A Midwinter Fantasy - Leanna Renee Hieber [2]
His voice made her whirl. “I know that certain things do not unfold according to our desires.”
It was the clergyman. He stood partly in shadow, his bushy, grey-peppered hair smoothed down from its usual chaos, and his blue eyes danced with an unusually bright light. “I know we cannot always choose who we love. And I know how it hurts to see the one we love look adoringly at someone else. I know; I have been watching you watch Alexi for years.”
The headmistress registered his words, gaped, flushed and then returned to staring out the window, as if by turning away she might hide her transparent heart from his unmatched scrutiny.
“I cannot replace him,” the clergyman began again, and waited patiently for her to turn. He continued with a bravery that seemed to surprise them both. “And I do not fault you your emotions, though I must admit a certain jealousy as to their bent. I do not expect to change anything with these words. I know I am bold and perhaps a fool, but I can remain silent no longer. Should you desire closer company . . .” His fortitude wavered and he could not continue the invitation.
He dropped his gaze and said, “I shall now return to a glass of wine. Or two. But as we’re too old to play games and deny our hearts, I felt it my duty to speak. At long last. At long, long last.” He then offered her his signature, winning smile that could warm the most inhuman heart, bowed slightly and retreated, leaving the headmistress clearly thunderstruck, standing alone once more in the glare of moonlight through the window.
The scene paused in its inexorable march of a now-past event, and the voyeur spirits in the Liminal turned to one another.
“What is to be done of it?” the younger female asked in her London accent, staring at the subject before her with both pity and recognition.
“And what stands between them?” said the little boy, in urchin’s clothes, his voice a Scots brogue.
“They stand between themselves. And they stand grieving,” the Irishwoman’s spirit replied. “They need a good shaking, the both of them. Twenty years of nonsense, which shall end with us. If we do all we can, if we do what I wish, we’ll end up with this.” She murmured a brief Catholic prayer for intercession, all she could think to offer, and opened her hands in supplication. The Liminal responded, recognizing the tongues of all faiths. The great scene shifted.
The Liminal clock turned, the numbers trembling, the long hands quivering, as this outcome was not certain. But this possible future scene revealed a warm hearth and home, a blazing fire backlighting two silhouetted forms bending close as only lovers would. The trio of spirits gave sighs of appreciation, felt a gruesome weight of melancholy lifted.
The Liminal felt the change in their hearts, and the corners of its proscenium reacted; sparkling, vibrant, humming. The relieving of melancholy wielded great power. So, conversely, did the creation of it.
“But it’s dangerous, the tasks they must be taken through,” the little boy protested, knowing her intent. He shifted his feet on the glassy stone of the Liminal. “We could lose them to time and shadow. We could lose ourselves, be trapped forever if we’re not careful. I do love hangin’ from the Athens chandelier, but a nice rest might make a lovely Christmas present . . .” The loving scene before the fire faded to darkness with a slow hiss.
The second female nodded. “Even if it weren’t nigh impossible . . . it’s dangerous to weave souls through memories and time. Dark moments can rewrite themselves even darker. To take them through time, to risk changes? To change only the necessary moments, of their particular history, for the correct outcome? And, doing so with members of The Guard? Why, doesn’t that make it even more perilous? Especially considering him.”
The Irishwoman pursed her lips, undeterred. “True, we only vanquished Darkness in form, not in spirit. We broke the cycle of the vendetta, but human misery will build him again. If we bring