Ivan Press

Hilary

The rain goeson through much of the night, its impact and submersion on the ocean creating a backdrop of rushing, splattering noise. That wall of sound rested just behind the more immediate pattering and dripping on the roof of Hilary's den. She lies awake listening to it for a long time after Ivan falls asleep beside her, his arm heavy over her chest, his hand wrapped around her opposite forearm even in sleep. It is dark inside, too dark from stormclouds to even let in moonlight, and four senses flood the absence left by the one that ismissing.

Awake, Hilary thinks of many things, all only loosely connected before they break apart completely. The feeling of his cum inside of her makes her think of sex, and pregnancy, and one of the greatest shifts she has ever experienced in her life: how quickly she moved from hatred, from revulsion, to something like a panic of love, a terrifying wave of emotion for the baby she had just had. She remembers thinking it would pass, if she waited, if her body returned to normal, if he was gone and she forgot him. She remembers that it didn't pass, and she remembers losing her mind when Ivan dared mention their baby aloud to her. She couldn't bear what she had done. All their careful plans, all her certainty that she would not love this thing: shattered. Nothing would ever be the same again. She would never be the same again.

She thinks strange, primordial thoughts about her den, the darkness, the storm, her mate sleeping beside her, her cub sleeping up the hill in his own dark den, under a different roof but asleep to the sound of the same rainstorm. She thinks about being pregnant again, but then her mind folds in on itself; she goes back to Anton. She wonders, sleepily, if she would just repeat the same experience over and over. She wonders if she would truly hate another child, if perhaps Anton is singular, if Ivan would hate yet another burden, another anchor, another confinement in the form of more children.

So she thinks then of how mad Ivan is. He must be very insane, if even she can love Anton the way she does and he can't. But even Hilary can't lie to herself very effectively in the dark. Ivan is closer to sanity than she is. That's why she trusts him. That's why it is hard for her to tell him when he is obviously, dangerously wrong: getting married would be a terrible idea. Even if he never hated her, never wanted to leave her, why would she ever take such a risk? He is the only thing keeping her sane. He is one of the only things keeping her from simply walking off the face of the earth. He gives her a reason to try and not let go completely. He is why she tries, very hard, to be a person. She would not survive it if he didn't love her anymore.

Her mind then turns, of course, to the swimming pool idea. She recoils at the very thought of it: the gauche, new-money, suburbanite essence of the desire. It's almost as strong as her terror at the thought of swimming in the ocean. She is not even comfortable putting her head completely under water yet. Holding her breath and putting her face into the water is the most she can stand, just yet. But strangely, at the thought of never swimming again, never finishing this project, never learning what she's set out to learn, she feels something almost like... guilt. Embarassment, perhaps. She's not sure. It doesn't feel good. Ivan wants her to learn. Ivan doesn't like the idea of her falling into the water somehow and being unable to keep herself alive. The childish part of her wants to insist that it would never happen, and someone would always save her, but

Hilary is not actually a child. And she is far from a moron.

Her eyes close in the darkness. Ivan's breath is more audible, by the smallest degree, than it was a moment before. She begins to breathe along with him. She never resolves any of her thoughts. She falls asleep.

--

It is morning, now. Instead of being cocooned in the sound of rain, the little cabin is flooded with sunlight. The windowsills still bear little puddles of rain, left open most of the night. The breeze has changed directions and now carries in the scent of the woods around them rather than the ocean. Ivan wakes in a rumpled, sun-warmed bed that still bears the lingering scent of fucking his mate the night before, bringing to him the memory of holding her in his teeth, going at her harder and harder until she cried out, until she screamed at the edge of pain, until he left her wrists reddened from the friction of holding her down. Past that, he smells a rich, bold French roast. If he focuses, he can smell that the beans were a bit stale. They must have been sitting in the little cabin the whole time they were gone.

Hilary is sitting at the little table near the kitchen, wearing a long silk robe. It is black, with a woven pattern of vivid, shimmering peacock feathers. Her hair is wet, draped over one shoulder in a loose, long braid. The kettle is off the stove, sitting on a trivet, its spout still steaming. The French press is on the table, filled with coffee. She has a white mug in front of her, taking her coffee black as -- he may realize -- he already knew was how she took it, when she drinks coffee, though that isn't often. She is looking out one of the windows. She is not looking at him. She is watching a small yellow-breasted bird singing not far from the window, curious and quiet.

It is in the small hours that Ivan is closest to his wolven nature. It is then that the polish and the gloss falls away, the wordplay and the quips. What is left behind is, in its essence, savage.

By moonlight, once, he looked out over the land of his ancestors. He did not think. He did not consider. He was simply filled with, and embodied, an ancient sense of claim and responsibility. His land. His mate. His cub.

Last night, he fell asleep quickly -- sated and satisfied, at peace in some intrinsic way because he was home on his land. With his mate. And with his cub. There were no thoughts then, either. His mind did not follow Hilary's down those twisting paths. There was only a deep, dark stillness, a primitive sense of belonging. He held his lover's breast in hand as he slept, her pulse beating against his wrist.

--

Morning, now, and the little cabin smells of coffee and woods and last night's rain. He wakes slowly, the way he does when nothing more than his own natural rhythms rouse him. His limbs unfurl into an endless stretch. Then the tension snaps, and he relaxes. Dozes a little longer.

Flips the covers back, quickly, when at last the impetus to rise from bed strikes. His feet thump the floor, which is a rarity. He sees Hilary at the little table as he passes from bedroom to bathroom, but she is not looking at him. He brushes his teeth, washes his face, towels off. On the way back he finds last night's shorts -- pure summer yacht club chic -- and steps into them otherwise bare. The sun adores him as he emerges; all that golden skin. He sweeps an arm around Hilary's shoulders from behind, kisses her shoulder the way he does when he can't easily kiss her mouth.

"I could buy you a book about birds," he offers. Emotional acuity might elude him, but when it comes to the finer physical details, he misses nothing. It is his livelihood, his very reason for being. He straightens, taking a mug out of the cupboards, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Drizzles in a little cream.

Her dark eyes glance over to him when he first wakes, making a small rustling ruckus with that stretch. She observes. He dozes again. She looks away. Again.

She is sipping her coffee, some time later, when he decides to get up. Gets up with an energy that is somehow singular to young men like him. The steam no longer coils from the spout of the kettle, and Hilary's coffee does not burn her tongue as she sips. This time she doesn't bother looking at him, but she hears the bathroom door, the water running.

There is a damp towel hanging on its bar beside the clawfooted tub, water droplets hanging from the showerhead that towers above it, a sheen of moisture clinging to the sheer curtain around it. All of it shimmers in the light from the window in the bathroom that faces the trees, looks into the depths of the forest that surrounds Hilary's house. Hilary's den.

Hard to tell that Ivan knows it, understands where he is, the way he strides around, acting like he owns the place. Which, technically, he does. The land, the den. And spiritually, he owns the woman inside of it, the creature who lives in this cottage in the woods. But less than technically, and more spiritually:

they both know that he understands. It's in the way he knocks. Once invited, he is her vladelets; her master, body and soul. But if she sends him away, he must go. If she does not welcome him in, he cannot stay. They both know this. And somehow, rather than adding tension between them, it is a comfort.

At least to her.

And god knows she is a creature who, deep down, needs much comforting.

--

He embraces her, kisses her, and she feigns annoyance. The bird outside, sensing a predator nearby, takes flight from its thin branch, leaving it swaying and rustling, leaves scattering dew and rain alike.

Ivan serves himself. He goes for cream in her fridge but finds it emptied of all but a few long-lasting items, the rest cleaned out by the maid who snuck in while they were away to tidy everything. Of course there's a moment of consternation: even having only returned last night, it would not be entirely beyond the pale for Ivan's people or even Hilary's people to have refreshed their groceries, set out fresh linens, all the rest.

And they did. In the main house.

The maids are afraid to buy groceries for Hilary without express instruction.

Very afraid.

--

So no cream to cloud his coffee. But coffee. No frittata. No croissants. Just Hilary, glancing at him as he mentions a book about birds.

"What sort of book about birds?" she asks, at a loss.

"There's no cream," he says, in a tone midway between bewilderment and annoyance. At least, it would be there, midway, except it is also midway between invested and uncaring. Well; to be truthful, closer to the latter.

He comes back. He has coffee. He pulls out a chair at the table -- as though her invitation were blanketing, as though he does indeed have a right to be here when they both know very well this is, was, and will always be her exclusive domain -- and he sits. Now the sunlight hits his shoulders, warms a patch of his side. It is so vivid that sitting across the table, Hilary can see the texture of his skin, the fine blond hairs that are otherwise invisible, the subtle intimation of ribs and muscle beneath. Evidence of life. Evidence of mammalian descent, when so often their kind seem rarefied and surreal, half-breed children of the gods.

"I don't know," he continues, sipping, eyes tracing the space where the bird was. "A book that names and identifies them. Or a book full of pretty pictures. Or both."

There's no answer to his... well. Not complaint. His statement of fact: there is no cream. There is no need to answer him, of course, but a more agile and eager conversationalist would at least bother to acknowledge that he has spoken.

Hilary does not.

When he sits across from her, the smallness of the table brings their knees together. Silk from her robe brushes against his bare knee just before the fabric slides away, the side of her calf now resting to the side of his calf. The sunlit chair is the one he sits in; she is in the shadow -- even if one can hardly call it that, on a day so bright. But it's enough of a difference to feel fated, and to also feel correct.

"Oh," she replies, thinking about this. He looks at the branch; she looks at him, now. Considers this.

"I would like a book to identify birds," she says, finally landing on an opinion and, to the surprise of all, also expressing that opinion clearly. "I would like Anton to have a book of pretty pictures of birds. We can look at it together."

There's a pause, quite a long one. Something comes to her. The pieces of it find each other in her mind and seal together: "I can tell him what they are, the ones in his book, when I have learned their names. I would like that."

Hilary sips her coffee. Changes the topic:

"I have been thinking about the pond. In Novgorod."

Ivan looks perfectly pleased. "Then that," he says, "is what you'll have."

During the pause he sips his coffee, which is still hot enough to steam. He watches the sunlight dance through the trees. He blinks slowly, lazily, and then turns as his lover speaks.

"And?"

One could wonder if his pleasure is in how clearly, how decisively she stated what she liked, what she wanted. Or if, perhaps, it's the idea of his mate learning to identify birds and then teaching this knowledge to their cub that makes him smile. But then, in the end, it's also just as likely that Ivan is pleased because he enjoys giving presents to Hilary.

This last one is quite likely, in fact, to be the motivation behind his delight. The bookshelf around the corner and the nightstand by her bed and several spots throughout the villa are littered with the gifts and tchotchkes he has brought to her: jewelry, trinkets, shells. Much of it is cheap, meaningless stuff, bought because he takes pleasure in the act, kept because Hilary does, in fact, love him.

"That is what we should do," she tells him. "Perhaps not as large as the one at his house in Russia. Not as deep." She furrows her brow a bit, trying to find the right words to describe her idea. "Like a pool. Clean water, clear enough that I can see. But not... concrete and tile and glaring lights and deck chairs. Nothing like that. Like a pond. With grass and plants around it, so it looks almost natural. But a place we can swim and play that isn't... that isn't..."

She falters, and waves a hand dismissively, with an annoyed sigh. It's a cover. The word she's looking for is frightening. The feeling that rises in her, forcing that pretense of indifference, is the panic that keeps her from entering oceans and lakes, had her clinging to him in tremors of anxiety when he first started teaching her to swim.

There's something quick and effortless and oddly innocent about the way he reaches across the table then, catching her hand in his. She's seen this sort of motion before. It's how cats flick their paws at moving things. It's how Anton sometimes grabs at the ends of her hair.

His hand shifts. He holds her hand, her fingers tucked into his palm.

"It won't be garish," he promises her, "and it won't be dirty or dark or pounding. It'll be nice."

Though her true fear is not that it will be ugly and classless, the fact that he addresses this first comforts her. It maintains the lie that she is simply a very refined sort of woman. The sort of woman who lives in an old-world sort of place, an old-world sort of home, who does not want some gaudy concrete abomination marring that comforting sense of antiquity.

And that is true: she is refined. She does live in an old world. She is comforted by things that do not remind her that she is a stranger in the real world, and does not belong to it.

But beneath all that is something else entirely, and they need not speak its name and give it any more permission to manifest in the room with them right now. She lets him catch her hand. She looks at him. He makes his vows to her. She realizes he makes many promises to her. She realizes, too:

he keeps his promises to her. Sometimes with great difficulty. But he does not fail her. And he does not lie when he promises.

Not with her.

Hilary nods. "Yes. That is what I want. Then... I will keep learning to swim."

"I'm glad," he says, to both.

And squeezes her hand. And rises from the table.

"Let's go have breakfast."

"I have to dress," she says, with an air of vague protest, though it never quite reaches any intensity. She waves him off a bit and rises, silk rippling around her legs when she stands. She has a wardrobe near her bed, which she walks to and opens.

Ivan only sometimes sees her do these things: considering what clothes to wear, picking out her undergarments, deciding on earrings. Perhaps he watches her this time, or perhaps he finds it dull. If he watches, he sees her panties: a gusset of cotton so soft it feels like something else entirely, the rest made of lace so soft it feels like cotton. Her bra, also soft lace and softer cotton, the same silvered grey. If he watches, he sees her choose from the clothes she keeps here: things lighter, softer, more comfortable than some of the finery that lives in her closet at the villa. She takes out a light-colored linen dress, sleeveless, loose, something that in another era would be little more than an undergarment itself: a shift.

She does not take her hair from its still-wet braid. She removes her robe and drapes it haphazardly over the bed. She dresses like she's somewhere else in her mind, detached from motions ingrained in her fingers, the roll of her shoulders, the shift of her weight from one leg as the other lifts, the way her foot presses against the floor to hold that weight.

Hilary slips her feet into a pair of light sandals, soft white leather thongs tied around her ankles in loose bows. Then earrings, teardrop pearls hanging from small white-gold hoops. A bangle that matches: white gold hoop around her wrist, teardrop-shaped pearl dangling.

Perhaps he watches all this: the slide of lace over fair skin, the ripple of linen, the flash of jewelry. The calm on her face, the distant way she inhabits the world, almost never completely here, completely in her body, completely in a room, completely with him.

Perhaps he watches and, half-consciously, compares it to the times when she is utterly inextricable from her body, when she is wholly present,

entirely his.

--

When they leave the cottage, they leave the shower wet and the towels draped wherever they fell. They leave the kettle cooling, the French press filled with sludge and coffee, their cups on the table. The bed is unmade, her wardrobe left open.

One of the maids who serves at the villa has a knack for noticing when Hilary has left the cottage, when she seems like she'll be absent for a while. She has her instructions from Dmitri and advice from Darya about caring for Hilary's cottage and Hilary's dance studio. When she sees them approaching the villa, she'll steal away, as quick and mysterious as some benevolent house-faerie, and when Hilary returns:

the bedlinens will be changed, the towels refreshed, the dishes cleaned, the pantry and fridge re-stocked, the clothes laundered.

Like magic.

--

The villa is awake and alive. Miron is on some errand, Polina in a Skype meeting with Miranda and Max, coordinating and updating financial matters as they relate to the upkeep of the villa, the costs of the recent travel, budgeting for the future and the like. Other servants are completing morning chores. Deferential nods are given to the lord and lady as they drift through the villa to the kitchen.

Elodie is baking bread. Anton is helping, but receives far more attention and instruction from his nanny than he got while trying to 'help' his mother with her baguettes in Corsica. Hilary abandons Ivan to go to him, laying her palm on his downy head, refraining from comment on Elodie's baking. She must be in a good mood.

There is already a loaf on the counter, still warm from the oven. Windows are open, in lieu of more typical climate control. Elodie offers to make them breakfast, which is less of an offer and more of an acquiescence, but Hilary waves her off. She leans over and kisses Anton's head, causing the boy to grin up at her, and then she begins to make something for herself and Ivan.

It is a good day, so far. And one might think, looking at this villa, their yacht, the jet they flew in on, and imagine they have nothing but good days.

One would be wrong. But no matter; it is inconsequential how many goods days a life has, or how few. Whether they are rare or plentiful, they are each precious, and fragile, and fleeting.

They each deserve to be cherished.