The Q

by Beth Brower

“I thought you were practicing the turning of the other cheek, Arch,” Quincy said as they walked towards one of the formal dining rooms. “Threatening a man’s nose doesn’t seem in line with that philosophy.” “Yes, well,” Arch stepped stiffly, his face still set, “you tend to bring my folly out in spades. Besides, where I may not raise a hand for myself, it would be a cold afternoon in hell before I wouldn’t do it for you.”

😭😭😭

“I do feel I bring out the unorthodox among the nobility of Rhysdon,” she said to Arch later. “It never quite goes as I’d expect it to.”

Before meeting you, all his grand thoughts paraded around in his head, and he was getting a few places with it, his essays catching on. But he rather fell in love with the way you worked, the way your mind relentlessly turned every stone until what you had created was perfection itself.

😭😭😭😭

The dark streets of Rhysdon did not counter her conscious melancholy, but they gave her enough space to spread the heartbreak out.

“What’s happened between us that can’t be fixed?” he asked, lifting his other hand to her face, turning it towards his own. “If you care for us, for me, as much as you care for any one of your presses, we will be fine. You will doggedly keep us working.”

And there it was, the heartbeat she had heard the night of the Fothergils’ ball, pulsing again in the shell of her ear. Quincy closed her eyes from relief. It gave her the same comfort the sound of the press gave her. It was a familiar machine.

She was so overwhelmed by the evening, so off balance. Or rather, centered in a different way. Quincy covered her face, from the sun, and the inevitable confusion of trusting someone, of caring for someone, and forgiving someone who had forgiven you. It was a wonder to Quincy, how one could feel so utterly heart-broken and bound up simultaneously.

“I have read through it twice and find myself unbearably anxious to begin again,” Arch told Quincy as they sat at dinner an hour later.

They ate at the small table of the family dining room, surrounded by its oddments and tucks. And Quincy felt that everything, even the black sphinx draped in the green scarf, was in her corner.