Warmth emanated from him as he led her back into his house, positioning himself as a windbreak.
Knowing that he was a dangerous man, Mira felt safe by his side, safer than she had been for a while, as if the sky could fall, and the earth crumble, yet she could still fall into his arms and take refuge. She clung to the warmth. An uncharted territory that felt all too new to her, and she couldn't help but be drawn to it. Curiosity kills the cat, perhaps. But didn't they also say that a cat has nine lives?
When they passed the atrium, the stoic bonsai tree snagged her attention, her feet slowing. He turned his head around and followed her eyes. "You like the tree?"
She nodded, admiring its branches reaching eastward as if caught in an eternal breeze, its foliage a crown of plush green, whispering tales of passing seasons. "The bonsai tree," she hummed. "Dad told me about it before – how it can grow even from cracks in rocks with just a little soil and rain. I'd only seen it in pictures before, but it's even more beautiful up close in person. The trunk twists like a dancer frozen mid-performance."
He wrapped his arms around her from behind. "While I was stationed in the north, I used to look upon those trees. They helped me through some rough patches," he said, the heat in his breath brushing her cheek. "You remind me of them."
The honeyed glow of the overhead fixtures at night softened his sharp features. Mira raised a hand and traced the contours of his face. "Were you hurt?"
He only kissed her cheek. "Come on."
Holding her hand, he showed her upstairs. The door opened to his private library which occupied a large part of the second floor.
Mira widened her eyes at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crafted from rich mahogany, their wooden arms reaching skyward with the help of sliding ladders. Facing the ornate fireplace sat a leather Chesterfield sofa, its tufted surface worn to a perfect patina by years of its owner lost in distant worlds.
"Welcome to my sanctuary," he crooned, his voice mellow, as was his smile. "Wait here." While he climbed the ladder, Mira whirled as she marveled at the magnificent arched window that framed the night outside like a painting.
"How long have you been collecting these books?" she asked quietly, fearing that she might disturb the memories held in the pages asleep on those towering shelves.
"Since I was a kid," he said, his hand skimming his collection. "I always buy the first edition of the books I like, printed in the year when they first came out. As I hold them in my hands, I imagine what the authors were going through while writing, how their time must have impacted them. It transformed the reading experience to a conversation across time and space."
Coming down the ladder with a book in his hand, he continued, "I had a long conversation with Mira de Armas before I finally got to meet her in person. Many times I've tried to picture to myself what she looks like. Turns out, she surpasses my imagination in every possible way." He handed her the book.
Gods' Gaze.
Mira faltered. Her eyes widened, lips trembling apart. Refusing to believe that her parents' deaths were an accident, she created her protagonist who took thirteen years to plan his vengeance, through which she was certain that he would reconcile with the past. But as she plotted her way through him, taking one step at a time while securing each move, the vengeance cost him everything he held dear nonetheless, and every new loss that demanded justice in its own right fueled the new cycle of hate and wrath. The proud youth brimming with spunk in the prologue was a broken man in the finale, and she broke with him.
"It was rubbish," she muttered at length, stifling the tears swelling in her eyes as she turned away.
He grabbed her hand and spun her back to him. The blazer he put on her slipped off her shoulders. "Are you questioning my taste?"
"No, I…"
"When we first met, in the bunker you told me you used to write." Cradling her in his arms, he nuzzled his chin on her head. "Why stopped?"
Shrouded in his cedar scent, she felt his pulse against her wheezing breath. The hell from the last two years after Reynold's downfall shuffled back before her eyes. Every week, Reynold locked her in the attic before the Reds raided their house and pulled him out on the streets with the others who fell from grace. No hospital dared to admit him after his injuries. And when Mira reached out to the publishers for help – those who had died trying to sign her up – they all ghosted her. With nowhere else to turn, she contacted Tito Galiano again, the second boss of the First Demand and a video game aficionado. She offered game leveling service and won tournaments in exchange for the syndicate smuggling medications for her and Reynold. Right and wrong, day and night, white and black, all seemed to have twisted. For the large part of the last two years, she cowered in the corner of the attic playing video games for whoever wanted to pay while her condition worsened. And overnight the book that had earned her fame was ridiculed as sometimes plagiarism, other times cliche.
"Because words are fatuous," she said at length, choking on her own bitterness. "Despite the evidence, people always find ways to believe what they already do. Can anyone be convinced of what they haven't experienced or that is beyond their understanding?"
"No," Warshon answered point-blank. "That's why we need stories to learn what's outside our limited experiences."
"But what if the readers refuse? What if they only demand to be pampered, to hear and only hear what they want? To be confirmed in what they already know instead of being challenged? That to pick up a book is no longer to think? And because they're the market, they decide the books we're having now?" She gulped, slowly opening her eyes. "And what is a good story anyway? One moment, it's genius and meaty, and the next, it's dismissed as high-flown and turgid – all because of some opinions." A sob escaped into her voice unbidden, her head sinking onto her chest. "I used to think a book could succeed on its own merit, and words are supposed to seek and deliver beauty that is objective, universal. I was a fool. And I was spoiled rotten. My parents and Reynold, they allowed me to be homeschooled and studied only what I wanted. All the time I invested in the lofty ideas, really, I was just scared out of my mind. I was scared that I wouldn't even be able to treat myself should I study medicine, and if I could ever get better by some miracle, I'd give all the needles and catheters a wide berth. But had I not been such a selfish coward, maybe I could have helped Reynold when no doctor would take him in. And maybe…" Her voice broke off into a feeble fit of cough.
He put down the book on the Chesterfield sofa and patted her on the back. "One thing I learned from Arslan Qusbecq, don't waste even a second on the what if. Head up, eyes forward," he crooned by her ear. "Reynold and your parents did a bang-up job raising you. They'd be sad if they learned you thought otherwise."
"That's not what I meant." Her voice shattered. The tears she fought to hold back flooded out from her eyes.
"I'm sorry, darling, I didn't mean to make you cry." Lifting her chin to him, he carefully kissed away her tears. "Remember the story you told me, The Old Man and the Sea? Maybe every quest is futile in the end, but the meaning lies in the constant striving. Isn't that right?"
"But what if all the striving for the better only catalyzes our downfall, that every life, every record of history only runs an inescapable cycle of beginnings and ends?" Shaking with a sob, she paused. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling."
"I don't pretend I have an answer to that." He kissed her more. "But if my life is to strive and end by your side, I don't think it's too bad."
She shook her head with force. "You will not end by my side. I won't allow it!"
"See? That's the striving I was talking about." A smile dipped in his onyx eyes and bloomed like a drop of blood in a bottle of saline fluid. He swayed her to the table next to the sofa and put on a vinyl record. The distant and yet familiar chords filled the air.
Once Upon A December.
"You know this one?" She lifted her eyes, more tears streaming down.
"The story about a princess who lost it all," he said, kissing away those tears again with so much patience it made her ache. "Dance with me?"
"I don't know how," she mumbled.
"I guess the enviable Mrs. and Professor de Armas didn't make their daughter go through the trauma of social dance class."
Her sob gave way to a small laugh that sweetened her tears. "They did, but I skipped."
"Aw, I see. And they didn't find out?"
She dropped her gaze, her head nodding.
"They found out but didn't send you back?" Warshon quirked his lips. "Darling, you really were spoiled."
"Mom was chilled about it. She said when I grew up, I'd meet the one I want to dance with, and I'd be his problem, not hers."
He laughed, holding her waist while taking her for a spin. "If only my problems were all this lovely," he crooned. "Your mom sounded amazing. I wish I could meet her."
"So do I."
As if he had sensed the tears resurging in her eyes again, he leaned down, his lips brushing along her cheek. "To strive or to end, through life and into death, will you dance with me, Mira?"
On tiptoe, she threw her arms around his neck, her lips meeting his. "What if I step on your toes?"
"Then, I must be in dire need of a foot massage."
Giggling through tears, she kicked off her heels; the dorsum of his leather cap toe felt cold against the soles of her feet. "Like this?" she asked; their breaths entwined.
He only chuckled and pushed her to a wall.