Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [160]
She left at about two in the morning, when duty called him up to the deck because the weather was worsening. She had drunk more wine than usual, and she felt so close to weeping as she closed the door of her own cabin that the tears actually spilled over her cheeks, hot and painful. Had she been less exhausted, she might have given in and sobbed until she had nothing left inside her. But when would she stop? What end was there, except to treasure friendship, or laughter, trust, tolerance, and the will to share? She would not sacrifice that for some momentary indulgence in self-pity or grief for what she herself had closed the door against.
The following day the weather was bad, a storm driving down from the north forcing them to stand farther out than they would otherwise. Giuliano was fully occupied with navigation and keeping the ship from drifting onto the dangerous troughs where she could lose sails or even a mast.
The next time they spoke it was the morning watch as dawn was rising from the east, where Cyprus lay far beyond view. The sea was calm and there was a slight breeze, smelling sweet and exquisitely clean, the pale light barely tipping the crests of the water, too delicate to be touched with foam. In the silence, they could have been the first humans to see the earth or breathe its air.
For a long time they stood at the rail almost a yard apart, staring across at the radiance spreading over the sky, melting the shadows between one wave and another. She did not need to look at him; she was certain his thoughts were also filled by the enormity of it. It was not frightening to be alone on the ocean’s face; in fact, there was a curious comfort in it.
On other occasions snatched in moments here or there, she and Giuliano spoke of memories, experiences good and bad, sometimes matching tall stories. She pulled many from the tales her father had told her that she could identify with well enough. At times when she was embroidering rather a lot, he would realize it and they laughed together. It was a joke with no ill will. She had no need to explain her inventions.
One night when they were on deck, watching the sun sink, squandering fire beyond the black outline of Cyprus, the wind cold in their faces, the conversation turned toward religion and the union with Rome.
“Pride and history apart,” he said seriously, “is separation from Rome really worth dying for? Do you think it is?” He was direct, a personal question, not a general one.
She stared at the fading light, changing even as she watched. No two sunsets were ever the same. “I don’t know. I’m not sure how much I am prepared to have anyone else tell me what to think. But I also know for certain that I am not prepared to demand anyone else sacrifice their lives, or the lives of those they love, because I’m certain of the differences between the Roman and Byzantine faiths.
“Maybe any Church can only take us so far, provide a framework in which we can climb far enough to see just how much farther there is to go, and that the journey is infinitely worth it. Sooner or later we outgrow it, and it becomes a shackle to the spirit.”
“Then how do we do the rest?” There was no banter in his voice. She could hardly see the outline of his head and shoulders against the darkness of the sky, but she felt the warmth of him near her.
“Maybe we have to want it with such a passion