Free Sound of Butterflies, The by Rachael King Page B

there is nobody there but Mary to hear him. She spends only a few minutes in the church, early each morning, before he wakes up. Mary is under instructions to come and get her if he shows any change, but so far her visits have gone undisturbed.
    I need to talk to him, she thinks. What can I talk about?
    ‘Do you remember, Thomas, the first time I went beetling with you?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘And how bitterly I complained! You promised me a picnic that day, but you got so excited about finding that one — what was it, a stag? — that you forgot to eat, and you left me sitting there in the shade getting cold! But I soon learned, didn’t I; I brought a book the next time.’
    They pass the fork in the path that winds around an oak tree and leads to the hidden hollow where Thomas once tried to make love to her. She places her hand on his arm again and lightly steers him down the path. Twigs crack and the sponge of rotten leaves springs under their feet. Sophie reaches out a hand and trails it over the brittle bark of the oak. Her fingers find tiny gorges and riverbeds in its texture, a landscape for a thousand insects. She pulls him to a stop in their secret spot. With the sound of their feet on the forest floor withdrawn, the silence rises up to meet them. Thomas closes his eyes, seeming to breathe it in through his pores as a frog might. The air is cool in the shade, the pillars of the forest trees robust and strong. Sophie realises they have achieved absolute quiet. Always there is something that produces noise in their lives — whether the clipping of a horse and carriage, or the animal roar of a motor. Even in the sedate paths by the river, the water sluices the banks, licking at itself or the edge of a pier.
    She kisses his cheek. It reminds her of when she was a girl and would kiss her father goodnight. There is a slackness to the skin, and yet the flesh is unyielding, and doesn’t press itself to her lips as she has learned that a lover’s would, or even a friend’s. Nanny would bring her into her father’s study every evening — the only contact she had with him all day. She stood by his chair and told him what she had learned that day, before leaning forward with her warm breath and planting her offering on his waiting cheek. He would turn his back on her then and it was time for Nanny to take her hand and lead her away. She would look back, hoping that her father would turn, just once, and give her a secret smile to hold on to and to carry to her bed. But all she saw was the cold mountain of his back bent over his desk, his hand scribbling madly, his daughter forgotten.
    Thomas has not shaved for some time; a few red bristles poke through his skin, but his face is mostly covered with a fine down. It is the closest to a beard she has seen on him. When she pulls back from the kiss on his cheek, he will not meet her eyes; he is the same new frog-Thomas, not a prince. But he blushes a little and for a moment reverts back to the shy young man she first met at the fête on the river. There was a tea dance at the Star and Garter, where he stood on her foot, twice, during the waltz. Later that evening, the riverside was lit up with lights and he asked to see her again. The lights were reflected in the ambling river. When he laid his hand over hers she felt as weightless as the Chinese lanterns lifting and turning in the summer breeze.
    She decides to leave him for a moment and wanders over to the clearing in the trees, which give her a view down the valley. She stood in this very spot once when she was a little girl and Nanny brought her to Richmond for the day. She accidentally got ‘lost’ and found herself here as the sun sank behind Windsor Castle. She looked out at it, knowing that she was destined for great things — to marry a prince and live in the castle, perhaps. The Thames was a silver ribbon winding towards her. Now it is a river again, with rowboats dotted on its surface. She can make