The House

Chapter 49 - Day 5: Love's Dream

"Was it Hugolin?" he asks, narrowing his eyes and peering at my face.

"No, it definitely wasn't Hugolin; he would never hurt me. It was the man who stabbed me..." That, right there, is the biggest problem with this story. "The man who wasn't really there before... You were there when he stabbed me, and you saw nothing... and there were no wounds... This makes no sense..."

"Perhaps it was a residual memory or something. A strong one..." David suggests, but he does not look even remotely convinced.

"A memory so strong, it dragged me from the bottom of the solarium steps all the way over the landing and down the stairs to the foyer?" Nope, there is no memory strong enough to achieve any of that, and David lowers his head to look at his fingers weaving themselves with mine. His hand is large, tanned and calloused; mine is white and fragile-looking in contrast, safely embraced inside his.

"We need to go look at what you drew," he says, trying to find a practical angle from which to handle this bizarre situation.

"I really don't want to..." 

I don't think he really wants to do that either because he is not pulling me up and taking purposeful strides to the front of the house; he just continues to sit with his head down, studying our fingers as if he finds the sight mesmerizing. I know I find it mesmerizing, but then again, I find everything about this man mesmerizing.

"So... we both heard a crash," he finally says, lifting his head to look into my eyes again.

"Yes, our stories do seem to have that in common."

"I didn't see anything that would account for that crash," he frowns, thinking about it. "Nothing fell over or broke or anything... but I didn't really look... I should take a better look."

He can try to get up and go off to take that look, but I'm not letting go of his hand. For a few minutes, I try to replay the crash I'd heard in my mind to see if I can place the noise and recognise a possible cause, but I can barely form the sound in my memory now.

"Why are you so sure that it's not Hugolin? Did you see him clearly?" David asks after a long silence, during which I thought he was trying the same experiment as me, but apparently, he was obsessing about his ancestor. "How can you be so sure that he would never hurt you?"

"Come on, David," I sigh, smiling at him, but my smile feels slightly brittle. "I felt Belle's heart; you must've felt Hugolin's. Did he feel like he would hurt anybody?"

His eyes shy away from mine, the muscles of his jaw flexing in his agitation.

"I felt my own feelings for you, Luna, not Hugolin's feelings for Belle."

"Feelings that strong after only a couple of days?"

He shrugs, wiping a hand through his hair.

"All I know is that hearing you call my name in so much terror and being unable to get to you was enough to make me lose my mind... Luna," he says, finding my eyes with his again and holding them unblinking. "It was not just the normal kind of compassionate reaction any man would have, hearing someone call for help; it was so much worse."

He reaches out, stroking a hand over my damp hair, his eyes dark pools reflecting the warmth of the kitchen light. "It sure as hell wasn't Hugolin Chevrette-Bellier's feelings I felt. The man died over 90 years ago. Those feelings were mine." He swallows, his voice turning breathless and hoarse with emotion. "I cannot lose you..."

His touching words pierce my heart, crawl inside and make it their home.

I understand what he means. For me, too, Hugolin and David are two completely different people, and only one of them has my full heart. This man, whose warm hands gently trace the contours of my face while he looks at me as if I'm something valuable to treasure, is the owner of my heart.