Part 16

          "That's... actually very, very true, come to think of it."
          "And you hardly seem to be a threat to my estate or the lives of those I've gathered around me here."
          "No!  Not at all, I'm just..." I spread my hands in surrender, and hope my honesty comes through with enough clarity to make me not seem suspicious.  "Curious, I guess.  I don't know why I've been coming here - it's always a different time, and I never know for how long - so I just try to absorb as much as I can while I'm here."
          He's completely unphased by the implausibility of all of this.  Not just taking it in stride, but, totally accepting of it, like I've been talking about riding up on horseback.  The amount of relief I feel at being believed like this is more than I would have expected - I'm actually able to relax a little.
          Meres is silent a moment, clearly in deep thought over the possibilities around the situation - but then he seems to shake it off, probably realizing I've said my visits are unpredictable in length.  "Well, as you are here now, I suppose I can accept you as a guest.  While I am exceedingly proud of our gardens, I should prefer to keep you out of my wife's sight, if you don't mind - she does not have quite the experience with... unusual situations that I do."
          "I'm... not exactly dressed for polite company either, I would imagine."
          And he laughs.  After what I've seen from him, that murky glimpse into the depth of his sorrow, the mystery and isolation around him, I hadn't expected to find such mirth and lightness in him.  But his laugh is full of cheer, and his dark eyes shine.  For the first time, I notice there's the faintest hint of auburn highlight to his dark hair.  "No, sweet miss, I am afraid you are not.  Her sister is an unexpectedly proper person - and in her sight at the least, you would be an utter abomination.  But this is of no consequence to me, I have seen far stranger things in my travels over the years.  You seemed intersted in my painting?  There are quite a few more through the house, shall I give you a tour?"
          "I would absolutely love that.  And yes, this painting is... the sense of light is absolutely gorgeous, there's such a richness to it, and the pose of the hand is stunning."
          He nods, considering the painting - his face shows pleasure at my appreciation of it, but it's more contentment that I understand what he accomplished, rather than pride in his own ability.  "One of the first I painted for Celestine - my wife.  There is a 'language' of flowers, which I have grown quite attached to, a meaning for each one.  It has become something of a hobby of mine, arranging them in light of those meanings, as well as in regard to color and form.  The ones here:  heliotrope, meaning 'devotion', or 'I love'.  Ipomaca," he is gesturing toward each as he lists them, this is the one that reminded me of a morning glory vine, "meaning 'I attach myself to you' - you can see how the meanings of some are connected to the properties of the plant, just as the common names and old medicinal uses once were.  Yarrow is 'cure for heartache', honeysuckle 'the bond of love', and pulmonaria," this is the spotted leaf, " 'thou art my life'."  His eyes and voice soften as he proceeds through the list, and his gestures linger lovingly.  His devotion to this woman is so palpable, my heart aches just to see the expression on his face, in his motions, as every fiber of his being seems suffused by his love, admiration, and focus on her.  (...what on earth must that be like, to have such utter devotion directed toward you...and from someone like him, at that...)
          "I've been trying to learn the meanings myself - the ones for flowers I've drawn, like honeysuckle, I can remember, but I don't know how you can keep the meanings for everything in your gardens in mind!"
          "My memory seems to have the space for many things... not all of which I should like to retain..."  His voice has dropped, and his eyes unfocused, and I feel a wave of deep, wrenching pain from him.  He looks away from the painting, and must see the sympathetic sorrow in my face, for he smiles gently and shakes his head.  "But I should not trouble a guest with such things as this.  Even a guest who began as a trespasser."  I flush, but he laughs again, and puts my hand on his arm, walking us toward the stairway.  "Come.  Let me show you my library.  If you are interested in painting - you said you draw yourself? Splendid. I must admit to being rather proud of my library."
          "As well you should be!  It's absolutely stunning - I haven't had anything like a comprehensive look at it, but that ceiling is just breathtaking."
          He raises an eyebrow at me - but I can see a smile at the corner of his lips.  "Just how long have you wandered my house unattended, mademoiselle?"
          "It's... I've visited maybe a dozen times now?  I was only here a few minutes before you found me this time;  I've rarely been entirely alone when here."
          "Jacob seemed on rather friendly terms with you, have you spoken with him before?"
          "I have - he's actually the first one I saw in this time, though I thought I'd only imagined it, out at the edge of the gardens."
          "I wonder if there is something you are doing that you're unaware of, to cause your movement through time," he muses as we begin to climb the stairs.  He has asked me no questions at all of my time, of the future, but he seems intensely interested in the time-travel idea.  "There are so many seemingly prosaic actions that can have affects on such things as these.  The gesture of a hand, a word mis-pronounced, the pattern of stones on the ground..."
          I peer into his face, as though doing so would let me catch a glimpse into his mind.  (Assuming, of course, I could get past just gazing starry-eyed at the surface, it's unearthly how beautiful he is.)  It sounds like he's talking about magic - and I know there was a huge interest in spiritualism around this time, but he speaks of these things so matter-of-factly... and who am I to judge what's rational anyway, I'm apparently my own time-machine.
          I know there are a million questions I should be asking him right now - I know so little of him, and Celestine, and the story of their time here - but I can't think of a single one right now.  And it feels like enough, just to study his face and his gestures, and listen to his train of thought.  I'm learning who he is not through interview or interrogation, but through experience and observation, which gives a much truer picture anyway.
          I'm not certain he's getting any less mysterious, now that I've spent time with him.  I can't even judge his age - he doesn't look much older than I am, maybe thirty, certainly no more than mid-thirties, but something in his bearing and his eyes implies that he has seen many more years than that.  There's a gravity to him, and it's more than just the accumulation of knowledge and travel experiences.
          "Now.  You have seen it before, but have a look from here - this stair is centered in the room, the best view of the scene is from right here."  He steps halfway behind me, and taking me by the shoulders, positions me in the exact center of the third step from the top.  One arm curls around me a little as he puts his fingers (so graceful and long, but still, strangly chilled) to my chin, his head near mine, positioning me just so to get the ideal view.  I can't keep my heart from pounding with him so close to me, nearly embracing me, his breath warm against my cheek.  "There," he murmurs.  "Look now."
          I lift my eyes - and a gasp falls from me.  He's right, I hadn't seen it at all properly before.  From this spot, the trompe l'oeil is flawless - I know the roof is square and flat, but from this spot, the ceiling bows upward with ornately sculpted stone arches, meeting at a point high above.  The flowers and fruit truly appears to be hanging from the vines wrapped around the stone - technically, I know that it's all done with carefully placed shadows in the painting, but I can't quite convince my brain that my eyes are seeing only two dimensions up there.  And the figures... it truly seems as though the space between the arches is an open entryway onto fields that glow with vibrant sunlight, a different season in each vista, but the same sun shining onto them all with a warm golden shimmer that catches on every fold of fabric, every upturned and laughing face.
          "The story begins in the summer," I hear him say, though his voice seems distant as I lose myself in the images above us.  His face still near mine, he points toward the summer scene, his eyes tracing the same path as mine.  "Are you familiar with the myth of Orpheus?  ...there are many like it, but I think that would be the version you would have heard.  It's a similar one to that, though it altered a little as I went along.  Being an artist yourself, I'm certain you have experienced this.  The paint begins to move in unexpected ways, the brush revealing images your mind hadn't yet seen..."  His voice is soft and low, a little dreamy, and I let the strange melodies of its unknown accent carry me along through the images above us.  "A summer festival, a garden of roses, and there is music all around.  A girl of unusual beauty lifts her voice in song, the notes hang effervescent in the shimmering summer air, and one man cannot help but be snared by them, despite all the other beautiful things surrounding him, and brought to her side..."