"WHAT DO YOU hear, Eloise?" Benedict whispered, his voice barely above a breath.
"Nothing." Eloise replied, ear pressed up to the door. "I think she's sleeping."
"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Colin suggested, attempting to lighten the moment.
"Or a bad thing," Eloise countered, her worry pouring through the cracks of the door. "Should we go in? Perhaps she's fainted!"
"Shhh, let her be!" Benedict commanded softly, concern mingling with authority in his tone. "We shouldn't disturb her."
But the chilling reality was that every minute that ticked by heightened their fears. Each sibling cast furtive glances at one another, grappling with their own worries as they listened for any sign from Genevieve.
Just then, heavy footsteps reverberated through the hall.
"Leave her be," Anthong ordered flatly, and they fled in different directions, each absorbed in their private thoughts of Genevieve, while Anthony turned towards the door with purpose. He didn't knock; instead, he pushed it open as though ready to face whatever sadness awaited him on the other side.
Genevieve turned towards him, her doe-like eyes reflecting confusion and hurt. She sat silently in her chair, her fingers twisting nervously around the lace hem of her nightgown.
"Genevieve," he began, taking a measured step toward her, before sitting on the edge of her ornate bed. "You've been in here a long time."
"I'm... I'm fine," she replied, though her voice broke the tension like glass shattering—fragile and unexpected. She turned back to the window, trying to grasp at the need for privacy, yet yearning to be understood.
Anthony placed a hand upon her shoulder, grounding her. "You know that's not true. I can see it in your eyes."
The air felt thick with unexpressed feelings, and Genevieve's gaze lingered on the fading sunlight. It was easier to remain quiet, to suppress the tide of grief she felt after the fateful encounter in the woods. But as she sat there, something stirred within her—a desire for understanding, clarity.
"When you were born, I was the first to hold you," he began after a few moments of silence. "You were a surprise, a beautiful one. None of us expected twins, and that day, I remember looking into your tiny eyes and thinking—this child is destined for something special." His voice lowered, as though sharing a secret between the two of them alone. "I knew then that no man would ever be good enough for you."
"You can ask Mama, I declared, 'Genevieve's mine,'" he continued. "You were never just another child; to me, you have always been a force, someone to be cherished and kept safe."
"But you don't understand..." Genevieve's voice trembled. "He's different now; he's grown. And so have I. I just want to know why I can't choose who I'm allowed to be friends with."
"You remember when Father died, don't you?" Anthony asked, his expression softening. "You were just three years old, and that loss shattered all of us. But you—you were the first to run into my arms and comfort me. Even then, you were so strong, so compassionate. It's that love I wish to protect, though sometimes I know it comes off as too harsh."
"Why does love come with so many barriers?" she whispered, the question hanging heavy between them, her innocence clashing against the rigid protocols of their society.
"Because the world is cruel, Genevieve," he replied, his voice thick with understanding as he cupped her face in his hands. "And I see the dangers lurking beyond our walls. My duty is to shield you until you're ready to face it. But believe me, everything I do is for your own good."
Tears began to overflow, spilling down her cheeks as she felt the comfort of his embrace. His warmth enveloped her, dissolving some of the despair that had nested in her heart. Genevieve leaned into him, craving the security he offered, even as she felt stripped of freedom.
"You're hard on me because you care about me," she murmured, almost asking a question, searching for understanding, wanting to articulate all that churned within her.
"Of course I care. And that's why I must be hard on you." He placed a finger under her chin, tilting her gaze upwards. "But it doesn't mean I can't be gentle too."
With that, he leaned down and pressed his forehead against hers, both seeking solace and comfort that words could not provide.
"And I promise to protect you," he whispered, breaking the silence that had encased them, "from everything—especially from those who do not understand your worth, but most importantly, from a world that may try to dim your light."
Genevieve closed her eyes and let the tears flow. In the warmth of her brother's embrace, she felt the affection she craved, yet the ache for Benjamin lingered like a shadow.
"I'm sorry," she finally whispered, though the admission felt hollow against the cacophony of her sorrow. "I just wanted to see him... and I thought—"
"Genny." Anthony interrupted gently, his large hands coming to cup her tear-streaked face, the world and its consequences falling away. "I know you care for him," he conceded. "But I want you to have a beautiful life, free from—"
"From what?" she interjected, a desperate spark igniting within her. "From love? What if I do love him, Anthony? Am I just forbidden to feel? To breathe? To exist?"
The room stilled, the air thick with her pain unbound, yet unanswered questions hung heavy. Her breath quickened, unease rising. She didn't truly understand the feelings that swirled within her, a mix of infatuation and longing interwoven with confusion and fear, but the fierce determination in her gaze implored him to understand her heart.
Anthony let out a choked sound that could have wavered between a sigh and a lament of sorts. "No," he said finally, "I want more for you — like I said, the world is a cruel place. Those who love you will guard you fiercely; perhaps the harder we guard you, the more you long to be free."
"Why is love described as so beautiful and yet, it feels so ugly?" she asked softly.
Anthony held her firmly, locking his gaze onto hers. "Because it is both," he said, his voice low, as if he were sharing a precious secret. "To love is to dream of enchantment, yet to also experience devices and triggers of anguish. The trick is knowing the difference."
She wept quietly against his shoulder, surrendering to the weight of her worries as Anthony cradled her like the precious treasure she was. And though clarity was still a far-off dream, she clung to him, comforted by the fact that, if only for now, she didn't have to face it all alone.
.˚ * ꒰ঌ✦໒꒱ * ˚.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
