ultima

Ultima wasn’t a liar. The girl was straightforward and preferred to be on the simple side (she learned early on that fools got away with a scolding while clever things had to write reflections and repent), and so it was rather to her disadvantage when she saw Tilney flash by and knew irrefutably what had set fire to his heels. It was the same thing that twisted the vice around her heart, nice and tight, and it would not be denied.

Arah’s baby, she thought. The wildflower stems were sharp and sweet as she snapped them, tucking the long blooms under a wing as she picked her way through the shadiest part of the woods. That it was Tilney’s baby, too, wasn’t beyond her; she’d seen them a hundred times if she saw them once, strolling along the cliffs, decorating their little home and furnishing the nursery. Arah was beautiful as summer clouds and Ultima didn’t grudge her that. Arah had Tilney’s love and Ultima didn’t grudge her that, either; it was not the kind of love Ultima wanted from him, and so she was nothing but encouraging.

But Arah’s baby. Arah’s baby. The word made something in her ache like roaring. 

(If it was the tiny kernel of sadness that had sprouted in the desert, she didn’t admit it. She didn’t see it shove its first tender leaves through the dark earth, was too high up to see them unfurling like butterfly’s wings. Brides, after all, were the happiest girls in the world.)

No one ever spoke of it, but Ultima knew because she was a child, and children have a sense for the truth of things: she had no parents. She had Minerva and a hundred clucking ladies-in-waiting, but those weren’t parents. Tilney, warm as sunlight and quick to chide, was the closest thing she’d ever had to a father, and the idea of having to share galled her in a frightened firstborn way. If she asked herself and swore on the Altar, though, it wasn’t so much that she was here first, or any rationale so poorly cobbled together— 

It was only that she thought she needed it more. So much more that she thought her heart would crumble upon sight.

So when she did come upon the little family, scooped up into each other like nesting dolls, the sun blooming all about their heads, fine enough to be the subject of an oil painting – and the girl! that beautiful little girl! – she was stunned. She was so stunned she nearly forgot what she’d come for. 

‘Oh, thank God (may He Dream forever),’ she thought, half-stumbling with relief, ‘I didn’t crush it.’

Quiet. So soft it hurt, her every footfall painstakingly measured. Gangly as she was, she didn’t have to come too close and risk such a photo-perfect moment. Reaching under her left wing, she mouthed at and carefully procured a bundle of late summer flowers – aster, mums, clusters of sage and verbena. She set the bouquet a little ways from Arah and the babe, and stepped slowly back, “Oh, pardon,” nearly walking into Glasgow. 

‘Brides don’t cry,’ she reminded herself, the muscles of her face slipping into a perfectly crafted smile. Catching Tilney’s dewy glance, the smile broadened.

“She’s gorgeous,” the girl echoed, and was at peace.

dear god, make me a bird so i can fly far away from here