Seacliff

Chapter fourteen: Are you free?

1919

"Saoirse...," Sorley mused out loud as the woman in question scrubbed soap into his scalp. "What does it mean?"

"What does what mean?"

She was sat on a stool at the head of the tub, while Sorley lay submerged in opaque water, reclining towards her.

"You said... Sorley is summer wanderer," he elaborated. "What is Saoirse?"

The question made her smile. It betrayed more intelligence than he seemed capable to display, with his memories missing. It could be easy to mistake him for a simpleton and she often slipped into that trap – whenever he'd much rather drink his soup than use a spoon, or play with the dogs like he was one of them.

But then he would look at her with his big, bottomless eyes, peering straight into her soul and resonating with it. On more than one occasion, he'd caught her battling despair at dawn in the kitchen – he'd say nothing, just wrap her in a fierce hug, and she'd cling onto him until the heartache faded. He never let go before she was ready.

"Freedom," she answered. "Saoirse is freedom."

"Freedom?" He pondered the word. "Are you free?"

"It depends on how you define freedom," she said, somewhat startled. "Personally, I... I'd like to think that I am. Free."

"Free...," Sorley repeated. "Am I... free?"

Her ribcage tightened. Saoirse dreaded to tell him no, but she also didn't want to lie to him. The gap in his recollections, the unusual features, meant he could not easily be free. Her home was his safe haven by virtue of keeping him prisoner. Away from the real world that might have caused him harm because it would not have taken the time to understand him.

"For as long as I can help it," Saoirse said, resting her hands on his shoulders, "you're free with me."

"I am free?" He sat up straighter and twisted round to look at her. His eyes had grown wide, joyful.

"Yes, darling." Her aunt's words rang in her mind. "Saoirse is your freedom."

He grinned. "My Saoirse!"

"Yes!" She laughed. "Your Saoirse."

Sorley glanced down at her fingers gripping the ceramic edge of the tub. He peeled them off and raised them up to his mouth, kissing them. Then he turned her palms up and pecked her pulse, one wrist at a time. Her breath caught in her throat.

Something kindled in his eyes now. Something unreadable, attuned to the arousal spiking in her veins. Gone was the endearing innocence, replaced by a depth of feeling that made her shudder and freeze at once. Sitting up on his knees, Sorley propped a palm on the rim of the tub and stretched over it to capture her lips with his own.

Time slowed as their mouths met.

The kiss knocked the wind out of her and she grabbed onto him to steady herself. He must have done this before, because his body remembered it and he did it well. His warm, soft lips moulded to hers, the tip of his tongue darting out for a quick taste, then their mouths joined in a hungry duel for dominance.

Saoirse stood up and closed in, cupping his head as it tilted back with her approach. His large hands framed her waist, drawing her closer still. They had to pull apart for air and the fire in his eyes all of a sudden scared her.

Because she was burning up, too.

"Let me go," she pleaded and he dropped his hands at once.

"My Saoirse..."

She ran off before he had a chance to climb out of the tub, but he chased her to her bedroom.

"I'm... I'm sorry," he mumbled as she backed away. "I am sorry, my Saoirse – "

Her eyes snapped from his feet to his face. The flicker of a grimace contorted his countenance and brought her guard down a notch.

"Sorley?"

His anguished grimace persisted. Her fear turned to worry.

"Are you all right?"

"I am... I'm..."

He staggered, grasping for words.

"Sorley!"

She lunged for him as he lost his balance and helped him to the bed. He reminded her of a shellshocked soldier, ailing and disoriented. Jumbled syllables escaped his lips until his eyelashes fluttered shut and he passed out.

*

Saoirse had fallen asleep watching over her unconscious patient, yet when she awoke, he wasn't there. She found him in the front room, standing by the fire as he stared at the pictures on the mantelpiece.

He gave her a quick smile once he sensed her presence. "I remembered," he said.

"What did you remember?"

A frown creased his eyebrows. He reached for one of the pictures.

"I..." He squeezed his eyes shut, as if in pain, then blinked rapidly. "I remembered... something. Looking at the pictures."

He put the photograph back and grabbed another one. Of Saoirse on her eighteenth birthday, in a ball gown her aunt had gifted to her. Her hair was done up, but she wore no jewellery, save for a single ring on her right hand. The same ring she was still wearing today.

"This one," Sorley said. "I remember this one. 'Tis you, is it not?"

Saoirse bit her lip. "It is. It's me, oh... over ten years ago. Before... well, before everything, really."

He replaced the picture on the mantelpiece and pointed at one of Saoirse in her blue-and-white Nightingale uniform, holding a little girl on her hip. The ring was now on her left hand and the girl had a broad, toothless smile, her chubby arms flailing around.

"Who is that?"

Saoirse gulped.

"That's..." Her heart pounded in her ears. Her vision blurred. "That's my – "

Her hand came up to cover her mouth. Her eyes closed to keep the tears at bay. The last time she'd seen her husband, she'd kissed that picture, tucked it into his breast pocket, and then kissed him. That original copy sat bloodied at the bottom of a drawer, but she'd posted one to her aunt after having it taken.

"My Saoirse..." Sorley stepped forward.

She evaded his embrace and went to sit on the settee instead.

"I'm sorry," Saoirse muttered, "I'm sorry, it's just – "

"My Saoirse..." He cosied up beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. "Why do you cry?"

The word stayed clogged in her throat. A word she hadn't even dared thinking of this past year.

"My Saoirse..."

It was too late to hold back. The dam within cracked, broke, and crumbled into pieces under the weight of the flow it had been stemming. Saoirse wept wildly, sobbed and shook and shivered. Sorley held her through it, quiet and confused, yet never wavering in his embrace.

"Ciara," Saoirse mumbled once she'd regained a sliver of composure. "She was my daughter, Ciara."