Page 114 of Exquisite Things

“We have that opportunity now, don’t we?” he asks.

“I think we do,” I say. “No one will be chasing us once they notice we’ve been stripped of our magic.”

Bram kisses me gently. He lays his head on my shoulder and whispers. “You haven’t been stripped of any magic, Oliver. You were magic when I first met you. Your open heart. Your curiosity. Your innocence in a hard world. That’s your magic. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

We hold each other for seconds that feel like centuries. Accepting a new kind of love. A different fate than the one we had made unstable peace with.

Finally, he asks, “Oliver, where do we go next? What do we do?”

“Let’s decide in the morning,” I say. “With clear heads. Enough has happened for one day.”

“Enough has happened for a hundred lifetimes.” His eyes are moist. I like his eyes this way. No fire blazing within them. Just a lust for life and all it has to offer. We linger by the river until the memorial crew leaves.

We approach the Thames when the coast is clear. Quietly pay our respects to Lily before heading to his suite. We sleep in the king-sized bed.

The next morning, we pack our bags. We don’t know where we’re heading yet. But we’ve decided to leave together.

As Bram checks out at reception, I see a man reading the newspaper in the lobby. In a small box at the very bottom of the front page is a headline.

Whitman & Whitman has purchased Oscar Wilde’s original manuscript forThe Picture of Dorian Grayfrom the Morgan Library & Museum in New York. Is the Whitman family making moves to open its own museum? More on page seventeen.

So Jack’s children finally found out what the magic pages are. Jack must have told them paper was involved. They must have been waiting for us to return to London for Lily’s memorial. Must have managed to spy on us in the hotel room. That red light in the corner of the ceiling. That was them. Jack’s greedy heirs. Finally understanding they needed to get their hands on Wilde’s manuscript. Perhaps they will be granted eternal youth. Perhaps they will find a way to mass produce it.

Or perhaps they won’t. My heart tells me that Wilde’s power can only be transferred to those who truly wish, with all their hearts, for the same thing Wilde must have wished for himself. A time and place where the wisher’s love is not a crime. I don’t tell Bram about the newspaper headline. He’ll find out soon enough.

When Bram is finished checking out, he finds me and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “So, where to?”

“Paris?” I suggest. “We were meant to go there together once. It never did happen.”

“Everything in its time,” Bram says.

We step out of the hotel. The sun is shining. Blazing. Spring will always be spring. A season for new beginnings, when nature exhales and stretches. When the buds bloom and the colors radiate. When the clouds part and allow the sun to illuminate life for those stuck in the darkness. This beautiful season that feels orchestral each time it arrives.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Bram asks.

“What?”

“Life,” he says. “To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people just exist.” Of course he quotes Wilde in this moment.

I take his hand in mine. “But we haven’t lived yet. Part of living is aging.”

He clutches me tight. “Let’s grow old. Together.”

All around us, people enjoy the day. They know the summers are getting hotter. They know a brutal winter is always around the corner. They’re wise enough to appreciate the blooms when they come to them.

Everything in its time.