I Never Let You In {Marguerite, don't you shut me out here! {…there was a depth in John's gaze that he usually kept veiled. "Put it with your other trinkets." *** Marguerite stumbled again as she walked, her mind a thousand thoughts away from the path she trod. Her hand found its way deep in her pocket, her finger slipping the ring - Roxton's ring - on and off, around and around. Her fingertips tried to read the meaning of the worn device. A trinket? Was that what she kept hidden in caches throughout the treehouse and beyond - trinkets? Shiny baubles for the magpie she'd become. She'd told John long ago that her hopes and dreams didn't include him. He hadn't asked what those hopes and dreams might be. He probably knew. Possessions, security, safety, freedom, self-knowledge - things of value - they all could be bought. Purchased with cold hard cash. A treasure? Wasn't Roxton's ring more than a band of old Spanish gold? Wasn't it a representation of his position, his history, his prestige? What was she doing holding on to the very emblem of the unfathomable gap between the two of them - he the heir to three hundred and fifty years of privilege and rank. His ancestors had protected the realm from her enemies, helped forge an empire, had titles, owned property and held sway in government. And her ancestors? An unknown lineage that had reached its wretched climax by denying a baby - her - a mother, a father, even a name. What had she been thinking? A magical moment in an underground cavern, possessed by ancient spirits, pawns of a mystical ritual. Of course everything seemed possible, even easy when fire and ice coursed through your veins. But now… now she was overwhelmed by doubt and fear and the irrefutable sense that she didn't belong in the world embodied by the ring in her pocket. She trudged on, her joy turning slowly to despair. Never had her miserable, unloved, vagabond upbringing seemed so much of a burden it did now. *** Lord John Roxton strode along at the head of the line, barely restraining himself from whistling as he walked. What an experience! Being possessed by the spirit of a god would not have been his first choice, but somehow it had left him confident, happy. It had given him the courage to be as forthright with Marguerite as he had ever been. And their kiss there on the altar. Though it was part of the magic, part of the ritual, there had been magic beyond that; there was an enchantment that Marguerite had beguiled him with long ago brought to its proper conclusion in that kiss. During the ritual, he had instilled the gift of a ring to Marguerite with all the meaning of the Western world - that of a man asking a woman for her hand in marriage. He knew he was using the ritual for his own ends, knew that Marguerite had known what he was doing. In spite of all that he had been thrilled when she accepted the ring and wore it on her finger. It was like he had formalized his feelings - bringing a little of the order and circumstance of his real world and planting it in the dreamlike strangeness of life on the plateau. He may have told Marguerite that he was content with the here and now, but a huge part of him wanted a future, a life in the land of his past with the woman he loved. He vowed this would be a step toward achieving that goal. *** Off and on, around and around. Back at the treehouse, Marguerite was now bathed, wearing clean clothes and replete after the evening meal, but still the ring in her pocket held her thoughts in thrall. It was heavy and warm and smoothed with time. Impossibly large for any of her fingers, it was easy to slide the ring on and off, around and around. She walked out to the balcony, the voices of her friends blurred by the shrill cries of insects and night birds. It let her concentrate. She pulled the ring out; it lay on her palm, mute but accusing. The signet ring of a man knighted by Queen Elizabeth herself. How many lords and earls and baronets had worn this ring before John? Had he been born in the same room in the manor house as his ancestors, had he stood up to speak in the House of Lords like his grandfather before him? He deserved so much better than her. And not just because she was a nameless orphan. More than that, John was an honourable man, noble in actions as well as in name. And her? What had she told John before - her soul was a little - face it, a lot - the worse for wear. If only she hadn't done so many things in the past that she regretted now. If only she could be open and straightforward with him. But she was no longer capable of honesty or even real emotions. Just pretenses and schemes and a desperate desire to survive. Her knight in shining armour. Yes, John kept riding in on his white horse but she was no heroine - no, she was the wicked stepsister in this fairytale. Funny how she thought of life on the plateau as a fantasy. Three years of struggling to survive and yet here she was behaving as if it were some sort of blissful alternative to her real life. No, she was never going to be Lord John Roxton's bride when they returned to England and there was no use even contemplating it. How could she have been so cruel to John - to encourage him like this? He loved her; it was in his eyes, in his words, in the way he had presented her with his ring in the cavern yesterday. And she had taken his ring. He likely thought she had put aside her reservations and was accepting… Oh God, what had she done? The ring sat on her palm, a clear rebuke to her foolish actions. She had to give it back. *** "You're deep in thought," Roxton said quietly, having come out to the balcony unheard by Marguerite as she stared at the ring in her palm. The sound of his voice startled her and the ring slipped out of her fingers and clattered on the planks at her feet. Both of them reached down but Roxton was the one to grasp it. They straightened till they were standing facing each other. "Careful now, you don't want to throw away the family heirloom," Roxton said with a chuckle. There was a pause and he saw that Marguerite was avoiding his gaze. "I didn't mean to frighten you," John apologized as he took in the troubled look on her face. "Looks like I can't be trusted with such a treasure," Marguerite retorted, using the sarcasm that was the only way she had found to keep John at a distance. She needed some excuse to give the ring back; otherwise the next thing she knew he'd be asking her to marry him. And that couldn't happen. "Marguerite, I didn't mean anything by that crack. It was just a joke." "A little aristocratic humour; are you sure a waif from the streets would understand?" Marguerite had that hard edge in her voice and she looked at her hand where the ring had been such a short time ago. "Marguerite, what's wrong?" Roxton pressed, hurt and desperate as he saw the wonderful connection that they had formed during their experience in the cave being shattered by every brittle word she uttered. "Wrong? Nothing's wrong. I just think we've forgotten what we had agreed upon. As much as I'd love to spend the Roxton fortune on a lovely London townhouse and shopping trips to Harrod's, you and I both know that's never going to happen." She had turned her back to him and her rebuff was addressed to the jungle. Roxton stepped forward to touch her shoulder. He hesitated as she flinched at the touch as if in pain. "Why not, Marguerite? Why not?" he cried out in despair. "We're just not right for each other, a lord with a ring that dates back to Queen Elizabeth's reign and an orphan who doesn't even have a name. I'm not going to fool myself that, just because things seem possible living on this plateau with its bloody shifting planes of reality, that there is actually any chance that - that," She hoped that Roxton wouldn't notice as she dashed a tear away with the back of her hand. Roxton was in turmoil as he listened to Marguerite's words, torn between an angry retort and pleading for her not to do this, not to throw his ring back in his face. It meant too much to him. He had to think through this thing clearly. What could he say to avert disaster? He didn't know and stood in mute agony, facing her rigid back. He took a breath and marshalled his defense. "Marguerite, whatever differences there are between our upbringings, can't you see it doesn't matter? As long as -," He stopped as Marguerite turned to him, visibly upset. "No, John, don't say it. Don't say anything. Just take your family ring and put it on your noble pinkie finger where it belongs," At this she reached out and brushed her fingers against his, touching the place where years of wearing a ring had dented the flesh. "And forget I ever had it." She faltered at this point, the memory of his putting the ring on her finger too vivid in her mind. She pulled back, alarmed at her loss of control. Without thinking she crossed her arms and turned back toward the jungle. "Fine," he muttered, jamming the ring over his knuckle into its familiar place. "But this isn't the end of it," he told the stiff back that was facing him once more. His anger died in that instant. When he spoke next his voice was filled with fragile hope, "I'll be here whenever you're ready," He heard no response and, defeated, he turned back to the great room and the cheerful voices inside. How could a day so filled with promise have him feeling this miserable and defeated? And worse was the sight of the woman he loved, more miserable than himself and determined, it would seem, never to reach for happiness. No, this wouldn't be the end of it, he vowed. He wouldn't give up. He couldn't. *** The darkness felt oppressive, it felt like all hope had left with John. She was alone - the way she had always been. Marguerite closed her eyes and imagined the ring that was no longer in her pocket, smooth and warm with the heat that was John. She heard the sounds of laughter from the treehouse. She might have done the right thing but she didn't feel right - she felt wretched. Her tears fell freely now. She turned toward her room. The end *** Return to Hot Water Challenge Fics |