George felt for the weight of his Aunt’s hand behind his eyes and tried to breathe just slowly enough to find her touch again. He could not see her skin. He had known she was very ill. But it was the weightlessness of her palm in his hand that had attacked at his heart. He had held onto her gently. Their farewell coiled monstruously in the pit of his stomach. Waiting. Everything felt fuzzy around the edges and he bent his head to hers and the electricity had scratched randomly at his face. His mouth whispered her secret name again and again into her cheek. He wanted her to promise him anything for as long as she could.
Please.
The light in the room had given them both freckles thought Demeter. Scattered freckles of colour which moved up and down their hair so that Demeter felt she was in some magical fairground ride. He was more definite than she ever could be. His was a warrior love. He risked things. Demeter leant her back against the old wardrobe, steadying her own desire to laugh at the uttter incongruity of death.
But she did not laugh. For George looked up and saved her because no one had ever dared to look at her like that. His eyes knew what she was and he forgave her anyway. And he was about to lose what he had felt was invincible.
Demeter saw his desperate courage and threw out his name to him, from a place she never knew she had. She would catch him and he would know it. The velvet darkness of his eyes stepped into hers, found her and wept.
