No Fury

Now: Sixty One

"You'll need to let me shave that beard," I say the next morning, handing him a bowl of grains and milk.

As he takes it from me, I hold his gaze, smiling apologetically at him.

I want to cut through the tension from the night before. I barely slept, worrying that I had ruined what was slowly rebuilding between us. I want him to keep pushing, and pushing, and pushing at the truth. If he is ready to know what lies between us, I will tell him.

Harry gives me a playfully wounded expression. "And here I believed it had grown on you."

"I don't even believe it should have grown on you."

He laughs, shaking his head as he digs into his breakfast. Morning seeps in through the cracks beneath the door, the edges of the curtains. It signals its presence by the sharp, clean chill to the air.

Swallowing a bite, Harry looks up, meeting my eyes again. I can see his relief that we have resumed the playful way between us. He asks me teasingly, "And, remind me, since I seem to have forgotten: your opinion matters?"

Without bothering to look up from his book, James murmurs from across the table, "Matters more than most."

Harry's eyes go wider as he looks at me. "Is that so?"

"Do you question it?" I say with mock outrage.

He grins at me, dimples and all. "No. Not in the slightest."

~~

James packs up Anne, and she flaps her arms excitedly; it is her favorite time of day, when it is still cool and bright, and she can stare up at all of the birds in the trees as James hikes in the woods.

Harry wraps some bread, cheese and fruit in a cloth for them, seeing them off at the door for a day of foraging and hunting.

Once they're gone, I look across the room at him, and he pretends to hide his beard behind his hands.

"Come on then," I say, tilting my head with a grin. "It's time."

Harry shuffles behind me to the shed, where I have the leather strap I used to sharpen James' blade, a bowl of warm water, and a bristle brush with soap.

Going in there alone earlier to sweep it out, clean the linens, and let in some air was nearly painful.

But when Harry follows me in, looking around at what used to be our private sanctuary, all of my sadness melts away. His broad shoulders fill the space, his warmth brings it to life.

"Why have you not stayed here instead of on the settee?" he asks. "Surely that feather bed is more comfortable."

I cannot begin to know how to answer that. "It's complicated," I tell him.

"Ah," he says with a small laugh. Glancing around, he tells me, "I feel I've been here before."

And now, my need for him is like a whip lashed across my skin. "You have."

"Indeed?" He glances at the bed, slowly raising his brows to me. "Was that always there?"

Laughing, I point to the stool before me. "Sit."

Harry settles down, clasping his hands between his knees.

"All ready, then?" he says with some trepidation as he eyes the straight blade. "Have you ever done this before? I can tend my own beard."

"In fact, you cannot," I retort. "You've never had a beard before. At the very least I have helped my father a few times when he burned his hands."