's face or your father's scent or Danny's voice or your baby brother's cries. But you keep talking and you arrange and rearrange the pieces, trying to make them fit.

(It's a wreck and you tell it as one).

You don't know why Dani would want such a thing, wretched and complicated (a convicted felon, as it is) and her eyes are burning holes in your skin, so you get up and make a small circle around the clearing, stretching your legs, distancing yourself from her intoxicating presence.

"Foster care was harsh," you say in the best neutral tone you can muster and behind you, Dani makes an understanding sound. "It's nasty. Learned a lot of lessons by the time I was eighteen".

"It's tough." Dani's voice is strained, stable like she's trying very hard to be brave.

"It is. Crying didn't work. Not with anyone. Was likely to produce a slap or a shake or a downright beating. Me?" you shrug as if it isn't morbid. "Was never much of a crier".

Until crying didn't mean pain anymore, that is. When tears stopped having painful consequences, you learned it's a good way to let some of your anger and frustration go. Crying, you learned after you left the foster care system, was a good (ugly) way of lightening whatever weighed on your heart.

You remember a particularly nasty house when you were fifteen. There was a garden and across the road a blonde-haired girl with brown eyes. You used to sneak out at night and sit in parks, or walk around town, or climb on flat roofs and gaze at the stars.

You remember kissing her because you wanted to and because it felt daring and exciting and rebellious, though you didn't know why.

When her parents found out, they made a row. They called you names and called on the people you were staying with. Your foster father lashed out, and when you asked if you did something wrong, he slapped you. Nobody told you why it was forbidden. You saw plenty of boys kissing girls in school, or in theaters, or in juvenile parties you sometimes attended.

The girl from across the street didn't speak to you again and soon you were transferred to another place, but you couldn't see the logic of it, and you know she couldn't either.

Life, you knew right then and there, wasn't fair. Your clumsy and newfound attraction was something to be avoided, something to do in secret. You kept kissing girls, but you knew there must be something shameful about it, or it wouldn't have produced such an angry reaction. You were humiliated and angry and you did it anyway, with fear and awe and superstitious relish.

You don't know how to say it, but you understand Dani's fear.

You breathe and your breath fills the air with white little clouds. Dani is now beside you. the air smells like flowers and rain and beer. It smells a little burned and dry. It smells sweet and soft – like Dani.

You stand there and for a moment, you listen to the sounds of the world, to the utter silence of Bly's grounds. You're used to silences, you can distinguish between full silences and empty ones, between those that come before and those that come after.

Dani puts her hand on your arm, just beneath your shoulder. She puts some force behind her touch when she turns you to her. Her silence is a pregnant one. A silence that comes before things.

There is a great force being exerted. Nothing moves yet. You feel as if a thick elastic band stretching right through your heart, with one end of it attached to Dani, any tighter and it would snap.

(And if it snaps, what will happen?)

You stand, frozen, and stare at her.

It's dark and there is a half-moon in the sky, the light is shining on your withering moonflowers and you can see the trunks of trees and the shadows of branches and Dani's parted lips as she's taking a shaky breath.

There is a deep sweet smell, a glimmering of flowers, weeds, and a fluttering of many moths, the white flakes of their wings kissing against your cheek. Somewhere near you, water is running and Dani plants her hand on your upper arm and pulls you in.

This time, her kiss is different.

At first, it's nothing more than a press of two mouths. A chastely kiss of softly brushing lips and you pull back briefly to suck in a breath and to check on Dani.

You smile and Dani smiles too before she surges forward and kisses you with intention.

It's a kiss you haven't really tasted before. Dani leans in the remaining distance, rests her forehead against your for a few seconds, prolonging the anticipation. Then she leans all the way in, tilting her head slightly. Your smile grows wider and you mirror her movements and meet her mouth in a languid kiss, one arm secured around her waist, the other planted on her arm. Dani has both her hands on either side of your head as she keeps you still.

A sharp pang of desire goes through you. Dani bites softly at your bottom lip, tugging slightly before her tongue is licking into your mouth. You meet her halfway and she squirms, pressing closer in your arms. Heat flooding through your body and Dani is making small desperate noises at the back of her throat.

You kiss for a long moment, the silence that's fallen on the small clearing broken every so often by quiet whimpers, your tongues brushing together while you keep your hands on Dani's back, her hands roaming across your head and she arches into your touch, fingers tightening their grip on your hair.

After a while, you break the kiss and the objects of the world take shape around you. You're still outside and you realise it's too cold and maybe slightly inappropriate to do what you want to do right here, so you gather the last drops of your fast melting presence of mind and you motion with your chin toward the house.

"I want to, Poppins. I really do," you mutter when Dani presses her mouth once more to your lips. You mumble the next words right into her mouth and her face grows noticeably warmer. "I just don't want to have to explain to Hannah why we sleep naked out in the cold".

She makes a strangled sort of laugh and tugs you along.

//

You grope your way through the blurry darkness of the hushed manner. Items gleam here and there in the dull glow from the windows; the mirror over the fireplace, the two vases, the flowers, the huge paintings hanging overhead, in the middle of the wall above the stairs.

Your eyes feel huge, your feet slipping and soundless on the carpet. Your heart is beating so loud in your chest, the blood rushing like an ocean in your ears, and you think you're going to wake up Hannah and the kids, and possibly Owen, just for being in the same house.

Behind you Dani is laughing, pressed hotly to your back, her hand is in yours, small and damp and pleasant, her other palm is tucked into your front pocket.

(You feel eighteen).

You don't turn on the lights until you get to her room on the second floor, just behind the corner.

(Nothing is broken. Nobody has woken up).

Dani presses her lips to your neck and you make half a sigh, half a moan, surprised and hot and impatient, and you do a pathetic attempt at disguising it as a laugh. Dani groans in your ear.

Your hands are shaking. Your heart is in your throat. As soon as Dani locks the door behind your backs, your body turns cold all over.

Then, there is a surge of hot burning fire as Dani pushes you up against the door, presses her whole body to your front, and captures your lips with a grinning hot mouth.

Dani's eyes are huge and shocked, a surprised baby, amazed eyes of an interstellar traveler.

Eventually, Dani breaks the kiss in favour of kissing a path along your jaw, down your neck, grinning into your skin at the little moans and whimpers you make despite yourself. You tighten your grip on Dani's hips and growl when she finds a particular spot and sucks hard.

"God," Dani groans. The raggedness of her voice sending a bold of white-hot lust through your body. You pull her back, breath hitching at the hungry look in her dark eyes before you yank her back in for another kiss.

"You sure you wanna do this? We don't have to. We can – "

"Jamie – " Dani says your name in a whispered moan. She shakes her head. "I want to. I wanted to for a very long time now".

And because you're not a complete idiot and you're not in the business of games, you urge her closer, your hands drifting toward the front of her coat. You make a quick work of her pants and shirt and it's just a second of hesitation before you put your hand on her thigh, fingers hooked in the hem of her pants and you're dragging them down her legs.

Your eyes drop to rake over Dani's body, soft and pale clad in underwear and a pinkish bra. Dani shifts, self-conscious under your heated gaze and you blush, caught in the act. It downs on you just how nervous you are. Dani is squirming a little so you lift your hand and slowly trace the tips of your fingers along her collarbone, across the curve of her breast, over her hammering heartbeat, down the flat expanse of her stomach, before coming to rest on her waist, hot palm pressed against flushed skin, your thumb rubbing slow circles into her hipbone.

You want to tell her how beautiful she is, but you don't trust yourself with words, so you cup the back of her neck and pull her into a slow wet kiss, chasing the nerves away until Dani reaches to you, steadying herself against you.

"Come to bed." She says quietly, shyly and her hair tumbles in light waves over her shoulders. She's looking at you with fear and with wonder and with a bit of something you don't quite know what it is and she moves away, her hand is holding yours. She moves back, eyes trained on you until both your hands are stretched and you have to follow her light tag.

(You can't take your eyes off of her and you feel yourself falling that little bit harder).

You tumble slowly into the bed and you lean in and leave a trail of wet kisses along her jaw. A particular spot on her throat makes her wiggle and shake and you kiss it again and again and again.

Dani wraps her arms around your neck, anchoring herself, clinging tightly as you kiss and nip your way down her throat. She lets out a shaky whimper when your tongue slides across her earlobe.

You detach your mouth from her skin long enough to whisper, "You still alright, Poppins?" and Dani breathes out an affirmative "Mm-hm", tilting her head to the side, encouraging you to keep going.

You are swimming in a world of flowery scent and low moans, sucking on Dani's pulse point, dragging your tongue along her collarbone, kissing the hollow of her throat, while your hands travel across her body, coming to a stop at the clasp of her bra.

It's the point of no return. Something you will later remember. Shadows move across the floor, the curtains move a little against the window, a cold nightly breeze slipping through some cracks in the wall.

Dani is so soft, so smooth, under your palms and mouth, your hands are dancing a slippery dance across her ribcage. Dani is a picture of lust. Her head is thrown back, all her teeth are showing.

You unhook her bra and move your hands up her shoulders to slowly slide the straps down her arms, peppering softs kisses across her skin in the wake of the cloth. Your head spins with how much you want her.

Dani's warm hands splay out on your back, under your shirt, holding you steady while you litter kisses across her chest. She groans, tips her head back, and moans your name. All the calm has left you and you close your lips around one nipple.

"Jamie…"

You tug gently with your tips and Dani gasps out your name, all but melting under your mouth. You lick and suck and bite at her chest, showering both breasts with equal amounts of attention until Dani is writhing and panting, a grinding mess against your lap, frantically searching for friction.

"Jamie," she gasps breathlessly and you've never heard her sound like that. So desperate. So breathless. "Jamie… please. Please…"

"Tell me," you say and you are by no means calm as you lift your head from her chest, releasing one hard nipple from your mouth. "What is it, Poppins?"

Dani's arms wrap around your neck. She pulls you so close, she's crushing you to her and her whisper in your ear is something you want to listen to for the rest of your life.

"Touch me".

Ignoring the ache between your own legs, you slow the kiss down enough so that you can gently trace your tongue over her top lip. Dani's hips jerk forward almost instantaneously and she makes a noise like she's gasping for air, a reaction made all the better by the fact you are the one to make her produce it.

You pull away, rise up onto your knees, and yank your shirt over your head. You drop it aside, on the floor, kneeling between Dani's spread legs. She's topless, with a cloud of messy hair, her lips are kiss-bruised and her pupils are blown wide. She stares at you, wide and open and you fall into her, dark and twisting, and cold air blows around you.

You kiss her, because you can and because you've spent so much time wanting. You suck a trail of shallow bruises down her stomach, her muscles shivering under her skin. You slip your fingers under the hem of her underwear and slowly pull the material down. You're having trouble keeping your gaze on Dani's open eyes, so you duck your head and pepper kisses along the top of her thighs.

"Tell me to stop," you whisper into her hot flesh and for a moment you expect her to stop you, to pull you up, to ask you to slow down. but Dani just spreads her legs wider apart and it's all the encouragement you need.

A loud strangled moan tumbles from Dani's throat at the first touch of your tongue against her and her hands fly into your hair. Every nerve in your body turns into a livewire when you start sliding your tongue against Dani in a quick and steady rhythm, licking broad strokes through her and swirling over her clit.

Dani shudders and moans, throwing her head back and bucking her hips into your mouth so hard you have to hook a hand across her stomach to keep her still. The fingers of her right-hand thread through your hair, desperate and her left hand is flailing around until you catch it with your own, linking your fingers together and pressing your joined hands down against her lower stomach.

You are wet. Your underwear is ruined and you're grinding lightly against her leg. Your main focus is Dani, though, because you dreamed about it and now that the scene is playing in front of you, you can't help but watch, can't help but keep your full span of attention on the wildly writhing woman under your mouth.

Dani bites her lip hard, groaning, and you push a finger into her.

"Jamie – I'm – " she chokes out between sucking in lungfuls of air and your mind is a haze of pleasure. "Jamie… Jamie - !" her back arches and she babbles nonsense when you sink a second finger inside.

"S'alright," you can barely register the sound of your own voice over the breathless pulsing thunder of Dani's low moans. "S'alright. I've got you".

Dani is making sounds, beautiful breathless sounds you never thought you'd hear her make. They are thick and unknown and known altogether. Deep and hair covered and shouted and root-like, muddy and hot and watery and so burning you almost well.

She makes beautiful, deep sounds from underneath the earth and you answer in equal.

You suck on her clit while your fingers curl roughly, once, twice, and then Dani's body tenses, and something explodes in her as she falls apart. You bring her down with soft licks, your hand drenched, and when the world shifts and Dani's eyes are back in focus, you kiss your way back up her trembling body.

"Hi," you whisper and nudge your nose against hers. Dani only smiles a dopey smile. It spreads across her face while she wraps her arms around you.

"Hey," she says back.

You're kissing her again, later that night. She makes her beautiful sounds again and when you push your fingers inside her, you bury your face in her shoulder. She's so hot she's burning your palms when you touch her.

There is a building urgency in you, and Dani moves as if the end of this string of urgency is tied to her heart.

You move together, in synch, and it's as if you can feel it all not just from your body, but from Dani's body, as well.

You feel everything from both ends, feel the body's moves, the fingers sinking between wet folds, the sharp inhale of air. You feel the pleasure as you move, feel Dani responding, and your own body tenses. You feel this double pleasure shooting through you like electricity, unfolding hundred different colors, like a peacock's tail on fire, inside your head. You forget about being quiet and being scared and being surrounded, and you and Dani fuse together.

"Jamie!" Dani mones and it sounds almost angry and you'll never tire of hearing your name on her lips, just like this, breathless and urgent and dripping with sex.

"Jamie!" she gasps. "Jamie!" and then, when her voice is no longer burning, she says, "Jamie…" and it's like a plea. Insistent and desperate and beautiful and you've never liked your name very much, but you do now.

//

Get a grip, you tell yourself. You feel an effervescence in your head, like ginger ail. Sparkling blood. It's as if you're flying – looking down at yourself from the air, stark naked in Dani Clayton's bed.

Dani's lovely face distressed and wavers like a reflection in a troubled pool. A soft and milky glow surrounds her, the flesh of her arm, where you held it earlier, is firm and bright. There is a trail of hot red bruises all over her body. You did it, in your eagerness to taste her. you grabbed her and hauled her up into her room, kissed her, and loved her, and fucked her until you are both spent.

Slivers of neon light comes through the window, red and blue and yellow. You want to stay in bed with her forever, to stay put, right where you are.

Your heart is pounding, expending with something you don't have a name for. You lay there, in Dani's arms, her breath is hot against your face, eyes wide open.

You look at her and the time is frozen. Her face is hagged in moonlight. You lift a finger and trace it across the bridge of her nose. She smiles lazily, breathing slowly.

"This is good." She says in a whisper.

"It is." You answer.

There is an invisible sun crushed between you, and the heat is only growing. No trace of calming down, with Dani so close.

"Don't leave, Jamie. Stay".

"All night?"

"Yeah, all night".

Dani trails her hands down your back, fingers gripping over each bump in your spine until she reaches the waistband of your trousers, and after a brief moment of hesitation, she moves her hands down further. You whine, rock your hips forward, rubbing yourself against her naked thigh.

"Dani…" you sigh and a smile springs on her lips. It's too bright to be innocent and your heart clenches in your chest.

Dani leans up to press soft kisses against your throat. You stall for a few seconds while you will your hammering heart to calm down. Dani's cupping your chest, squeezing gently before experimentally swiping her thumbs over stiffening peaks. You sigh against her sloppy kiss and shudder and rock your hips down when she rolls your nipples between her fingers. You arch farther into her hands, pushing your chest into her palms, eyes shut, and moan softly rippling its way through your throat.

Dani scraps her nails down your stomach, pulling your pants down, unceremoniously. She doesn't struggle and doesn't shuffle. Her actions are precise and you wonder briefly if it's something she's done before. Then she kisses you, biting on your lower lip, and your thoughts evaporate.

Dani climbs on top of you, slick thighs on either side of your waist, her knees pressing against the mattress and you're are very aware of how much you want her to touch you, how beautiful she looks in the dim yellow light of the lamp, the shadows flickering across her face and you're speechless.

Dani is so beautiful it hurts to look directly at her. Naked and with her hair messy around her shoulders, she looks like a goddess.

Dani presses down against your stomach and you suck in a surprised breath when you feel the wetness of her sliding against you. it's something you've already experienced, but the revelation is surprising you still. The evidence, wet and hot against your stomach and your own desire to be touched is like a hot spear through your ribcage.

Dani is sitting still, staring at you.

"You okay, Poppins?" you whisper, brushing your fingertips against her arm.

"Yeah," Dani lets out a bubbling little laugh, her nervous laugh that means she's overthinking something. You turn your eyes to her face, ignoring her exposed small breasts and the dark patch of hair that is currently pressed against you.

"You sure?" you ask gently.

"Yeah, yeah," Dani brushes hair away from her eyes, stretching on top of you. "It's just that… I – "

"Poppins," you say as softly as you can and you take her hands in yours. "It's alright. Whatever it is, you can tell me. No point in hiding now," and you make an attempt at a smile.

Dani is quiet for a moment "Yeah," she squeaks. "No… it's not that. I'm fine, I just… I want – I want to touch you".

For a split moment you stare up at her before it registers in your head what she had just said and every thought and every worry is gone. The shimmering of Dani's body is absent but appears to you as light. It's simple and wonderful and it illuminates everything in the room.

"So touch me," you say and you take Dani's hand and guide her gently towards the band of your underwear.

you feel dizzy with lust and something else, big and overwhelming and not all that unidentifiable, and together you quickly pull your underwear off, before you swallow your remaining nerves and slides Dani's hand between your legs.

Dani's fingers are warm and your heart leaps in your chest, beating so hard you're afraid it's going to overwork itself into a thin clumping mess, thumping erratically against your ribs and you watch Dani's awestruck face as she sinks her fingers down and inside you, her lips parting in sink with yours as you exhale a shaky moan before you rock your hips up to meet the first of her tentative thrusts.

The sight of Dani above you make you ache, your blood rushes in your ears, and your stomach coils and tightens with each gasp and whimper that falls from your lips. Dani presses in deeper, mimicking your movements by twisting and curling her fingers until you shudders and moans, arching forward to bury your face in the crook of Dani's neck.

You don't remember what you say when Dani angles her palm up and you grind against her. "Fuck" and "yes" and "right there" and then "Dani, Dani, Dani!" and Dani presses her lips to your mouth and swallows it all, whispers sweet nothings into your ear.

You catch a brief glimpse of the dazed look in your eyes, reflecting from Dani's dark irises, her eyes half lidded and her mouth wide open and you catch her lips in a messy fierce kiss that you feel in your entire body.

It only takes a few more thrusts of Dani's fingers before you stiffen, and then you clenching down tightly around her fingers as you come with a wordless cry of pleasure.

You stay tangled up in each other for hours, Dani's arms wrapped around you, her mouth leaving little kisses across your neck and jaw and cheeks, her warm body pressed tightly, securely, into you. She has her white porcelain face turned to you, eyes big and wet with unspilled tears. Happy and content and no longer tense. The pure relief in her expression is sealed in and you kiss the tip of her nose.

This vision of Dani, you know, is going to haunt you forever, long after the both of you are gone and dissolved into something that isn't a matter of this world. There are no more struggles, no more imprisoned fear. Her face is raw and split in a sleepy smile, and its painful fantasy is gone.

Home is where the heart is, you think as you look at Dani slowly falling asleep. And you have no heart anymore because it belongs to this woman, bonelessly slumped in your arms. It's not snatched or stolen, simply isn't there anymore. It had been snooped neatly by blue eyes and disturbed glances and you are left with a bloodless hole in your chest, congealed and hollow, but full of something far more important.

You're not heartless. It simply placed somewhere else now.

//

It's late afternoon and everything is cloudy and humid, sticky but somehow still too icy to be a real proper summer.

You're cold. Despite your coat and sweatshirt, you're cold all over and something horrible has settled in your chest, a feeling of mortifying dread. Of endless fear. The previous dreamy sensation from spending two nights in a row with Dani is gone and you hang back, fearing the worst.

Then you take a breath.

In the distance, you hear someone's screaming, and even though the dreams were haunting and you had to ring up Owen and go back to the house, hearing the screams is a whole different thing.

You are not prepared.

"Dani!"

The sound of the next scream pierces your ears and Owen pushes you toward it, calling for you to go. You don't wait for him, instead you leap into a mad run, sprinting in opposite direction from the house.

You can scarcely see as you run. It's dark and even though you know the ground well enough, you stumble and fall, twisting your ankle on a hole in the ground. You scramble back up and run again, the pain is nothing compared to the mad fear exploding in your head.

The figure in the lake is dark, almost black, with straight wet hair and a washed off face. Death has thinned her down, if it is a woman, and she looks angry. She looks hungry. She looks dangerous.

"Dani!"

It's more a shadow than a woman, flat breasted and angry. a dark aura swirls out from around her, like the corona of the sun in eclipse, only this one's of dark light. It's muddy green and shoots through lines of blood-red and greyish black and you are not sure what you're looking at, only that it's staring straight into Dani's eyes, silent and bewitched.

You scream again, calling Dani's name. You need for her to hear you, you need for her to make some distance between her and this destructive creature, this deadly thing.

There are chattering voices all around you, even though the lake is deserted and Dani is murmuring something you can't quite catch. She has Flora in her arms, tightly secured against her chest.

There is smoke in the air and wine fumes and thick breath filled the air of a thousand people and you stand on the shore, observing the spectacle in front of you.

You're frozen in place.

Then, in a blink of an eye, the thing in the lake is gone. Dani is holding Flora like she's the most important thing in her life and you sprint forward, splashing cold water around your ankles. You put your arms around Dani's shoulders, supporting Flora's weight.

You are shaken and feeling sick. Dani's eyes are wide open and in the dark, it seems like one of her eyes is darker, a different colour to the usual blue summer-sky.

In the moonlit night, surrounded by cold water, with a trembling woman and a crying girl in your arms, you think of a building, toppling to the side. You think about falling through the air, turning over and over, not knowing which way is up, which one is down.

Dani hums and sighs and gasps, coming apart.

"Shh," you whisper and press your forehead to her clammy skin, "It's alright. It's alright." Though you don't believe a word of it.

//

Later, when you think about what happened, it's hard for you to untangle the mess of fright and fantasy from what must be real because you would have never come up with something so elaborated, so scary, so out of this world.

You think about Dani and how she stood frozen in the cold lake, how the wind has come up, and how you screamed for her. You think about bare trees and cold waves slapping against the shore.

Something has come towards Dani across the lake, bare feet touching the tops of the waves, or body drowned in water to the chest, you can't quite remember. You think about the nightgown, tattered by years of weathering, about colourless face and black hair, and no eyes. You think about the floating figure and Dani's murmurs and strangled cries.

It's something you try to make sense of, but never can. You try to think about the focusing faceless face, about clouds and a night sky and lights from the big house in the distance. You think about the creature when it was coming near Dani, and you see it as if it's unfolding right before your eyes.

Now she's very close, with her powerless face and blown darkness and ghostly look.

You're always very near, but too far to make a difference.

You think about the square jaw and the soaked hair streaking down her face. You think about how Dani's teeth chattered when you finally wrapped her in your arms. It's a scary memory and one you cannot shake.

It's Jezebel thrown down from the tower, but instead of the dogs eating her, she's eating you with sharp teeth and fire in her unseeing eyes. Behind her, is a dark shape falling and you need to figure out a way to keep Dani safe.

//

You'd like to have Dani Clayton figured out, for a whole host of reasons.

You remember Tamara, the shrink inside, and you are filled with fondness. You remember how together the two of you labored over your life as if it was a jigsaw puzzle, a mystery story with a solution at the end. You've arranged and rearranged the pieces, tried to get them to come out better. You didn't like the sessions, true enough, but they were hopeful and you did figure out some of it.

It isn't something you can do with Dani. For a whole host of reasons.

//

You get up at five-thirty, as you always do. Dani sleeps on, groaning a little when you climb out of bed. You smile at her, a little bewildered and a little out of breath, wondering how the hell did you get this lucky.

Dani grumbles. She's probably shouting in her dream. She sounds angry and scared. Lately, all her dreams seem to be loud and restless. You smooth your palm on her brow, brushing away hair from her blue hermit's eyes, which are now gently closed.

She goes to sleep very late, or very early in the morning. Lately, she's been having trouble falling asleep at all, so you do your best not to wake her before noon. And it's not that she's tired of the thing that's following her, right outside your reach, is exhausting her. she told you she can almost forget about this beast of hers, especially this past few weeks.

Dani, you learned pretty early in your relationship, is a creature of the night, which amused you to no end, because she used to be a teacher. She likes to sneak around at night, from time to time. She enjoys being awake when others are asleep. She enjoys occupying dark spaces, just to remind herself that she is a creature of light, no matter what the voices whisper to her from the night. She told you she used to do that when she was a child, as well. She likes seeing things other people couldn't, nocturnal events that simply did not exist during the hours of the sun.

She sleeps with her mouth open, a low snorting sound erupting the dark bedroom. Even like this, you think with deep fondness and booming love, she is beautiful.

You're happy to be waking up to her disoriented sight first thing. You're happy she's on this earth at all, and in this apartment. You're happy she goes to sleep every night beside you, happy you get to be the one swallowing her soft moans and sighs just before she comes, all hot skin and sleek thighs and sloppy kisses. You're happy she's still here. It seems like a miracle really. Despite Bly, despite her beast in the jungle, despite everything that happened back across the pond.

Some days you can't really get over it.

You pull on clean underwear and an old t-shirt and make your way stealthily down the hall. Because neither one of you is big on house-work, a pile of dirty dishes greets you in the kitchen. You wash a pan and a bowl and two spatulas and spend the next hour preparing breakfast.

At about six-thirty, you catch a sunrise and your chest expands in a happy inhale.

Your apartment is a small enough space packed with thousands of different plants and books. There are bunches of greens in the kitchen, dried herbs, and different kinds of leaves, somewhat dusty but beautiful. They dangle from nails of different sizes, from the top of window frames, from hanging wires and baskets and shelves.

(It's been quite a shock to discover Dani hasn't a green thumb, but a brown one. She's good with arrangements because she has a good taste and a knack for it, and with the books, because she's much more sensible in this way than you, but this woman's thumb is brown, the brown of withered sedges and it amuses you to no end. And it's not as if she doesn't want the plants to live. She even likes them, though she can't tell the difference between a begonia and a rhododendron and you find it more charming than it should be. And Dani is by no means a professional, so she just smiles her apologetic smile and you kiss her a secret kiss and move her gently to the side, keeping your hands on her hips just for pure torture).

The books are just as present as the greens. Armfuls of your dog-eared botany books, Dani's piles of history collections, your shared memoirs, and poetry books. There are books on shelves and bookcases and stacks of piles on the carpet.

Your apartment is also a place where you stack different mismatched furniture that looks good in one space and discarded clothes you mean to clean up and never do.

You occupy yourself around the living-room until quarter to eight. Sunlight floods the apartment, made golden by the yellow leaves outside and the slightly seen-through orange blinds Dani was so excited to purchase when you first moved in.

A jet flies over, the garbage truck approaches along the street, clanking and beeping, and Dani slips into the light, messy-haired and puffy-eyed and still very much asleep.

She's in an equally old t-shirt and you laugh at her a little and make her a cup of tea. You measure and pour, time the steeping. Dani doesn't take her tea with milk, which you don't really understand.

You bend down and kiss her on the nose, on her sleepy-smile.

"Tea, Poppins?" you offer and she nods. "Also made pancakes." You announce and Dani tries to school her face into a look of mock-horror, though her inability to hide her happiness ruins the effect.

"Oh, no," she exclaims, her voice is croaky and roughened with sleep.

You laugh and swat at her and she eats her pancakes, absorbed, happy like a child. She makes noises of delight, even though you know it's nowhere near perfect.

(Dani is easy to please and hard to protect).

"What are we doing today?" her voice is content and you think you will give everything to keep it that way.

"No agenda for today." You say and get up to bring more syrup. You pause to kiss the top of her head, inhaling her familiar scent of flowery shampoo and sleep.

"Well!" Dani is cheerful as the sleep falls away from her. "It works for me!"

And you already know it.

//

The orange tulips are coming out, crumpled and raggedy but very pretty. You greet them with relief, waving at them. They do the best they can in this kind of weather, without much help. You poke around in the debris, clearing away dry stalks and fallen leaves, kneel and shove your hands into the dirt, but lately, it seems they have a mind of their own.

(Maybe it's just your relief. Maybe it's the weather).

You glance at Dani, legs tucked under her body, reading a book.

You use your hands more than not, on the planets scattered around your shared apartment. You don't use gloves or tweezers or the equipment you usually use. Instead, you get your fingers covered with seeds and soil and dirt. Gardening isn't dry or neat, it's sticky and dirty and it gets all over your hands.

When you kiss Dani, smiling, brilliant Dani, she makes a noise deep inside her chest. It's a protest and an amusement. You put your arms around her and wonder how long will you be able to protect her, to keep her at your side.

(Will you know how her old hand will feel in yours? Will you lead her, stone-blind with those beautiful, deep blue eyes? Will she arrange the library of books for you, when you will be too weak to stand up?)

What, you think in a sort of panic, inhaling her familiar scent, will you do without her?

She's so beautiful, so young, so cherished. How long will you be able to protect your life with her? how long before the beast in the jungle descends on her, with her bared incisors and outstretched talons and banshee hair, her faceless face, demanding what is rightfully hers?

One day at a time, you always say, and it's a prayer more than a promise, and you remind yourself now that sometimes, prayers are answered and wishes are granted and you never know what tomorrow will bring.

There isn't much of a point wondering, so you press Dani closer and enjoy the way her palm inch up under your shirt.

When it is all over, you'll get flowers, you'll put it in your will. You will get poppies, the flower of sleep and forgetting, petals of spilled blood, because remembering is too painful, and who will want to remember you anyway?

You will make a golden path so the ghosts can find their way.