had again raised a wall between us, tall and insurmountable. A shatterproof defence.
Or maybe I was the one who had built it first.
Chapter six
“Would you like to have dinner with me, Melisande Bruno?”
I stared at him with wide eyes; I must have misunderstood him. He had ignored me for hours, and the rare times he spoke to me he had been unpleasant and cold.
At first I thought of refusing, outraged by his childlike and moody attitude, then curiosity got the best of me. Or maybe I was hoping to see his smile again; that lopsided, friendly and warm smile. However, whatever the reason, my answer was yes.
Mrs Mc Millian was so shocked by the novelty to be silent for as long as it took her to serve our dinner, stirring up our mutual amusement.
Mr Mc Laine was relaxed, and he no longer had that severe expression than I had learned to fear.
We sat quietly and began speaking only when the housekeeper left us alone.
“We managed to leave our dear Millicent speechless... I guess we'll end up in the Guinness world records,” he remarked with a laugh that struck my heart.
“Undoubtedly,” I agreed. “And that’s a monumental task. I never thought I’d see that day.”
“I agree”. He winked at me and grasped a meat skewer.
The improvised dinner was informal but delicious, and his company was the only one I wished for. I promised myself I wouldn’t do anything to ruin that idyllic atmosphere, and then I remembered that it only partially depended on me. My companion had already shown on several occasions that he was irritable, and without any apparent reason.
Now he was smiling, and I felt a stabbing pain at the thought that I would never know the exact colour of his eyes and hair.
“So, Melisande Bruno, do you like Midnight Rose?”
I like you, especially when you're so laid-back and in peace with the world.
I said aloud, “Who wouldn’t like it? It's a slice of paradise, far from the usual frenzy, stress and madness.”
He stopped eating, as if he fed off the sound of my voice. And I also began to chew more slowly, so as to not break that spell, as fragile as crystal and more fluttery than an autumn leaf.
“For those who come from London it must seem so” he granted. “Have you travelled a lot?”
I brought my glass of wine to my mouth before answering. “Less than I would have liked. But I understood one thing: you can discover the world in its corners, folds and grooves, not in the large centres.”
“Your wisdom equals your beauty,” he said seriously. “And what are you discovering in this lovely Scottish village?”
“I haven’t seen the village yet,” I reminded him, with no resent. “But Midnight Rose is an interesting place. I feel like the world could stop right here and now and I wouldn’t miss my future life.”
In response he shook his head. “You have perceived the most intimate essence of this home in such a short time... I still haven’t succeeded in doing so...”
I didn’t answer; the fear of spoiling our regained intimacy curbed my tongue.
He studied me closely, as always, as if I was the content of a slide and he was a microscope. The next question was pondered, explosive, and the premonition of an imminent disaster.
“Do you have a family, Melisande Bruno? Are any of your relatives still alive?”
It didn’t sound like an idle question, made just for the heck of it. There was a keen and authentic interest in it.
I hid my hesitation by sipping some more wine, and in the meantime I was thinking about how to answer his question. Revealing that my sister and my father were still alive would give rise to a series of other insidious questions that I wasn’t ready to deal with. I was realistic: he had invited me to dinner that evening just because he was bored, and he was searching for a break. I, the still unknown secretary, was ideal for the purpose. There wouldn’t be another dinner. I chose to lie because it was easier, less complicated.
“I'm alone in the world.” Only when I stopped speaking, I realized that it wasn’t exactly a lie. As a matter of fact it was a lie only in part.
I was alone, regardless of everything. I couldn’t count on anyone except myself. This fact had made me suffer so much that I thought I would lose my mind, but I had gotten used to it. It was absurd, sad and painful, but it was true.
I was accustomed to not being loved. I was misunderstood and alone.
He seemed absurdly satisfied with my answer, as if it were the right one. Right for what I couldn’t say.
He raised his half empty glass of wine to make a toast.
“What are you toasting to?” I asked, imitating him.
“I’m hoping that you’ll dream again, Melisande Bruno. And that your dreams come true.”
His eyes smiled at me over the glass.
I gave up trying to understand him. Sebastian Mc Laine was a living enigma, and his charisma, his animal magnetism, were adequate answers for me.
That night I dreamt for the second time. The scene was identical to the previous one: I was in my nightgown and he was at the foot of my bed in dark clothes with no trace of the wheelchair.
He held out his hand, a smile curling the corner of his mouth. “Dance with me, Melisande.”
His tone was mild, sweet and soft as silk. It was a request, not an order. And his eyes... For the first time they were pleading her.
“Am I dreaming?” I believed it was just a thought, but I had said it out loud.
“Only if you want it to be a dream. Otherwise this is reality,” he said categorically.
“But you’re walking...”
“In your dreams anything can happen,” he replied, guiding me in a waltz, like the first time.
I felt an angry rage. How come in MY dream other people’s nightmares were erased, while mine still remained intact? It was MY dream, but I had no influence on it, nor could I alter it in any way. Its self-sufficiency was bizarre and irritating.
Suddenly I stopped thinking, because being in his arms was more important than my personal drama. He was unbelievably beautiful, and I was honoured to have him in my dreams.
We danced for a long time, to the rhythm of a non-existent music, the bodies in perfect sync.
“I thought I wouldn’t dream of you anymore,” I said, stretching out my hand to touch his cheek. It was smooth, warm, and almost hot.
His hand rose to entwine with mine. “I also thought you wouldn’t dream anymore.”
“You seem so real...” I said breathlessly. “But you're just a dream... you're too sweet to be real...”
He burst into an amused laughter, and he held me tighter.
“Do I make you angry?”
I looked at him, dourly. “There are times in which I’d like to punch you.”
He didn’t seem offended, indeed he was satisfied. “I do it on purpose. I like to tease you.”
“Why?”
“Because it's easier for me to keep you at arm’s length.”
The shrill sound of the pendulum invaded the dream, causing my discontent. Because he was retreating, again. As if it was a signal.
“Stay with me,” I begged him.
“I can’t”.
“It’s