The Soldier's Poisoned Heart

Eventually they made it to the store, though. John Paul helped his nephew to tie the horses down. They should be alright even in the cold, he reasoned. They had blankets, and it should only be a few minutes before they returned.

The interior of the store was heated, and the colonel peeled his gloves off and shoved them down into a deep coat pocket.

He breathed into his cupped hands and rubbed them together, feeling the burning sensation of blood and heat returning to his extermities. It hurt badly, but he welcomed it as an alternative to the biting cold. Henry started to walk, and John Paul took a few experimental steps forward after him, his numb thighs rubbing against each other like foreign bodies. Eventually they came to a set of steps and Henry went up them, hurrying two at a time. His uncle took them more slowly, making sure that each step was taken carefully, and then he caught up in a few long, rapid strides.

There were a few canes, he saw; heavy-looking, with brass handles and metal tips. The shafts looked wooden, but he suspected that they were wrapped 'round a metal core. They looked smart, and he hefted one in his hands. It might have been only two pounds, but for such a small thing it seemed incredibly heavy, as if it were denser than it should be. He leaned on it experimentally.

"I suppose this will do," he said softly. Do you think... the black, or the brown?"

"The black looks better, if you ask me," Henry answered quietly.

"Then the black it is."

He carried it down the stairs, leaning heavily on the bannister. He hadn't quite managed to work the numbness out of his legs by the time they left again.

John Paul frowned again. It seemed ages si

nce he had smiled, since before the announcement of his marriage, which he was perfectly embarrassed by. He frowned and watched the hands on the clock. He should have been able to push his way through the day, as he had so many times before. He knew that Lydia would be coming later, but that shouldn't matter. Yet, he found, it did matter, regardless of whether or not it "should."

He was afraid of everything around him, an insidious paranoia that had invaded every part of his life and his marriage had not proven any sort of exception. She would be here, and either he would be putting his life on the line, or he would be making a damned fool of himself, and he couldn't tell which. Perhaps it would be both.

There was a knock at the door and he stood automatically. The most beautiful young woman he'd ever seen stood there, and he watched her for a moment before he opened the door to accommodate her.

"Lydia," he gasped. For a moment he forgot her manners. She still wore her black clothes; she would for a few more months, yet, and even then she would be in mourning until very nearly the day of their wedding, but she looked better than he had ever seen her, positively radiant. "Please come in," he blurted suddenly, when it finally occurred to him that he was being rude.

She smiled. There was simply no way, he decided. Either she was uninvolved, or she was unknowing of her own involvement, but there was no way that she could be in any way involved. It was as simple as that.

She had her hands pushed into a muffler and when she came in and John Paul closed the door behind her, she took one slender hend back out and held it out to him. He took it and pressed it to his lips. She smelled sweet, a peculiar scent that he didn't recognize.

"You're looking a little bit better."

John Paul swallowed a cough and smiled.

"That's very nice of you to say, dear. I wasn't expecting you"

"No?" She looked concerned. "But I sent the telegram, did you not get it?"

"Oh," John Paul said, startled for a moment. "No, I did get it, only a few days ago; I just meant that I wasn't expecting it."

Lydia looked at him, her brow furrowed.

"But it's Christmas," she protested.

"I know that. Mark and Thomas are home with their families; Henry and I were having our celebrations separately, I suppose. Neither of us are particularly used to having anyone around for the holidays, so..." The colonel trailed off. "Are there cabs out and about on Christmas? How did you get here?"

"I'm going out for a few weeks, you see. I have some family in London, and I spent a few years there when I was still in primary school, so I was going to go talk to people about the wedding. It's a little bit early, but it seemed like a good opportunity to take my trips at once."

John Paul sat back onto one of the chairs they'd set up nearly half a year ago, the chairs that had never quite made it out of the room even as they had prepared the rest of the house. Lydia did the same, opposite him.

"So it will be a little bit before we can see each other again, while I'm in London, but I'll be sure to write you."

"And I'll write you, as well, my dear."

"Thank you," she said, smiling. "Oh! I almost forgot."

She pulled her other hand out of the muffler, and held it out to him. There was an envelope, lightly crumpled. It has name on it, in the fine handwriting he had come to recognize as hers. He took it and examined it, but didn't open the flap.

"Merry Christmas," she said, and leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. "I'll be looking forward to when I can see you again in March."