4Doubt thou the stars are fire
Doubt that the sun doth move
Doubt truth to be a liar
But never doubt I love
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet
2006
Harold sits in the corner of the little tea shop, trying and failing to keep his attention focused on Living on the Wind. Usually, a new literary acquisition will have him engrossed immediately, and it isn't that this particular novel isn't engaging. It's just that he and Grace had arranged to meet at 10am, and his clock currently reads 10:05.
Harold frowns, his eyes flicking from the window to his phone, just in case Grace sends him a message. It's not like her to be late. His mind tortures him with images of car accidents and shootings and the hidden dangers that lurk around every corner of New York City. Safety is merely an illusion, as The Machine routinely confirms to him. And what if she - ?
But no, here she is now, hurrying towards him with a bright smile and a flurry of apologies. "I was caught on the phone with a particularly talkative client. Couldn't figure out a way to disentangle myself without causing offence."
"That's quite alright." He feels himself smiling involuntarily as he speaks, as he often does around her. "I took the liberty of ordering the tea, and some scones. Chocolate chip were your favourite, weren't they?"
She seems pleasantly surprised that he remembers. "They are. No ice-cream for you today, then?"
There is a teasing lilt to her voice, and an underlying hint of hesitation, as though she is afraid of having made some grievous error. Later, she will tell him of days where humour was the greatest provocation and silence the only protection against the wrath of a raging alcoholic, against his words and, less often, blows. ("It didn't matter which," she'll add frankly. "Words and blows, they hurt just the same.") She'll tell him of nights when sleep was impossible, and the very walls seemed to tremble beneath the weight of so much anger, when she thought her bones were too young and brittle to bear so much pain.
In this moment, Harold knows nothing but a desire to reassure her. "No. I tend to save the ice-cream for an occasional afternoon snack. For which you're always welcome to join me."
Their tea and scones arrive then, and they fall into an easy pattern of conversation. Sitting there with her, Harold finds it hard to believe they've only known each other a few months. He silently thanks The Machine for bringing them together, for blessing him with he hadn't known he'd needed until he'd found it.
They walk through Central Park together when they've finished eating, at Grace's suggestion. She seems as reluctant to part as he is, and it's a novel feeling for the both of them, accustomed as they are to their solitude.
"What are you reading?" Grace asks, gesturing to the book he carries in one hand.
He holds it out to her and she eyes the title with interest. "You're a bird watcher. How ironic." He is taken aback; he'd deliberately picked the name Harold Martin to use with Grace, figuring it had the least connection to his avian aliases, yet she'd noticed right away.
"It is quite."
"Is it a recent hobby of yours?"
"Yes," he starts to say, the lie slipping from his lips easier than the truth. He stops himself before he can finish the sentence. Her earnest face compels him to be honest, at least as honest as he can be. She is by far the best thing to have ever happened to him, and she deserves better than a well-worn cover story. She deserves the whole world, and he'd give it to her if he could.
"No, actually… I lost both my parents many years ago now, but one of the few things that stands out about my father is how much he loved birds. He used to be able to name every single one that flew by our house. I thought he was a genius. Reading books like these and learning what he knew feels like the only way I can stay connected to him…"
He feels uncomfortably vulnerable, with sweaty palms and a racing heart. Not even Nathan knows the reason for his affinity for bird-related names, and here he is revealing his secrets to someone he's just met.
Discomfort does not equate to regret, and he is glad he chooses to be frank with Grace. Instead of expressing pity as he'd half-feared she would, she watches him seriously, her attention indicating that she understands how rare it is for Harold to be this open and cherishes every word he offers her.
"Tell me about the birds, the ones your father knew. Let me be one more way of keeping that connection to the past, if you like."
So he tells her of all the birds he used to see, reflecting that she is so much more than a connection to his past. She is his perfect present, and the only future he can envision or desire.
He never lies to her outright, even though he doesn't tell her about Nathan or The Machine or the many other faces of Harold Martin. Everything he does tell her is the absolute truth – that he went into IT because witnessing his father's descent into dementia gave him a passion for the infallible memory of machines, that he loves books and art, that he loves her.
He doesn't have to lie to her, because she doesn't press him. She knows and accepts that he doesn't trust easily; neither does she. They very trait that keeps them away from most people brings them closer to each other.
The knowledge provides some comfort in years to come, when she is captured by Greer, and Harold is powerless to save or even speak to her. He doesn't think Greer will physically hurt her, but he may tell her that Harold is still alive. The knowledge would break her heart, and Harold cannot bear the thought. She has been through too much already. He hopes she knows how much he loves her. He hopes that she can cling to that truth, even when everything else is in doubt.
They part outside her building, arranging to meet at the same place next week. She doesn't mention that it'll be her birthday, but that doesn't matter. He's had her present planned for weeks, and he has a feeling she'll love it…