Chapter Text
The cover of the book on the counter was blue. It appeared that the title had been embossed in gold that had flecked away over time, leaving places in the indented words the same color as the fabric that had been used to cover the front and back boards of the book, as well as the spine.
She concluded that this must be a book from his own collection and, while that must mean it was meaningful, she couldn’t quite work out why he’d have gifted it to her. A volume of poetry? Had they discussed poetry before?
Still, it was definitely better than the gift he’d given her last Christmas.
A book of poems was an interesting choice, given their history, but as she set the kettle to boil and prepared her mug she felt a frisson of interest. A book from his own collection could be a chance to see what went on in his head. She knew he’d studied Latin, but she also knew that Donne was as British as they both were and that he was a contemporary of Shakespeare.
But, she supposed, it was no less interesting than the gift she’d given him. It had cost her nothing but the time it had taken to create, but his face when he’d opened it had caused such a storm of anxiety to settle in her chest. Obviously he’d been as confused by her gift as she had been by his.
The kettle clicked and she poured the water, dunking her tea bag and tucking it under the spoon to steep as she returned the kettle to it’s cradle. After doctoring her cup, she carried it and the slim blue volume to the couch, settling on the end under the faux fur throw blanket Max had given her for the holiday.
She took a sip of tea, fortification for whatever she’d find upon opening the book and reached up to flick the switch on the lamp hanging over the end of the couch. The title, Selected Poems of John Donne, glinted dully in the lamplight as she smoothed her hand over the cover before opening the front board. Inside was a brief note, written in his familiar cramped and spiky writing, so different from her own rounded script.
Robin,
You, being the exceptional detective you are, may have already guessed this was a book from my personal collection. I’ve had it since I was at Oxford and found it again while I was in Cornwall this past summer. In the interests of keeping Ted occupied, I’d persuaded him to clean out some of the storage that had been in the shed. Among the boxes and rubbish was a box I’d left with him when I left Oxford and went into the Army.
This volume was in that box. It had been a particular favorite of mine while I was at school and I’ve underlined and added annotations to some of the poems that spoke the loudest to me as I read through it again.
I wanted to share them with you.
I hope you enjoy them.
Merry Christmas and thank you for putting up with my grumpishness.
Love,
Strike x
She allowed her fingers to stroke his name, and the kiss beside it, before swallowing another sip of tea and turning the page. She was tempted to flip through and simply find all of the notations he’d made, but, she reasoned, that would take some of the fun out of the gift. It would be much more enjoyable to read each poem and see if her, somewhat dubious, education in Classic Literature might help her understand the meaning of the verses.
She settled in, reading line after line, page after page. After six poems and ten minutes, she’d begun yearning for a translator. The prose was lovely, but flowery and difficult to understand on the first read. Filled with metaphors and double meanings that she wasn’t even sure she understood on the fourth read through.
Still, she turned the page once more, deciding to read one more poem before getting up to make a fresh cup of tea and retrieve her phone from the charging lead on the counter, where she’d left it to prevent herself from checking it every five minutes, looking for a text from him. And there, on page fourteen, was a verse highlighted in green.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the other do.
And in the margin was more of that cramped and spiky writing.
Almost from the first moment I met you, you’ve been the one person I trust above others. And over time you’ve become my dearest friend and best mate. The magnet that guides my compass, my true North.
She reread the poem and then the note he’d written, her eyes returning over and over to the line, “My true North.” As she’d done with his signature, she brushed her fingers over the page where he’d written, as though she could feel his words tangibly. She’d known he trusted her. She’d known he considered her his best mate. She’d known that she’d continually felt drawn to him as though there were a magnet in her chest that tugged at her until she was with him. Was he admitting he felt the same?
Any thought of a cup of tea and her phone was scuppered in the resultant warmth of finding his first highlight and note. Anticipation suffused her and she turned the page, eager to find the next, and couldn’t help the disappointment that flooded her chest when the next page yielded nothing except a poem that appeared to be religious in nature. She skipped over it, skimming it lightly, unwilling to continue reading them as though she was going to try to understand them. There were messages here. Messages that meant something more than the simplicity of what the gift had first appeared to be.
She hurriedly turned pages, looking for the next green highlight accompanied by spiky writing in the margin. Four pages later she had the next message.
Sat we two, one another's best.
Our hands were firmly cemented
By a fast balm, which thence did spring;
Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread
Our eyes upon one double string.
She reread the highlighted lines before allowing her eyes to move to the note he’d left her. “Our hands were firmly cemented,” she read aloud in a whisper. Surely that must mean holding hands, or maybe each other, if hands were a euphemism? She had a brief sensory memory of hospital spirits and roses. The steps at her wedding. His arms around her, his breath against her neck, ruffling her hair, as they’d clung together.
Shaking the memory away, she read the words he’d written.
I’ve never told you, until now, but sometimes I just want to be where you are. Sitting in silence with you is preferable to conversation with anyone else. No one has ever understood me the way you do. No one has ever soothed me with just their presence the way you do. I could sit with you for hours, saying nothing, and be happier than I’ve ever been in anyone else’s company.
And now she understood. Because, like that magnet in her chest, she’d felt the same. Silence with Cormoran was more enjoyable than conversation with anyone else. Nights at the pub, dinner in the office, sitting at their desks mulling over a tricky case, a silence was never oppressive between them. She’d never felt the need to fill a silence with him. There’d only ever been peace in the quiet between them. And there’d even been times she’d yearned for an excuse to call him, just so she could hear him breathing on the other end of the line and know that he was there. Her mind raced at the implication his note held. Was it possible he really felt the same way?
She pressed on, flipping until she found the next bit of green. This one was longer and at first glance seemed religious as well.
As lightning, or a taper’s light,
Thine eyes, and not thy noise wak’d me;
Yet I thought thee
(For thou lovest truth) an angel, at first sight;
But when I saw thou saw'st my heart,
And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art,
When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when
Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then,
I must confess, it could not choose but be
Profane, to think thee any thing but thee.
The third, fourth and fifth line had her mind stuttering over the possible meaning this time. If she’d had a highlighter of her own, she’d have used it on those three lines alone. And this time she gave herself permission to read his words, because as much as she enjoyed the poems and trying to figure them out, his words were the ones she truly wanted.
Before I met you my world was dark. I’d left a situation I’d never thought I’d leave, my business was failing and there was nothing but an endless, empty, tunnel stretching before me. But then, like an angel, you appeared, saving me from myself, though neither of us knew it then. In that first moment it looked like I’d saved you. But your excitement for the job in those early days helped me regain the joy of the job and the joy of sharing it with someone else. And the longer I’ve known you, the more time I’ve spent with you, the way a glimpse of your eyes or your hair never fails to cheer me, the more certain I’ve become that you’re nothing short of a goddess.
It took everything she had not to scramble from the couch and grab her phone from the charging lead on the counter and call him immediately. Her eyes were filled with tears and understanding. His message was clear. But there was a small part of her that wanted to be sure. A part filled with doubt and fear and uncertainty. What if she was misunderstanding and he was just telling her how much he cared for her as his best mate. With a deep breath and a swipe of her fingers under her eyes, she flipped until she found the next highlight and note. This one was only two lines, both easy to interpret in their simplicity.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, twas but a dream of thee
She didn’t need his note to understand this one, but she read it four times just the same.
Nothing I’ve ever had in my life, no relationship, no person, no material possession, has ever been as beautiful as you are in my eyes.
On a sigh and another quick brush of her fingers against the words she thumbed forward, searching out the next verse and note, wondering, somewhat distractedly, how many highlights and notes there were. She was about halfway through the volume and had only found four so far. Surely there weren’t that many left.
Five more pages later, the next one bloomed. Three lines this time. And these, like the last, were also very easy to interpret.
How blest I am in this discovering of thee!
To enter into these bonds, is to be free;
Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
The title of this one, however, had her eyes skimming the rest of the poem, lines leaping from the page and landing in pools of heat in her stomach.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime,
Tells me from you, that now it tis bed time.
And then lines and lines later;
License my roving hands, and let them go,
Before, behind, between, above, below.
The lines he’d highlighted were just below those and all of these, indeed the entire poem, she thought, could only be about desire. A lover seducing his love. Heat bloomed through her body as she envisioned his hands, large and dark, roaming her body. Would he be passionate? Or gentle? Firm or tender? She found his message and read ravenously.
I know that I’m lucky to have met you. Doubly so to have made my life a part of yours and yours a part of mine. For so many years I’d thought love was a prison and I was bound by chains of duty and fear, shackles of sadness and glimpses of passion. But with you, it’s so different. I want to imprint myself on you as you have done to me. I want to seal myself against you, leave my fingerprints on your skin, and learn the flavor of you on my tongue.
There was the word. So small and yet so full of connotation. Love. Desire. His meaning was unmistakable. He wanted her. Desired her. She read the note many more times, shivering at the implications the last line contained. The poem was nothing compared to his words and the images they evoked in her mind.
But there was more and she wanted it all. She wanted to know everything now. Even as a plan was forming in her mind, she flicked pages, pausing at the next flash of green.
I am two fools, I know.
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry;
But where’s that wiseman, that would not be I
If she would not deny.
She blinked the tears from her eyes, allowing them to fall unchecked as she read his note, anxious for his words.
I’ve told myself for ages now that it’s idiotic to have fallen so deeply in love with you. And even more idiotic to decide to tell you this way. But here we are. I love you. Entirely. And any man of intelligence would gladly be as idiotic as I’ve been, if the possibility of your love in return was the reward.
She stood, the blanket falling to the floor unheeded, the book clutched in her hands as she paced. Her thoughts raced. He loved her. He’d written it. The entire book was a love letter that demanded a reply. She glanced down at it. The final few pages beckoning. Surely that was the last of the notes he’d left for her. What more could he say after that?
Just to be sure she hadn’t missed anything, she turned the final few pages. And there, on the last page, the final highlight and note. There were quite a few highlighted lines and only one line in his note.
Nay, if I wax but cold in my desire,
Think, heaven hath motion lost, and the world, fire.
Much more I could, but many words have made
That oft suspected which men most persuade.
Take therefore all in this; I love so true,
As I will never look for less in you.
His final note read only:
You’re it for me, Ellacott.
Snapping the book closed, she darted for the stairs.