Free Cupids by Paul Butler Page A

against the pane. I have seen wood pigeons fighting over a mate, and the grey object that rises and falls against the smearing glass seems like a wing at first. But then I perceive some larger bulk, a twisted branch perhaps, of which the object making contact is only part. Only it makes no sense as there are no trees on this side of the house. Startled now, and drawing comfort by Bertha’s steady outward whistle, I swing my legs and let my feet touch the cool wooden floor.
    Wrapping my nightshirt snugly around me, I pad toward the window. A step or two from the pane, I stop, breath suspended, ears numbed. A hand, fingers white, bloated against the glass, appears from darkness. My first thought is that a nightmare has spilled its banks, a breach occurring in the wall between waking and sleep, and that all manner of phantasms will soon tumble into the world — men with beaks and feathers, disembodied hands, seaweed monsters and skeleton armies — unthinkable horrors which have so far been made palatable to men and women only by the swift dissolving forgetfulness we associate with dreams.
    The window frame judders and I catch the outline of a face looking through the glass; something cracks, and there’s a shimmer of dry leaves, then a thump far below. Whatever was up there has fallen, I realize, but the face and form remain with me with their suggestion of thick wavy hair and a tapered chin. It was surely Bartholomew. No thought at all imposes itself between this realization and my blind descent on the curling stone staircase. As I daren’t light a candle I feel my way down the wall as an insect feels with probing hairs, my thoughts all the while dancing over calculations of falling — three storeys: twenty feet, thirty — and juggling visions — Bartholomew with a broken shoulder, a broken wrist; Bartholomew dead.
    My bare feet pad along the carpet and stone to the front door and, very carefully, I turn the horseshoe lock. The door gulps open to a rain-streaked night and Bartholomew stands before me, a trail of dead ivy on his head, but otherwise apparently alive and well, a pained, imploring look upon his face.
    â€œTHIS IS NOT A decent place,” I tell him, liking neither my words nor the hint of a whine in my tone. “The Crossroads has a reputation. You should not have brought me here.”
    â€œThis is a private room, Helen, not a regular part of the tavern,” he replies, a soft, feather-like quality in his voice. “It isn’t used by other patrons. My cloak covered your entry and will shield you from any eyes upon your leaving.”
    Of course this is true enough. No one is around and, even if they were, they would catch hardly a glimpse.
    I know that whatever strange alliance we seem to have formed, we lie far beyond any consideration of what is or isn’t seemly. To speak to him as lovers in courtship speak would be to miss the point somehow. It would be taking something brave and new and trying to mould it into an object of uniform drabness. Still, it’s an effort not to be like this. Beneath his cloak that still drips despite the tongues of fire that leap behind the grate, I am in a nightgown only. Beneath the nightgown I am naked. Under the table the bare soles of my feet skim ridges of sawdust. A nudging voice, my poor dead mother, tells me a tavern is not a place for a decent girl no matter the hour, and it’s now close to midnight. A dry fold of his cloak, warmed by the fire, touches my neck as though to encourage me, to prickle me into the reality of the comforts I may claim. Bartholomew is strangely silent, his brow furrowed, his fingers tracing patterns in the sawdust on the table before him.
    â€œWhy did you risk yourself in so foolish a way tonight?” I ask gently.
    â€œI had to see you.” He looks up at me now, his eyes startling in their blueness.
    â€œWhy not wait until morning?”
    A sad smile passes over his