It was cold, but that wasn't going to keep Henry indoors. There were things that were going to happen today--he didn't know how he knew, and he didn't question it. The knowledge was intrinsic, undeniable, and so he knelt in his rose-garden, carefully pruning the spikey plants.
She would come, and only her. None of them remembered that night with anything even approaching coherence, but he remembered enough, and he knew she would, too. His head was almost light with that knowledge--something that seemed half unreal, even as the bacchanal, searingly vivid in places, seemed like it must surely have been half a dream.
He sensed Camilla before she spoke, and was brushing off his hands even as she said 'hello'. He'd known she would find him, and he thought he knew why, but she would speak in her own way, and her own time.
"Hello," he returned, watching her. Looking at her now, you would never know she'd somehow dyed her hair in blood that night; now it was like deep burnished gold, gilded honey at the edges in the autumn light. "I knew you would come."
Henry was always saying things like that. Moreover, his observations were usually right. So when he said he had known she would come over, she wasn't exactly surprised. She just wondered how he knew these things. Superior powers of deduction? Divine inspiration?
"Did the person you saw in your dream tell you that?" she asked, only half-flippantly, and shifted the bookbag strap over her shoulder. "I'm glad you're home, anyway. I can come back later if you're busy though." The rake leaned against the porch, and he had some kind of gardening shears.
(Unbidden, a little thought, you could do a lot of damage with those.)
It was strange, he thought, in a dim, disconnected way, that he felt no awkwardness in being around her. He'd lost all his control, and had done all sorts of things with her, but now that he had that control back he was not embarrassed by any o fit.
"No," he said, with a flicker of a smile. "I just knew." He set the shears down in the small bucket he'd been pruning into. "And no, I'm not busy. What is it you need?"
"Nothing really," said Camilla, who did feel a little embarrassed suddenly and unaccountably. What is it you need? Businesslike and calm, as she read it, and she felt silly in the face of that -- like she shouldn't be wasting his time.
Well, that was stupid of her. He was just puttering around in the garden. It wasn't like any of the Greek class had any compunctions about interrupting one another with random visits. If he didn't want to be at home he would have stayed inside and ignored everyone. Camilla took a deep breath and tried again.
"Just to talk to you. Can we go inside though? It's getting awfully cold."
"Of course." Henry himself was warm enough, but he'd also been working steadily.
He let her into the small house, tidy and warm. "Can I get you something to drink?" he asked, moving into the kitchen to wash the earth from his hands. Part of him remained amazed at how calm he was--at how in control he'd felt since the bacchanal. Camilla could speak in her own time--while he thought he knew what she would say, he would not press her. Besides, even his self-confidence couldn't be certain he wasn't, in this at least, completely wrong.
Except for the missing rug, the antique rug Bunny had ruined by letting ice cream melt all over it as he waited for them to return from the woods, everything looked the same as it always had. Camilla could pretend the other night hadn't happened at all, if it weren't for that missing rug. Then it all came back: herself and Charles down on hands and knees scrubbing the blood-spotted planks of the porch.
"Have you got any tea? I don't care what. Earl Grey if you have it," she called to Henry, hoping he could hear her over the running tap.
Of course Henry heard her. He dried his hands off and filled the kettle, and once he'd set it on the burner he went back out to her.
"The water should only be a minute," he said, nodding at the couch. "I'm glad you came by." And he was--very, very glad. Camilla's presence seemed a richer thing, now--everything seemed richer, since the bacchanal. He need do nothing now save be patient.
Hanging her coat on the coatrack by the door, she glanced back over her shoulder at him. She'd been standing stupidly in the middle of the room looking at everything, thinking about the missing rug and the cleaned-up blood, so that it had taken her a moment to remember she ought to take her coat off.
"Thanks," she said, and turned back to make sure the coat wasn't going to slip off the hook. The incongruously black coat off, here she stood in the usual pale colors she preferred: faded light jeans, a thick-knit sweater the color of cream, the collar and cuffs of a white shirt (probably her brother's) peeking out from beneath. The same Camilla as ever, her hair still ruffled from the wind, bright-cheeked and taut with nervous energy, shucking off her shoes and leaving them by the door before crossing to settle on the couch as indicated. "I don't want to get dirt all over your floors," she explained, even though the rug was gone and there wasn't anything left to ruin.
She tucked her stocking feet under her, looking much more at ease than she felt.
"I wonder if they found that man yet." It came out of her mouth quite unexpectedly.
Henry sat with her. He'd taken off his own shoes in the kitchen, and though his clothes were nothing like his usual, he was perhaps the only person in all of Vermont who would garden in old slacks and suspenders.
"We would have heard about it, if they had," he said steadily. "They don't keep things like that a secret, unless they think they know who did it, and they don't want to frighten the guilty party away with publicity." He sounded rather unnervingly sure of himself.
He leaned back, resting his arm on the back of the couch, watching her. "I'm just thankful your speech has repaired itself," he said. His tone implied he'd been more worried about that than anything else.
Of course -- he must have been keeping an eye on the local papers to see if something had turned up. Camilla hadn't. Current events normally weren't a concern, so she didn't subscribe to any newspapers at all, and over the last week it had been all she could do to maintain a pretense of normalcy (for Julian, Bunny, Richard), much less go beyond her regular routine.
"I am too," she said candidly. "For a little while I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to speak again. It was like a punishment. Or a blessing. I'm not sure which. I didn't want to say anything ..."
The kettle began to whistle, giving her a moment to think as Henry produced teapot, cups, cream, and sugar, and arranged them all on the small coffee table. His movements were neat, precise--almost fluid.
"Is there something you want to say now?" he asked, pouring a cup for each of them.
She was grateful for every second of that brief time. She needed to collect the words somehow and she wasn't sure how she would. Quietly she watched him bringing in the tea things, efficient, unceremonious, the same as he did in Julian's office for them all. "I didn't want to compare notes," she said finally, taking one of the cups from him and adding a little milk. No sugar. "Not how they all were. It was all a mess anyway and none of us remember the same things, I don't think. And I didn't want to say what I did remember --"
-- not in front of Charles.
Clouds of diffuse white bloomed through her teacup, unstirred. She blinked at it and took a teaspoon to remedy the situation.
"I mean, I know some of it must have been real, because of the state we were all in when we came back. I'm just not sure what was and what wasn't. And I want to know. Some of it."
Henry thought he knew what she meant, at least in part. His memories were just as fragmentary as all the others'; perhaps, put together, all of them might make up one complete narrative whole.
He thought, too, that he knew what she might be asking, without using so many words. "Some of it was," he said, steadily as ever. He didn't look away from her as he said it, either, as he might once have done.
"I'm sure I didn't really turn into a deer," Camilla said. The teaspoon clinked against the sides of the china cup, and then against the saucer when she laid it down, mundane little domestic sound that should be comforting. "That can't have happened. Weird things happened but I don't think we actually turned into anything we weren't. That doesn't happen in Euripides either. I only thought I was one. And I was being chased so I had to run, and I was a deer so that made sense, except I wasn't really a deer."
He was watching her, and she knew it even as she looked up from her tea to meet his eyes.
She didn't remember when it was that she'd done ... whatever she'd done ... to the nameless Vermonter who'd stumbled into the middle of everything. (Sparagmos. Omophagia.) She didn't remember how that linked up, if it did link up at all, with the running and the wildness. Everything was disconnected from everything else. Except --
"You caught me. Didn't you?"
When she'd been running, and she'd thought she was a deer while she was running. They'd all been chasing after her. But he'd caught her, and then maybe she hadn't been sure what was happening, but she'd known she wasn't a deer.
Yes, he had known what she meant. This was something that he knew must be treated delicately, yet he couldn't even consciously register that knowledge.
"I did," he said, quietly. Quietly, and almost gently, the arrogance that had come to him in the last days ebbing, replaced by the feelings with which he'd regarded Camilla for even he didn't know how long before the bacchanal.
The reality of it didn't need to matter, of course. It could be just another unthinkable component of a completely bizarre experience, a night in which they'd all done things they never normally would have done. Dionysus had connected them to primal parts of the human psyche ordinarily untapped. They could have been viewed as archetypes rather than individuals.
Then why was she blushing and lowering her eyes before she could even register her own reaction to his confirming that, yes, he remembered what she remembered? She could feel the heat suffusing her face, so she knew she was blushing, and that very fact just made it worse, because she shouldn't react that way. To fabricate a reason why she would have looked away, she set down the teacup beside the teaspoon on its saucer, as though her attention were needed for this. As though she somehow would have missed the coffee table and dropped the teacup on the floor if she hadn't been looking.
She hadn't let him catch her, not purposely. She had really believed she was a deer, and she hadn't wanted to be caught, so she'd run as fast and as far as she could. It was when he did catch her, and she knew both that she wasn't a deer and that he wasn't going to kill her, that she'd been suddenly and fiercely glad.
"Do you think maybe that was supposed to happen?" She thought she still couldn't look at him. She made herself look, to prove herself wrong. He was the same Henry as ever, calm and straight-faced and matter-of-fact. He must think she was being incredibly silly, to even talk about this, let alone care about it.
She would come, and only her. None of them remembered that night with anything even approaching coherence, but he remembered enough, and he knew she would, too. His head was almost light with that knowledge--something that seemed half unreal, even as the bacchanal, searingly vivid in places, seemed like it must surely have been half a dream.
He sensed Camilla before she spoke, and was brushing off his hands even as she said 'hello'. He'd known she would find him, and he thought he knew why, but she would speak in her own way, and her own time.
"Hello," he returned, watching her. Looking at her now, you would never know she'd somehow dyed her hair in blood that night; now it was like deep burnished gold, gilded honey at the edges in the autumn light. "I knew you would come."
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"Did the person you saw in your dream tell you that?" she asked, only half-flippantly, and shifted the bookbag strap over her shoulder. "I'm glad you're home, anyway. I can come back later if you're busy though." The rake leaned against the porch, and he had some kind of gardening shears.
(Unbidden, a little thought, you could do a lot of damage with those.)
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"No," he said, with a flicker of a smile. "I just knew." He set the shears down in the small bucket he'd been pruning into. "And no, I'm not busy. What is it you need?"
Strange choice of words, Henry. Strange, yet apt.
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Well, that was stupid of her. He was just puttering around in the garden. It wasn't like any of the Greek class had any compunctions about interrupting one another with random visits. If he didn't want to be at home he would have stayed inside and ignored everyone. Camilla took a deep breath and tried again.
"Just to talk to you. Can we go inside though? It's getting awfully cold."
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He let her into the small house, tidy and warm. "Can I get you something to drink?" he asked, moving into the kitchen to wash the earth from his hands. Part of him remained amazed at how calm he was--at how in control he'd felt since the bacchanal. Camilla could speak in her own time--while he thought he knew what she would say, he would not press her. Besides, even his self-confidence couldn't be certain he wasn't, in this at least, completely wrong.
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"Have you got any tea? I don't care what. Earl Grey if you have it," she called to Henry, hoping he could hear her over the running tap.
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"The water should only be a minute," he said, nodding at the couch. "I'm glad you came by." And he was--very, very glad. Camilla's presence seemed a richer thing, now--everything seemed richer, since the bacchanal. He need do nothing now save be patient.
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"Thanks," she said, and turned back to make sure the coat wasn't going to slip off the hook. The incongruously black coat off, here she stood in the usual pale colors she preferred: faded light jeans, a thick-knit sweater the color of cream, the collar and cuffs of a white shirt (probably her brother's) peeking out from beneath. The same Camilla as ever, her hair still ruffled from the wind, bright-cheeked and taut with nervous energy, shucking off her shoes and leaving them by the door before crossing to settle on the couch as indicated. "I don't want to get dirt all over your floors," she explained, even though the rug was gone and there wasn't anything left to ruin.
She tucked her stocking feet under her, looking much more at ease than she felt.
"I wonder if they found that man yet." It came out of her mouth quite unexpectedly.
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"We would have heard about it, if they had," he said steadily. "They don't keep things like that a secret, unless they think they know who did it, and they don't want to frighten the guilty party away with publicity." He sounded rather unnervingly sure of himself.
He leaned back, resting his arm on the back of the couch, watching her. "I'm just thankful your speech has repaired itself," he said. His tone implied he'd been more worried about that than anything else.
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"I am too," she said candidly. "For a little while I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to speak again. It was like a punishment. Or a blessing. I'm not sure which. I didn't want to say anything ..."
She trailed off, brow furrowed just a little.
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"Is there something you want to say now?" he asked, pouring a cup for each of them.
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-- not in front of Charles.
Clouds of diffuse white bloomed through her teacup, unstirred. She blinked at it and took a teaspoon to remedy the situation.
"I mean, I know some of it must have been real, because of the state we were all in when we came back. I'm just not sure what was and what wasn't. And I want to know. Some of it."
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He thought, too, that he knew what she might be asking, without using so many words. "Some of it was," he said, steadily as ever. He didn't look away from her as he said it, either, as he might once have done.
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He was watching her, and she knew it even as she looked up from her tea to meet his eyes.
She didn't remember when it was that she'd done ... whatever she'd done ... to the nameless Vermonter who'd stumbled into the middle of everything. (Sparagmos. Omophagia.) She didn't remember how that linked up, if it did link up at all, with the running and the wildness. Everything was disconnected from everything else. Except --
"You caught me. Didn't you?"
When she'd been running, and she'd thought she was a deer while she was running. They'd all been chasing after her. But he'd caught her, and then maybe she hadn't been sure what was happening, but she'd known she wasn't a deer.
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"I did," he said, quietly. Quietly, and almost gently, the arrogance that had come to him in the last days ebbing, replaced by the feelings with which he'd regarded Camilla for even he didn't know how long before the bacchanal.
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The reality of it didn't need to matter, of course. It could be just another unthinkable component of a completely bizarre experience, a night in which they'd all done things they never normally would have done. Dionysus had connected them to primal parts of the human psyche ordinarily untapped. They could have been viewed as archetypes rather than individuals.
Then why was she blushing and lowering her eyes before she could even register her own reaction to his confirming that, yes, he remembered what she remembered? She could feel the heat suffusing her face, so she knew she was blushing, and that very fact just made it worse, because she shouldn't react that way. To fabricate a reason why she would have looked away, she set down the teacup beside the teaspoon on its saucer, as though her attention were needed for this. As though she somehow would have missed the coffee table and dropped the teacup on the floor if she hadn't been looking.
She hadn't let him catch her, not purposely. She had really believed she was a deer, and she hadn't wanted to be caught, so she'd run as fast and as far as she could. It was when he did catch her, and she knew both that she wasn't a deer and that he wasn't going to kill her, that she'd been suddenly and fiercely glad.
"Do you think maybe that was supposed to happen?" She thought she still couldn't look at him. She made herself look, to prove herself wrong. He was the same Henry as ever, calm and straight-faced and matter-of-fact. He must think she was being incredibly silly, to even talk about this, let alone care about it.
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