The Golden Thread

A/N: Recently I read A Tale of Two Cities, loved it and fell in love with Sydney Carton in quick succession. I cried quite a bit at the ending, despite the fact that I don’t normally cry when reading books, and despite the fact that I was on a crowded train at the time.

This is a bit of a missing moment, set soon after Sydney’s arrival in Paris. Kudos to those who recognize the reference to my favourite novel of all time. Please read and review!

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The Golden Thread

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Since arriving in Paris two nights ago Sydney Carton’s feet have often worn out the paving stones outside the residence of Doctor Manette and the Darnays. Usually under a night sky whose beauty is unmarred by the ugliness the city sees by day, a dark figure can be observed pacing the alleyways.

It is best if he does not call on her, best if he does not talk to her. Best if he restricts his haunting to the streets outside her house. More than anything he wants to be near her, to give her any comfort within his power, but he is afraid. Afraid that she will think that he is trying to take her husband’s place, before he is even condemned to his grave. Afraid that despite everything and despite himself, he will try.

Without his noticing it his feet have carried him to her door and his hand has raised itself of its own accord and knocked before he can stop it. At this hour he would not be surprised if nobody is awake, but the door opens and in the doorway, the light of the solitary candle within washing over her small form, is Lucie.

Unbeknownst to him, she has been waiting for a knock on the door which will restore her husband to her with the same suddenness as the one which snatched him from her only a few hours previously. When the knock does come, her expectation is unexpectedly answered.

For a split second she looks at him as if she cannot believe her tired eyes, but then she utters a low cry of mingled joy and disbelief before she throws her arms around his neck and crushes his lips to hers.

For one glorious moment, his heart soars. And then she tightens their embrace and begins to sob into his shirt. ‘Charles, I did not dare hope…’

His heart dislodges itself from his throat and sinks back past its usual place and settles somewhere around his navel. Darnay. Of course, he thinks dully.

He breaks abruptly out of her arms. ‘No,’ he says in English, hating himself. ‘Not Charles. It’s me.’

She peers more closely at his face and takes in the details that love and wishful thinking had blinded her to. Her shoulders slump and when she finally speaks, he can tell that she is trying to keep the note of accusation out of her voice. ‘Sydney,’ she says flatly.

‘Yes.’ He does not know what else to say.

She sighs and opens the door wider to admit him. She cannot muster the energy to wonder why he is here. I wish he would leave me alone, she thinks, and it is her first uncharitable thought about him. She wishes to be left in peace with her thoughts of the man who is so similar on the outside but a polar opposite on the inside; she would rather dwell on the Frenchman in prison than the Englishman on the doorstep.

He can see all this in the expressive forehead, but he refuses to let it grieve him, because suddenly his purpose is clear and he knows what he must do. Muttering some hasty words of goodbye, he turns away and hurries down the street.

Later, unbeknownst to her, the memory of her kiss will be the single golden thread running through the dark web of his fortunes.

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