Guinevere knew exactly what her breaking point had been in her wretched marriage to Charlie, which had seemed like salvation then only to end up like a curse. Girls who come from bad family situations are often scooped up by men who seek them out for their vulnerability, their lack of protection –– not to save but to exploit them.
She knew for a fact she had never loved Charles. But she wondered if Charles had loved her –– not her, but who he had thought she was.
Because she wasn’t what she had pretended to be. In fact, she’d worn so many masks she didn’t know where her own face ended and that of the other characters began. Arthur Graves had told her this is what made for a great spy. The fluidity. The moral ambiguity. The exploitation.
She hadn’t started out this way. Like every little girl, she had wanted to be a fairy princess married to Prince Charming, but her own parents had cut off her wings before she could fly. And what was a fairy without her wings? A nymph.
Nymphs, however, were easily taken advantage of, even by mere mortals. Sirens, on the other hand…?
Taken advantage for her sexuality, she’d learned that that was the quality most men admired about her –– that and nothing else.
Therefore, she had to hone it into a weapon, because it was there whether she liked it or not. Possibly, it had always been a weapon, but before she knew how to wield it, it had been used to harm her, even if it had been hers to begin with.
Such was the price of innocence. The only people it was good for were the ones who sought to take advantage of you. There were more wolves than pastors in the world, and everybody started out as sheep.
She had tried, God knows she had tried to be the dutiful wife Charlie wanted her to be, but none of her efforts had ever seemed to satisfy him –– and worst of all, it had been more than enough, as he’d later admitted. But to ensure she had never leave, he had pretended the contrary. Until one night, she had had enough.
She had been telling Charles her opinion about Circe, her favourite character from The Odyssey, and he had responded, dismissively, “That’s the dumbest take I’ve ever heard.”
It wasn’t the first time. But it was going to be the last.
She grabbed the book and chucked it at him.
“And what if I were to do that to you?” Charles asked, pretending to be shocked.
He knew she wasn’t a menace physically; he could never fear her the way a woman could fear a man. He didn’t know anything about the plight of women. He didn’t care to.
“Do it,” Guinevere said. “I don’t care what you do to me anymore. Besides, it’d help my divorce case against you.”
Charlie put his own book down, sitting up, panic etched into his features.
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re married. That’s for life.”
“Your life,” she said, grabbing another book and chucking it at him.
Charlie stood up. “Stop it.”
“I’m already done. With you. With everything.”
“You can’t even get a lawyer. All your money is my money. You don’t have a bank account. I didn’t let you get one.”
“Have you heard of inheritance powder?”
Charlie blinked, fixing his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“N-no.”
“Of course not. You’re poor. But it’s what my kind of people use to get to that inheritance a bit faster. I mean, if you don’t want to get divorced, that can be arranged. But I won’t be married to you any longer.”
“Normally, you’re really nice, but you can be a real bitch when you want to be, you know that?”
With that mind-bending again. Usually all he did was tell her she was not kind or gracious enough, except when others were around and he showered her with praises, depending on the company. Her head was threatening to explode.
Guinevere snorted. “No, I can be real nice, when I want to be. This is who I am though. And you’ll find out.”
“Gwennie, that got you nowhere!” Charles said, grabbing her by the arm.
Guinevere turned back. She wasn’t herself anymore. This personality had developed to ward off harm. It was like she was possessed. “No! Being nice got me nowhere. Only married to you. And I’m more miserable than ever.”
“Gwennie, don’t say that…”
“I’m done with you. I’m divorcing you.”
“Guinevere, I… Gwennie, let’s talk this through! Guinevere!”
But Guinevere wasn’t there anymore.
This new personality came and went, like a guide, helping her survive. It was the part of her she had developed to fit in with Lucille and Elsie. It thrived in situations like this. And during the war, it had truly come alive. It got to take out all the anger and hurt and betrayal she had been dealt, big and small, on people she convinced to love her.
But it wasn’t all of her. There was a part of her that craved love, beauty, peace, stability. The pure child she’d been once, now an adult, but not broken. That was the part of her that she preferred. Who she had been before the world got to her. That was the real Guinevere –– the other was just a dark copy.
And she was trying to find the balance between the two.
Because all niceness didn’t lead anywhere good – most people only used and abused those who were too nice. But being too evil didn’t satisfy her either.
Guinevere was practicing her calligraphy when Edward rushed into her room, after finishing his piano lesson with Noel.
“Winnie,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”
“What is it, Teddy?” Guinevere asked, cocking an eyebrow.
The air was oppressive between them; she was a few paces off from him, but she could still not breathe. Edward too was taking deep breaths as though to steady himself. They stared at each other as the candles flickered, as Fred Astaire played in the background.
“You still listen to this?”
“It’s my favorite record,” she said softly. She suddenly felt like crying but bit her lips to refocus herself.
Edward smiled, taking it as an invitation. He took a few steps forward. Guinevere stood up, as though to honor him thus. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“Mine too,” Edward said. “Look, I – I apologize if this is a breach of your boundaries.”
“Oh, no,” Guinevere said, and they both laughed, as though the past couple of years and their estrangement hadn’t happened.
“I brought you something,” Edward said. “Chocolate. From France.”
Guinevere squealed. “This is Noel’s favorite. Oh, you shouldn’t have!”
“There’s more.”
“Oh, the lavender-infused ones?!” she squealed, her heart warm and mushy, before enveloping him in a bone-crushing hug. She felt like she could cry. “Teddy, it’s been years, how do you still remember?” I’m in love! She almost said it. She wiped the sides of her eyes.
“We could have overnighted those,” said a familiar, masculine voice.
Her husband was leaning against the doorframe of her room.
“Tommy,” Guinevere said.
The moment was broken.
“I put Noel to bed,” he said. “Thanks, Edward, for teaching him the piano. Now, if you don’t mind, Vivvie and I would like to wind down.”
“I – yes, alright,” Edward said, glancing at Guinevere. “Hope you like it.” He beckoned towards the chocolate bars in Guinevere’s hands.
“No, wait,” Guinevere said, setting down her gifts on her wooden table and beginning to rummage in its drawers. “I must give you something in return. Look – I’ve been practicing my calligraphy, with passages from The Odyssey. This is when Circe meets Odysseus. Maybe you’ll like it.”
She handed him a couple of pages, not only calligraphed but with intricate floral designs adorning the edges, painted with watercolor. Her calligraphy was better than her painting, but Edward seemed touched, blushing, his eyes sparkling as he hugged the pages to his chest. “These are wonderful, Guinevere. Thank you.”
Tommy cleared his throat. “Goodbye, Edward.”
“Bye, Teddy,” Guinevere said, smiling.
Edward strutted out as though victorious. It was a sad pathetic victory, Tommy’s grimace seemed to say. She knew her current husband better than the last one and loved him more too. She had no feelings of moral ambiguity tied to it. What was the point between an animal who killed and cried after the fact, and one that simply killed?
What was done was done.
Her son, Noel was happy. He was well taken care of and loved. He still remembered his father. There was a photo of him in the staircase. What more did Charles need? He wouldn’t have done the same for her, he knew, if she’d been the one to die.
In the end, Charlie had died like a hero, saving her and their son, in the aftermath of the war. Had he really changed during the war? Had he gone momentarily mad? What had prompted him to die like a hero? God, she hated it, feeling like she had to be grateful for him. She almost wished she had died instead.
But she wasn’t doing this for Charles O’Malley. She was doing this for Noel’s father (the two people could be separated, in her mind). For Noel to grow up without having to be ashamed of his descendance. That was all that mattered to her now.
“I don’t want him to come around anymore,” Tommy said. “The way he looks at you – it’s not right.”
“Why? Because you’re his friend?” Guinevere mocked, the siren emerging from the waves. The water had been too still – she needed to stir things up.
But Tommy knew how to handle it. Monsters could only be contained by even greater monsters. He grabbed her by the hand, and she grinned, loving the power exchange.
“He’s in love with you.”
“He’s good for Noel. He wants Edward around. I don’t want Edward anymore.”
“Maybe you don’t want him anymore, but –– but you love him.”
“I like him.” Love was too strong a word. She wouldn’t give up her life for him. And that’s what love made you do, if you were truly in love. Or perhaps that was just insanity.
She had slept with Charles because he was there after Edward rejected her and she had been bored. She had wanted to pass the time. Edward, she had truly loved. But Tommy? Tommy had come into her life like a storm.
“I know you loved who you thought you were with him. Sweet, caring Winnie, always dressed to the nines, crying into his shoulders, the damsel in distress, but I know. I know how screwed up you are. And unlike Charlie, I can handle it,” he said, pulling her closer.
She grinned. “You don’t know me.”
“Oh, but I do. I read your file.”
She stepped back and he let her go.
“Arthur gave it to you?”
Tommy smirked, nodding, but his eyes were careful.
“He’s my uncle. Of course he did.”
She shrugged. “I don’t care if you know. I read your file too,” she said, grinning.
“Arthur gave it to you?”
“I took it when I went there to visit, and he left.”
Tommy snorted. “Then he let you. He’s not that careless.”
“No harm, no foul.”
Tommy snorted. “See? Remember this. You and I are the same. You’re just better at pretending.”
Guinevere’s shoulders sagged.
“Then you truly don’t know me.”
Edward loved her softness. Tommy, her chaos. Charlie – desired all of it but couldn’t handle it all, so, none of it, really.
“You want to be the pure girl. But you’re so much more than that. And you’re better for it. That being said, after reading your file, I understand. I understand why you wanted to atone. To be the beautiful, dutiful wife to Edward. But he couldn’t handle even that version.”
Guinevere swallowed hard, blinking back tears.
“You’re both the storm and the port. The damsel and the distress. You’re perfect.”
Guinevere felt tears trail down her cheeks. She hated being this vulnerable. She kissed him. After kissing her back in the most intoxicating way, he pulled away before she’d quite gotten enough.
“Why?” she muttered. Why deprive me of the most exquisite pleasure –– giving me the kind of love I always dreamed of? That part of me thinks I don’t deserve?
“You don’t need to atone for what you did. Justice isn’t real. We all do what we can; we all do our best, really.”
“What’s best for us.” Guinevere said, disgusted.
Tommy laughed. “Yes,” he said, his eyes sparkling with emotion.
Guinevere sniffled, putting his arms around his waist – his warmth felt like home.
“I like you as you are,” Tommy said. “Why isn’t that enough?”
“My softness is also part of me.”
She’d never been loved unconditionally. What some lucky ones got as children was alien to her, like a fairytale, so unbelievable.
“And I love it. It’s just the kind of mother I wanted for my children,” he said. “Just don’t spoil Noel and our future kids as much as you spoil me.”
Guinevere laughed.
“We don’t have children together,” she said, slowly, carefully, to test him.
“Yes, we do,” Tommy said, as though she were being silly. “We have Noel.”
Guinevere’s tense shoulders relaxed, and she burst into a laughter of relief. The storm passed before it could truly start. He drew her into a hug, and she embraced him.
“I love you,” she said, and she truly did.
Whatever love was.
Blair Boleyn’s work delves into the darker facets of love and friendship, often infused with a magical, occasionally Arthurian twist. Her work has appeared in or is set to appear in Noon Poetry Press, Twenty-Two Twenty-Eight, Half and One, and the Lothlorien Poetry Journal, among others. She also runs the following Instagram account: @blairboleynwrites.