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The chapel was empty but for her, hunched over in the first pew. The floorboards creaked under his boots when he crossed the threshold, still heavy with flowers. She didn’t look up, didn’t snap, didn’t snarl, so he took another step. And another. He kept taking slow steps down the aisle until he was level with her, on the same parallel. She was staring at the altar, which was just as heavy with those freshly cut flowers. The air was thick with the smell of roses and lilies. It almost looked as if she was praying, hands pressed together in front of her nose and mouth, thumbs pressed under her chin. Her elbows rested on her legs. Her red hair was stark and warm against the shoulders of her lilac dress. If he was the sort of person who still believed in God, he’d believe that the beam of light shafting through the high window onto her was holy, like someone had reached out to touch her.
“Have you been crying this whole time?” Ben asked. Beatrice sniffled again.
“Yes,” she said, her sharpness dulled by her watery tone. “And I’ll keep doing it, if you don’t mind.” Benedict dropped down next to her in the pew, folding over so he matched her posture. The knot of his tie was yanked loose and crooked, the top button of his shirt was undone. He looked over at her.
“I do mind.” He tried a smile. It didn’t work for either of them. She wasn’t even looking at him. He briefly wondered if she was seeing anything at all. He followed her gaze back to the empty altar. The bridal bouquet was still on the ground, petals scattered near where Hero had stood.
“I was being rhetorical. I don’t care what you mind.” They sat in silence. Distantly, a car door slammed. Neither of them moved. Ben couldn’t remember if bringing the flowers wasn’t a priority when Hero keeled over at the altar, or if they had been left up there on purpose like a cursed object or a cross on the side of the highway. Lilies, he remembered his mother had said once, were funeral flowers. Lilies were in season, and the chapel was full of them.
“Hero doesn’t deserve this,” he said, almost too quickly. He’d been waiting to say it. The words tumbled out of his mouth. He broke his stare towards the same middle distance point as Beatrice to look at her again, hands folded tidily now instead of pressed together in an aimless prayer. Beatrice laughed desperately and ran her hands over her face, smearing her makeup. She squeezed her eyes shut. On the second pass, she opened them, revealing that the whites were glossy and pink, made sharper by her smudged mascara. He had only ever seen Beatrice cry one other time— when he had proposed. She shook her head.
“God, the things I would do for anyone who’d fix it for her,” she said. Her tone wasn’t wistful. Beatrice didn’t do wistful. It was sincere. It was pained. Her hands were clasped under her chin. A lot. A lesser man would expect a lot, and she knew that, just as well as he did. Benedict was looking at the window over the altar again. It was late afternoon by now, and the west-facing window was filled with a glaring, too-golden glow. Benedict hesitated. Picked his words uncharacteristically carefully.
“Can I try?” It felt like a confession. He tipped a head towards the angel in the glass as if he was asking her and not the woman next to him. His carefully combed Class A hair was starting to slide. It was hot today, even for summer. Beatrice smiled sadly. She was still staring at the angel.
“You shouldn’t,” she said, crossing her arms over herself. He longed to hold her, to keep everything in for her. He was shocked by the strength of this thought, which had put itself in his head like an ambush. She took a deep breath in, then let it out. “It shouldn’t be your job.” He nodded. He couldn’t stop bouncing his leg. It should be Leo’s job, not his. Hero’s father should be the one to defend her honor. Pedro wouldn’t fulfill that role even if he was next in line, even for Beatrice, since he was on Claude’s side. Ben ran his hand through his hair. Bit his cheek. Tasted blood. Looked over at Beatrice, who was glowing in the golden light, her hair like a forest fire. He wanted to fix it for her.
“I love you,” he said. It came out bitter, as sharp as the blood on his tongue or the alcohol still smoldering in the back of his throat. She didn’t look at him, but she dropped her chin to her chest like she had been struck. “More than anything. Isn’t that awful?” He was a little wistful. The comedy of their situation, of his timing, wasn’t strong enough to show through. Beatrice nearly choked on a sob. She pressed a hand to her mouth.
“Awful. I could say the same.” Her tone was just as bitter. She did choke then, doubling over in the pew. She shook her head quickly, speaking as if she was trying to cover her tracks. Nearly panicked. “No, no, I won’t say that.” She dropped her face into her hands completely, throat rasping. “But I mean it.” She took a deep breath. There were tears in her eyes again. She squeezed them shut for a moment, cast them skyward before looking at him again. “I can’t— I can’t confess anything while Hero’s out,” she said deliberately. Guilty. She loved him and she felt guilty. Out was a mild word, more forceful than Imogen’s “asleep” but gentler than “unconscious” or “unresponsive” or other similar words that meant “dead to the world.” Beatrice took a deep breath, pushing it out in a rush so it wouldn’t shake. “It’s her big day.” But still, a smile spread over Ben’s face.
“Christ, Bea, you do love me.” He reached out a hand and put it on top of hers, clenched in her lap. She removed one to swipe angrily at her eyes. She left the hand immediately under his in place.
“I didn’t say that,” she protested. He helped wipe at her face, smearing mascara across his thumb and her cheek.
“You did a pretty good job of saying it anyway.” He kept his hand on her face. “I love you, Beatrice, and not even you can argue with that.” She sniffled.
“You could take it back,” she said.
“I would never,” Ben replied. Beatrice looked back at the angel. The light had shifted, making the angel at the altar mostly visible in silhouette.
“God forgive me.” She shook her head. “Hero forgive me.” She took a deep breath. It only shook a little. Her hands were tight around his. “I love you, too.”
“You do?” She shook her head again, disbelieving.
“I know you heard me.” Ben, grinning, pulled her into a tight hug. She turned her face to kiss him, and it was like every part of his body was burning at once like a flare or a brush fire, sparkling through his fingers, his toes, his lips. He pulled her closer and she went, holding his shoulder and his neck like he was all she had left. Her lips slid over his in a way that stopped time, as smooth as the material of her dress under his hands. They were channels for each other's emotions. They caught each other, holding the other where they needed to be. Ben could not imagine why they ever stopped doing this. When they broke apart, he couldn't bear to go far, and he kissed her forehead, her cheek, her temple, and she held on, her chin pressed against his cheek. He turned his head, speaking even closer to her ear.
“I’ll do anything for you.” Another pause. Beatrice looked determined. He couldn’t see it, but he felt her jaw go tight against his cheekbone, felt her spine stiffen, the heat and force of her breath as she spoke.
“Kill Claude,” she hissed. Benedict barked out a laugh. She didn’t laugh. He pulled back a little.
“You’re serious?” She pushed back, too, letting go of his shoulders. “Beatrice, there’s no way in hell.” Her eyes were cold.
“You said you’d do anything. Claude was the one who hurt Hero, Claude—”
“He’s a fellow soldier—” he began, but he was cut off. He's a friend. He's so young. Her voice kept rising. She slid off of his lap entirely, pushing herself back onto the pew. Her absence washed over him like a wave.
“You are supposed to do right by your fellow man, you’d ask anyone to take you down a peg—” Ben laughed, incredulous. He brought his hands up to his hair.
“Taking someone down a peg is not the same as killing him!” What would killing him even mean? What would he be if he killed Claude?
“I can’t do this,” she said. She stood up, nearly tripping over him in her haste to get to the aisle. He moved his legs and she swore, stumbling around them. “I can’t— I thought you were on my side!” Ben turned in the pew to follow her path.
“Side? Your side? Claude did a bad thing to your cousin, but I’m hardly taking a side—” She shook her head, tossing her hair around. She was straightening her dress roughly, yanking at her stockings and her hem and her collar.
“You can’t say you’re in love with me and not be willing to side against my enemy.” Her tone dripped with disgust. Ben struck back.
“Your enemy is practically my brother.” She scoffed.
“Fine, then your brother might as well have killed my sister. He’s cut her down where she stood, ground her honor into the dirt, murdered her future— he’s ruined her!” she cried. Ben got up from the pew as if to follow her, several paces back in the aisle.
“Bea—” he tried again, appeasingly. She whirled around, jabbing a finger at him. She looked like a still from a movie scene. Like a hurricane. Like God come down from the hills or up from the earth. She looked terrifying in her pastel dress and her pretty pale heels.
“Don’t you dare, don’t you dare!” she roared. “If I were a man, I’d do it myself! I’d shoot him where he stood and rip out his heart with my bare hands! I’d cook and serve it like a Sunday roast and hope that men like you who won’t stand up to him choke on it. I hope you choke.” She spun away towards the doors.
“Beatrice—” She turned back around, grabbing a pew as if she was restraining herself from rushing him. She gestured wildly with her other hand.
“Hero would never! Hero loved Claude to the ends of the earth! Why the hell would she cheat on him! She’s— she’s a fucking virgin!” Ben had his hands out, soothing, pacifying.
“Maybe she wanted to—” Beatrice laughed, nearly hysterical. She was livid. Her cheeks, which had cooled from the crying, were nearly as bright as her hair.
“She believes in this shit, Ben! She wanted to love one man, her whole life. And that man spat on her in the face of God. She had a plan and he was her partner in it. You don’t know her at all.”
“Beatrice—” She shook her head in condemnation. She threw up her hands, pointedly releasing the pew, and turned towards the doors.
“All of you men are the same. All of you. Get out.” They had argued before, they had argued with each other for as long as they had known each other. but this felt worse than anything else they had done. This felt fatal. This felt final. He could picture Hero in her white dress crumpled at the altar, petals strewn across the aisle, Beatrice in her lilac dress folded over her, screaming. He was gripped with panic.
“Beatrice!” he cried. She stopped walking.
“Benedict, I swear to God—” He was choking on the scent of lilies.
“Are you sure?” he asked. The light had dipped below the window for the first time. It was darker in the chapel. Twilight had set in, cool and blue. His heart wouldn't slow down.
“Am I sure?” she asked. Her back was to him, straight and firm as if she was at attention.
“Are you sure that Claude is lying?” Time was frozen, he was sure of it. God had turned the lights out on them for this. Beatrice’s hands were shaking. She was trying to hide it from him. She turned her head, looking fixedly at a pew next to Ben’s left hand. She flicked a glance up to his face and held it. Even if she hadn’t turned around, he would have known what her face looked like.
“I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life.” Silence in the church. Ben nodded. He turned to look at the angel again, silent and shadowed and surrounded by the stench of beautiful, perfect, death, then nodded once more. He pressed a kiss to Beatrice’s forehead, stealing it. She tensed, but did not push him back or step away.
“Okay.” He swallowed. “Yeah. I’ll— I’ll be back.” Maybe it was just that they were in a church, but it felt like more of an oath than anything. How could he kill Claude? How could he not? It was distressing to realize, as he stepped around Beatrice and pushed open the chapel door into the dusk air, that a white knight was still a solider. As he walked away through the half-trimmed grass, he was almost certain that through the noisy signs of life, the whining of insects and chirping of birds and the pounding of his heart, that he could hear Beatrice crying again.