But all I could see was Noc in his trousers.
And all I could hear was Noc dragging a chair over to mine.
“You good?” he asked.
“I am,” I answered the window.
“Should you be sitting up?” he asked.
“The physician seemed to think so, considering it was his suggestion.”
“Is that pillow you got behind you fluffy enough?” Noc pressed.
Proof.
Friendliness and sociability, not to mention kindness, were frustrating.
And nauseating.
(I told myself).
Slowly, I turned my eyes to him. “No, it’s hard and chafing. But considering I’ve just ordered Josette to bring me a hair shirt so I can continue my self-flagellation at higher levels of discomfort, I think it will suffice.”
Noc flashed me a smile. “You’re bein’ funny so I see you’re good.”
Somehow, I continued to give myself away.
I sighed heavily and turned my attention back to the window, announcing, “I had intended to read.”
“Then read.”
I looked back at him. “Alone.”
“Then read alone. I’ll run down to the library, find a book, come up and do it with you.”
I tipped my head to the side. “You do have the word alone in your world, do you not?”
“Sure we do,” he replied amiably. “But figure, you got your head in a book, you’re always alone, even if someone’s with you.”
If one did indeed have their head in a book, he was quite right.
I shifted my gaze back to the window.
“Your book’s not out the window, Frannie.”
Gods, that name.
“The green witch has disappeared,” I stated, my curiosity at said disappearance getting the better of me for I knew I should say nothing that might strike up discourse. Even though I needed to say nothing to strike up discourse, Noc was adept at doing that all on his own.
“She has. According to the others, this is her way. She comes and goes as she pleases.”
I did not turn away from the window when I asked, “With the troubles over, is she gone for good?”
“According to Lavinia, she reckons Valentine will be back. When? That’s anybody’s guess.”
I said nothing for a long time, struggling with my thoughts that I found the green witch fascinating, and of all my visitors these last days, she was the one I’d actually wish to have.
I became cognizant of my reflection in the window, the chill coming off the glass, cooling my shoulder.
I needed my shawl.
I needed peace and quiet.
I needed my own company.
I needed…
“I can’t picture him,” I declared for reasons unknown, likely because taking in all this sociability and outgoingness was making me daft.
“Say again?” Noc asked.
“I can’t picture him,” I shared insanely. “Antoine. It’s difficult to call him up. I might focus in on a feature, but it’s elusive. The rest, hazy.”
“Right, see you might not be good,” he muttered.
He was correct.
I fought my shoulders slumping, and not simply because that minute movement might cause pain, but of what it would betray to Noc. A physical habit, this subterfuge, for even as I fought it, my mouth kept giving him what was in my head.
“I should have hired a portrait artist,” I said faintly to the window. “Twenty of them. Hundreds of them. I don’t have a single image of him and my mind is failing too soon.” My voice fell to a whisper. “Too, too soon.”
I was startled when Noc took my hand. I looked down to it and up to him to see he’d drawn his chair even closer, we were but inches away, and he was holding my hand in a warm, firm grip.
“He wasn’t what he looked like, baby,” he said gently. “He was always only what he made you feel. And I bet that isn’t failing.”
Looking into his startling blue eyes, eyes I knew instinctively I’d never forget, not for a moment, I feared he was wrong.
I slipped my hand from his grip, placed the ribbon back into the book, shut it smartly and again turned to the window.
“Am I right?” Noc pushed.
“He deserves more,” I replied, not looking at him. “He deserves to have every memory held precious.”
“Memories are what they made you feel too, sweetheart. But Franka,” not attempting to grab my hand again, he curled his long fingers around my knee, “if you hold on too tight, you won’t let go. You don’t let go, you don’t move on. You gotta hold on to what you can have, the good you got from him, how that made you feel, but hold on loose, baby, so you don’t miss out on what might be in store.”
I felt a tinge of pain in my back as my attention jerked again to Noc.
“And you assume I wish to move on?”
“Not now, maybe,” he said. “It’s too fresh. But someday, yes.”
“Well, you’d be wrong,” I snapped.
“And what would Antoine think of that?”
I shut my mouth and yet again diverted my gaze to the window, for I knew exactly what Antoine would think of that.
And it wasn’t much.
He lived life to its fullest. He loved life. He taught me to do the same (when I was with him).
He’d be disappointed if I did not continue on in that vein, now even more so without the threat of my parents clouding my every move.
Noc gave my knee a squeeze. “This shit, it’s not for now, Frannie. This shit, you think on in the future. They say there’re five stages of grief. Wasn’t around you to know if you hit the first, which is denial. But I know you worked through anger with the revenge you played out on those witches. Maybe you did the bargaining but it seems to me you’re in the depression stage now and you just gotta feel it. Don’t fight it. It’s gonna suck. But then you’ll get through that, get to the last stage, and accept it.”