She was standing in a field with her back to the track, pulling sugar beets from the long lines of piled earth, when she heard the crank of the horse’s cart. She turned and strained her eyes to see the figure in the cab, her hand across her forehead. In an instant she knew it was him.
“You’re back?” she called, and at once Tacit felt awkward and foolish for having returned to the farm and to her. She saw his uncertainty and smirked. “I wasn’t aware of any more hauntings.”
“I was just passing through,” Tacit replied, drawing the horse to a halt. He tried to keep his voice flat, matter of fact, but inside his heart yearned for Mila. She appeared more beautiful than when they had last met. “Just on my way to Salerno.” A moment hadn’t passed when Tacit had not thought about her. His conscience raced and spun at what he was doing, at his daring and foolishness in returning. He took hold of the guilt building in his head and throttled the life out of it with the resentment he felt at how his friends had been slain in the line of duty.
She smiled and swung the beet over her shoulder, holding onto its stalks like a hunter with a kill. “It’s good to see you again, Poldek,” she said. “It’s been …”
“A while,” Tacit said. “I’m sorry,” he said, gathering the reins, “I shouldn’t have come.”
“No. I’m glad you did,” Mila replied, and she flashed a smile at him. “Please.” She stepped back from the cart as a sign for Tacit to climb down. “Come into the house. I was just breaking for the morning. It’s been a hot day. Would you like a drink?”
Tacit could feel his heart beat hard within him. His mouth was dry, his hands clammy. He felt sickened and ashamed at the recklessness of his coming. He thought of his training, his masters, the Inquisition, the witch, his soul, and he climbed from the cart and led the horse to the stable alongside the house.
The night sky above the farm was like glitter dust. They’d eaten a good earthy supper of rabbit stew and a peach tart, which had made Tacit’s eyes water with pleasure. Over the meal and a bottle of red Mila had gathered from the cellar of the house, they’d talked long into the night. The air was still and hot. Crickets chirped endlessly. The peace of it all was complete. Tacit felt unburdened by their talk. Much of the time they had laughed, their conversation at times tantalising and risqué, at other times open and poignant, the talk of their dreams, of the Church, of Mila’s loss, of Tacit’s service. Finally she yawned and apologised.
“I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing a hand across her face.
“No, don’t apologise,” replied Tacit, reaching across the table with his hand. He placed it within touching distance, unable to move it any closer to her. “I should be the one apologising. I’m keeping you up. You’ve had a long day.”
“And a longer one tomorrow. But thank you for your help, Poldek,” she smiled, referring to his assistance gathering beets in the afternoon, stripped to his waist save only for his vest, the hot sun on his back, the sweat drenching his broad chest and shoulders. He’d enjoyed the toil of it. “You work hard, for a Priest,” she added, and reached forward to touch his hand with hers.
Tacit laughed quietly and lowered his eyes to their hands.
“Why are you sad?” she asked suddenly.
“I’m sorry?”
The question stung Tacit like a thorn, tearing him from his moment and back to the present.
“Why are you sad, Poldek?” Mila asked again. She leant forward, her hand now on his forearm. “There is a sadness, in your eyes.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” Tacit replied, trying to laugh. “There’s …”
“It is not our place to be sad within this world. I know a troubled soul when I see one.” She moved her hand back down his arm onto his hand. It felt warm and soft, as she cupped his knuckles and fingers gently.
Not for the first time their gazes locked. Tacit could feel the soft rubbing of her thumb against his hand, could smell the loveliness of her skin. He was trapped by the urge to reach across and kiss her, to take her into his arms. But a shadow drew itself across him and he shivered, his eyes filling with tears.
He turned his eyes down to his lap.
“Don’t live with sadness, Poldek. It is not your Lord’s bidding to be sad all your life.”
She squeezed his hand a final time and stepped silently from the porch into the house.
He lingered at the entrance to her bedroom, the door wide open like an invitation to enter. He could see her shape in the bed, the white cotton of the sheets caught by the silver moonlight streaming through the open window. He pushed the door open a little more, and it groaned on its hinges. Tacit hesitated, as if the noise was somehow a warning against him entering. A passion coursed within him. He could hear his own breath, could see the light sheen of Mila’s skin, the dark spray of her hair across the pillow.
He placed a hand to his chest. It touched the cross hanging there and closed around the cool of the metal. He caught hold of himself and stepped backward into the passageway.
Mila turned quietly over beneath the sheets and stared up at the crescent moon climbing high into the brilliant night sky.