Free Heart Murmurs by R. R. Smythe

hesitating.
    My hand pauses, inches from the fabric.
    â€œMia? Are you alright?”
    Her face pokes out from behind it, flushed and red. “I need some help. I can’t get this dress on, and the guests will be here any second.”
    I smile. “I’d be glad to help.”
    I pull back the curtain and can’t stop the sigh before it slips past my lips. The creamy-white skin of her back is exposed beneath the crisscross of the lacings.
    A light sheen of sweat glistens from her struggling. The curve of the small of her back… I shake my head and grasp her lacings, gently tugging them together.
    â€œAlright, you’re decent now, Milady.”
    She laughs nervously. “Thank you.”
    I pull back the curtain and turn. And I hear it. Her head smacking the floor with a horrid crunch.
    My stomach sours, dropping to my boots. “Blast, Mia. What now?”
    I rip open the curtain and drop beside her. Her dress has shifted to expose the red railroad-track scar down her chest.
    The world swirls. Lurches. I see her heartbeat in her neck and can almost count the beats. Staccato and unsteady.
    My hand twitches and seems to move on its own toward the scar — like some siren call emits from her chest.
    My fingers splay overtop of it, caressing the raised scar. I feel a drawing of two.
    Completely separate compulsions, sets of feelings. I draw in a breath as I recognize the longing. It’s like Madelon is near, and I’m awash in old feelings. Madelon was strong and faithful, and made me laugh.
    And Mia… makes me want to protect her, wipe away every purse of those full lips, and pummel any man stupid enough to get between us.
    My legs go weak and I slump beside her. I fight the panic. “I — I don’t understand.”
    I recognize, with a sickening, building horror, the familiarity of the draw. Know where I’ve felt it before. I imagine Madelon’s face transposed over Mia’s.
    â€œHow is this possible? Am I mad?”
    Mia’s heartbeat accelerates through her neck, fast and hard. Sweat beads her brow.
    Her tawny eyes bat and then open, scared and confused. My mouth drops open, and I try to retract my hand. Both her hands grasp mine, holding me close to her scar.
    â€œNo, don’t, please. I don’t want you to ignore me again, Morgan.”
    I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”
    Tears brim and glisten. “You… push me away. The mask melts sometimes when you’re near me, but you put it back on. Leave it off. Can’t you leave it off? And trust me?” Her face flushes and she closes her eyes, embarrassed. She’s so shy.
    I glance at the scar, but Mia’s face pulls me away from the old feelings. “I—I…”
    My hands cup her chin, and I press my lips against hers. Fire rips through my core, my hands fly into her hair, pulling her tight against me.
    The silver bell above the door tinkles, and Beth gasps — slamming the door shut before the tour group behind her.
    She sticks her head back in. “For heaven’s sake get off the floor before you give one of these grannies a heart attack!”
    ****
    Mia Two hours later
    Am I ready for this, an outside tour? My legs are still wobbly from the collapse. Morgan slipped out while Beth peppered me with questions like ‘Are you alright? Maybe you should go home?’
    I estimate the distance of the tour; my eyes flick from Orchard House, to the barn, to the cannons. I’m still easily winded. My stomach twists as I picture myself doubled over, wheezing, as the group waits for me to recover.
    Beth thinks I’m ready. I whisper to myself, “You can do this.”
    My heart is lambasting my chest as I take stock of the tour group assembled before me.
    Older, elegant ladies — check. They will be no problem. If anything, they’ll be mothering me with the slightest sign of illness.
    Young couple — check. They steal a kiss and