When the Wind Stopped, We Were All Still Here

Three days after I died, I finally understood how monstrously wrong I had been.

The husband I'd cursed as worthless for seven years killed every last person who had hurt me.

Then, drenched in blood, he walked to the spot where I'd gone over the cliff.

He didn't hesitate. He threw himself off.

And the six-year-old daughter I'd beaten into silence.

She climbed the cliff face until the skin scraped off her knees, down to the bone.

All for a jade bracelet I had dropped.

When the rock gave way, she called out one small, thin word into the empty air. "Mama."

I lunged for her like a woman gone mad.

When I opened my eyes again, the hammer was clenched in my fist, and I was still screaming.

"You don't come first, you don't eat! Kneel down!"

My daughter knelt until both knees bled.

Tristram Stephens rushed in and pulled her into his arms.

"Please. Let her go."

I opened my mouth to explain.

And then I saw the back of the shattered screen, my name carved across it, over and over, so densely there was no bare wood left.

The piece he had spent three years shaping.

Had he been thinking of me the whole time?

The hammer crashed to the floor.

I dropped straight to my knees before the two of them, father and daughter.

"I'm sorry."

"This time, I'll be the one to protect you."

What I'd just done was so far out of character.

Tristram went rigid, his whole body locking up.

The daughter hiding behind him eased half her face into view.

Those eyes, almost exactly like mine, were full of stunned confusion.

Both of them looked terrible.

Tristram's eyes were shot through with red, his sleeves rolled to the forearm.

Wood shavings clung to his shoulders, his shirt creased and rumpled.

Like a man who hadn't left the workshop in days, running on nothing.

Looking like that, anyone would take him for exactly what he seemed. A useless man who did nothing but shave wood.

That was precisely what I'd thought, in my past life.

When I saw the fresh sawdust on him, my fury burned clean through whatever reason I had left.

I swung the hammer and smashed his rosewood folding screen, worth millions.

Then I turned the rest of it on our daughter, who had only just come home with her report card.

Screamed that all she was good for was eating, forced her to kneel on the shards of broken wood.

But now, all I could see was that one scene, the one I'd watched after I died.

This man, covered in blood, standing at the edge of the cliff, not a trace of life left in his eyes.

Behind him, every enemy he had slaughtered. Before him, a drop into nothing.

He took one step forward.

"Aria Henson."

Tristram looked at me kneeling on the floor, and there was no anger in his eyes.

Only numbness.

He bent down and lifted our daughter out of the wood chips, shielding her behind him with everything he had.

Those hands, callused hard from the blade, were shaking, and he was fighting to hold them still.

"I made the screen myself. It's nothing that it's broken. If you're angry, take it out on me. Curse me, hit me, whatever you want."

"But Agnes Stephens is only six. She came in second because she was running a fever and didn't dare ask her teacher for leave."

"Let her go."

Those last three words, he all but forced out through his throat.

I stared at the way he had wrapped himself around our daughter, and my eyes burned until they ached.

It took dying once for me to understand.

Tristram had played the worthless carpenter so my family would believe he'd lost himself to a hobby and would never amount to anything.

So they would loosen their grip on my mind.

He had deliberately turned himself into a joke.

Only so the bloodsuckers in the Henson family would stop squeezing me.

And our daughter's fever, that was because last month I'd listened to my sister.

I'd made her kneel on the balcony through an entire night, and the cold had done the rest.

The tears came anyway; I couldn't stop them.

Tristram's whole body went taut, and on instinct he moved our daughter another step back.

The way he looked at me was the way you'd watch a wild animal that might spring at any second.

He thought I was about to reach for a knife.

After all, last week I really had taken a knife to the little wooden rabbit he'd carved for her, and hacked it to pieces.

But I didn't.

"Where's the medical kit?"

I tried to keep my voice soft.

But it had been too long since I'd used that tone with anyone.

All they did was stare at me, terror in their eyes.

"I'm asking you. Where is the medical kit."

The housekeeper moved first, hurrying off to fetch it.

I drew our daughter out from behind Tristram.

The little girl flinched, her whole body shrinking in on itself.

She squeezed her eyes shut on instinct, both hands over her head, trembling like a leaf about to fall.

Her lips worked for a long moment, and only faint puffs of breath came out.

What was she saying?

I had to lean close before I caught it, five words, thin as a thread of air.

"Agnes won't eat anymore..."

Not that she didn't want to eat.

That she didn't dare.

In that instant it was as if someone drove a red-hot spike into my chest, once, and again.

I forced down everything churning up my throat and cupped her bleeding little hands.

My touch as light as if I were handling porcelain.

"No more hitting. Mama won't hit Agnes anymore."

Her eyes flew open.

Tristram, too, was nailed where he stood.

So much moved through those deep black eyes.

Shock. Doubt. Guardedness.

And fear.

He was afraid I was playing some new game.

"Aria."

He seized my wrist.

His grip strong enough to snap bone, his jaw clenched tight.

"What is it you're trying to do this time."

I looked up at him.

His eyes were red, sleepless for nights on end.

I turned my hand and closed it around his.

"Tristram."

The words landed, and Tristram flinched as if they'd scalded him.

He tore his hand free and stepped back twice.

There was no emotion in those deep black eyes.

Only wariness.

Like watching a wild animal that had suddenly changed its line of attack.

At that moment, hurried footsteps came from the entryway.

"Sis! The housekeeper said you're smashing things againplease, calm down!"

The woman wore a cream knit dress, her long hair loose over her shoulders, and she looked ready to burst into tears the second she stepped inside.

Samantha Henson.

My dear little sister.

Also the one who, in my past life, paid off mountain bandits to push me off a cliff.

The orphan the Henson family took in, who now looked more like the Henson daughter than I did, the real one.

And meI was the ungrateful lunatic who'd married into money and still didn't know her luck.

Samantha hurried in, her eyes going straight to Tristram.

She swept a pitying look over his rumpled shirt.

Then she saw the rosewood shards all over the floor and drew in a soft breath.

"Sis, it took him three years to make that screen. How could you bring yourself to smash it?"

"I know you think he's off in that workshop all day and never home, but he's allowed to have something he loves too."

"Doing this to himthink how much it hurts him."

She paused a beat, then lowered her gaze to my daughter in my arms.

Her face arranged itself into just the right amount of distress.

"And little AgnesSis, I understand disciplining her, but making her kneel on broken wood"

"She barely talks as it is. Keep scaring her like this and what's going to become of her?"

Every line dressed up as concern.

Every line a knife going in.

Nailing it down that Tristram was a wastrel and I was the one suffering for it.

And clamping shut on the other point: that I abused my own child and didn't deserve to be her mother.

In my past life, every time I heard this speech, I felt like this sister was the only one who understood my pain.

And then I'd turn even more hysterical, screaming at Tristram.

But this time.

I finished pressing the bandage over my daughter's finger and set her down on the sofa.

The little girl curled into a ball, still shaking.

But she didn't shy away from me.

I stood up.

Brushed the splinters off my knees.

Turned to face Samantha.

"Sis? Don't look at me like that, I really was just worried about you"

My stare pushed the strength right out of her voice.

She edged half a step toward Tristram without thinking.

Tristram frowned and turned his body away without a word.

His eyes were still fixed on me.

Waiting for me to lose it next.

I walked over.

Stopped right in front of Samantha.

Then raised my hand.

And brought it across her face, full force.

Hard enough to spin her half around.

She slammed into the entryway cabinet.

The vase rocked twice and nearly went over.

Half of Samantha's face swelled up, blood seeping from the corner of her mouth.

The living room went dead silent.

Everyone frozen in place.

Even those endlessly dead eyes of Tristram's showed plain shock.

"You hit me?!"

Samantha clutched her face, and the tears really did fall.

"Aria Henson, you're insane! I'm your sister!"

"Sister?"

I let out a cold laugh.

"First. My daughter is six and placed second in her whole grade. She's a genius."

"How she studies, how she tests, that's a Stephens family matter. Since when does an outsider with a different name get to point fingers here?"

"Second."

I turned my head and looked at Tristram.

He stood there, shirt cuffs rolled up.

The muscles of his forearms drawn taut, rosewood dust still lodged between his fingers.

"So my husband loves woodworking. What of it? He can carve a flower out of a plain block of woodthat's a skill."

"I like watching him plane wood, and I like the pine scent on him. Any of your business?"

I took another step closer and dropped my voice.

"Or is it that you care so much about what my husband does and doesn't do because you've got other ideas?"

Samantha's pupils shrank hard.

What flashed across her face in that instant wasn't hurt.

It was guilt.

"You were never like this before you always couldn't stand him"

"I was blind before. Today I got my sight back. Any objection?"

I pointed at the door.

"Get out!"

"From now on, set one foot in the Stephens house without my say-so, and I'll break your legs and drag you off to feed the dogs!"

Samantha scrambled up, disbelieving:

"You wouldn't dare!"

"I mean every word. Try me and see!"

She ran out with a hand over her face.

At the door she turned back and glared at me.

Her eyes brimming with a hatred as vast as it was venomous.

I turned around and met Tristram's eyes.

He looked at me the way you'd look at a stranger who had suddenly been swapped out for someone else.

"Aria."

His voice was low, worn down by something long and grinding.

"What have the Hensons sent you to take this time?"

"The title to the downtown property? The east-side commercial complex? Or shares in Stephens Group?"

"Just say it. You don't have to put on a show."

I looked at him.

This man who was willing to live his whole life as a joke.

I walked over.

Under his wary stare, I reached out and pressed my hand against his rolled-up cuff.

Beneath that fabric, dusted with sawdust and wood shavings.

Was a forearm, firm and strong.

And it was covered in old scars, cut over and over by a plane blade.

His whole body went rigid, like an animal backed into a corner.

"Tristram, listen to me."

I looked up at him and said it word by word.

"I don't want the land. I don't want the shares. I want money least of all."

"I want you."

"And our daughter."

"From today on, anyone who lays a finger on you or on her, I'll destroy them."

His pupils shrank all at once.

He stared at me, hard, as if he could see straight through my face.

But he found nothing.

Because every word I'd said was true.

"...Insane."

He said the word under his breath.

Then took a step back, pulling his forearm free of my hand.

Turned and went upstairs.

His steps were quick, his spine held rigidly straight.

At the turn of the stairs he paused, without looking back.

"Tomorrow's the Henson family dinner. Don't forget."

"The divorce agreement is in the study. Fill in whatever terms you want."

Divorce?

In his dreams.

That night, Tristram didn't come back to the master bedroom.

After I'd coaxed our daughter to sleep, I carried a cup of warm milk out to his workshop in the backyard.

The door wasn't locked.

Inside, an old-fashioned desk lamp burned, the light a dim yellow.

The air was thick with the smell of pine and tung oil.

Tristram stood at the workbench, a plane blade in his hand.

Smoothing down a block of wood.

He'd changed into a clean black T-shirt.

His hair still wasn't fully dry, water beading down from his temple.

Hearing my footsteps, the blade stopped.

He didn't turn around.

"Get out."

I ignored him.

I went to the low cabinet beside the workbench and saw the divorce agreement.

Opened it.

In the column for the husband's assets, he'd left himself almost nothing.

Eighty percent of Stephens Group's holdings, signed over entirely to me.

In my last life, egged on by Samantha, I'd signed it.

Then handed every asset over to the Hensons to "manage."

Left Tristram to walk out with nothing at all.

I picked up the agreement.

Tristram finally turned around.

He looked at the stack of papers in my hand, not a ripple in his eyes.

"Sign it."

"Take it to old Mr. Henson tomorrow for a look. The day after, we'll go to the county records office."

His voice was flat as dead water.

"Once you sign, you're free."

Right in front of him, I gripped the stack of papers in both hands.

And tore.

The sound of the paper ripping was crisp in the quiet of the night.

Tristram's hand froze midair.

I threw the pieces up.

The scraps fell like wood shavings.

Drifting onto his shoulder, settling on the workbench, scattering among the wood on the floor.

"Tristram, don't imagine for one second you're getting away from me. Not in this life."

He didn't move.

The silence stretched on.

Then he bent down and began picking the scraps off the floor, one piece at a time.

That movement.

It was exactly like the way, a few hours earlier, our daughter had knelt in the scattered wood shavings to gather up her test paper.

Something clenched around my chest.

I dropped to my knees.

Pressed my hand over his.

"Tristram, I'm not insane, and I'm not acting."

"I don't want the Hensons anymore. I only want the two of you."

The muscles in his arm went taut, and he yanked his hand back.

The force sent me toppling backward.

Tristram stood up.

The lamplight cut his face into one half lit, one half dark.

"Aria, stop playing with me."

"We've been married seven years."

"Do you really think I can still believe you?"

He picked up the plane blade from the workbench, turned, and gave me his back.

"I'm truly tired."

"And I've made my peace with letting us both go."

"Nine a.m. the day after tomorrow. The county records office."

He paused a beat.

"Be there."

The workshop door was pulled gently shut from outside.

I sat there among the scattered paper and sawdust, and didn't go after him.

Seven years of debts.

Seven years of wounds.

Not something a single "I'm sorry" could smooth away.

It didn't matter.

He didn't believe me, so I'd show him.

One day at a time. Slowly.

The next morning I changed into house clothes and went downstairs.

In the kitchen, the housekeeper and the two aunties were getting breakfast ready.

When she saw me come in, the bowl in the housekeeper's hands nearly hit the floor.

All three of them took a step back at once.

Ma'am will you be having breakfast? It'll be ready in a moment.

Her voice shook, and without thinking she shifted her body to block the knife rack on the counter.

I didn't look at them.

I pushed up my sleeves, washed my hands, and opened the refrigerator.

I'll cook.

The kitchen went silent in an instant.

The two aunties pressed their backs to the wall, not daring to breathe.

I didn't bother explaining.

I filled the steamer with water, beat the eggs, and mixed up a bowl of soft egg scramble.

In my past life, after I died, I drifted in the air.

I watched Tristram get up before dawn every day to cook porridge for our daughter.

The little girl would never eat it.

Not because she didn't want to.

Because she was afraid that if she ate, I'd make her kneel again.

Back then she still didn't know her mother was already dead.

Seven o'clock.

Faint, faint footsteps came from the stairs.

Our daughter was in a cotton nightgown, clutching that little wooden rabbit tight against her chest.

She edged down along the wall, her steps so light it was as if she was afraid of disturbing something.

When she saw me standing by the table, she froze completely.

Then she shrank back.

One step.

Two steps.

Her knees were trembling.

I didn't go over to her.

I knew that, to her, the me of now was the most terrifying nightmare.

Any move toward her would break her.

I set the egg scramble at her usual spot.

I laid out the spoon.

Agnes, breakfast is here.

She didn't move.

The housekeeper hurried over and gently steadied her onto the bottom step of the staircase.

That was when Tristram came down.

His tie was undone, hanging loose at his collar.

The dark shadows under his eyes said he hadn't slept all night.

He saw the egg scramble on the table and me standing beside it, and his steps stalled.

Then he strode over and scooped Agnes up, shielding her behind him.

He stared at that bowl of egg scramble.

Like he was checking whether there was broken glass in it.

Aria, if you've got a problem, take it out on me.

I didn't explain.

I walked up to him.

They both drew back half a step.

I reached out and caught the loose tie at his collar.

His whole body went rigid.

I rose onto my toes.

Quietly, I tied it into a knot.

My fingers brushed his collar, touching warm skin and a pulse that had picked up just a little.

Seven years ago, on our wedding day, I had tied his tie too.

In the seven years after, I only ever got close to him to hit him or curse at him.

Tristram.

I said, still straightening the tie,

I told you, I'm not divorcing you. As for the Hensons, I'll handle them myself tonight.

It's fine if you don't believe me. Tonight you just stand to the side and watch.

I let go and stepped back.

I turned to look at the little girl huddled behind him.

Agnes, Mommy put shrimp in the egg scramble.

Eat if you're hungry, don't if you're not. Nobody can force you.

With that I turned and headed for the backyard.

At the floor-to-ceiling window I couldn't help glancing back.

Tristram was still standing where he'd been, unmoving.

He lifted a hand and touched the neat knot at his throat, his fingers pausing there for a few seconds.

And our daughter poked half her head out from behind his leg.

She stared at that bowl of egg scramble on the table for a long time.

Then she took a step.

She climbed onto the chair and picked up the little spoon.

She scooped up a mouthful.

She paused, then scooped up a second.

I turned away, leaned my back against the glass door, and clamped a hand hard over my mouth.

The tears struck the back of my hand.

That afternoon.

I had the housekeeper bring the car around and went to the most upscale mall in New York.

I picked out a wine-red fitted gown.

I switched my earrings for ruby ones.

In my past life, old Mr. Henson was always saying the matriarch of the Stephens household had to be understated and demure.

I obeyed for seven years.

Seven years of black, white, and gray.

I lived myself into an obedient dog the Hensons kept.

Five thirty in the afternoon.

Tristram's car stopped at the door of the workshop.

This was the rule the Hensons had set down over the past seven years.

Every family dinner, Tristram had to pick me up and drop me off himself.

That looking-down-on-you posture was exactly what the Hensons wanted.

I lifted my skirt and stepped out.

Tristram was leaning against the car, an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

When he saw me, his movement stopped.

His gaze slid from my face down to the hem of my dress, then away again.

He pulled the car door open. Get in.

The car was very quiet.

Ten minutes in, he opened the armrest compartment, took out a document, and held it out to me.

The property transfer deed for the east-side commercial complex. I've signed it.

He looked out the window, the line of his profile cold and hard.

The Hensons have always wanted this.

Take it and settle your account.

He stopped for two seconds.

Just don't touch Agnes again. Whatever the Stephens family has, however much they want, I'll give it.

I stared at the document.

Worth billions, and he'd hand it over just like that.

Not because he didn't care.

Because, next to all of it, what he feared more was me hurting our daughter again.

That was exactly how it went in my past life.

Step by step he retreated, step by step he gave way, until he'd turned himself into a man with nothing left.

I reached out and simply took hold of the hand holding the document.

It was cold.

Tristram's head snapped around to look at me.

I didn't let go.

Tristram, I'm not going to take your things and feed them to those Henson dogs anymore.

Tonight you don't have to do anything.

Just watch me.