But Raven couldn’t help but feel that Gina, like many others, assumed that disabled persons should be matched with other disabled persons. As if one’s disability defined one’s entire existence. As if a person who didn’t have a (visible) disability wouldn’t be interested in someone who did.
The thought angered her.
While she mused, Raven found herself drawn to the second floor, fighting the tourists to enter the Botticelli room. Once again she stood in front of Primavera, staring at the figure of Mercury.
She admired him, as she always did. But this time her admiration was tinged with sadness.
Her gaze moved to Zephyr. Zephyr the monster, floating among the trees. He’d seen her disability. He hadn’t insisted on fixing her. In fact, he’d said she wasn’t broken.
In their last conversation, he’d made it sound as if she were leaving him because of his own disability—vampyrism.
She stood, eyes unfocused, as she recalled the conversation she’d had with him on that very topic, while they were dancing at Teatro.
Was it fair for him to compare vampyrism to a disability?
As a disabled person, Raven bristled at the suggestion.
But if her worldview was correct and there was no such thing as normal—if all beings, human and otherwise, had disabilities in some sense—then she had to admit that William was disabled as well. Certainly, existing without the ability to love was a disability.
Raven began to suspect she should have treated William with more compassion and more understanding—the way she, herself, desired to be treated.
But compassion and understanding didn’t entail the denial of one’s own basic needs. Raven needed love. She deserved love. All the compassion and understanding in the world would never substitute for it.
She sighed and took a step closer to the painting.
The difference between the Primavera in the Uffizi and the Primavera in William’s villa was striking. Botticelli had added Flora to the Uffizi version, while William’s painting featured only Zephyr grabbing a frightened Chloris.
William’s version didn’t portray a happy ending, perhaps because he hadn’t experienced one. He’d captured Allegra, without love but perhaps with affection, and once she realized who’d captured her heart she’d killed herself.
Hundreds of years later, he’d captured Raven. She loved him but she hadn’t stayed with him. She hadn’t become his Flora.
William’s happy ending still eluded him.
No doubt he’d find someone else in time—another Chloris—in the person of Aoibhe or a human being. And the cycle would repeat.
Forever.
What a miserable existence. To never love anyone.
Raven studied the painting.
She studied herself.
Her future looked a great deal like her past, filled with hard but rewarding work and a few good friends. There would be Brunos, perhaps, and Robertos. But there would never, ever be another William.
I could return to him.
The mere idea had her heart racing and the pain in her middle easing temporarily.
But the specter of despair haunted her whenever she thought of spending the rest of her life with someone who saw her only as a sexual partner with whom he shared a degree of affection, like a pet.
Maybe that’s all love is—sex and affection.
Even as she thought the words she knew there was more. There was the absolute nakedness of being vulnerable with one’s lover, trusting him or her to accept that vulnerability and not use it to destroy. There was the trust that came with sharing secrets, knowing that one would not be betrayed. There was the sacrifice of knowing one might be hurt, yet loving anyway.
All these things she hoped for, but he had not given them. Perhaps he would never give them. Perhaps he would one day find someone he could love.
In any case, she couldn’t go back.
She whispered a farewell to the figure of Zephyr and slowly walked from the room.
Chapter Fifty-four
After her birthday party, July fifth, Raven returned to her apartment late at night.
She was wearing a vibrant green dress she’d bought herself. The neckline exposed her collarbone and a hint of cleavage; the skirt was full and flattering.
It had been a good evening. Gina and Patrick had hosted an excellent party, filled with food, music, and laughter.
She’d met Roberto and they’d struck up a conversation about their mutual interest in Italian literature and the rapier wit of Boccaccio. Afterward, she’d driven him home on her Vespa before making the trek to Santo Spirito.
She entered her apartment and closed and locked the door. She tossed her knapsack to the floor and hit the light switch.
She looked into the kitchen and screamed.
William was sitting on one of her chairs, waiting. As was his custom, he was clad all in black, his expression guarded.
She clutched a hand to her chest. “What are you doing here?”
“I was under the impression it was your birthday.” He smiled cautiously, his gray eyes searching.
She leaned back against the door. Her body was tense, her hand gripping her cane tightly.
“What are you doing sitting in the dark?”
His smile faded. “I’ve always been more comfortable in the shadows.”
He broke eye contact then, as if he were unsure of her reaction. He placed his hand in his pocket awkwardly.
Something about his lack of sureness pierced her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Her words were sincere. She was sorry, very sorry, for a great many things, not least of which was his loneliness.
At the sound of her sincerity, he lifted his head. Cautious optimism flared in his eyes and it almost broke Raven’s heart.
He approached her slowly, his eyes burning into hers. He moved as if to touch her face, but dropped his hand at the last second.
“That dress suits you. You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“I have gifts.”
She scowled and brushed past him, moving to the support of the kitchen counter.
It was as if he were an instrument that played only one tune. He’d tried to convince her to stay with him by promising riches. Now he was repeating the act.
She was insulted. And hurt.
“Your possessions don’t interest me.”
“Please.” His tone was low, almost pleading.
Raven focused on his face, surprised. This was the first time he’d ever pronounced the word, she was sure of it.
She tried to soften her defensive posture, at least in appearance.
“It was nice of you to remember my birthday. But you’re making this more difficult.”