Exodus (The Ravenhood)

He turns to me, his expression haunted. “But I dreamt it up here, all of it, right here where we’re sitting. Saint-Jean-de-Luz exists. And it’s there when I’m ready for it. And now I’m sharing my place with you, so,” he implores me with the sweep of his eyes, “what is it that you want?”

“It may seem silly, but I want Paris.”

“That’s too small, too easily attainable. Think bigger.”

“I want to have a say.”

He nods as if he understands. “Then you’ll have a say.”

“I want my own kind of sanctuary.”

“Then you’ll have it. Keep dreaming. Keep planning. Dream a thousand dreams and then make a thousand things happen.”

He pulls the wine from my hand and sets his glass down next to it.

“Poof.” I smile, the wine thrumming through my veins. “Just like that.”

“No,” he pulls my hand onto his thigh and flips it over, sliding his palm along mine. Dizzied by his touch, my body springs to life as he strokes my hand lightly with the pads of his fingers. An inch of his thick hair sags across his f

orehead, and I itch to touch it when his brows pinch together. “After you dream, plan, that’s when the work begins. And that’s where it gets the most complicated, your plans can get convoluted, your dreams may get watered down and grow more distant, seem out of reach, and sometimes, sometimes you lose sight of what’s important and hurt the people who rely on you. Others might get hurt in the process.” Our eyes lock with his confession. “And when that happens,” he swallows, “it might make you question who you are and just how far you will go.”

No matter how much I want to, I can’t look away.

“Cecelia,” his voice dips and my name has never sounded so beautiful coming from a man’s lips. I sit mesmerized by all he’s revealed, unbelieving this is the man I met. “I’m sorry. Truly, for the things I’ve done to you. What happened to you today—”

“It had nothing to do with you. And I don’t want to talk about it.” I still his hand, frustrated with what he’s beginning to stir within me. If I’m not careful, he’ll succeed in resurrecting my starving heart with his words, his touch. “And you’re making it seem like it’s already game over for you, when it’s not. You’re still young enough to change your plans. You have a lot of life left to live. You can still dream here. Hell, you could walk into that house in Saint-Jean-de-Luz tomorrow if you wanted to.”

“No, I can’t.” He flips my hand over, separating my fingers before lifting them to his lush mouth and kissing them one by one. Sparks ignite and fire licks up my spine as the electricity between us begins to move. Thrumming with anticipation, his voice hypnotizes me as I watch him press each of my fingers to his soft lips. The sight of it sets me on fire. “You see, my plans, my decisions, have backed me into a corner. But in this place,” he lifts simmering eyes to mine and cups my face as if he’s holding the world in his hands. My instinct is to look away, to recognize the lie, to pinpoint the deceit. But I don’t, I can’t because I feel every word he’s saying to my core. “Here, there are no outsiders, no threats, no pasts, no one else. There’s nothing but us.” Choked by his honesty, by his openness, he runs his thumb along my bottom lip, his eyes dipping briefly before he brings them back to mine. And in them, I see him so clearly for the first time. “And because of you, I see this place again for what it truly is. It hasn’t lost any of its magic. I just forgot how to look for it.”

Eyes locked, he bends, his lips so close, gaze imploring. And I can’t deny him, or myself because he’s speaking the truth. Since the day we met, we’ve been drawn to the other. Though we were born of anger, resentment, and betrayal, it’s been there. And through the fog of all of it, we were familiar.

“I know you, Cecelia, because you know me, and it’s here, in this place that we recognized we’ve known each other all along.”

He presses a feather-light kiss to my lips, sliding his hands back to cup my head before opening me with decadent pressure. Savoring the wine off his tongue, I whimper into his mouth as he takes his time, exploring, licking, relishing. Effortlessly, he lifts me to wrap around him, his mouth drawing on mine, robbing, consuming, the gravity holding us firmly in place as I kiss him back without reservation. When he pulls away, I can see nothing but satisfaction in his eyes. He might have recognized it first, but the reflection I see is undeniable.

I see you, Cecelia, you keep trying to give yourself, your heart, your allegiance away to anyone who will have it for reasons you can’t understand, but it’s so painfully clear.

Clear to him, because he’s been living in the same sort of self-imposed exile, but instead of offering his heart up, he’s locked it safely away. Breaths mingling, chests heaving, we face off as understanding passes between us.

“What is it that you want, Tobias?”

He pins me beneath him, pressing my wrists to the grass, his hair tickling my chin as he gazes down at me. “A selfish moment,” he whispers softly before he captures my mouth, drawing me into the most damning and selfish of kisses.

I wake long before the sun, fully clothed and wrapped in an inferno. Tobias sleeps silently next to me, his arms wrapped around me protectively, his chin burrowed into my neck. I slept through the night, buzzed on wine, in the safety of his arms once we’d wordlessly returned to the house. He didn’t undress me. Instead, he turned off the light and pulled me into him.

And it’s in the same position that I manage to untangle us without waking him before I take a long shower, putting on my favorite stark white sundress that looks more like something from the Edwardian era. Layers of silky white material tickle my calves while the bodice hugs my curves, the inch-thick straps lay loosely off my shoulders. I grab my favorite hardback and head toward the garden, nabbing a thin blanket to ward off the morning chill. Nestled in the queen lounger beneath a trellis covered in wisteria, I watch the show, the sun rising on a different world I’m now a citizen of, my thoughts drifting to the man who lays comatose in my bed.

Under the haze of a new day’s sun, I lose myself and spend hours reading while soaking in the world around me.

Fresh blooms warm a few feet away, scenting the air as I flip the pages of The Thorn Birds. It’s my favorite book, or at least it was when I was younger. It was the first hit to my addict’s heart, and therefore the strongest. I stole it from the library the last summer I spent with my father and never returned it. It’s the story of Ralph, a priest, and his Meggie, a little girl who was groomed by and grew up to fall in love with him. But their love was impossible. When she was young, he told her of a bird who leaves the nest searching for the sharpest thorn to impale itself on so it could sing the sweetest song as it dies, living solely for the purpose of finding that thorn so it could sing, just once, in its lifetime.

But his story to her at such a young age was a preemptive strike if not predictive, and her heart didn’t listen. Meggie describes her love, her devotion to Ralph was like crying for the moon. Because it’s impossible to capture, impossible to keep.

Meggie could never have Ralph in the way she wanted, and he could never give up his life’s purpose for her. Therefore, Ralph was also Meggie’s thorn, and she spent her life searching for the time to impale herself upon him just for the chance to sing. And then it happens, they have that sinful and secular moment where the world stops, times ceases, and love wins.

I always stop reading when they’re together, because I know the ending, and I’m happiest in the midst of their song. I savor it.

Partly through the novel, I stand and walk on the soft green carpet beneath my feet, admiring nature’s handiwork. Endless rows of rose bushes line the center of the garden, and I stop every few steps to run my fingers along the delicate petals and breathe them in. It’s like a dream, the breeze, the smells, the pink haze of early morning, and I’m fully intoxicated. For a moment, I pity Roman. I’m positive he’s never spent a minute out here simply enjoying his life. He could, at any time, make a decision to enjoy the fruits of his labor, to appreciate the palace he haunts, but lives his life too engrossed in harsh reality. Numbers and power rule him. And I’m convinced his is a miserable existence.