The Many Burdens of Katherine Holcombe

When I sent a heartfelt letter of thanks along with a volume of my poetry to Mr. Claudio Holcombe, I did not expect a reply, let alone a return gift. You see, I had never been formally introduced to Mr. Holcombe, and the hope of being known to him through my work was phantom at best. I was yet at the very beginning of my poetic journey and my nascent popularity had still a long way to go in order to reach London. That was my very first book, after all.

Regarding Mr. Holcombe, I had no expectations at all. I simply ventured to perform this sentimental and silly gesture in recognition of the influence and inspiration that his lofty compositions had exercised over my own humble endeavors in writing, and was in no small measure driven by the euphoria that stemmed from the first success of a published author.

Imagine my surprise when a parcel signed in Mr. Holcombe’s own hand appeared at my door a few months later. I had almost given up any hope I might have entertained of hearing back from him, and to say that I was amazed would be a great understatement.

As a devoted scholar of Mr. Holcombe’s career, I would have never mistaken this handwriting for any other. The spidery letters that adorned the surface of the brown paper wrapping were unmistakably his. The box was simply left on the doorstep of my lodgings without a signal to herald its arrival. I can undoubtedly be forgiven, or at the very least understood, for failing to think rationally at that very moment.

The circumstances should have aroused my suspicions. I should have been alerted by this supernatural delivery, I should have at least been doubtful of the parcel’s contents.

Naturally, I was not.

With shaking hands, I carried my treasure into the living room and placed it on the table. For a few seconds I regarded the mysterious box with deferential wonder, and then, my hands still unsteady with excitement, I did the most stupid thing possible. I opened it.

There was a key inside. A key and a letter underneath.

A souvenir? A memento? I took the key out and examined it. It was hardly anything special. A crude little thing that could have fit in the door lock of a very expensive wardrobe or a very cheap flat. No adornments and many signs of wear. At first, I did not know what to make of such a present. It was so very odd and seemingly useless. A strange thing to remember somebody by! I even had to reproach myself for being ungrateful when I should have been humbled by the mere fact that the greatest living poet had chosen to grace me with a boon, however strange it may have seemed at first glance.

I turned my attention to the letter, and I have to admit that both its length and its tone left me baffled. I was expecting a brief explanation behind the peculiar present. I was expecting a joke that would have been completely in line with the character of my eccentric correspondent. But what I got instead was a plea, a cry for help. It was the most astounding thing I had ever read. Here, let me quote this epistle in its entirety.

‘My dearest William’, it read, addressing me by my Christian name, above all things, ‘I am in dire need of your services.

‘I understand that this is hardly the way to begin one’s first letter to someone, but my desperate position compels me to shamelessly abandon all flourishes of civilized communication.

‘I have been desperate for quite a while now, which should come as a big surprise to those who have had the misfortune of counting themselves among my friends. They know my health to be in steady decline, but very few of them are aware of the gravity of my situation, and even fewer of them suspect how horrid the things truly are. I have contrived to keep them in the dark. This may be the greatest reason for my outcry – I dared not hurt those closest to me and kept my silence for as long as I could, but my soul was ever yearning for a kindred spirit to reveal its grievances to. And then you came around. Your wonderful little book came at the right time, and your naïve, poignant letter that accompanied it moved me to action. It may seem strange, childish, even, but men in my position will be content with clutching at straws.

‘I must confide in you.

‘There is no one else in this life whom I would rather trust with the secret that is plaguing my heart.

‘I must confess with no false modesty that I was ever lauded as an exceptional judge of characters. I shall be the first to denounce that title, should my judgment of you prove wrong, for only the purest, most innocent soul is capable of poetry such as yours. This is the simple reason for my awkward letter and the plea that it is supposed to convey.

‘Here is my secret, then.

‘I am beset by a demon. As simple as it is, and as terrible as it sounds, it is nevertheless completely and horribly true. Oh, I would have accepted any kind on financial or health-related calamity; I would have scoffed at a publisher and laughed in the face of a critic, I would have scaled the walls of ignorance and battled the hordes of misconception. Alas, my age and achievements have not prepared me for this kind of immortal adversity. This new enemy has drained me of life and mutilated my spirit; he has left me helpless and weak. He has defeated me at every front.

‘I dread to even think of his name, lest he be called unto my presence this very second, but I must carry on. I must reveal this secret to you.

‘Heed me, friend William. My only daughter is in love with Death.’

I distinctly remember how I stopped reading at this point and went back to the beginning. I remember perusing the first portion of the letter again, trying to convince myself that it was all a joke, that the notorious Mr. Holcombe had selected me as another victim of his practical genius. I remember that tiny, thin voice in the back of my mind that kept laughing, laughing at me for some mysterious reason that I was yet too stupid to comprehend. And the letter went on, it rushed mercilessly forward in a torrent of words that still did not make any sense.

‘You may consider me a lunatic, good Mr. Greene, and I am not entirely averse to the idea. I would be very happy indeed, if you could prove me to be one, but with every passing day I fear my sanity all the more.

‘I will also understand if you lay this letter aside, if you dismiss my confession as a cruel jest, as delirious ramblings of a man aging too soon, if you burn it, crumple it, tear it, ridicule it, mock it for what it seems rather than for what it is… In other words, if you do anything except taking it seriously. I shall understand and sympathize. I shall not blame you. But if you choose to do so, pray, do it now. Read no further.

‘You have been warned. Now I will wait. What did you choose?’

Needless to say. I did not even consider laying the letter aside or burning it. I read on.

‘I thank you from the bottom of my withering heart. If you are reading this line, William, then you are as true a friend as I may have the audacity to ask for. I shall waste no more words on this brief introduction. I shall get to the point, whatever it may cost my ragged, exhausted soul.

‘It is true, and I shall repeat it once more. My only daughter, my dearest Katharine, is in love with the Grim Reaper.

‘I have no one but myself to blame for this. Years of neglect! Buried in my books, lost between the lines of my poems, trapped in the world of my own creation, I failed to notice how Katherine was drifting away. I cared not for the occupations she chose, nor for the acquaintances that she made. Oh, how well I remember that September morning when she gently walked into my cabinet and smiled a mysterious smile of her that reminds me so of her mother. I lifted my gaze from the letter I was writing and looked at her with some irritation. It was then that she announced their engagement. “I am in love, father,” she said simply, “and he has proposed to me.” Such a nonsense it seemed at the time! My girl – engaged? To whom? How could she? I took off my spectacles, as is my habit when I wish to show my displeasure, and frowned at her. Her smile grew brighter and she glided across the room to my table and took me by the hand. “Dear father,” her voice gently rang, “on a day like this, even a frown of yours is a delight to my happy eyes.” I was not a little vexed. “Who is he?” I demanded with more anger than I had the right to. “How long have you known each other?” She laughed again, softly and warmly, just like her mother had laughed. “Why,” she said, “these questions are easily answered. As to when we met, we met when the time was right. And as to who he is… Well, he is Death himself!”

‘Little by little, I learned everything. They had met in the early spring, when Katherine, oblivious to the rites of awakening, was roaming this universe all alone in her own eternal autumn. At first, she was afraid. He did not try to conceal his true self, and the revelation shook her. But he was persistent, and she was lonely. She yielded before she even thought of resisting, and so began their romance. Their conversations had a mysterious charm to them. Dreamily, she confessed that she could not recall the exact nature of the topics they had discussed, or how long their meetings had lasted. What she did remember was the ethereal loveliness of his graceful talk, the general feeling of agreement and affinity, the connection of spirits and a smooth, unresolved intimacy. Suddenly, Katherine was no longer alone.

‘He was well skilled in arts and wrote her beautiful poetry. Her mind was strangely unable to capture and hold even a single line of his verses, and yet she was sure that they had been the most beautiful verses that had ever been written.

‘I begged her to introduce him to me, but she refused. I threatened to lock her up, but she laughed at my vanity, for who would dare keep Death from his bride?

‘I thought her delirious, I thought her mad, and I started to follow her. Alas, all the best detectives I had set on her trail returned to me empty-handed, only vaguely aware of seeing Katherine with a mysterious dark-clad male figure vanish into the haze of the streets of London. I was positively sizzling with indignation. How hard could it be to follow a young inexperienced girl and her crafty lover? One by one, I sent the detectives away, my irritation gradually replaced by concern, my concern by premonition, my premonition by horror. At last, I decided to follow her myself, for father’s heart is seldom led astray where stranger’s eyes may deceive him.

‘I have discovered them. Do not ask me what exertion it cost me and what visions have been haunting me ever since. Just be appraised of this simple fact. I know where they meet, I know the address and, what is more, I have obtained the key to his residence. I know that he rents the cursed mansion and that Katherine spends most of her time there alone, his visits being sporadic and irregular, and thus all the more desired. He promised her that this is where they would live together when they are married and she believes him, poor thing. I would talk to her, I would dissuade her, but my authority is next to nothing in her eyes. I am null, a void in her eyes, and such a reputation is well deserved.

‘I have no more fight left in me. I am surrendering to his darkness, and my body fails me.

‘And now – your book. The bringer of hope, the herald of all that is pure, and true, and young, and naïve… As I was reading your poems, as I was feasting my ever-weakening mind on this beautiful imagery produced by a mind yet so young and devoid of any corruption, a thought pieced me. She would like him… She might be able to love that fiery, uncompromising soul that is throbbing with such sincere passion. You could talk to her, you could persuade her, you could find a key to her soul.

‘I do not ask you to battle Death. All I ask is that you take my girl away from his clutch.

‘Pray, come! Come to London, dear Mr. Greene, and win over my daughter, tear her away from Death’s embrace and restore her to the light so long denied her by my negligence and oversight. You shall find her at the mansion – most likely alone and waiting for him, yet you would be wise to take all the precautions in the world and make sure that the master of the house is not home…

‘Dear me! Look at this wretch I became! Giving you instructions, impatient to the point of rudeness, acting as if I had already obtained your assent! I have no right to take advantage of your kindness this way, yet here I am, an old and despairing father shamelessly plotting to bring back his daughter. I must put an end to this outpouring of soul, only facts now! My plaintiveness shall influence your decision no more, Mr. Greene.

‘Should you choose to help me, you shall find everything arranged to your accommodation. Ebenezer Holcombe, my nephew, is ready to meet you at the station. Send him a telegram if you decide to take up my case. The details are enclosed in the postscript.

‘I trust Ebenezer, but for the reasons stated above, I did not make him privy to this affair. He thinks me mysteriously ill without a slightest idea as to the true source of my malady. We shall smuggle you in under the guise of physician. He will welcome you on arrival and conduct you to the hotel that had already been paid for. A slip of paper with the address of the cursed mansion will await you in that hotel room.

‘I do not enclose it here for the likely event of your refusal. I will not burden you with one more fearsome secret. Also, do not try to seek me out if you happen to be in London on this or any other errand. I am confined to my lodgings due to the deplorable state of my health, and the idea of you seeing me like this is horrifying.

‘Farewell, noble spirit. Whatever your decision may be, I pray that you feel my eternal gratitude. Both for your previous gift and for the invaluable time that you chose to devote to this confession.

‘Yours truly,

‘Claudio Holcombe, the Poet.’

That was it. That was the letter of my eternal idol, showing not only his appreciation of my work, but also requesting my help in a supernaturally delicate matter.

I have mentioned that opening the mysterious box was the most stupid thing that I could have done under the circumstances. Allow me to correct myself, for I succeeded in surpassing myself that very evening. I put on my best cloak and left for London, sending a telegram to the poet’s nephew to notify him that I was on my way. I dare say that I was already in love with Katherine at this point – just one look through a book of my poems, and Mr. Claudio Holcombe already knew me only too well. I vouch that everyone who has so much as glimpsed a few verses of my writing would have guessed easily that my heart was broken and free to give.

On that London-bound train, I wrote a poem to Katherine. The trick is that I do not remember how it came to me, nor could I recall a single line thereof when it was finished. I failed to realize that at the time. I just jotted it down on a slip of paper, folded it and carelessly tucked it into the pocket of my cloak. Afterwards I seemed to forget all about the poem. Such was my excitement, I would have thought.

An elegant young man met me at the station. From the soles of his shoes, to his sleek slender cloak and to his top hat, he was all dressed in black. It seemed to me as if he were in mourning, which felt strangely appropriate, given the circumstances.

‘Good heavens, you are here!’ he exclaimed by way of an introduction, heartily shaking my hand.

‘Mr. Holcombe, I presume,’ I returned his emphatic greeting with a warm smile. I hoped to spare him the embarrassment, but in vain. He blushed.

Quite strangely, the exact set of his features escapes my memory. Sometimes I wish I could obtain a likeness of him, a photo card, an oil portrait or even a mere sketch, just to peer once more at his face and explain to myself the strange magnetism that this whole person seemed to emit despite his seeming inconspicuousness. But how would I go about such a task? Where would I see him again? To whom would I commission the drawing?

‘Forgive me this lack of manners,’ he apologized. ‘This whole affair shook me to such a degree that I hardly recognize myself anymore. Yes, Dr. Greene, your guess is right. Mr. Ebenezer Holcombe, at your service.’

‘Pray, Mr. Holcombe, do not feel guilty,’ I chided him gently. ‘It is an absolute marvel to behold how well you are holding up under the stress of this sordid ordeal. How is your uncle?’

‘Ah, Dr. Greene,’ he sighed, ‘Uncle is wasting away. I wish I knew how to help him, but he is so obstinate! So dogged! He refused to see every doctor that I tried to bring in, until one day he surprised me with a candidate of his own. If you only knew how much I am counting on you, dear doctor!’

I assured him of my nonexistent qualification and we hailed a cab that took us to a little hotel down in the City. There we parted, and I saw him no more.

The first revelation wasted little time in presenting itself. It appeared that the hotel room, booked to my name and already paid for by my ailing benefactor, had been placed at my disposal for the period of three months. Even the most generous assumptions as to the duration of my stay in London would have hardly extended beyond a week or so. I could scarcely imagine spending such a long time away from home, given that numerous work-related affairs would demand my attention rather sooner than later.

However, I decided to write this oddity off as a whim of a preternaturally rich patron, and early next morning I set out to explore Death’s mansion.

As promised, I found the address at the coffee table in my room and had no trouble following it. Thus began my adventure.

As I had been previously able to spend some considerable time alone with no diversion imposing upon the uneasy train of my thoughts, I had found myself growing more and more skeptical about the whole enterprise. The tone of the story seemed fantastical and a little untrustworthy, to say the least. Did I really believe, even for a second, that Katherine’s mysterious seducer was really Grim Reaper himself? What was I to do or say when I met her? And would I meet her? Did she even exist? Should I, despite his most explicit desire to the contrary, seek out the Poet himself and demand an explanation, if things went awry?

My thoughts were chaotic and feverish, and I could not settle upon a fixed course of action. So it was that when I was finally standing at the door of this mansion, most ordinary-looking and grey, I was almost indignant in advance. I was sizzling with anger. I was irritated and furious. I was grim, and ready to expose a certain poetically inclined merrymaker, who seemed of a mind to take advantage of my incorrigibly romantic disposition so that he could have a laugh or two at my expense. And I was quite determined to deny him the pleasure, for I doubted no longer that I fell victim to the most pathetic practical joke ever conceived.

The key fit. The door opened with a mournful creak.

I entered, not caring about the noise that I was producing and even shutting the door with a bang. The sound resonated in the empty hallway and died off. The house was empty, dead silent. I called out but received no answer. Absurdly, I kept my voice low, because shouting here would have seemed like raising one’s voice in a church – crude and blasphemous. The floor was dusty and there were no footprints to be seen except those left by my shoes.

The inexpressible feeling that I had experienced when reading the poet’s letter returned to haunt me. I tried to still my imagination, but my racing heart refused to surrender the reins to the mind. Despite myself, I could not leave. I kept on looking.

Gradually, a most irrational fear crept through the creaks in my composure, but there I was, still inside, seeking, vaguely hoping, not giving up, silent all the way just like the house that encircled me.

The exploration of the ground floor yielded no result. My search took me upstairs and I discovered an open door at the end of a short corridor. I walked in.

That was when I saw her. She was standing by the window, a mere outline of a girl, a dusky silhouette that stood out sharply against the shafts of the morning light. For a second a looked at her delicate profile, at her midnight tresses gently caressing the bend of her neck, at her dress, modest and plain and yet so becoming. And then she turned and noticed me.

I did not see the expression on her beautiful face, for the sun blinded me, but I could have sworn that it was she, she alone who emitted these rays. I somehow knew that she did not smile and her face was grave as she walked up to the middle of the room and stood there silently, her arms crossed on her chest.

I nervously cleared my throat and took off my hat.

‘Pardon me,’ I said clumsily, ‘I was hoping to find Ms. Katherine Holcombe.’

She studied me for a long moment.

‘Well, you have found her,’ she finally said. ‘May I inquire as to how you succeeded in breaking into my house?’

‘I had the key,’ I said weakly.

‘The key?’

I fancied that I heard amusement in her voice. The sun was still in my eyes and I could not see her face clearly.

‘And would you mind explaining how exactly it came into your possession?’

‘I was given it.’

‘By whom, may I ask?’

‘By… a good acquaintance,’ I stuttered.

‘Well, this is interesting,’ she admitted. ‘I know of only one person who has a double, but I have trouble imagining that he would give it to someone without a warning to me. It is also very obvious that you are not eager to share the name of this acquaintance of yours, so I will have to guess his identity.’

I was lost for words. I had never felt so completely stupid and useless in my entire life. What was I doing here, in a stranger’s house, making a fool of myself before this beautiful woman?

‘I will once again ask you to kindly state the purpose of your arrival,’ she urged me.

There was no anger in her voice, I was sure of it. Just a mild amusement and a hint of caution.

‘I was…’ I groped for a plausible answer and decided to go for the truth. ‘I was hoping to make your acquaintance.’ I made myself look up at her. Her features were still half obscured, and that was a great help. I did not trust myself to face her right then.

‘Now, that is new,’ she admitted. ‘Must we continue this interview, or maybe you will voluntarily oblige me with a few details?’

I gathered my thoughts, which process took me remarkably long.

‘I was told by a good friend,’ I began, ‘that you may be in need of some assistance. And so I…’

‘Explain no more,’ she interrupted with exaggerated tiredness. ‘Are you a private detective? My father is really getting predictable,’ she concluded, not even giving me time to reply.

‘What did he tell you?’ She inquired, cocking her head curiously. ‘That I was seeing someone? That I had found an unwelcome suitor? That I was dishonoring him?’

‘I…’ I stuttered. ‘I am in no position to divulge…’

‘Why, of course you are,’ she sadly laughed. ‘Come,’ she suddenly said and stepped towards me. She brushed past me and led me down the corridor to another door. I followed her, not knowing what to expect and hardly daring to look at her. Now that my vision was no longer impaired by the sun, I could see that she was even more beautiful than I had believed.

‘Come,’ she repeated, motioning me into the room. I stepped in and saw a table laid out for lunch. In my confusion, I failed to marvel at the fact that there were two cups beside the little teapot.

‘Would you like to have tea with me?’ she smiled at me. There was warmth in her deep grey eyes, and I felt that I had been forgiven. I blushed and smiled back.

We had tea, and then we talked until I blissfully lost track of time. She was delightful. She was otherworldly. She led the conversation with such confidence and finesse, that very soon I was able to shake free of the shackles of my timidity and was shy no more.

‘It gets lonely here sometimes,’ she confessed, pouring the tea into my cup, ‘And I am mighty glad for what little company luck may throw in my way.’

‘I could not have hoped for more,’ I proclaimed, and realized right away what a stupid thing that was to say.

‘I mean,’ I tried to redeem myself, ‘that I am by no means rejoicing in your solitude, just that I was happy that I might be able to relieve it a little bit.’

She laughed charmingly, lightly, and her laughter was like the song of a brook in the early days of spring.

‘I am flattered, believe me,’ she said. ‘In fact, you were the very first gentleman who had the decency to become embarrassed when we finally met. That is a very welcome change of pace.’

I blushed even deeper than before, and that provoked another spell of the musical laughter. In two hours, I was madly in love. An hour letter, I had silently pledged her my soul.

We talked of sweet little nothings and made silly general observations, but somehow this conversation brought me more joy and satisfaction than any scholarly discourse from my previous life. She was smart, and by saying little she somehow conveyed more than any professor that I had known. We talked of trains and cities, of mansions and cabinets – everything that surrounded us and embellished our immediate past for the last twenty-four hours, and she patiently, almost gratefully tolerated my excursions into the days of my childhood that those mundane objects seemed to resurrect in my mind.

It was growing late. I chanced a look at the window and, to my utter amazement, noticed that it was already dark outside. I remembered the purpose of my visit. She must have guessed what I was thinking, for her expression also became serious and she shifted in her seat, following the direction of my gaze.

‘What will you do?’ she asked suddenly.

I shrugged. ‘What should I do, Ms. Holcombe?’

‘You should come tomorrow, and then we could decide,’ she said quietly, and that familiar smile played again on her lips, half-sad and half-playful, and absolutely and irreversibly wonderful. I made my goodbyes, and we parted for the night.

Next morning found me on my way to her mansion. As yesterday, I discovered Katherine upstairs, gazing out the window of her lonely room. My shyness returned and made the first hour exceptionally awkward, but she continued to encourage me in her own silent way, and before long I grew bold enough to confess that I was a poet.

And so my fate was decided. Katherine flung up her hands in disbelief. She rushed out of the room and before I could get properly bewildered, returned with a small, brown book that she was clutching lovingly to her chest. I recognized the little tome. The most beautiful girl in the world was now holding a collection of my very own poems. The levee was broken and the spell was cast. The rift between us, if there had ever been one, was closed and sealed.

‘It was you!’ she cried delightedly. ‘I thought that it must have been you when you told me your name, but I thought it to be a coincidence! I thought it too good to be true! It simply could not be true! But now, dear William, now I know it for a certainty! You wrote this book!’

For a millionth time, I had nothing to say. The blush that overcame me, on the other hand, must have spoken volumes, for she almost jumped for joy and was instantly by my side, holding my hands in the cool ivory touch of her own. How I did not die of happiness is beyond me.

‘William,’ she said, ‘forgive me this foolishness. But I could never express how grateful I am to you for this book. And to be finally able to meet you in person! I… I just… love your poems so much!’

We spoke of nothing but poetry ever since, and those days were the best of my life.

We carried on. Our meetings continued and grew tenderer by the day. It might have been a month, or a week, or god only knows how long, I could not care less as long as we were together. Yet such is my disposition, that greater felicity always brings greater doubt. The true reason behind my arrival began to gnaw at my conscience. The realization of my looming happiness cast a great shadow over my uneasy mind, and every evening at my hotel, I spend hours rereading her father’s letter and trying to guess at the missing pieces of the whole picture.

I had never seen anyone enter or leave her mansion, and she never mentioned being engaged or keeping any constant company besides myself. She had no servants, no maids, and, from what I could guess by her desultory remarks, no true friends. No matter how hard I reflected on this whole situation, I could not bring myself to be jealous of my unseen deadly rival, for Katherine’s manner with me had become so cordial, so warm and gentle, that harboring the hope of having my passion returned now seemed almost justified. I grew quite convinced that her heart was now linked to mine.

This could not go on. Our blooming closeness inspired great confidence, and one day I confided in her. I told her everything of the letter that I had received and of my precipitous flight to London. I spoke wildly and with no restraint. I spoke of everything save for my hopes, which she must have already found out by herself. She was silent after I finished, and when her silence threatened to become unbearable, she finally spoke.

‘I am not the betrothed to Death.’

My relief was immense. I smiled and reached for her hand, but she did not move to return the gesture, and I froze indecisively.

‘I am not Death’s bride,’ she repeated looking up at me and meeting my eyes, ‘but I am his daughter.’

My hands limply fell on my lap.

‘My mother was mortal,’ she continued, ‘and she was young and pretty when father seduced her. She fell in love with him, and for the longest time her feelings seemed doomed to be unrequited. She despaired, and with despair came blindness. However, when she reached the bottom of that loneliest pit, she was reborn. Her eyes were open, and for a little while until her untimely passing, she learned to take joy in her life.

‘That was when father returned. In the midst of her awakening, he realized that he cared for her in his own peculiar way. His withering passion failed to save her, but it created another marvel. It made him preserve the last vestige of his beloved that was left in this world. He took up their daughter and raised her as he saw fit.’

So that was true. At least partly true. She was and angel of Death. Myriads of thoughts vied for supremacy in my brain, and yet I suppressed them all and sat there dumbly, hollow and drained like a husk.

‘I have never seen Mr. Holcombe,’ I managed finally.

‘You have,’ she corrected me.

‘That was a different Mr. Holcombe I saw at the station. You know it full well, Katherine. I mean the poet himself, your father. I have never seen Claudio. I have not seen... Death.’

‘But you have,’ she insisted quietly, and the look on her face was very earnest. ‘There is only one Mr. Holcombe.’

The truth suddenly dawned on me.

‘Do you mean to say,’ I began and fell silent, as the words failed me.

‘He looks pretty young for a Death, doesn’t he?’ she smiled

‘This is not right! What of Claudio Holcombe, the poet? I have seen his portraits; and I am positive that he is a gentleman in his late fifties!’

‘Death is resourceful,’ Katherine reminded me. ‘And his guises are many.’

‘What of your mother?’ I asked her then. ‘You said that she had passed away?’

‘She died a long time ago,’ Katherine said solemnly.

‘How long ago?’ I asked bashfully.

‘Do you mean to ask how old it makes me?’ she quipped.

I nodded.

‘Does it really matter?’ she smiled. She looked up, and her eyes flashed at me devilishly. Despite myself, I could not resist smiling back.

‘Well, I guess it does!’ I confessed.

‘Call me what you want, then!’ she grinned. ‘Make me one and twenty, if you would!’

That was how I knew her true story. Did it change the way I perceived her? Maybe a little. Did it alter my feelings? Not an ounce. If anything, I loved here even more.

Naturally, I proposed to her. I guess that was my last fatal mistake. At least that is what I kept telling myself. I could not even wait until the dust had settled; I had to do it as soon as I could. With my last money, I bought a ring and fell to one knee before her.

‘Katherine,’ I pleaded, ‘will you be my wife?’

Her eyes… I read so much in her eyes, and most of it wounded. She had not expected that, she had never hoped for that, and, most clearly, she did not love me. There was incomprehension, there were pain and regret, and there were confusion and loss.

‘William,’ she muttered, ‘oh, William! what have you done?’

I did not want to understand, I was wallowing in my wretchedness.

‘Katherine,’ I demanded, ‘what is wrong? Do you not want it as much as I do? Do you not enjoy my company?’

‘Please,’ she begged, ‘you should go. Leave me for now and come back tomorrow, dear friend. Please, I beseech you.’

I resisted like a wool-headed ruffian who refuses to leave the tavern after a drunken brawl. I dug my feet in the ground like a bull and did not budge an inch. I was defeated and disgraced, but I was too self-consumed to acknowledge it. She won in the end, as she always did. But that cost us another half an hour and, most likely, our friendship, or what was meant to remain of it.

‘Katherine!’ I appealed to her. ‘This hardly makes any sense at all!’

She was silent, her eyes were averted, but I pressed on.

‘Were you not urging me to take this step, with every word and every gesture that you made in my presence? Katherine, I care not for your father, nor for your past in exile, I care only for you. Join me, love! Let me share with you the weight of your burdens?’

‘Burdens?’ she repeated, and there was some new quality to the tone of her voice, which I could not quite place or define. Something that I had never heard before, something unfamiliar.

‘Burdens,’ I weakly reiterated.

‘And what would they be, these burdens?’

‘Your loneliness’ I jumped at the opportunity, ‘the oppression of your confinement and the gloom of your desolation, your…’

‘Oh, you really do not understand,’ she calmly interjected and stepped up to me. She reached out and placed each of her delicate hands on my temples. I shuddered as our eyes met. The room went dark. My body twitched once as a pang of freezing cold shot through my whole frame, and then I began to tremble as if somebody had tossed me in the snow in the midst of an arctic winter. Visions were flashing before me, they flashed and flashed until my sight adjusted to them and I began to make things out. I saw mortar and stone, I saw marble and wood, iron and copper, silver and gold. I saw steel glistening in the rays of the setting sun. I heard whisperings of the forests, and then suddenly I beheld the blades of emerald grass covered in crimson. I heard gunshots and I heard cries, and soon I was buried in the noise of crumbling temples, my body melting in the heat of infernal flames. I saw walls breached and lovers denied, I saw feathers in the wind and I saw cloth in the water. All of these visions flashed before me in a never-ending succession, and when the daughter of Death finally took her hands off my temples, I was left with but one burning image. It was a book with empty pages lying on the floor before me, discarded and forsaken.

She slowly walked out of the room without another word.

I spent a sleepless night at the hotel, and every time that I closed my eyes in a vain hope of finding relief, her immaculate face was there to haunt my thoughts. I am not ashamed to admit that I cried a lot in those lonely nocturnal hours, and with the first rays of sun, my star-crossed addiction bloomed again.

Yes, I returned the next day, and I tried to make up. We talked, she was icily polite and did not chase me away, but even then I was not discouraged. I kept crawling back to the daughter of Death. It took me a few more visits to realize that all had been lost. Poor fool, I still failed to understand. I continued throwing myself against her defenses until her patience ran out.

One day the key did not fit in the lock. I tried, and I tried like an idiot that I was, knowing deep in my heart that it was all over. I left London after a week. Do not ask me what I did during those dark seven days, for it shames me to remember.

There were too many questions left, but none of them really mattered. You can figure them out for yourself if you wish. For my own part, I would add but another detail to this account.

I have already mentioned the poem that I wrote for Katherine on my train ride to London all those days ago. Before I even met her. Before I even knew her.

I have recently recovered it from the pocket of the cloak that I wore during the journey. It had been escaping me ever since, yet only now do I comprehend its meaning. It came to me like love and it stayed there, buried deep in the well of my ignorance. Here it is, with no corrections or amendments, exactly the way I wrote it on that fateful evening. Here is my song for Katherine. A song that would not be disowned. A song to that fragment of her eternal soul that I was able to glimpse with mortal stare:

What did I do to you, my love,

To make you look with scorn,

To turn the silks to tatters rough,

In thorns of pride adorn?

Did songs and poems sound amiss,

When heart was never mute?

Or was I wrong to ask for bliss,

When thou could not refute?

What was I to you, lonely friend,

Amidst the raging storm?

A ship to guide you till the end,

Or harbor soon forlorn?

I thank thee, love, for summers bright

When passion took its toll,

For hopes of spring, and winter blight,

And days before the fall.

I shall, to trouble you no more,

Surrender to your will,

But love that lives and lived before,

Thy scorn shall never kill.