In Memoriam

by Alice Winn

I do think it’s peculiar, how much more drawn people are to disaster than to beauty,

“It’s my hands I’m most worried about,” said Roseveare. “I think I could manage anything but that.” “Sight,” said Gaunt. “I’m terrified of blindness.” Ellwood’s profile was caught in light. From this angle, he looked whole, angelic. “My face,” he said. There was a long silence. “Well, you always were a vain bugger,” said Roseveare. “Glad to see nothing’s changed.” Gaunt waited for Ellwood to laugh before he let himself join in.

Gaunt was tempted to think, Even with his injury, he is handsome, but that wasn’t quite right. Ellwood wasn’t handsome despite his disfigurement. The loss of his eye had been what guaranteed his life, and so, to Gaunt, it was beautiful. He was grateful to that wound. He would not change a single, scarred inch of it.

“I think,” said Gaunt, watching her set the dollhouse to rights, “that if he gave me the smallest hope—I should wait forever.”

“Will you ever call me Sidney, do you think?” he asked. Gaunt checked to see if their butler, Luís, was near, which was ridiculous, because Luís brought them breakfast in bed every morning. “I promised myself long ago that I should never call you that unless I was sure I could keep you,” said Gaunt.

Ellwood had been unkind to his mother when he last saw her. Cold and standoffish. He had counted on having decades in which to learn how to love her again.

Gaunt stepped closer, took him by the waist, drew him near. “Call me Sidney,” said Ellwood. “Sidney,” said Gaunt, so quickly, as if he had been waiting years to say it. His hands went to Ellwood’s face, the fingers creeping under the edge of Ellwood’s mask. He pressed their foreheads together. “This means I’m keeping you,” he added, his voice fierce with warning. As if it wasn’t exactly what Ellwood wanted to hear.