Dreamwalk Blue

CHAPTER TEN -- DEAD MAN BLUES

So all I ask is for you

To come away with me in the night

Come away with me

(norah jones, come away with me, 2002)

May, 1945

The day the war ended June went to church.

She hadn't planned to, but the bells of St. Paul's somehow lured her in, till she found herself in the back of the cathedral trying to blend in. She wasn't alone. It looked like half the city -- the half that wasn't drinking champagne or singing in the streets -- was kneeling gratefully right alongside her.

After the prayers were over and the bells were ringing, she walked home through London. The relief in the air was intoxicating. Everywhere she walked people sang, clasped hands, wished one another well. An entire block of row houses emptied, the inhabitants dragging their long dining room tables into the middle of the street and hosting the biggest tea party of all time.

June watched it all with a smile, wished them well, but didn't join in when they asked her. This wasn't her celebration, not really, and she knew it.

She wandered, though, delaying the inevitable. Or maybe savoring the moment, she wasn't really sure. All she knew was that Albus was waiting, and so, as the sun began to set, she turned around and headed home.

***

The sun went down on history and Albus watched from the fire escape of June's second-story apartment.

London lit up the night sky the way it had before the war. For the first time in almost seven years, windows were thrown wide, curtains left open, lamps left on. The streetlights glowed fuzzily and the headlamps on cars swung this way and that around corners and down avenues. It was a welcome sight.

He climbed back in the window and poured another glass of wine, waiting. He spent a lot of his time with June waiting. Tonight, though, he was a little grateful for it. He knew she'd be happy, and he didn't want to ruin that happiness for her. He was glad to see the war at an end, of course, but he knew things, saw the shape of the world to come, and was afraid.

He couldn't tell June any of this. He'd tried, and every time the words stuck in his throat. She would be angry if she knew, of course. She would never like the idea that he was shielding her, trying to protect her. So instead, he waited.

"Look outside," June said, and he turned around. She stood in the doorway, grinning at him. He hadn't heard her come in. "The world's gone new all over."

"Has it?"

She leaned against the doorjamb, her platform-heeled shoes dangling from one hand and tired bruises beneath her eyes. "You know it. I've been kissed by no less than twenty perfect strangers just on my way home. The Ministry was in an uproar this morning, but it's nothing compared to the streets out there." When he didn't answer, or move toward the window for a look, she said, "I expect I'll have my picture in the paper tomorrow. Won't that be one for the scrapbook?"

She dropped her shoes and bag at the door and headed for the bar. "I see you've made yourself at home." She tossed ice cubes into a tumbler without looking and began to rummage for the scotch. "Did you find the Cotes du Rhone to your liking? I can't abide it myself but I know you like it..."

Albus couldn't help but smile. "Yes, it was fine. Better than fine, actually."

"Nasty, sugary stuff," she muttered. "I don't know how you drink it." She stepped out from behind the bar, brought her glass to her lips and smiled at him. "Now, how shall we celebrate?"

"The fact that you've started keeping my favorite wine on hand is cause for celebration, isn't it?" He smiled a bit wryly.

"Well, I can't bear to watch you drink gin." June perched on the arm of the sofa and lit a cigarette. "You make the most desperate faces."

He grimaced. "It tastes of wood polish and pine needles." Then, after a moment, said, "You know, if you start stocking my brand of pipe tobacco there'll be no going back for either of us."

June took a long drink and made a face. "I'll keep that in mind the next time I find myself in a tobacconist's. But you still haven't answered my question -- why aren't you dancing in the streets alongside everyone else? It's the day for it. People are brazenly conjuring ticker tape and sparklers, and no one is any the wiser."

"I suppose I haven't the heart for that sort of optimism anymore," he said, standing up and crossing the room to stand opposite her.

"What is it, Albus? Even you must be relieved, today of all days." She tapped her cigarette out into an ashtray and waited for him to answer.

Instead, he turned away and switched on the wireless. June had the dial set to the BBC and that made him smile, just for a moment, before she was at his side. She touched his shoulder, softly, and her nearness took his breath.

"Let's go away from here," Albus said, catching her hand and pulling her closer.

She let him put her arms around him and sway against the beat from the radio. "We can't do that. And, anyway, you don't really want to."

"Says you," he murmured into the cloth covering her shoulder. She was wearing white muslin, old-fashioned and sweet, the sort of dress that looked good in newspaper photographs.

"What is it? Is something wrong? Tell me." She kissed him, soft and quickly, tasting of cigarettes, scotch and soda.

"The world is wrong. It always has been."

"Most of the world would argue today that things are finally right."

"It will only happen again," he said softly. "It's foolish to think it won't."

June put a hand on his cheek, turning his head so that he had to look at her. "Then let's be foolish. Just for a little while." She smiled. "Just for today."

"Just for today," he repeated, wishing they could. Wishing he could. He ought to tell her, but maybe, just maybe, if she didn't know she'd be safe.

He stopped dancing, put his hands on her hips and kissed her, mussing her lipstick and bringing both hands up to pull the pins from her hair. Long strands fell over her face, in between them, and he could taste her cream rinse. She laughed into his mouth and pulled away.

"What has gotten into you tonight?" She turned, looking at him over her shoulder and grinning, then sprawling across the sofa. Her window was open. She caught the end of the curtain in one hand, toying with it.

He crossed over and sat next to her, running a hand up her stockinged leg. She raised an eyebrow at him and for a moment he was afraid he'd gone too far. Things were still occasionally awkward between them, conversations full of minefields and words like cut glass, because neither knew where things stood. Not really. Tonight, though, Albus wasn't sure he cared. He wasn't sure he wanted to play by their always-changing rules anymore.

From the street below, he could hear singing. June was watching him a little uncertainly.

"Maybe we ought to get some champagne," she suggested. "It sounds like we're missing out on the celebration."

"I'm not much in the mood for champagne."

"I thought as much," she said, tugging gently on his shirt collar when he leaned over her again.

"Tell me what you want," he said, pushing the hem of that white muslin dress above her knee and hearing her catch her breath.

"I never know what I want. You know that." But her arm went around his neck.

"I know. But, tonight," he began, "tonight you have to decide."

"Do I?" she said, her eyelashes fluttering as she looked everywhere but at him.

"You said it yourself -- it's a whole new world today."

She took a breath, closed her eyes. He could see faint lines of fatigue beginning to show beneath her make-up. "It is, isn't it? Just the sort of day for beginnings." She slipped the topmost button of his shirt through the buttonhole and then back again, her scarlet-tipped fingernails clicking against the mother of pearl.

"I can't think of a better day," he said, and then she kissed him.

She kissed him and time stopped. He could still hear the outside noises through the open window, the cheers and songs and bells ringing, but they hardly mattered. He sat up, pulling June with him. Her fingers were at his throat and he caught them, thinking she was going to push him away, but instead she started unknotting his tie. It came free and she sat back, looking at him a little uncertainly.

"You did ask me to decide," she said, and reached for his hands.

"I did at that," he replied and let her guide his fingers to the buttons on her dress. She turned around and held her hair out of the way while he unfastened them. His hands were steady as he did it, and that surprised him.

It wasn't, after all, as though they were the awkward teenagers Albus always seemed to remember, and neither of them were exactly blushing virgins. Still, after all this time it ought to have felt more frightening, more breathless. It ought to have felt more. This just felt inevitable. As though no matter what else had happened, or what had been said, they were always going to end up here, like this. They'd both known it all along, of that he felt sure.

It was curiously disappointing somehow.

"Are you all right?" June asked, turning back around to him.

"I'm fine," he said and put his hands on her shoulders. She wasn't trembling either.

The breeze from the window grew colder, but neither of them moved to close it. The faint sound of bells and the smell of woodsmoke drifted in. Two flights down someone was playing a piano, and the BBC was still burbling softly on the wireless.

She slid out of her dress, tossing it away, and reached up to undo the rest of her hair. He stopped her, and started pulling the hairpins free himself. She relaxed against him and slid a hand up his chest before kissing him again, pulling him down onto the sofa. Somehow along the way he lost his shirt and belt and shoes.

After a moment, though, she pulled away.

When he opened his eyes, she was kneeling on the sofa beside him, in her ivory slip and silk stockings, laughing softly. "Has it really been two years?"

"In September," he said, but the truth was it had been far longer than that.

She leaned over him, one hand on each shoulder, her hair falling forward. "I'm sorry for making you wait so long."

"Don't be sorry. I'm not."

"Aren't you?"

He reached out and caught her around the waist, pulling her to him and settling her across his hips.

"No, I'm not," he said, and kissed her again.

***

Somehow in the course of the evening, they'd made it from the sofa into her bedroom and that was where June woke up. The sun had just barely risen and Albus was deeply asleep, one arm flung across her. His arm was heavy on her chest and she felt vaguely as though she couldn't catch her breath.

She got up, careful not to wake him, and went to sit in the living room with a cup of tea. The room was a wreck. A puddle of scotch and soda stained the wood floor where her drink had been knocked over. Her dress hung limply over the arm of the sofa.

The light from the windows was an unhealthy, early grey, and June went over and closed the window they'd left open the night before. Feeling restless, she wandered into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

She'd half-expected the kettle's whistle to wake Albus, so she wasn't very surprised when, once she was settled on the sofa with a cup of strong, black tea, he wandered out of the bedroom, half-dressed, picking up pieces of clothing as he went.

"Good morning," he said, kissing her cheek familiarly. "You're awake rather early."

"I couldn't sleep." A pause. "There's tea in the kitchen if you'd like some," she said, and he wandered off to fix himself a cup. She watched him through the open doorway. He put in too much sugar; he always did.

Barefoot, he padded back into the living room, picked up his shirt from the floor and shrugged into it, buttoning it up and then turning the wireless on softly. He sat next to her on the sofa, pulling her feet into his lap and balancing a cup of tea in one hand, and for a moment they were so much like an old married couple that she lost her breath.

"What is it?" he asked with a smile.

"It's nothing. I'm just getting used to the idea, I guess."

"Of us?"

"Not just that," she said. "Everything. Everything's different than it was yesterday. All's right with the world and all that. Things, everywhere, look better than they have in a long while."

Albus didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked at her for a moment, then brought one hand up to touch her cheek.

"Have you talked to Jack?" she asked, and he pulled his hand away abruptly. "It's just that you said you would and-"

He looked away from her, digging into his shirt pocket and pulling out his watch. "Is it that late already?"

"Albus-"

"This really isn't the time, June." He pushed her bare feet out of his lap and stood up, searching for his shoes.

"I can tell that this ...whatever it is... is still bothering you."

"June, please." He turned and put his hands on her shoulders. "Don't push."

"It's not curiosity. I'm worried about you."

"Don't." He gathered up his coat and moved to go. "It isn't necessary."

She followed him into the entryway. "Will I see you tonight?"

He didn't answer right away. "I'm not sure. There's something..." He opened the door and turned back to face here. "I'll let you know later. Will you be here?"

"Of course," she said, and he was gone.

***

She finally came back to Tom, or he came back to her, on a wet, windy spring afternoon. The clouds hung low and threatening, the wind unseasonably cold. Metis lit an extra candle and took it with her down to the library. The corridors were grey and damp, even against the torches, and she was glad of the extra light.

She was especially glad of it when Tom came around a far corner. She held the candle up in front of her like a shield and hoped he would walk by without speaking to her.

They hadn't spoken in weeks. Metis began to think that they would never speak again, and she felt almost relieved. Almost. She knew, somehow, that things were better, safer, when they were apart. That didn't stop her from wanting him, or from missing him. It didn't stop her from being afraid of him, either.

Tom caught sight of her and stopped. "Metis."

"Tom," she said, and tried to walk past him.

He caught her by the arm. "Don't go."

"I have to," she said, pulling away. "I'm late."

"Then be late," he said, and pulled her toward him.

"No." She pushed him away, but he caught her and held her close again.

She dropped the candle. It fell to the damp, stone floor and went out with a soft hiss.

"What do you want, Tom?"

He looked at her for a long moment and said, "I want to make you strong."

"It wasn't what you wanted before."

"It is now," he said and took her by the hand, back downstairs where it was empty and quiet.

They fell into each other, a tangle of limbs and hands and fingers, and things were right for awhile. Outside, the weather howled and wept, outraged, but inside they were protected and together. At least for the moment.

Afterward, Tom lay next to her, propped on one elbow, looking down at her. "This doesn't change anything. You know that, don't you?"

"You wouldn't have to do this thing," she said, quietly. "But you want to. And I've never tried to stand between you and anything you've wanted. I won't now."

He smiled slightly. "I don't think, Metis, that it's up to me anymore. Events have begun move themselves."

"Maybe. But you could still stop it. I know you could."

"Dumbledore knows."

"What?" Metis sat up.

"He knows, but he doesn't understand what it means."

"I don't understand it, either," she said. "Not really. I've accepted it, but I don't understand."

"But you won't leave," he said, catching her hand. "You won't leave again." It wasn't a question.

Metis settled back against him, and didn't answer.

***

She didn't see Albus that night. He didn't call for her. She sat up waiting, but in the end she was too proud to go to him. A fierce spring storm had kicked up, bringing first wet winds, then thunder, and June found herself, of all places, at Hayden Fairborne's door.

There had to be, part of her knew, a reason that she went running to Hayden every time she found herself in over her head, but she didn't really like to examine that too closely. Equally, that traitorous part of her would suggest on these occasions, there had to be a reason that Hayden kept letting her run to him. June shook her head fiercely, as though she could dislodge the thought, and rapped the brass knocker smartly. She wrapped her light coat around her, trying to keep warm while she waited, and was incredibly surprised when Hayden answered his own door. Her apology for calling so late, intended for the butler or housekeeper or Michael, Hayden's ever-patient valet, died on her lips. Instead, she could only manage, "Hayden?"

"June!" His hazel eyes lit up and he swayed slightly in the doorway. "I'm so pleased to see you."

"You're drunk."

"Well, perhaps a bit. But that doesn't make the sentiment any less true." He grabbed her, a bit too enthusiastically, by the arm and pulled her inside. "It's dreadful out. Come in and sit with me by the fire. You're just the person I'd like to have most tonight." He slid her coat from her shoulders before she could protest and led her into the parlor -- where she stopped dead.

"What on earth happened here?"

"I've been entertaining," he grinned, turning toward her, and she noticed he had a lipstick kiss on his collar and a decanter of brandy in one hand.

"In more ways than one, I imagine." June surveyed the wreckage of the parlor. Glasses littered the low table and the ashtrays spilled smudged and crumpled cigarettes. A lone woman's shoe lay on its side by the fireplace.

"Always." He scooped up the shoe, hooking his fingers through one strappy end and slinging it over his shoulder. He draped himself across the sofa, managing as always to look insufferably pleased with himself. "Now, June darling, what brings you here so late?"

"I-" June began, feeling suddenly very foolish. "I couldn't sleep."

He sat up, looking at her sharply. She took a seat beside him in front of the fire, but managed to avoid looking at him.

"Is something the matter?" Hayden leaned over, reaching for her. "What an ass I am not to have..."

She pushed his hand away from her shoulder. "I'm fine, Hayden. Just fine."

"Well, you certainly don't look fine, now you bring it up."

She laughed, a little bitterly. "Just what every girl wants to hear."

Hayden set the decanter on a side table and looked long and hard at her. "Good god. No one's died, have they?"

"Oh, Hayden. No," she said, feeling still more foolish. "I really shouldn't have come. I'm sorry." She struggled to sit up so she could make a semi-dignified retreat.

"Come with me," he commanded, standing up, grasping her by the hand and yanking her to her feet. He led her back through the long corridors and past the servant's hall, into a part of the house June had never seen. A part of the house she would, until tonight, have laid even odds that Hayden didn't know how to find.

"Why are we in your kitchen?"

"Tea," Hayden replied simply. "We're British. Isn't that what we do in times of crisis? Organize jumble sales and make tea." He grinned. "I'm afraid I haven't much jumble, but I've plenty of tea."

He rolled up his sleeves and began to rummage around the cupboards for tea, nearly throwing June's entire worldview into chaos.

"You know where the tea is kept, then?" she asked weakly, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

"Well, no," he admitted. "But it must be about here somewhere, mustn't it?" He ducked briefly beneath a wheeled buffet cart. "Ah-ha! There it is. I thought it might be, though I don't know why." He held a pair of silver-plated canisters out to her. "We've got... well, I'm not sure what we've got. There's some rather nasty-looking black leaves or some wilted green things- Is this really what tea looks like before it's brewed?"

"That's the rumor," June said and couldn't quite manage to control a smile.

Hayden put the tea on a sideboard and began to inspect a row of kettles, in various sizes and shapes. "Now, I suppose one just- No, don't help me. I'll figure it out." He chose one at random and began to fill it with water. "Now. You've come all this way. You obviously want to talk about whatever-it-is, darling. So talk."

June's smile vanished, and after a moment, she said, "It's just that I've done something -- something I'm not sure I ought to have done -- and there's no way to take it back."

"Do you want to take it back?"

"No, not now. Not yet. But I'm afraid I will."

He put the heavy, copper kettle on the stove and turned to her. "Why worry about the future? Why worry about what may be, what may never be? Learn to appreciate now, darling. You really ought to." He grinned. "You think far too much. It's your only flaw, at least as far as I'm concerned. That and unfortunate taste in men." When she didn't laugh, he added, "Or perhaps I'm just a drunken fool."

He sat down, taking her hands in his and said solemnly, "If that ass of a man has hurt you, in any way, I'll have his spleen-"

She pulled her hands away, not looking at him. "It's me, Hayden. Not him. I haven't any proper feeling. I don't know what it is I'm supposed to feel, but I know I don't feel it."

"Who says, darling, that you're supposed to feel anything? Love is what it is to lover and loved, and it doesn't matter very much what anyone else thinks it ought to be. It shows in what you do more than in what you feel. Surely you've learned that after all this time?"

"I just- Why can't I ever be sure? Other people seem so sure."

"It's because, darling, other people feel and you think. That serves you well in some cases, but not, I think, in this one."

The kettle whistled and Hayden got up. He fumbled a bit, but in the end was able to produce something not entirely unlike tea.

"Now, would you like sugar? Milk?" He stopped, going a bit green. "Good heavens. Where do we keep the milk?"

June began to laugh and found she couldn't stop.

"Just what the devil is so funny?!" Hayden demanded, spots of color high on his cheekbones.

June waved a helpless hand at him. "I never thought I'd see you puttering around a kitchen, making tea like some old pepperpot."

Hayden sighed and cradled his cup in his hands, propping one foot on the back rung of the chair. His tie askew and his shirtsleeves rolled up, he looked utterly out of his element. "I suppose this is the thanks I get for playing agony aunt? For ministering to the wounds of your heart? For-"

"Don't you have people to do for you?" June interrupted with a grin. "I've never seen you get your own tea before. I've never seen you get your own anything before."

"Well, some conversations just ought to be had in a kitchen, don't you think?" He grinned. "Besides, it's terribly late. Even I let my servants sleep sometime."

"Do you? That is a surprise."

"I think you'll find, darling, that I'm full of surprises."

June grinned, but somehow it turned into a yawn. She covered her mouth with a free hand, then took a long drink of tea.

Hayden leaned forward over the back of the chair. "I might just succeed in truly surprising you one of these days, you know."

"Oh, really? And how would you propose to do that?"

He shook his head. "That would be telling. And then it would hardly be a surprise, would it?"

June smiled again. "You really are something else. No matter what minor tragedy befalls me, no matter what an ass I make of myself, you always know just what to say. It's usually absurd, but-"

"I think," Hayden said dryly, "that I will try to take that in the spirit in which it was intended."

"Of course," June said, yawning again and not really hearing him. "I don't deserve you," she mumbled, beginning to feel really very sleepy, resting her chin on one hand and closing her eyes.

Hayden took the chair beside her and said softly, "No, you really don't -- and you ought to have what you do deserve."