Wonders of the Invisible World by Patricia A. McKillip Page B

Can we leave for your house in the north as soon as possible?”
     
    Ned didn’t ask questions. He didn’t dare. There was tension in his beloved’s voice and in her movements that told him simply to do what must be done as quickly as possible. He sent word to his caretaker and housekeeper in the north to prepare for a full house, perused the train schedules, and started packing. Beneath his alarm for her, he was delighted, and afraid that if he delayed or discussed her reasons for the abrupt decision, she might change her mind again. Long hours rambling through the country was what she needed: sun and rain on her face, work whenever she wanted, laughter in the evenings, fish out of the rivers, fresh cream and strawberries, and long, peaceful, dreamless sleeps.
    Two days later, when the train to the north country began to move out of the station, Ned saw the tension suddenly melt out of Emma like something palpable. She turned to look at him with wonder. Around her, friends and her brother and their older female cousin Winifred, whose art lay in her embroidery threads, chatted and laughed. Aisles and racks were piled with their luggage, as well as baskets of provisions, sketchbooks to record the journey, blankets, books and a great trunk full of the paraphernalia of their art.
    “We’re moving,” she said incredulously. “I thought it wouldn’t be possible. Something would happen to prevent it.”
    “Is Wilding that difficult?” he asked her, appalled.
    She thought, watching the city flow past her, before she answered. “He is playing a game to make me feel like Boudicca. But, unlike her, I will win. I just needed to retreat for a week or two.” She smiled at him, the shadows like bruises under her eyes. He could not find a smile to give back to her.
    “You will not go there again,” he said flatly. “I will explain that to Mr. Wilding.”
    Her smile faded; he glimpsed a look in her eyes that Wilding must have put there: fierce and inflexible.
    “You will not fight my battles for me,” she said softly. “If I can’t fight for myself and my art, then what kind of an artist can I be? Only what you will permit me to be.”
    He blinked at her, startled at this stranger’s face. Then he thought about what she said, and answered haltingly, “I think I understand. This is that important to you.”
    “Yes.”
    “More important than me or Wilding.”
    Her face softened; she touched his hand, held it unexpectedly. “No. As important as you. The only important thing about Wilding is what we will get from him when this is finished.”
    He opened her fingers, let his own explore her long bones and warm, softer skin, roughened here and there by a callous from her pencil, or by scrubbing to remove dried paint. Though their hands were tucked neatly out of sight beneath her skirt, he felt that warmth against his lips, as though longing, for an instant, had made it so.
    “Miss Slade,” he said huskily.
    “Mr. Bonham?”
    “Will you please marry me so that I might have the privilege of putting my arms around you?”
    She nodded, sighing audibly. Then she added quickly, “I mean no. I mean not yet. Soon. I meant that—I dearly wish you could. How long have we known each other?”
    “One month, three weeks, four days and some odd hours. Surely that’s long enough.”
    “Surely it must be,” she agreed, “in some countries. You would bring my father half a dozen cows and he would give you his blessing and me. If he were still alive.”
    “If I had any cows. Perhaps I should offer some to Adrian.”
    “Perhaps that would be proper.”
    “How soon,” he begged, “is soon?”
    “Not soon enough.” She held her breath, thinking, then looked at him helplessly. “Do you think two months might be considered within the pale of propriety?”
    “Miss Slade, may I remind you that as an artist you are already beyond the pale?”
    She laughed breathlessly, a sound he had heard only rarely during the past