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In another life, when Francesca asks her housemaid where Michaela is, she'd reply that she packed her belongings and left, shocked that Francesca didn't already know. In another life, Michaela slips away at night, hidden by a dark cloak that blends into the dark sky; hidden because she knows it's wrong, because the morning light would expose everything the night had kept hidden. In another life, Michaela leaves Francesca behind in the throes of her grief without so much as a goodbye, leaving her stranded in the middle of the ocean during a storm without so much as a lifeboat.
In this life, however, when Francesca asks, Have you seen Miss Stirling tonight? Has she gone to bed already?
Her housemaid nods and tells her that yes, Miss Stirling has indeed retired for the night.
Of course, this brings its own set of problems.
Having no desire to stay up without Michaela there to keep her company, Francesca calls for her lady's maid to help her get ready for bed.
She has no problem as she's waiting for her lady's maid or as she's getting ready for bed; it feels as it would any other night. It happens once she's alone, once the lady's maid closes the door behind her, and it's just her and that big, empty bed.
She sits on her vanity, watching the bed in the mirror. She recalls that this is where she'd been when she'd first noticed something was wrong with John—where he'd already been lying there dead. She turns around, looks at the bed, and nausea rises in her throat at the thought that she'd be sleeping in the same place where her husband died; where he took his last breath, where he turned cold and lifeless.
Suddenly, it's as though the walls are caving in, and if she stays in this room for one more second, she'll be crushed inside it. She grabs her candle and darts out of her room.
She can't do it. The thought of getting into her bed is too much…she's already lost her husband, why does she also have to sleep all alone in the place he died? She can't; it feels like asking too much from her.
Earlier, when she'd been looking into Michaela's eyes and holding her hand, for a brief moment, everything felt like it'd be okay. But now that she's out of her sight, the weight of it all has hit her at full force and threatens to crush her. Now, in the dark where she has only herself for company, everything seems hopeless.
She pads into the drawing room, settling down in the settee and hoping that sleep finds her there. At least, she'd have a reprieve.
When she opens her eyes, Michaela and her lady's maid are looking down at her with matching expressions of bewilderment.
She blinks sleepily, eyes adjusting to the morning light. "Michaela?" she asks groggily.
"Fran, why are you sleeping here?"
She sits up and stretches slowly, but in reality, she's thinking over what to say. She knows Michaela would understand her grief—really, she's one of the only people who can truly understand the depth of it—but it's like the words are stuck inside her, her throat closed up with the edges of the words scratching at the walls of her throat.
She flashes a sweet, sleepy smile. "I couldn't sleep, so I thought taking a walk around the house might tire me out. I took what was supposed to be a small break and must've fallen asleep." The words taste bitter in her mouth as she's never been much of a liar, and she's not sure if either believes her, but they just nod like she'd made complete sense.
"Lady Stirling, since you are awake, it might be time for you to get ready for the day," her lady's maid tells her, smiling softly.
Francesca smiles back, just as softly and sweetly, despite the grief that rages inside her. "Yes, of course," she agrees, standing up from the settee and brushing herself off, stepping towards her bed chamber.
Michaela catches her arm, her hand hot and heavy against her skin and thawing her from the inside out."Fran, could I speak with you for a second?"
Her eyes dart from her hand to her face, her heart. sputtering to start in her chest. "Of course," she nods, then looks at her lady's maid. "I'll meet you in my room."
Michaela waits for her to leave the room to speak, her hand firmly in place the entire time. "Are you alright?"
She nods, and her smile this time is much more genuine than the ones before. "I feel better than I did yesterday."
There is truth to that statement. She definitely feels better than she did last night, the grief easier to stomach, a dull ache inside her rather than a sharp, jagged thing that threatens to cut her open. She doesn't know if it's the morning light coming through the windows, or the sleep, or Michaela, her steady presence holding her entire weight up and helping her stay upright.
Michaela smiles at her. "Alright, I'll be waiting for you so we can go eat breakfast together, so hurry, I know how much you hate to make Cook wait."
Francesca nods, smiling still, despite it all. Here in the morning light, with Michaela smiling so softly at her, everything feels brighter, lighter even.
In daylight, with Michaela's steady presence, Francesca foolishly thought that she'd be okay, that whatever had plagued her at night was a momentary lapse, and that she'd be just fine.
Clearly, she didn't know a thing.
Mercifully, Michaela retires to bed much later than she did the night before, her presence countering the darkness all around them, and by the time she has to retire for the night, she feels hopeful. It's nighttime, and she feels fine; the grief is tucked underneath her ribcage, pressed against her heart, but it remains there, still and quiet.
She goes through the motions of getting ready, does everything the same as the night before. Then, she's alone in that room once more, just her, four walls, and the bed her husband died in. When she's sat at the vanity, she avoids looking behind her in the mirror—avoids looking in the mirror as much as she can, really, lest she catches a glimpse of her bed in it. This time, she gets further than she did yesterday. She rises from her vanity and walks toward the bed, stopping right next to it. She's feeling fine, really; she truly thinks last night was just an episode of panic that she can move past quickly, that tonight she can sleep in her bed without any problem. She reaches for the duvet, but the second her fingers touch it, she rears back as if burned.
If she pulls back the duvet, then she'd have to get in, and there'd be no separation between her body and the place her husband died. Her skin would be touching the same place her husband's corpse touched. She darts out of the room even quicker than she did the night before.
This time, she heads for the library. Falling asleep in the drawing room's settee raised too many questions; even if they weren't asked, she could see them swarming in Michaela's eyes. The library, however, provided the perfectly acceptable excuse that she fell asleep while reading. That hadn't actually happened to her, as Francesca has always been someone who follows a strict routine, putting all things of leisure aside and going to bed at the same time every night; she had seen it happen to her siblings, especially Eloise, many times, however, so she knows it's perfectly normal.
When she gets to the library, she snatches the first book she finds, doesn't even look at the title, and sets herself down in the armchair. She places the book face down on the table next to her and lies down, letting the soft armchair cushions and the fact that she's far away from John's spirit lull her to sleep.
She wakes up much the same as the day before: with Michaela and her lady's maid hovering above her, staring at her in confusion.
"Fran?" Michaela asks tentatively, like she's tending to a wounded animal that might strike at any given moment.
She just smiles in reply, not wanting to give her any other reason to worry about her (or to worry at all; she lost John, too, she shouldn't be tending to Francesca). "I fell asleep reading."
Michaela quirks a brow, picking up the book. "You were reading A Gentleman's Guide to Hunting?" she asks incredulously, arching her brow pointedly.
Her lips twitch. "I am trying to expand my horizons," she explains, rather lamely. She didn't think this through, clearly.
Michaela flips through the pages. "Well, I can certainly see how you could fall asleep reading this," she concedes, flashing a half-smirk that suggests she doesn't believe her, but she doesn't press any more on the matter.
Well, small victories.
Francesca takes one step into her bedchambers and immediately turns back around.
She'd done things differently today. After Michaela retired for bed, she'd had the foresight to change up her routine—something she'd always loathed to do; her life was already chaotic with her seven siblings, and her routine was the one thing she'd had control of, that was just hers and hers alone. This time, after getting ready for bed, she didn't linger in her room. She set off almost immediately after her lady's maid for a walk around the house.
It wasn't an excuse; she truly was taking a turn around the manor, so she could tire herself out or maybe steel herself to spend the night in her chambers. Unfortunately, this has the opposite effect, and it seems impossible to make herself go back in there. Right now, taking the singular step forward that means stepping into the threshold of her room seems like the hardest thing she's had to do in her life, even harder than burying her husband—and she did that rather easily, without so much as lingering at his coffin, so why is this so difficult?
Yesterday, she'd made it as far as touching the sheets on her bed after she couldn't even look at her bed the day prior; the logical conclusion would be that today she'd be able to get closer, like finally sleep on her bed or, at the very least, actually pull the duvet back without feeling like she'd burned her fingers. Instead, she can't even get into her room. It feels as though for every step forward, she takes three steps backwards.
Francesca had always been particularly good at keeping her feelings to herself, at pushing everything down and dealing anyway, with a calm demeanor and a sweet smile. But this is too much, even for her. For once in her entire life, she's incapable of pushing it all down and letting it simmer under the surface.
She pads down the long, dark, empty hallways of the manor and finds herself in the kitchen tonight. Everybody's turned in for the night, but she can manage to make herself a hot milk; it might actually lull her to sleep and would provide an adequate excuse for why she fell asleep out of her bed again.
This is her best plan yet, not just because it's the most probable, but also because it might make her fall asleep faster, and then, the morning will come faster. And by morning, what she really means is seeing Michaela once more. The truth is, the only times she's felt alright, the only times she's been able to feel anything other than crushing sadness, are when she's with Michaela, holding her hand or laughing at stories or watching her smile light up her face like the sun's rays coming out after the longest night. If she didn't have Michaela with her, she doesn't know how she'd be able to survive this at all.
"Fran, are you sure you're alright?" Michaela asks for the third time that day.
When she'd found her earlier today, slumped on the table with a half-drunken glass of milk next to her, Michaela had looked much less amused than she had the day before; the only emotion that passed through her face was worry. And even now, that she's risen and changed, and they find themselves building a jigsaw puzzle, Michaela is still just as worried.
Francesca didn't want her to worry about her. She had enough of her grief to sort through, even if she isn't roaming the halls of the manor like a ghost at night, like her. The last thing she wants is to worry Michaela.
"Asking it a third time won't result in a different answer," she remarks, not looking up from where she's trying to fit a piece in the image of a sunflower field coming together beneath them.
She sighs. "I've found you asleep anywhere, but in your bed for the past three days in a row, I am starting to get worried."
Fran hadn't taken into consideration that, while her plan to fall asleep after drinking hot milk was a perfect excuse, having been doing this three nights in a row certainly caused alarm. She truly does not want her to worry. Everything they have right now is perfect as it is—what she has with Michaela is the only thing keeping her sane.
She meets her eyes and smiles softly, for once genuinely so. "I am alright, I promise."
It is only at night, in her absence, that she feels desolate. It's not a lie because right now, with Michaela, she is.
Michaela smiles back, finally reassured. Yes, Francesca feels quite alright indeed.
It all comes to a head when Michaela finds her asleep against her piano's keys.
This time around, everything is different.
This time around, the knot of anxieties inside her formed long before Michaela went to bed, long before the sun burned out for the night and darkness took over the sky. This time around, she didn't even try to get near her bed or stay in her room at all. This time, Francesca was actually trying to avoid falling asleep at all.
Here's what happened: halfway through the day, Francesca feels pressure on the sides of her head. It's a headache; she's felt them millions of times before…but she hasn't since John died. She's been jittery all day, a heavy weight set inside her at the thought that she's about to meet John's fate. Michaela asked her multiple times if she was alright.
And then, it was time to go to bed.
Francesca had been told her entire life that if you have a headache, then the cure is to get some rest. She'd had no reason not to believe it until, of course, her husband died doing just that.
Like the night before, she leaves her room the second her lady's maid is done helping her get ready for bed. Unlike the night before, she doesn't have any intention of coming back, or even to sleep at all.
Her plan for tonight is to spend the whole night at her piano, the one thing in this entire world that she can get lost in and spend hours and hours engrossed in without losing focus. It is the perfect activity to maintain herself awake. An added benefit of this plan is that her piano is placed in a rather isolated room with thick double doors. John loved to hear her play, but he is was not accustomed to hearing the same piece over and over again, so he made sure her piano was placed in her own space. A wave of grief rocks her and threatens to tip her over; the fact that she might feel like this for the rest of her life hits her in another wave of grief.
It does not, however, go as planned. One second, she is playing a piece she knows like the back of her hand, the next she is blinking up at Michaela, framed by the golden sunlight coming from the window, and looking like an angel.
For a second, she thinks she might be in heaven. Then again, if she were, Michaela wouldn't be looking at her with such distress.
Michaela doesn't waste a second; Francesca's vision is still blurry and unfocused when she starts furiously ranting. "Francesca, what are you doing? Nobody could find you anywhere in the manor! You almost sent me into an attack, what would I even do if you—" she cuts herself off, deflating, and sighs, shaking her head. "For your own sake, I have been ignoring this sequence of events where your poor lady's maid and I find you asleep in a different nook or cranny of the house every night, but other than the scare you gave me, it is probably not healthy or helpful for you to be doing this."
Francesca looks away, teeth worrying her lower lip. "I'm sorry for worrying you, Michaela, it was never my intention," she tells her, her big, glassy eyes meeting her soft, doe eyes. "I had a headache last night, and I was too afraid to sleep after…everything. And before that, I just couldn't."
Michaela softens. "So, you're having trouble sleeping."
She shakes her head. "No, I have trouble sleeping there, where he died. Sometimes, I can't even step into that room without wanting to vomit."
"You don’t seem so bad in the daytime, are you pretending to be alright?" she asks, face scrunched up in a frown.
"No, I…" Francesca licks her lips, looking down and steeling herself. "I feel better in the daytime because I am with you."
The confession hangs between them for a beat, until Michaela grasps her hand in hers, soft and warm and steadying, which makes her look up at her. "I feel better when I'm with you, too."
She perks up. "Really?"
"Yes, I have to confess that I also find myself feeling quite desolate at night when I am without you."
Francesca frowns. "So where does that leave us?"
Michaela doesn't answer for a while, for what feels like hours to her (but is probably only a few minutes). "Well, I have an idea of sorts, but it's not entirely proper."
She raises her brows. "Well, I'm willing to try anything, seeing as sleeping against pianos and in drawing rooms isn't exactly proper either."
Michaela looks far more nervous than she'd expect as she says, "I am proposing that, well, whenever you can't sleep because that room feels too suffocating, you could sleep in my bedroom with me. We've both admitted we feel best when we are with each other so it could help us both."
Francesca takes her words in and ponders over them. Michaela was right, it is quite an improper plan, but logistically, it made a lot of sense. The worst part of her days is when she has to part from Michaela, so isn't she just ensuring her mental wellbeing by staying with Michaela at night as well? It makes perfect sense to her.
"I think this is a great idea, Michaela."
She grins in response.
Nighttime came just the same as it did since John died.
However, this time around, right before Michaela retires for the night, she says, "Remember, Fran, if you find yourself desolate and in need of solace, come into my bedchamber. It would brighten my night to have you there."
She nods in reply, already knowing that it's exactly what she's going to do.
Once she gets ready for bed and her lady's maid leaves, she doesn't waste a second. Even at her best, the room feels oppressive, disturbed by a haunting presence, so she doesn't really need to wait around until she's close to tears like every other night to make her decision. This time, she has a clear direction, a place she'd much rather be instead, and she won't waste this opportunity. Logistically, it's the option that makes the most sense.
She pads down the long hallway, all the way down to Michaela's room. She knocks on her door, looking down and fidgeting with her hands as she waits. She opens the door almost immediately.
Michaela's face lights up, her whole body sagging in relief as she grabs her hand and ushers her inside. "I am very glad you're here."
Francesca returns her smile. "So am I."
They go into bed together, each sticking to their own sides, but facing each other. Francesca, feeling emboldened by her need for comfort and by the fact that Michaela admitted she needs Francesca as much as she does her, laces their fingers together. Their eyes meet, and it all feels strangely intimate. Francesca has never been good at being intimate, but if she has to be now, she's glad it is with her.
For the first time in days, Francesca doesn't feel like the world is going to end just because it's nighttime. For once, it's easy to believe that the sun will rise in the morning. She thinks that as long as she has Michaela, she will be alright.
For the first time in days, she falls asleep warm, comforted, and happy.