I close my eyes. No. Can’t be. Can’t be. When I open my eyes, there’s Paul smiling at me, there’s Ellie in my arms. But there’s Grace too. Still standing there in the corner, still gazing at me. Her body trembling now, her breath quickening.
“Oh, look at you,” Paul says to me, “you’re nervous, Princess. You’re shaking. Should we practice once? For the road?”
The audience claps, making aww sounds.
“Why don’t we practice that very last scene? The one where Helen comes back from the dead? The one where Bertram falls in love with her. I know you love that scene,” Paul says. “I love it too.”
I look at Grace, who is going paler, her breath catching as Paul takes my hand and kisses it. The feel of his lips again on my skin. The feel of Ellie’s cheek against my shoulder. Her little arm gripped around me.
I turn away from Grace and look up at Paul. “I do love it.”
The audience applauds wildly.
Paul smiles. “I’ll play Bertram and the King,” he says. “I’ve just discovered that you’re not dead after all, are you?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“That you’ve been alive all this time. In fact, you’re pregnant with my child. You’re wearing my ring. And I’m about to fall in love with you. Like I should have done from the beginning. They’re transformative lines. They reverse the cosmos. They reverse everything. And then we’re free. We’re free to start again.”
Behind Paul, Grace’s breath catches more and more quickly now.
“I’ll bet those are probably the lines you’re the most nervous about, am I right?”
He smiles at me encouragingly, sweetly. In this world, I can do no wrong. In my arms, Ellie has gone to sleep. Her honey-colored hair impossibly soft against my cheek, my neck.
“Yes,” I say.
The audience murmurs approval.
“How about I get you started? I’ll say the King’s lines.” He clears his throat. “？‘Is there no exorcist beguiles the truer office of mine eyes? Is’t real that I see?’？” Paul says with a gruff old-man voice. He looks at me with the eyes of a king. The audience laughs, utterly charmed. Paul bows a little.
I look over at Grace. She’s hunched forward. Her breath coming in gasps.
“Grace!” I shout. And in my arms, Ellie stirs again. Paul just smiles at me, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, seeing only me, this scene of him and me, of Helen and the King/Bertram. He reaches out and squeezes my hand.
“Your line now, Princess,” he whispers.
“？‘N-no, no, my good lord,’？” I say to him. “？‘？’Tis…’？” But the line falls away from me as I watch Grace clasping her chest.
“？‘？’Tis but the shadow of a wife you see,’？” he whispers, prompting me gently, turning my face toward his.
“？‘？’Tis but the shadow of a wife you see,’？” I repeat, closing my eyes to feel the warmth of his hands. “？‘The name and not the thing.’？”
I open my eyes and will myself not to look at the corner. To keep my eyes on Paul. Paul, who is looking right back. With love. Such love. He’s no longer the King, he’s playing Bertram now. His face softens into a young courtier’s. Unseasoned, but now, as a result of moving through the arc of this story, wise. Prepared to love and cherish the thing he cast aside. Me. The wife he spurned, back from the dead. My ring on his finger. Our child in my arms. So heavy and soft and warm in my arms.
“？‘Both, both. O pardon!’？” he cries.
He strokes my face and kisses me. We both drop to our knees onto the soft stage. The scent of the flowers all around us is getting thicker. We’re bathed in blue light. Paul’s hands are still cupping my face. I’m still holding Ellie close. I keep looking at Paul. Not Grace. Who is bringing her hands to her throat. Her eyes, fixed on me, are full of sorrow and pleading and panic. I know in my soul that if I move in any closer to him, if I hold Ellie any tighter, if I complete this scene with Paul, Grace will die.
“？‘Will you be mine now…？’？” Paul whispers, prompting me again. My line. Helen’s line.
Ellie stirs in my arms. I look down at her. She’s awake and gazing up at me with her large, bright eyes. His eyes and my eyes. His mouth shape and my mouth shape. She reaches out as if to touch me with her impossibly small hand. Instead she grabs at a lock of my hair and tugs. And now in her hand is a tiny dried purple flower. She smiles. Holds out the flower to me. A gift. A gift from my own hair. I take the flower from her. She looks so pleased with me. Her mother. I can do no wrong.