Page 62 of Exquisite Things

Tobi stares into the fire, mulling what to do next. To be immortal or not to be immortal? That is his question. “Lily is always

right,” he whispers to himself. Then he turns to us. “Have you ever thought about how to reverse the curse?”

Bram nods. “I figured that burning the page might reverse it, but then... if that were the case, my immortality would’ve

been reversed when I burned the page that turned Oliver.”

“Water,” Tobi says. “Water is the opposite of fire, isn’t it?”

“In a way,” Bram says.

“It puts a fire out,” Tobi says. “It heals. Lily baptized me in water.”

“Me too,” Bram says.

I find myself traveling back in time. Mother is by my side. By the Charles. The river she loved so much. We’re in Provincetown

again. Staring out at the Atlantic. The endless possibilities it offered us in that moment. “Land’s end,” I say to Mother

as much as to Bram and Tobi. “A new beginning.”

Tobi walks to the suite’s teakettle. Fills it. We wait for it to boil. When it does, he pours us each a cup of piping-hot

water.

“What do we do?” Bram asks.

“Put the last page in the water,” Tobi suggests. “It’s worth a shot.”

I tear the page in two. Hand one half to Bram. Keep the other in my grip. Wilde’s words are like a challenge.

In my hand, You poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that.

In Bram’s hand, The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.

I crumple the paper. Bram rips his piece into shreds. We place the paper in our teacups. Bram raises his cup high. “High tea

at Claridge’s again. Remember?”

I shake my head. “Of course I remember. I remember everything.”

“The good and the bad.”

“Mostly the good,” I say.

“Cheers to that.” Bram raises his cup.

We clink our glasses.

“Drink it,” Tobi suggests.

“Wait!” Bram yells.

“What?” I ask.

“We need to speak the wish. And mean it.” With longing in his voice, he utters, “I wish for one mortal life. To be alive,

truly alive, in this time and only this time. Please.”

I feel my throat go dry. Imagine him making the opposite wish one hundred and thirty years ago in this very room. My beautiful

Bram, Shams, Shahriar. How he’s changed. I swallow hard before repeating, “I wish for one mortal life. To be alive, truly

alive, in this time and only this time. Please.”

And so we drink.

At first, nothing happens.

“I don’t think it worked,” Bram says. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I wanted you to be free of this at last. All I want is—”

“Bram!” It happens suddenly. His eyes. They don’t glow any longer. They’re just brown. Not feline. “Your eyes” is all I manage

to say.

Bram blinks rapidly. “I feel different,” he says. He gazes into my eyes and gasps. “Your beautiful eyes!”

Something in us has changed. I feel it in my bones. In the beating of my heart. We’re still seventeen, but not for long. We’re

not immortal anymore.

“It’s over, isn’t it?” I ask.

I smile as mortality floods my body. All this time. These years and years and more years. This century of loneliness, with

brief bursts of love and happiness and music, like sunlight in a perpetually cloudy sky.

This feels like clouds parting.

Like a big bang.

Like being born anew.

Tears flood my eyes. Water flows down my face. Heals me.

“It’s a new beginning,” I say.

He says, “It’s our chance to finally get it right.”

He takes me in his arms and kisses me. I let myself get lost in time.

We’re by the Charles River. We’re in Provincetown.

We’re dancing at the Blitz. At Pearl’s. We’re here and there and everywhere.

We’re then and now. We both feel it, our past and our future spinning in this very moment.

We’re us, but we’re also all the young lovers.

All the ones who came before and all the ones who will come after.

We’re princes who got their fairy-tale ending.

Except it’s not an ending. It’s just a moment, like all the other moments, and in the moment is joy and pain, connection and loneliness, and the acceptance that someday there will be an end to our story, and the beginning of another story.

How beautiful that is. How beautiful we are, we flawed humans who have the privilege of choosing each other, of bestowing our love on each other.

As we leave, Bram takes one last look at the suite where his life now changed twice. I see a small red light in the corner

of the ceiling. Strange , I think. But then I tell myself it’s some sort of fire alarm. Security mechanism. Modern technology.

We run to the Thames. We make it in time to see Maud, Archie, Azalea, Poppy, and Blossom throw Lily’s ashes into the river.

We watch as Lily becomes one with the water. Tobi leaves us to rejoin them. They’re his family now. Not ours any longer. Our

life will begin again. Somewhere new. Until it ends and life leaves us in peace.

“Should we try to see Maud and Archie before we leave?” Bram asks.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “I think we should let them grieve Lily in peace. Without making it all about us.”

“Right.” Bram nods. “I miss them.”

“Me too.”

“I’ve missed you.”

I smile. “Me too.”

“Oliver,” he says quietly. I sense a troubled heart beating in his chest. “I love you,” he declares. Before I can tell him

I love him too, he continues. “But I understand if you want to live this mortal life without me. You deserve happiness. Uncomplicated

love. Peace. If you want to part ways, I’ll understand. I’ll cheer you on. I’ll—”

“Bram, stop.” I put a hand on his cheek. A single tear from his right eye falls onto my fingers. “I can’t imagine my life with anyone but you.”

“But—” Another tear. And another. “I ruined your life. I cursed you.”

“I made the wish, didn’t I?” I suddenly realize that all these years, these decades, this century, I’ve blamed Bram. But I

wanted this. I wished for it with all my heart. Perhaps the magic of the burning page would have been useless had I not craved its

promises. “You’re brave. You’re unafraid to dream. You led me toward love and honesty and new horizons. I need you, Bram.

I always have. I think in some ways... when I made that wish... what I was truly wishing for was the opportunity to

grow old with you without fear.”

“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 for The Picture of Dorian Gray from 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.