Symphony of Lilacs

40. Forged from Blood, Sweat and Tears

My fingers run through Tilda's loosened, wavy hair— as if they were passing through a crystal clear stream— while her head rests on my chest. The both of us sit beneath one of the trees surrounding the lilac garden.

Mathilda shifts, straightening herself. As her lips curl, Mathilda's palm goes to her hair. "I wonder how difficult it was to unclip my hair."

Smiling, I point to my fallen coat some distance from us. "About as difficult as pulling that off."

I don't know how someone can become so much more beautiful by laughing, but Mathilda does the exact same when she does. Like right now. Then her gaze travels to the lilac garden behind us, the smile never leaving.
"What do you suppose we do now?"

I shrug. "I frankly never thought I'd make it this far without getting slapped."

Mathilda rolls her eyes.
"Now I'd never slap someone..." She then considers for a moment. "I would only name the villain of my next novel after my offender."

I run my thumb across her cheek.
"People like me are mostly side characters, my love."

"Says the person who goes incognito to solve mysteries." Mathilda shakes her head.

That makes me tilt my head to the side. "You said something earlier, how you thought I was the same as you." A slight redness arises in my own ears. "How did you know that?"

Mathilda leans into my chest, picking at the ends of her hair. "I can't quite describe it, but I had this sense, this intuition, that you were. I sound like Keats at the moment, but that's the truth."

I nod, a small smile spreading on my lips, remembering all the people I had that same intuition for. However, for her, I thought I might be too hopeful, too optimistic. I suppose I wasn't. A question, however, arises. "Does anyone else know? From your family?"

To my surprise, Mathilda actually nods, a small smile playing on her lips, one I wish I could paint and remember forever. "Mama and Della do. They... they still love me and for that I am grateful of my fate."

A family forged from blood, sweat and tears only...

"Does... does anyone of your family know about this?" She turns around in my arms, looking back at me, her bright brown eyes again remind me of one of the books in the library. However, within that memory, a memory, an old scar erupts in my mind. One from years ago that buried within a dark cage like a bird with broken wings.

"Never do that, never. Not in front of me nor behind my back."

"Henry knows, and my father. Henry... that boy is a part of me and he understood... but Father ..." I sigh, "I don't quite want to talk about him right now, my father. He can make a perfectly good macaroon turn sour." I try joking, but Mathilda sees through it. We don't say anything more, but the silence between us is like the sound of wind rustling across lilac gardens. No matter how long I'd like this moment to last, it ends, the both of us standing. Another memory lashes through my head.

A man behind bars; a little girl in front of them; forged handwriting...

Now is not the time for such thoughts.

Mathilda tilts her head, taking me back to reality.
A few birds chirp above us, and a single caw comes from afar. Its illusion mingles with the rest of the birds, so inaudible now that I'm unsure whether I imagined it or not, almost like a lost memory.

"And in the morning, 'There will be a storm today, for the sky is red and threatening.'"

Despite the thought, we both stand up. The fallen leaves rustle beneath us, as I take my coat from the ground. Tilda's smile descends into a frown momentarily, our expressions mirroring one another. The thought of a woman in a rocking chair also wanders into my mind, one looking out of her smog encrusted window.