I met her on a full moon. It's funny I should have suspected something odd about her, the fact that she was in the gardens at night seated on the grass, under a myrtle tree, but it never struck me that she could be an otherworldly being other than human of course.
I had been sent up north to inspect some lands that had been newly inherited by my father. It was another tedious duty, one that being the only son, I had to carry out. I remember feeling irritated at having to journey on horseback swiftly. I was going to have to endure endless talks of boundaries and marked territories as well as profits that would come with owning so much land. To top it off I was soon to be married to a woman chosen of course for me by my own mother, the frustration was I was going to be shackled to a woman I hardly knew, never having experienced love and what it truly was.
Then I saw her.
The sky was dark, with stars scattered all about, she sat beneath a myrtle tree, dressed in a white dress that was embroidered with silver and gold. She was not dressed gaudily like a noblewoman nor was she dressed too simply to be a housemaid, instead she looked stately and there was a natural grace about her movements, as she sat there biting into an apple.
I should have looked away.
Instead, I dismounted from my horse somehow just drawn to the sight of her so carefree and so innocent.
She turned sharply at the sound of my footsteps against the earth, and our eyes met. Her gaze was piercing, she seemed a little irritated at being disturbed in that moment.
"Good afternoon, my Lord," she said, inclining her head.
"Forgive my intrusion," I replied, suddenly aware of how inappropriate it was for me to speak to her, at so late an hour. "I did not realize anyone tended this land."
"It is not mine to tend," she said softly. "I am merely enjoying it."
"So you are trespassing here then," I ask her lightly.
"Not at all, My Lord. I do not know the owner of these lands but I just like to visit. I mean no harm here."
"My father is the owner, you may come and go as you like." I say softly.
"That it is very kind of you my Lord." She replied with a smile, illuminating her pretty face.
I learned her name that day was Aria. She did not tell me of her title or lineage. When I pressed gently, she smiled as though amused by the question itself.
"Names have power," she told me. "I prefer to keep some things to myself."
I laughed at her then, though I did not fully understand why she avoided the questions.
We met again the following day and the day after that. Each meeting was not planned, and yet I came to realize I was arranging my entire schedule around the hope of seeing her again.
We would often set up a picnic near a small river that flowed in the centre of the lands that my father had acquired. It was easy to speak my mind with Aria. She listened to me as though my thoughts mattered to her and it was something no one of my station had ever truly done.
I began to slowly notice the peculiarities about her but it further served to draw me closer to her.
She never seemed to get cold. I remember meeting her one winter morning in the same spot that had become our meeting place. She wore a pink dress the colour of blushing roses with no fur coat on. At times when she laughed it was as though the air shimmered in response and she glowed with happiness. Once when dusk fell, I could have sworn that her eyes changed to the colour of emeralds sparkling under the fading light.
I did not think to ask at that time. I brushed it aside. Some truths are learned only when its at the right time to discover them.
When I finally told her I was promised to another, the words tasted bitter on my tongue.
She did not cry nor plead. She only nodded, as sadness flickered briefly across her face like a shadow passing over the sun.
"Then we must be careful to maintain our boundaries," she said.
That was the moment I knew I could not lose her.
I remember returning home to my family estate and confronting my mother with the truth that I had fallen in love with someone other than her choice. I was met with harsh words that reminded me of my duty and obligation to my family. My mother pleaded with me not to disgrace her in public by following some foolish notion such as love.
I did, however follow that notion. I remember packing a single trunk that very night and leaving without permission or blessing from either of my parents.
I found Aria waiting where we had first met, moonlight silvering her hair, her expression calm, it was as though she had known all along what I would choose.
"You will lose everything," she said quietly.
"I will lose myself if I do not choose you," I replied.
She studied me then, truly studied me, as if weighing my soul. At last, she took my hand.
"Very well," she said. "But understand this, Edmund Whitcombe, my life is not an easy one. Loving me will cost you much."
"I have already paid it and I would lose everything all over again just to hold you once more," I told her.
We married in secret beneath an ancient tree, the air humming with a strange, sacred stillness. There was no priest present, I recognized only a presence that felt vast and approving. When Aria spoke her vows, the wind stirred, and the stars seemed to burn brighter.
I did not yet know what she was.
Only that she was my wife.
Only that loving her was the truest act of defiance I would ever commit.
And when I held our daughter for the first time, months later, and saw a glimmer of that same impossible light in Candice's eyes, I understood at last:
Some loves are not meant to be a safe space.
They are meant to be an adventure that only destiny can orchestrate.
Aria died with my name on her lips.
That is the truth I still carry heavily in my heart whenever I think of her.
The fever took her quickly in the end, though it had lingered long enough to hollow her cheeks and dim the light that had once burned bright. I held her hand as her breaths grew shallow, each one more than the next and I was powerless to save her. She looked at me with such unbearable tenderness that I nearly begged her to stay, to fight, to be human for my sake alone.
But Aria had never truly belonged to this world.
"Take care of her," she whispered, her gaze drifting not to me, but toward the cradle where our daughter slept. "Promise me."
I promised.
God forgive me, I promised.
When she was gone, the house felt wrong. Too quiet and heavy. As though the walls themselves mourned her absence. Candice cried at odd hours, a thin, bewildered sound that pierced my chest, and every time I held her I saw Aria's eyes staring back at me those eyes, knowing and innocent.
I could not bear it.
I told myself I would leave only for a while. That grief required distance. That the child was too young to remember my absence. These were lies, carefully dressed as reason.
Returning to my family estate was like stepping back into a life that no longer fit. They welcomed me with rehearsed sympathy and unspoken relief. No one mentioned Aria's name. No one asked about the woman I had loved enough to abandon them for. My inheritance was restored with ruthless efficiency, as though the past years had been a foolish detour rather than the only time I had truly lived.
London swallowed me whole.
The city did not ask me to remember. It did not care that I woke in the night reaching for a woman who was no longer there. It offered distraction instead it was cards laid out beneath glittering chandeliers, the clink of glasses, the thrill of chance. At the gaming tables, loss felt clean and final. Unlike grief, which had no end.
I gambled recklessly. Each roll of the dice, each turn of the card, was a small act of defiance against the memory of her final breath. Men called me fortunate. They spoke of my luck. They did not see that I was daring fate to punish me, to take something more from me so that the ache might finally make sense.
And in all that time, my daughter grew without me.
Letters arrived, neatly penned by Miss Hawthorn, detailing Candice's milestones. Her first smile and her first steps. The way she favored quiet observation over play, how she seemed unnervingly calm for a child so young. I read each letter once, sometimes twice, then sealed it away as though distance could dull its meaning.
I told myself she was safe.
Miss Hawthorn was competent. Kind. Devoted. Candice wanted for nothing materialistically. These truths became my shield against the accusation I could not silence: that I was a coward for not wanting to face the pain of losing my wife.
Now, as I write this down on paper to relieve some of the guilt, I see the truth with brutal clarity: I did not abandon my daughter because I did not love her. I abandoned her because loving her meant loving Aria still, and that pain was more than I believed I could survive.
Miss Harcourt became what I could not be. She gave Candice stability. Affection. Guidance. She watched over my child while I drowned myself in velvet rooms and false laughter, calling it survival.
History may judge me harshly.
One day, my daughter will judge me harsher still, and she will be right.