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III

Years pass, and for the most part, the two of them are happy.

Charlotte, who loves so hard it shakes her bones.

And Sabine, who answers her every whim, gifts Charlotte journals when she longs to write, and charcoals when she wants to draw, and canvas when she decides to paint.

Sabine, who stands like a shadow at her back, watching as the brush brings light and color back into the world.

Who’s read Charlotte like a book so many times she has her memorized.

Sabine, who can charm strangers with a word, a look, a turning of her cheek, whose temper kindles quick, but whose laugh is rare as diamonds, and whose attention still feels like standing in a pool of light.

Sabine, who steals with her through moonlit gardens and museums, hides among the sculptures as if she could ever blend in. Who dances barefoot through every room to music only she can hear, and who makes every night feel new, which is no small feat after so many years.

Sabine, who often fondles one of the tokens she wears around her neck, staring past it as if reliving the hunt, the kill, and who begins to sleep so deep sometimes it frightens her, the way her cheeks look sunken, the way, without the reassuring rise and fall of breath, the rest resembles death and Charlotte, unsettled, twists and turns until she stirs.

Sabine, who still knows how to make Charlotte blush, and shiver, and delight. How to unravel her, kiss by kiss, until she comes apart. Who sometimes in the heat of passion bites too deep, drinks enough to leave her dizzy, weak.

And who once—and only once—held Charlotte down too hard in bed, and left bruises on her wrists.

And even though they faded instantly, the next night the air around them prickled with guilt, and Sabine made amends by telling Charlotte a story from her life before their life, when she was called María, and Charlotte thought it was a gift, that name, and the next night called her by it, and the look on her lover’s face was black enough to frighten her.

Enough to make her waver.

But Sabine, Sabine is there to steady Charlotte.

To kiss away the worries.

To vow that nothing bad will ever happen, so long as they’re together.

Paris, France

1914

And then, the world goes to war.

It is not the first time, of course, and it will not be the last, but this time it is a horror on a scale that even in her violent century Charlotte has never seen or known or felt.

And she does feel it, no matter where they go.

The weight of thousands frightened, wounded, grieving, is too much, even for her tried and tested soul.

A ceaseless suffering, without reprieve.

She has always had a fragile heart, but now it feels like it is splintering.

She wakes to find her pillowcase stained red, from crying in her sleep, while Sabine grows impatient and annoyed.

Charlotte leaves their borrowed rooms at dusk, and walks, and walks, desperate to feel a thread of hope, hidden like contraband among the dire mood.

She stops before a Parisian printer’s shop, watches as a man with black-stained hands pulls a lever, a ream of paper flying past. The headlines printed heavy, black.

A tally of the dead and damned. The horror coats her skin like ink, follows her back to the pied-à-terre they’ve taken, right along the Seine.

She finds her lover leaning elbows on the iron rail, taking the night air. Sabine, who somehow despite it all remains unbothered. As if the cloud of constant anguish does not touch her. As if she can simply block the sorrows out.

Charlotte wishes she could do something to help the cause, but when she tells Sabine, she is met with mocking laughter.

“Who do you think,” she says, “has killed more Englishmen this year? You or Germany?”

“That isn’t fair,” snaps Charlotte.

“Tell me, do you keep a running tab?”

Charlotte turns away, as if to block her out.

Sabine takes her by the shoulders, bends to whisper in her ear, and Charlotte assumes it will be something soft and soothing. But when she speaks, her voice is harsh. “This guilt is growing tiresome.”

Charlotte winces, shakes her off, arms wrapped tight around herself. “And yet, I thought you loved me for my feelings.”

Frustration flashes across Sabine’s face. She shakes her head. “Go ahead, become a medic. Join the nursing corps. I’m sure the many bleeding wounded will feel safe under your care.”

“You are being cruel.”

Sabine’s eyes burn into hers. “I am being honest, Charlotte. You cling to the suffering, you make it yours, as if you think you must. As if you think that it will somehow keep you human, but it can’t, because the human part of you is dead. ”

Charlotte flinches as if struck, the word ringing through the room, her head.

Silence stretches in the wake, and then Sabine sighs.

“Their pain does not hurt me, but yours does.”

She draws Charlotte in, and Charlotte lets her. Buries her face in Sabine’s shoulder, clings to the familiar scent as the long fingers stroke her hair.

“You are right,” she murmurs. “I loved, and still love you for your heart. But I hate to see you suffer. Especially when it does no good.”

“The world is so dark,” whispers Charlotte. “So full of death. There must be something we can do.”

Sabine brings her fingertips to Charlotte’s chin, and lifts her face.

“Yes,” she says, “we can live.”