Saturday's Lady

Nineteen

The next week passed quietly. Emma did her chores without complaint, she sang the same songs as always when she worked, and she never forgot her American accent. There wasn't a need for it when she was just hanging laundry with Abigail, but she couldn't take the risk of slipping at a party. If she got used to switching now, she might switch at a dance, and that would be no good for anyone!

On Sunday nights Andrei would come over to sit in the parlour, and they would play chess, or talk, or sometimes just read silently in opposite chairs. It was Emma's favorite day of the week. She might have had to use a fake accent, and a fake name, but she felt she could be herself in every other aspect. She felt almost completely safe with him.

Of course there was a nasty voice in her head that told her he would hate her if he really knew who she was.

But this is who I am, she thought, I left behind my old life a long time ago. This is my life now, and Andrei knows me and not just a name.

You have left your old life, the voice responded, but has it left you?

"Emma?" came Andrei's voice. "Are you alright?"

She looked up at him. "Just a bit tired, I think. I'm sorry."

He cocked his head, his brow furrowed. "Are you sure?"

She nodded with a smile, turning the page of her book-- she hadn't comprehended a single word. "Really. I just got lost in thought."

He looked at her for another moment before going back to his book. Emma didn't look away.

The firelight cast a soft light on Andrei's relaxed frame-- on the way his dark hair curled against his forehead, how he leaned on one chair arm with his chin in his hand. Emma realised how straight his jaw was, how high his cheekbones were--

What are you doing? she thought, hurriedly looking down at her book, blushing. You are not going to fall in love with him. This is not a romance novel, Emma.

"Andrei?"

He looked up at her.

"Why do you keep coming?" she asked softly, closing her book. "Not that I want you to stop, I love your visits! But why? Aren't there better things you could be doing with your time? Better people to see?"

"I can't think of anyone," he replied equally softly, closing his book. "You're a remarkable girl, Emma. I love being around someone who can talk about everything. You have so many good ideas! I value your help more than I say, and I'm sorry I don't appreciate you more." He chuckled, looking down and then back up. "I will admit, too, that it's good to be around someone who doesn't always beg for attention. It's nice just to be in the same room as you, reading our separate books. You don't expect me to be perfect, and I don't expect it of you either."

"You're the best friend I've ever had," she said with reverence, looking down. 

She looked back up again to see his face flinch, but he covered it up quickly with a smile. "You are too." Did he sound a little sad?

"Do you think people talk?" She couldn't believe the words were coming out of her mouth, but she couldn't stop them. 

"About what?" He looked into her eyes, searching.

"About this, about you and me. Surely someone must know you come over so often. Word gets around so fast."

"My sister might have said something, but I'm not ashamed of anything. I want--" He stopped himself and turned to the fireplace. "I like being here with you."

"But where is it going?"

He turned to her. His eyes were like some sort of bird, trapped in a cage. "I thought you just wanted to be friends."