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"But, Daddy," she’d said, "if I don't let my tears out, won't I drown inside?"
By a drop of her blood being brought to the light.
"How silly and selfish you must think we all are," she muttered, crumpling the paper in her fist and shutting her eyes. "Coming here to make our own wishes when you've been waiting decades for your own to be granted. When the life you led held more heartache than we’ll ever know."
"You collect them," she repeated slowly. "So I guess you're the wish collector, then?" He paused. "The wish collector. I guess I am."
him, the monster behind the wall. No, not the monster, the wish collector.
Jonah. Her wish collector. Her grit and velvet-voiced dream weaver.
“Your true love dances between moonbeams.”
Once upon a time, he had been a man used to the spotlight and now he was a man who danced between moonbeams.
My monster. My wish collector. My love.
He was leading and she was following, and in the darkness like this, with her pressed so close to him, trusting him not to let her fall, he could almost believe he’d gone back in time . . . he was just himself, just Jonah, unscarred, a man with the freedom he’d taken so much for granted once upon a time. But no, he wasn’t. He was scarred—damaged—and it hurt too much to pretend otherwise. This was his new world, but the real miracle was that Clara had come into it of her own free will, and she was holding him just as tightly in her arms as he was holding her.
He spun her past the windows emitting the barest glint of moonlight, a soft pearlescent glow barely peeking through the heavy drapes, but enough to see by if he stopped rather than spinning them back into the shadows. She laughed, pulling him closer. “You dance between moonbeams, don’t you, Jonah Chamberlain?”
“We dance between moonbeams,” he said, spinning her again. “We,” she repeated. “Yes.”
Maybe. Maybe. The one little word was so full.
He wanted her so much. So much. It pounded through his disfigured body and into his twisted soul. He loved her, and that love rang inside of him like the bells of a church on the holiest of holy days. The song echoed through his soul, a resounding chime of joy that filled the empty hollows of his lonely heart. I love you. I love you. I love you.
Maybe he wouldn’t always be slipping out of Clara’s arms before the sunrise lit the world and exposed his damaged face. Maybe . . . maybe.
She’d felt as if they were dancing together in some celestial body as he’d guided her from room to room, hopping between stairs, using them for steppingstones as he’d spun her through a midnight sky. Your true love dances between moonbeams. Ah yes, he did, didn’t he? Her wish collector
Clara sniffled on a small laugh. “That might be the tough part. He was a lawyer once. A very good one. He’s the convincing one. Not me.” “Even better. He’ll respond to a good argument. But honey, you don’t need the best presentation skills in the world to make him see the light. The truth. You just need to put the love I see in your eyes, behind your words. Make him listen to you. And if he still pushes you away, you know you did your very best, with every ounce of love in your heart. And that is where you will find your peace. He will have to find his peace on his own, in his way.”
Be wary of the man with two faces, the fortune teller had said. He’ll hurt you if you let him. Yes. Yes. Of course he would. Because broken people tended to break things, didn’t they? Clara’s father had repeated part of the fortune teller’s line. But then he’d added, so don’t let him, because he believed in her that strongly. He always, always had and because of that belief—that deep, abounding, fatherly love—Clara had striven to make her dreams come true no matter the obstacles. A shuddery breath went through Clara. She would not let him. She would fight for Jonah, and give him every reason
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She allowed herself a moment to look upon him as a whole. Uncovered. Bared to her. Finally. He had no idea how beautiful he was, scars be damned. He was hers and her love for him swelled in her chest so that she had to take a deep breath to keep from rushing to him.
Gossamer mist rose from the ground and lacy strands of moss draped from the trees, shifting gently in the breeze and creating a dreamlike quality to the woods around them. His lair, indeed, she thought, her heart skipping a beat. And God but she hoped he’d let her stay.
And I like what I see, every scar. Even more because it’s you. Not as you were then, but as you are now. It only took me a moment to merge the two. But you, you haven’t managed to do it over eight years.”
“For a man who used words for a living, your silence speaks volumes, counselor.”
She looked at him in profile, the damaged side of his face the only part she could see in that moment, and still he was beautiful. As beautiful as that photo she’d first gazed upon on the library monitor what seemed like a thousand years before. More beautiful maybe, because the scars she was looking at spoke of the fact that he’d tackled a man with a gun in his hand and a bomb strapped to his chest while everyone else was running away. It spoke of his suffering, but ultimately of his heroism, his care and concern for others, his soul, and God, she hoped those scars would speak of his triumph.
“I would have looked twice at you,” he said. “Then. Now. In any lifetime, and under the brightest of skies.” His voice was low, soft. Sad. She took his hand in hers and he tilted his head, glancing down at their laced fingers.
“It’s you who can’t handle that, Jonah. Not me. You give those people too much importance and not enough to the ones who matter.” She let go of his hand and ran her finger along the ridges of his damaged chin.
And it was suddenly clear to Clara why he still carried so much pain with him regarding his damaged face. He’d mentioned several times the way people had looked at him directly following the bombing, the horror in their gazes. He’d brushed it off, said he’d deserved it, but Clara realized now that those looks, the rejection that had come along with them when he had needed love and understanding so very much, had hurt him deep down in his heart and soul.
“Jonah,” she whispered and he met her gaze. “It’s you who doesn’t realize that you should hold your head high and wear those scars like the courageous battle wounds they are. I would walk proudly into any restaurant with you. And you would keep your eyes on me, not anyone else. On me, Jonah. And who cares if people stare? Those scars you’re so ashamed of are proof that you threw yourself at a madman while everyone else ran away.”
“You did it because those scars you’re so ashamed of caused you to suffer, yes, but also to learn and to grow and to use your pain for good.”
"There is magic. Us. We're magic. Two lonely people who found each other despite the barricade between us. I felt your heart, Jonah, even through a wall made of rock. We're magic, but you're too blind to see it. Choose to continue hiding behind the wall if you want, but don’t ever tell me there’s no magic. You’re the one who’s chosen to shut it out.”
“And you, you dishonor them and yourself by staying locked away by choice.” Jonah didn’t answer, but she could see in his posture, in the way his shoulders hunched, that he was suffering too. But if he wouldn’t do anything about it, she couldn’t force him to. She could only love him. And offer him grace. But this time, from afar.
Clara wandered away from the group, peering out of the large glass window, and for a second he swore their eyes met. She saw him, he felt it, or even if she didn’t, she still knew he was there.
“Wearing your mistakes and regrets on the outside where others can judge them. But, man, the problem is not that others judge you harshly, it’s that you believe what they say.”
“Spend that wish granting on your woman. Or hell, better yet, spend one on yourself.”
Ruben gave him a fist bump and Eddy stopped on his way out. “If anyone understands the desire to end your own life, it’s me. We met at the edge of a bridge, remember? You helped me believe that life is worth living again.” “You don’t have to worry about that, Eddy. I’m not planning to end my life.” “Aren’t you?” He looked right into Jonah’s eyes. “Locking yourself back here, isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?” Eddy gave him one final meaningful look and then followed Augustus.
The man she recognized as Jonah Chamberlain was sitting in the driver’s seat, only his profile on display. Yes, it was him. His good looks were almost shocking in their classic perfection. But as he turned his head toward her, Savannah blinked. Oh God. The left side of his face, the side that had taken the full extent of the blast was scarred and stretched over his bones as though it’d melted that way. Her heart lurched with sympathy for him, for the agonizing pain he’d obviously experienced. She slid inside of the car, turning her body so she was facing him. “Hi.” “Hi.” His hand, which had
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He paused, peering through the windshield for a weighted minute. “I want to reclaim my life.” Jonah Chamberlain flinched slightly, the shadow of what looked like old hurt flitting across his dual face, seeming to settle on his scarred side as though that was where he carried pain and always would.
"God, I'm almost too handsome," he whispered, the way he used to do for his brother’s benefit as he got ready for high school in the morning. It had annoyed Justin, and as his brother, it was Jonah’s duty to do it regularly. Humble too. Jonah smiled, hearing in his head what had always been the exchange between the brothers. A private joke. Jonah turned his face, looking at his profile from both sides, re-learning himself maybe. The thing he’d refused to do all of these years. Instead he’d used strangers’ long-ago reactions as his mirror, as the thing that spoke of his worth. Or more
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He brought his fingertips to his jaw, his cheekbone, brushing his hair back, seeing the Chamberlain widow's peak. Chamberlain. Chamberlain. A drop of her blood . . . Jonah froze. No, it couldn't . . . Holy shit. He was a drop of her blood. Angelina’s. Her father, Robert Chamberlain, had been Jonah’s sixth great-grandfather. They’d called her a Loreaux, but really, she’d been a Chamberlain. He had the same blood as Angelina running through his veins. In fact, he was the only one left who did. His father was dead, his brother was gone, his aunt Lynette hadn't had children. He was the last of the
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Jonah IS Angelina's last drop of blood. He is the answer to the riddle
That vague ticking feeling he’d shared with Clara intensified inside of him, but no, it wasn’t ticking. It was pounding. Just like the pounding of hooves in that nightmare he couldn’t seem to shake. Hurry, hurry. Don’t let it be too late. He spun around, running his fingers through his hair, gripping his head.
Could it be he's somehow an incarnation of John Whitfield? and Clara too since she feels the same ticking and hooves the way Jonah did?
A drop of her blood being brought to the light. Me finding the truth.
THE ACTUAL ANSWER TO THE RIDDLE! HIMSELF FREEING ANGELINA AND JOHN
"Did you see it?" Myrtle's voice rang out. "Oh Lordy, Lordy! Did you seem them?" Jonah staggered to his feet, turning to Myrtle. "Who?" He felt dazed, almost drugged as he looked down at the piece of paper in his hand again, marveling at what he’d found. "He picked her up. They were laughing and crying and he swung her right around, and they disappeared together into the mist. Oh Glory Be. I gotta sit down."
"This way, Jonah. Take my hand." He gasped, whipping his head around, trying to see Justin, for it had been his voice he heard. He felt his hand being pulled and lurched forward, through a space in the crowd, trying to see who was ahead of him but there were too many bodies, too much movement. "Hurry up, slowpoke. She's waiting for you." "Justin. Slow down. Let me see you."
I AM GOING TO CRY
"I love you, little brother. Live for me. Make me proud." Justin’s voice was just a whisper now as if he had moved far ahead. Jonah staggered very suddenly out of the throng, his chest heaving, turning quickly in a full circle. No one was there, yet his palm still felt warm.
YEP! I'M CRYING
Right then, he didn’t love her for how she made him feel, or how she’d inspired him, or anything else that had to do with himself. For that moment in time, Jonah just loved her for her, for Clara, for the woman who had spent hour after hour practicing so resolutely that she danced like an angel. For her heart, for her mind, for all the ways she made the world a better place by being in it. He loved her purely, deeply, and with every fiber of his being. Keep your eyes on me.
SOULMATES. THEY ARE SOULMATES 😭
Jonah reached up and the whole auditorium seemed to still as he pulled the mask up and off, dropping it on the floor beside him as he took in a shuddery breath. Clara grinned, putting her hands over her mouth as tears rolled down her cheeks. There was a collective gasp in the theater as people took in his damaged face, but he didn’t turn his gaze to any of them. He kept his eyes on her for another frozen moment as she walked to the edge of the stage, as close to him as she could get.
JONAH, BABY I AM SO PROUD OF YOU 😭
“I have so much to tell you, Clara. You won’t even believe—” She ran a thumb over his lips. “I will believe.”
OF COURSE SHE WILL BELIEVE 😭 HE'S HER OTHER HALF 😭
For impossible wishes that somehow came true.
