Charles reached across the table slowly, his hand palm up in invitation. Emma glanced around. The nearest scholar was three tables away, absorbed in a massive tome. No one was watching. She placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, warm, solid, real. Emma felt the calluses on his palm, the strength in his grip, felt her pulse jump at the simple contact.
They sat like that for a long moment, hands joined across the table, surrounded by centuries of accumulated knowledge. Two people trying to steal a moment of truth in a world built on lies. I'm going to remember this, Charles said quietly. When I'm old and gray and trapped in a life I never wanted, I'm going to remember this afternoon. This room. Your hand in mine. And I'm going to be grateful I had it, even if I couldn't keep it.
Emma's vision blurred with tears. Charles, don't cry. Please don't cry. If you cry, I'll, his voice broke. I'll fall apart. And I can't afford to fall apart. Not yet. Emma blinked rapidly, forcing the tears back. All right. No crying. Thank you.
They sat in silence a while longer, hands linked, neither wanting to be the first to let go. Finally, Charles glanced at the clock on the far wall. I should go. I'm supposed to meet Beatrice and her mother for tea. Something about floral arrangements. For the wedding? Yes.
Emma's stomach twisted, but she forced a smile. Then you should go. Can't keep the bride waiting. Charles didn't smile. Emma, it's all right. Really. She gently extracted her hand from his. The loss of contact almost painful. We knew what this was. 6 weeks. We're barely halfway through. 3 weeks left, Charles said hollowly. 21 days until the announcement. And then, and then we say goodbye.
I don't think I'll be able to. You will. We both will. Because we don't have a choice. Charles stood slowly, gathering the books he'd been using as cover. He looked down at her, his expression torn between longing and despair. Meet me again, he said suddenly. Tomorrow. Hyde Park. The Serpentine Bridge. Dawn. Dawn. No one will be there that early. We'll have privacy. Please.
Emma knew she should refuse. Knew that every meeting made the inevitable goodbye harder. But she'd never been good at denying him. All right, she whispered. Dawn. Relief flooded his face. Thank you. He left without another word, disappearing into the maze of shelves.
Emma sat alone at the table, her hand still warm from his touch. 3 weeks. 21 days. 504 hours. And then she'd lose him forever. She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heart beat beneath her palm. It hurt. Everything hurt. But at least she'd have tomorrow. At least she'd have dawn.