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The candle shakes, her hands quivering as she creeps up the stairs. The wood creaks and groans underfoot, despite her best efforts to remain inconspicuous.
Sue couldn’t fathom a specific reason for her hands to be shaking right now, for she had done this particular journey up to Emily’s bedroom countless times, for countless reasons, before. She had almost memorised where and when to place the balls and arches of her feet so as not to draw attention to herself, so the wood doesn’t betray her sneaking about. Almost. Evidently tonight wasn’t one of the times that luck would be on her side.
Sue didn’t want to admit that the shakiness was a by-product of her own apprehensiveness. Because, in doing so, she would be manifesting her own guilt over the evening’s event—admitting to bearing witness to a multitude of altogether bad things. But mostly, she was nervous because of the fact she had no notion of what to expect Emily to be like when she gets to her door—her father had just, very publicly, and extremely venomously, insulted the very essence of Emily’s being, by denouncing what is most sacred to her: poetry.
She took a breath when she got to the door. Where there would usually be a faint crack of candlelight, there was only a deep void of darkness. Strange. Emily was usually up, even at this hour, scribbling away on anything and everything that she could find, be it envelopes, cards, notes, even napkins. But not tonight.
Sue reached out into the blackness and gently pushed open the door a fraction.
“Emily?” Her voice was consumed with worry as the word floated around in the darkness.
“Sue.” A faint, nearly imperceptible but still unmistakable voice replied. Normally Emily’s affirmation of the fact that it was Sue would be synonymous for Sue being invited inside. This time she wasn’t so sure, for the voice was almost devoid of any emotion.
“Can I come in?”
The reply was a grumble. Sue thought Emily had said “You don’t have to ask,” but she could have been mistaken.
Deciding to embrace the idea that Emily had, in not so many words, invited her in, Sue ventured inside. Her hands still shook.
She heard a faint rustling of sheets as Emily scrambled around, turning and sitting up to face her entrance. Gently, so as not to make a sound, Sue set the candle down on the side table, the flame illuminating the empty wood. She noticed, with a frown, that where there would normally be a pile of pages, each carefully emblazoned with Emily’s most unique slanted script, there was nothing.
Sue wanted to say that she knew it was for her, and that she thought it was so beautiful she wept for hours after everyone else had retired upstairs, and that she wanted to scream at Emily's father, at the whole of Amherst, at the whole of the world for not allowing Emily's soul to be free. She said one of these things.
“That was a beautiful poem, Em.” Sue was sitting rather timidly on the edge of the bed but the slight quiver in her voice betrayed an earnest quality to the statement, not gone amiss by Emily.
Emily rolled over, still clutching the white cotton sheets which she pulled along with her. She released a dramatic sigh, lifting her head up for a brief moment, “I know.”
Sue smiled, this playful arrogance meant that there was some spark left in her yet.
Emily rose, slowly and lethargically and then, deciding against it, fell back down onto the bed in a resounding, almost pitious, huff. There was a slight change in her demeanour from the confidence she exuded mere seconds ago, as she mumbled, “It’s a pity Austin wrote in and not me.”
“Oh, Emily.” She tried to console her, shifting her position so that she was sitting, cross-legged facing what would be Emily’s face had it not been face-down on the pillow, brown hair splayed everywhere like the bough of a river as it converged into multiple streams.
Sue could talk for hours on end about the outright injustice of this sentiment, of Emily’s father’s ignorance, until her throat was dry and her lips were cracked. The two of them have had endless enlightening discussions about it. Many of which have only finished when they recognized that the light threatening to emerge from the cover of the curtains was the sun rising. But this time, she acknowledged, was not going to be one of those other times. This time three syllables was all she could muster. It’s all Emily could handle in her present emotional state.
Something tightened in her chest as Sue looked on the girl in front of her. A distinct feeling of sadness permeated the scene. Whatever had happened tonight must have profoundly impacted Emily if she was acting like this—though Sue was the first to admit that Emily could be melodramatic, oftentimes overtly so, her present level of solemness was worrying.
Sue reached out and slowly began to caress Emily’s hair. How she loved her hair. An overwhelming solemness overtook her then, a bittersweet souring of the air as she was overcome with a symphony of knowledge: that this fleeting moment would be exactly that, fleeting. This situation would never be the same again—the two of them were alone, although with a heavy tinge of melancholy, they were alone, with the world at their feet.
Sue hadn’t realised that her hands had stopped softly playing with her hair until Emily sighed and turned over, facing Sue, propping herself up on pointy elbows.
“Cafuné,” Emily said pointedly, breaking Sue from the fog of her forlorn thoughts.
“What?” Sue asked, somewhat confused at the sudden use of a language that, she assumed, wasn’t English.
“Portuguese.” Emily explained, “It means to tenderly run someone's fingers through your hair.”
“Ah. I see.” Sue paused, lips curved in a half smile. “Was that a hint?”
“It could be, I suppose.” Emily picked at the threads on the sheets, not meeting Sue’s thoughtful gaze.
“You suppose?” Two could play at being coy, Sue thought.
They turned to face each other, one on one, and it was like they were playing some unspoken game of chess. At least, that’s what it felt like to Sue.
“I’m sorry, Emily.” Sue said, and she meant it.
“For what?”
“For earlier, at dinner. I’m sorry for what happened. And I’m sorry for whatever must have happened afterwards.”
They stared at each other for a long time then. The dim candlelight made Emily’s features soft. Sue couldn’t tell if she was relieved or disappointed she couldn’t see Emily’s eyes in the low light, couldn’t pick out the speckles of gold flecks in her brown eyes. Sue wondered what the word ‘brown’ even meant, for Emily’s eyes could never be reduced to one word. They were a million hues, they were the forest and the autumnal leaves, the soil in summer and after it rains.
The atmosphere had now changed to a kind of charged electric undercurrent, prickling the air. Thick with tension, anguish, with unspoken feelings, and fevered desires.
The sound of Emily’s heart thudding in her chest, heavy and low, drowned out the panic in her mind. She felt like she was underwater. She was drowning. Sue’s touch was the dappled sunlight streaming through the glimmering sea as she frantically swam up and up, though her arms were heavy as led. Sue was now very, very conscious of the slight movement of each of their heads edging closer together, and as Emily’s shimmering eyes flitted down to Sue’s lips, Sue raised a tender hand, cupping her cheek to bring her closer. Emily winced slightly at Sue’s touch, and Sue immediately pulled away as if she had been stung.
*******
Sue was unsuccessfully fighting the urge to shut her eyes and succumb to sleep. Next to her, Emily was wide awake as usual, never being able to sleep when she’s laying with Sue. This particular affliction meant she often just spent the whole night gazing at Sue as she flitted in and out of consciousness. She gazed at her skin, studied her slightly parted lips with a rapt, wondrous attention as she listened to her soft breaths. Emily thought of all the cliches to describe this moment at once, but they could and would not even come close to describe the beauty that Emily was so, so privileged, to be witnessing. Not even Shakespeare. Not even Sonnet 17, a favourite of Emily’s that she had recited to Sue on many times:
‘If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
But tonight, she so desperately wished, with fibre of her being, that she could just sleep. Oh, she was so tired. The day’s events, her father specifically, had made her weary. Weary of this world, of its injustices. Though she could not claim to know of the world, which was perhaps the biggest injustice of them all. Instead, these four walls, this tiny village, was her everything she will, probably ever know, ever get to see. And she was so tired of it. Weary of this house; her home. She wanted nothing more to be out of it, away from the wretched silences, the endlessly creaking floorboards, the stifled tension of her mother and father’s marriage. How blissful it would be if Sue and her ran away together, Emily imagined all the places they would go, the sights they would see. How she would love to see the Basilica di San Marco, the ruins of Pompeii, the Acropolis of Athens. None, in all their glory and wonderment, could ever compare to Sue, of course. For in Emily’s mind, Sue was the eighth wonder of the world. Euphoria would be to just fall off the edge of the earth, together. But instead she was restless. Restless laying next to Sue. She could get no peace in sleep, for it would not come. She wondered if this was what love was supposed to feel like.
Sue became aware, somewhere subconsciously, of a presence, watching her. It was probably more to do with Emily whispering poetry under her breath—or at least, that’s what semi-conscious Sue thought it was—under her breath.
“It's all I have to bring today—
This, and my heart beside—
This, and my heart, and all the fields—
And all the meadows wide—”
Sue’s eyes slowly opened to find Emily staring back at her.
A wry smile formed on Sue’s lips. “Were you watching me sleep?” She asked.
“Yes.” Emily’s earnest reply came.