The Tearsmith: A Novel
The Tearsmith: Epilogue

The fairy lights on the beautiful Christmas tree sparkled like fireflies, casting a golden light even into the furthest corners of the dim, decorated living room. I advanced across the shining marble floor, trying not to make a sound.

A little girl was curled up asleep on the couch in front of the fireplace, totally blissful, her little face resting on the chest of a handsome man. A strong forearm was loosely wrapped around her.

Rigel’s head was tilted to one side; his eyes were closed.

At thirty-four years old, he was even more attractive than ever before. There was the shadow of a beard on his jaw, and every muscle in his body seemed honed towards his natural instinct to protect. His broad shoulders and defined wrists lent him a beguiling air of self-assurance that was perceptible as soon as he walked into a room.

I carefully took the girl, careful not to wake him, and lifted her into my arms.

They had spent the whole day together.

When she had arrived in our life five years ago, Rigel had confessed his fear to me: he was scared that he would be unable to love her, as had been the case with everyone else.

But I was sure that fear would vanish as soon as he saw her in my arms, small and defenceless, with jet black hair just like his.

Delicate, precious, innocent…a black rose.

Earlier that afternoon I had leant in the arched doorway to the living room and found them there, sitting on the piano stool. She was in his arms, wearing a velvet dress.

‘Daddy, tell me something I don’t know,’ she had asked, looking at him adoringly, as she always did.

She loved him madly, and never stopped saying how her daddy was the best of all, because he sent satellites into space.

Rigel, thoughtful, had tilted his face, his eyelashes brushing his elegant cheekbones. Then he had taken her little hand in his, palm against palm.

He had never been tender with anyone. But with her…

‘Many of the atoms you’re made of, from the calcium in your bones to the iron in your blood, were created in the heart of a star that exploded millions of years ago.’

His slow, deep voice caressed the air like a wonderful symphony.

I was sure she hadn’t understood, but nevertheless, her mouth fell open into a little O. Rigel said she was the spitting image of me when she had that expression.

I had made my presence known at that point.

‘Her kindergarten teacher said something interesting,’ I burst out. ‘Apparently, our daughter won’t let any little boys near her, because someone has convinced her that they spread diseases. Do you know anything about that?’

Rigel gave me a piercing look as the little one played with his shirt collar. Then he clicked his tongue.

‘Absolutely no idea,’ he declared.

She looked up at him, her little face crumpled into a concerned expression.

‘I don’t want boy disease, Daddy. I won’t let them get near.’

I watched her hug him, my arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

Rigel smirked.

‘She’s a sensible girl,’ he murmured, pleased with himself.

I smiled again as I remembered this.

I suddenly felt her murmuring against my throat.

‘Mommy…?’ she said, rubbing her eyes on my skin.

‘Go to sleep, honey.’

She wrapped her little hands around my neck and her soft hair tickled my chin. I inhaled the fragrance of her cherry shower gel and cuddled her as I climbed the stairs.

‘Mommy…’ she whined again. ‘Was Daddy sick earlier? Did he have a headache again?’

I nestled my head against hers, cradling her against me.

‘It happens sometimes. But then it passes…It always passes. He just needs to rest. Your daddy is very strong, you know?’

‘I know,’ she replied, determined.

I smiled as we reached her bedroom, where I lay her down in bed. I turned on the nightlight that projected stars onto the ceiling and carefully tucked her in. She clutched my caterpillar plushie, completely resewn and repaired for her. I noticed she was staring at me with her large, grey eyes. Her sleepiness seemed to have completely vanished.

‘What is it?’ I asked softly.

‘Will you tell me a bedtime story?’

I stroked her black hair.

‘You should go to sleep, Rose…’

‘But it’s Christmas,’ she objected in a little voice. ‘You always tell me a wonderful bedtime story at Christmas…’

She looked at me hopefully, with her tiny little nose, her skin as white as a doll’s. I couldn’t replace a reason to say no to her.

‘All right,’ I agreed and sat down next to her.

Rose smiled happily, and in her eyes shone the reflection of a thousand little stars.

‘What story do you want me to tell you?’

‘The story of you and Daddy,’ she replied immediately, excited. I rearranged the bedcovers on her chest. ‘Your story.’

‘Again? Are you sure? I tell that one every year…’

‘I like it,’ she replied simply, as if that was enough to settle the matter.

I smiled, sitting more comfortably on her little bed.

‘All right…Where do you want me to start?’

‘Oh! From the beginning!’

I narrowed my eyes, looking at her sweetly. I reached my arms out to arrange her pillow, making sure she was warm and comfortable.

‘From the beginning? Okay…’

I leant back on the mattress, propping myself up with a hand. I looked up at the stars above us, and slowly, softly, started the tale…

‘We had many stories at The Grave. Whispered tales, bedtime stories…Legends flickering on our lips in the glow of a candle.’

I looked sweetly into her eyes and smiled.

‘The most famous was the one about the Tearsmith.’