Inspiration hit after about six weary-written pages, thank God. literally.

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“Keep your eyes closed,” I said firmly, barely able to contain my smile as a currently sightless Solomon tightened his grip on my arm.

“Where are you leading me? What are you doing?” He grumbled, not having the strength to peek through the hand that was covering his eyes.

“You’ll see.” Smiling, I made sure Solomon didn’t collide into the wall while I opened the door to the dining hall. It was all ready.

“Anneka, I swear, if this is some childish prank of yours—“

“You need to give me a little more credit.” I rolled my eyes and tugged his reluctant body into the dining hall. “Okay. You can open your eyes, now.”

“Thank God.” After jerking his hand away from his face, he seemed to stare at the dinner table for a second, unseeing anything out of the ordinary. Then he gave a small start and shook his head, as if checking if his eyes were truly open or not.

The best china was on the lace-tablecloth-covered table, and white tapered candles were lit along the room. The curtains were pulled back to reveal, through the usually covered windows, a slowly descending sun on the horizon, which added a red tinge to the light flooding the room.

On the table itself were platters of roast turkey, steamed greens, chocolate torte, whipped potatoes, and chicken dumplings, all of the food smelling wonderfully and piping hot. Tilda had worked for hours to try to create it all without arousing his suspicions.

“Well?” I watched him carefully for his reaction.

Warily, Solomon eyed it all, approaching the dinner table with the caution of one who might be expecting a large explosion at any given time. The dark circles under his eyes seemed to lighten a little.

“What is the meaning of this?” Carefully, he pulled his usual chair back from the table and looked at me in suspicion.

Rolling my eyes, I sat down in my place as well. “Nothing. It’s just. . . I wanted you to be surprised.”

“Why?”

“Just because.” I wrinkled my brow. “Why, do you not like it?”

“No, it’s just…” Solomon exhaled, still with caution, as he seated himself. “Out of the ordinary.”

I wanted to comment on his exhausted appearance from this entire week, but decided against it. Perhaps he didn’t look quite as jubilant as I expected, but what exactly had I been expecting? That he would morph into Damascus and smile dazzlingly and shake off that weary shell he’d been encasing himself in?

He examined the dining hall still, his shoulders descending in a relieved fashion as he still failed to find anything that irked him about it. Solomon then flicked his charcoal eyes over to me on the opposite side of the table. “You’re wearing that dress.”

Looking down for a moment, I remembered that I had indeed put on that dove-gray dress from Bristol. “Yes. Yes, I am.” I glanced up at him shyly, wondering if he was going to comment further, but he seemed distracted by the entrance of one of the serving girls.

“Honestly, Anneka. This is all quite unnecessary,” he mumbled slightly, and I rolled my eyes as he began to pile food on his plate.

As the servant girl poured him a glass of his favorite wine, Solomon even allowed a small smile to appear on his thin face. He tilted the glass back and looked over the rim of the cup at me, and then his eyes caught sight of the two blood-red roses in the glass vase.

His eyes froze, his smile disappeared.

And I had the feeling of a heavy brick sinking into my stomach.

“My roses. My roses.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

And I realized that maybe there had been a reason such beautiful flowers had been hidden away from the rest of the world.

Because maybe, just maybe, they hadn’t been meant for anyone else.

“But. . . you have them out all the time. . . around the house . . . and I just wanted. . .” Faltering, I watched with horror as my vision for a relaxing, refreshing dinner came crashing down.

“How could you?” he hissed lividly, shaking with rage. “When are you going to learn that what’s not meant for you ISN’T MEANT FOR YOU!?!”

“I’m sorry! I just wanted to make it special for you! I wanted you to be happy!” I cried in horror as I watched him shove the dinner dishes to the floor with a shatter. “I’m sorry!”

“You’re sorry? You’re ‘sorry’?!? Well, that isn’t going to fix anything! Just. . . stay out of my business! STAY OUT OF AFFAIR’S THAT AREN’T YOURS!” Shooting a malevolent, dark look at me that chilled me to my bone, Solomon stormed out of the dining hall, slamming the door closed in a thunderous echo.

Tears streaming down my face, I looked at the shattered china and the spilled wine and the traitorous roses.

So much for the perfect dinner.

~~~~~

“Solomon! Solomon! Stop! What the hell has gotten into you?!?”

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!”

“Stop acting like a madman! Get a hold of yourself!” The dark-skinned man wrenched the documents that Solomon had been trying to furiously rip into tiny shreds.

“SHE HAD NO RIGHT!”

“Who had no right? Solomon, stop! Calm yourself!” Damascus grasped Solomon’s arm. “Sit down and calm yourself!”

Charcoal eyes flashed murderously, but Damascus’s calm brown eyes didn’t waver.

“Go sit down,” he repeated.

The younger man flung himself in the chair by the study’s fireplace, burying his head in his hands and shaking. A string of unintelligible curses were muttered steadily, and his hands clenched into tight, horrible fists that seemed to ache to pummel something into smithereens.

When finally Solomon was able to take long, sharp breaths without looking like he wanted to stab something, Damascus seated himself next to his friend.

“That was bang out of order, mate.” He gave Solomon a hard look.

“Did you see that? Did you see my roses? By God, I put those aside especially so that she wouldn’t find them and ruin everything!”

Damascus paled. “Roses? You mean the ones that—“

“Yes. Those ones,” Solomon sneered spitefully.

“But…what does that have to do with anything? Who found them? Who ruined what?” Damascus shook his head and laid a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Look, whatever happened, it’s okay, it’s nothing to be so angry about.”

“It’s not okay! Anneka found them! She cut them! She used them!”

“Oh God. No. She wouldn’t have. Anneka wouldn’t do something like that,” the friend mumbled weakly.

“Are you calling me a liar now?” His charcoal eyes seared.

“Well…maybe you should have told her they were off limits. She didn’t know, Solomon.”

“They were hidden behind a door that no one was supposed to even see! I don’t see how that counts as an open invitation!”

“She didn’t know!”

“She shouldn’t have done that!”

“Look, I’m sure she had a perfectly good reason why. Did she tell you? I don’t believe Anneka would do something like that to suit her flight of fancy.”

Solomon made a disgusted, feral noise in his throat. “She tried to make some sort of dinner—“

“Dinner?”

“She tried to make it all…special. And those roses, she put in a vase for the stupid dinner.”

“Special?”

“What don’t you comprehend about this?” Solomon snarled. “She was trying to do something absurd and used my roses!”

Damascus shook his head, as if trying to wrap his intelligent mind around a new concept. “Anneka…Anneka made you a special dinner? Why would she—oh. Oh my.” His eyes widened as he recalled how the previous night the young woman had hesitantly asked him about Solomon’s health.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” Solomon demanded furiously. “Were you in on this too?”

“Of course not,” Damascus snorted. “She came to me last night in question of your health. You’ve been letting yourself get to down about that case at work, Solomon. She’s been noticing how tired and listless you are.”

“What does that have anything to do with it?”

Pressing his lips together in a firm line, Damascus shook his head, almost as if it amused him. “Evidently, Anneka wanted to cheer you up some how. No matter how cold or horrible you’ve been to her, she cares about you. Somewhat. Though,” he titled his head to observe Solomon’s fuming expression. “Probably not any more.

“Oh, shut up. I don’t care. I’m never going to forgive her for what she did, anyways. She intruded! She could have—“

“I know.” Damascus frowned slightly. “But you shouldn’t have done what you did in there, either.”

“I have every right to be angry!”

“Did you really?”

Solomon scowled and glared at his friend. “What are you trying to say? That I should have forgiven her for intruding, for hacking my roses apart, and just go skipping along and pretend everything was fine?!?”

“Are you blind, Solomon? Do you know how hard she must have tried, to make you a little bit happier? How she must have worked the entire day, trying to make it perfect for you?!?”

“And do you realize how important those roses are? That if she had been careless and uprooted them, everything. . .everything could have been—“

“I’m not trying to defend Anneka’s actions,” Damascus said almost roughly, his usual gentle demeanor strained. “She had no right to intrude. But Solomon, give the girl a break. It was an accident. One with good intent.”

“But it could have ruined it all. She could have ruined me. Don’t you realize that?”

“It was an accident. An accident. One that could have been avoided if you’d just tell her everything.”

“Are you mad?!?”

“Look, Solomon, you’ve really got to trust that Anneka isn’t going to. . . you know. She’s a good person, and she wants the best for you.”

“She hates me.”

“But she tries. She really does. Couldn’t you try, too?”

“Why should I?”

Damascus sighed patiently. “Solomon, is this how you’re planning to live for the rest of your life? Constantly hating her, putting her at arm’s length away from you? Are you happy living like this?”

Solomon closed his eyes angrily, burying his head into his hands. “This. . .this isn’t any of your business, Damascus. Just. . .just don’t—“

“Don’t what? Don’t try to make things a little easier for you, and for her?”

Irritantly, the younger man closed his charcoal eyes again in frustration and pressed his lips together defiantly. The silence hung in the dining room thickly.

Disappointed, the dark-skinned man shook his head, rising from the table and settling a hand on his friend’s shoulder before leaving.

“It’s up to you.”

~~~~~

So it seemed that my life had been set to repeat in cycles. There would be those small fights, and then something big and devastating crime that I would commit, and then an explosively large fight, and then there would be uneasy, silent cold-shoulder and ignoring moments that lasted for sometimes weeks until something I did amused him (usually at my expense).

Then there would be those tiny elapses where it seemed perhaps we would be civil again towards each other, and perhaps we would pass the rest of eternity in the awkwardly working together in the sunroom, laughing at the village’s superstitions that we had heard children weaving about us, or passing a surprisingly in depth conversation during dinner, or even smiling slightly to each other in such peace that we were both awed by it all.

But I soon found that I hated those moments, because they were inevitably ruined by some way or another, usually involving myself getting Solomon angry, or when he would have an emotional fit of some sort.

And I never seemed to run out of ways to irritate my husband either, whether it was from touching the wrong plant in the sunroom to ripping a page in one of his precious books, to acting ungrateful and mending the wrong button back on to his shirts. I never knew I was so creative.

Oh, let me tell you, my friend, it was annoying.

Never once did Solomon ever apologize for his irrational outbursts, either. He would only glare at me until the next step in the cycle had come to pass. And to be sure, it always did.

I don’t know when I’d ever been so disappointed in Damascus, either. His once kindly, understanding friend seemed to me a cruel man who wouldn’t intervene for the either of us and forced us to endure the cycle over and over, never once trying to talk to Solomon to release me from the marital bond, or to soothe him over and convince him to be reasonable for once.

Damascus was simply Solomon’s sole friend and confidante and work partner. Only when we would bump into each other in the hallways of the manor would he seem to remember that yes, I existed, and yes, I was in anguish. To which then he would bob his head politely and continue on his way.

It was almost as if he was amused at the way that my life and Solomon’s were playing out.

Weeks passed, months passed, and I was still enduring the same repetitions of daily strife. Not even a wonderful day at the sunroom seemed to coax my spirits up. It was as if I had plunged into a dark, slipper hole of despair and lacked the strength or talent to pull myself back up.

Life simply could not worsen. It just couldn’t. This…existence was more horrid than even the most passionately hateful life, because at least the alternative wasn’t as predictable.

The only threadbare comfort was that at least when I did perish, I would die in a boring, unexciting way. There would be no fireworks, no dramatic swoon, nothing. Just something quiet and repetitive and boring, like my life as it was.

Surely, things couldn’t get any worse, right?

Oh, how truly wrong I was.

~~~~~

“Mistress?” A serving maid that I had long become familiar with peeked into the sunroom where I had been listlessly watering a row of plants.

“Mmmm?” Oh wonderful. We had reached that step in the cycle again where Solomon liked to criticize ever little thing that I did out of order. Surely, this was another summons to point out the sin of leaving fingerprints on his desk or something.

The petite maid bit her lip in a nervous manner. “There’s someone at the door. They wish to see you.”

At this, I arched an eyebrow. Who could possibly be at the door to see me? For one thing, Solomon and Damascus always intercepted the rare business guest, and I certainly didn’t entertain any visitors or friends.

“Do you know who it is?” I asked unsurely.

She shifted her weight anxiously. “She didn’t say, mistress. Only that you would know her. This lady, she has her hair plaited up in a bun, but you know, she doesn’t look married. Suspicious, she is.”

Hair plaited up in a bun but…she doesn’t look married…

My eyes widened suddenly, and my heart seemed to quicken.

Surely not?

“What does this lady look like? Is she alone?” I asked hesitantly, setting the watering can down on the counter of the sunroom and advancing with great pace towards the serving maid.

“Yes, mistress. Her hair is brown, and her eyes are not unlike yours, in fact.”

It couldn’t be.

Breathlessly, I pushed past the serving maid and practically flew down the hallway towards where the parlor and the entrance door were. There was a figure standing quite awkwardly near the coatroom, looking around in half dream-like awe.

It was.

“Isabella?” I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth. Was it true? Was it real? Surely, this wasn’t some odd illusion that the almighty God was teasing me with, was it? “Isabella!”

She turned and her eyes met mine. A small smile broke on her face, and her pretty mouth formed the word “Anneka.”

With a shriek, I flung myself at my sister and embraced her, overcome with joy when I recognized the delicious smell of mother’s cooking and Florencia’s perfume and the smell of the fire and the village. After such long months, I couldn’t imagine that my own sister was standing here, in my married home.

Timidly, my sister adjusted her arms around me, as if she couldn’t quite grasp how different I was from the young blonde girl who had shared the same straw pallet so long ago. She looked thinner, and she didn’t seem to wear so much rouge anymore. More did she resemble Mother in physical traits and her actions, like the way she nervously held me close to her.

“Oh, I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see you again,” I groaned, closing my eyes happily. Already, my mind could imagine Isabella at dinner with Solomon and I, and even in the sunroom with myself explaining the wonders of the plant world that she had always found so mysterious.

It was like a sign, a symbol from Providence. Here I had been, imagining the rest of my life as bleak and dreary monotony, and now at the very threshold of my home was my closest childhood friend, my very own blood and sister. Did this mean that something immensely new was happening? Had I broken out of the horrific cycle?

I looked expectantly at my sister’s face, as if expecting her to open her mouth and announce some great God-given judgement on my life, some great reward or gratification that was due after enduring for so long and so unhappily.

And yet, if Isabella was carrying some prophetic message, she was reluctant to say so. Because once she met my eyes and assured herself that I was her little sister, she had trouble looking at me.

“Isabella, what’s wrong? Am I not the little sister you’ve expected? Have I changed so much?” I couldn’t resist smiling and putting my arms around her again. “How is Mother? And Florencia? Oh, and Father!”

My sister’s pretty mouth formed a thin, hard line. “That’s…that’s the reason why I came, Anneka. Not just to visit you…”

“What do you mean? Why would you come here if you didn’t want to see me?” I asked, my face falling. “Isabella, are you alright? Is Mother sick?”

“No,” she said uncertainly, looking away from my searching gaze. “Not Mother.”

“What, then? Or who? Is something the matter? Did something important happen at home?”

“Anneka.” I looked at Isabella’s troubled eyes and gasped a little. “It’s Father.”

“No! Oh no, what are we to do? I’ll come home. I promise, I can come home and help you and Florry and Mother care for him, and he’ll be just as good as—“

“No, Anneka, you don’t understand.” Isabella smiled wryly. “You can’t help.”

“What? Why not? Why won’t you let me--” I couldn’t comprehend why Isabella was being so secretive.

“Anneka,” my dear sister said gently, laying a hand on mine. “Father is gone.”