Never Tell a Soul, Damon Priest

15. the gentlemen with pebbles

Leaving the party, Damon took Maple through the woods and up to the direction of Windsong. Geneva's laughter had died down, replaced by total silence. She did not question when he rode up the hill, which was a little curious. She always questioned his plans.

It would help if he could look into her face, but she was behind him. All he could judge was her grip around his waist. It was tight, her hands clasped tightly together. He covered it with one hand. "Are you alright?" he asked over his shoulder.

He felt her nod, felt the brush of her hair on his shoulder.

When they reached Windsong, he tethered the horse. He reached for her and when her feet landed on the ground, he did not let go. He tilted her chin up with one finger and peered at her face.

She was crying.

"Of course, you're not fine," he whispered with a sigh, pulling her head against his chest. "When someone asks, the answer is not always yes, Geneva."

She sniffled, her whimper muffled by his coat.

"Now, tell me. What is it?" he asked, pulling back. "Is it your Aunt Deborah?"

Her eyes fluttered open, damp lashes stuck together. "She's worse."

He took her hand and led her to the garden and back inside the foliage of the willow tree. They sat in silence for a while. She cried and he listened, letting the soft night wind do its magic. It swayed the foliage, rustled the grass and fallen leaves. It dried her tears.

Sitting not too close, he did not touch her. Instead, he leaned his arms on his knees. The only way he dealt with his own grief was with silence. While Simone and Lydia held on to each other, refusing to go anywhere alone, Harry and Webster went on to take over their parent's estates and businesses. It worked for them to be busy. Gale and Price saw friends and explored Abberton. He on the other hand searched for places where he could be alone. To think, to remember and question. To be angry, or to be anything.

"They had not told me what the doctor said. Not yet, anyway," Geneva said, breaking the silence. "But I saw it in their faces when I came to greet them. Aunt Deborah... I could barely recognize her. Her face is almost hollow, her words barely a whisper."

Damon reached for her hand and gently squeezed. "I'm sorry that you had to go through the play after that."

"No, I wanted to come." She sniffled. "I wanted to play the princess."

He smiled, giving her hand another squeeze. "You should spend more time with her." At his words, she started crying again. "Cherish every moment."

"There might still be a chance. She might still get well. The doctor may have suggested something."

He slowly nodded. "Then you must do what you could. Give your aunt her best chances. Or her best time."

"I'll try."

"And don't cry too much in front of her," he said in jest, bending low to peer at her face and wipe her tears. "It will break her heart."

"I never cry in front of them," she said. "You must think me insane."

"Why? Because you cry in front of me?"

"Well, yes."

"We have tears for a reason, Geneva. They don't exist to be stored away."

"I know," she weakly said, turning her head to face him. "Why are you so nice to me?"

He sighed. "You sometimes ask the foolish questions."

She laughed. "I suppose I do." Turning away, she stared at the silhouette of the foliage, watched it sway in midair, the tips nearly brushing the ground. All the while, Damon watched her.