Afternoon sunlight spills through the windows and spreads across the tea salon. A man and a woman sit facing each other over a glass-topped table, both of them beautiful enough to turn heads. Before them, fragrant tea is poured with quiet ceremony into cups of polished white porcelain.
[Chloe, I picked these leaves with you in mind. I do hope they’re to your liking.] (Leonardo)
Leonardo, son of the Duke of Linden, sits across from her wearing the same gentle smile he always does. He has a handsome, finely cut face and a voice that’s soft and clear. There’s something a touch theatrical about the way he talks, but it’s the kind of charm that makes even that seem wonderful.
Yes… to the Chloe of before, at least.
[My, thank you. It smells lovely.] (Chloe)
Chloe leans toward the cup with a smile that might as well be plastered on. The aroma is exquisite, and it tickles her nose—but knowing his hands poured it makes her cheek twitch, just slightly.
‘Nothing off about the scent…’
She murmurs it inwardly, sets the cup down on its saucer without a sound, and picks up a silver spoon. It’s a first-rate piece, handed down through the family for generations, and it’s also a tool for detecting poison: if whatever it touches is tainted, the silver darkens, ever so faintly.
Chloe lowers the spoon into the tea and stirs, slowly and gently. A faint trickle of sound; a tiny whirlpool forms on the surface with the spoon’s shadow wavering at its heart. Her eyes never leave the tea. She refuses to miss the slightest change in colour.
A few seconds of silence, and she lifts the spoon out. It gleams as beautifully as ever. Only then does she finally bring the tea to her lips.
‘Once you start suspecting something, nothing tastes good anymore, does it.’
Chloe is this guarded because she knows exactly what the fiancé sitting across from her is: the kind of monster who’d slip someone poison without batting an eye. A man who could turn murderous, and easily, toward the wife who bore his child and stood by him for years. The memories of her previous life told her so.
[Is it good? I’m glad you like it. Seeing you happy makes me happy too, you know.] (L)
[…My. I’m honoured.] (C)
‘He looks at this mask of a smile and sees “happy.” How little must he actually care, to not even notice? It’s almost impressive. He can whisper all the sweet words he likes; none of them will hit their mark. Because I know they’re nothing but lies.’
Then, without warning, his hand comes toward her. To adjust her teacup, maybe—or to reach for something closer—
[………!!] (C)
Chloe draws back, just a little, and his fingertips brush empty air. In that instant, his face stiffens.
[…Chloe?] (L)
[No… it’s nothing.] (C)
Elegant smile still in place, Chloe returns her tea to its saucer as if nothing had happened. He looks wounded. But she feels nothing.
‘A heart that’s gone cold won’t warm up again. I can keep pretending I don’t know anything and go on with things as they are. But I’ll never feel for him the way I once did. Never again. How could I fall for this man a second time, knowing he’s going to kill me?’
—
The scent of tea lingers faintly in the salon, and the only sound is the soft ticking of the clock. Chloe stays in her chair and gazes absently through the window at the gardens. Leonardo’s voice reaches her, and she gives back only the most disinterested replies.
[…Oh, that reminds me. At the soirée the other night, the daughter of that count—the textile family—was showing off a new dress. I thought it might suit your tastes.] (L)
His tone is mild. Chloe answers without moving her eyes, and with exactly one line.
[Is that so.] (C)
[Yes. Deep blue fabric, with the most exquisite silver embroidery… I think that colour would look wonderful on you, too.] (L)
[…Perhaps it would.] (C)
There’s barely a ripple of feeling in her voice. She isn’t being impolite, exactly, but there’s no warmth in it and no interest either. It’s flat, as if she’s letting small talk about the weather wash over her.
Leonardo’s finger traces the rim of his cup, restless, betraying an edge of unease. He may not see through the fake smiles, but a cold shoulder he can recognise.
[…Chloe?] (L)
[Yes?] (C)
[…Is something the matter?] (L)
For the first time, Chloe turns her gaze to him, slowly. But there’s no fondness in her eyes, and no love. They’re frozen over like ice.
[No, nothing at all. Please, do go on.] (C)
And she looks back out the window. The motion is natural enough; the rejection in it is unmistakable. Silence fills the room, and Leonardo casts about for another topic to fill it.
[There’s the hunting festival out on the estate this autumn. If you’d like, you could—] (L)
[Thank you for the invitation. But that’s the season I tend to fall ill, so I was planning to avoid any long trips.] (C)
Gentle, but an unmistakable no. There’s nothing left to hope for behind those words.
Leonardo’s face freezes, just slightly. Even seeing that, she feels nothing. The Chloe of before would have hung on his every word, delighted. But her love for him is gone now, and nothing he says holds the faintest interest. That’s all there is to it.
[…Could I get another cup of tea?] (C)
Her cup is still nearly full. She says it to the maid waiting at her side, and “another cup” really means take this one away and bring a fresh one. Leonardo catches the implication, and his head drops, his expression forlorn.
‘Look at him. Acting like he’s the victim here. It’s laughable… You’re the devil who’s going to murder me, and you have the gall to make that face.’
Chloe knows.
The future where she dies in the spring of her twenty-fifth year, from the poison Leonardo—by then her husband—has been feeding her for years. The future where the ‘daughter’ she leaves behind suffers under him, year after year. The future where, once she’s gone, he brings his mistress into the mansion, along with the daughter that mistress bore him. And the fact that this daughter is barely any different in age from Chloe’s own—
She was shown all of it, by the memories she recovered. Memories of her previous life, lived in a world that isn’t this one…
Simplyrical 