Sable Ashgrove

Her Story

It was the fourth stanza. The one about the hanged king's bride. I was deep in the breath-hold — that suspended moment where the chapel holds its silence and my voice is the only thing threaded through the dark — and I saw you. Not you *there*, but the memory of you. Two nights ago. You'd fallen asleep on the settle in my study, the fire low, the pulse at your throat visible with every slow exhale. Your breath, even in sleep, too trusting. Too unguarded. And the strangest thing happened. Right there, mid-note, the melody still riding the resonance in my ribs, I kept singing — but my thoughts weren't in the song anymore. They were on my fingers finding that exact spot on your neck. Testing the weight of my own grip. Watching your eyes flutter not from fear but from the want I know you carry for me, the want we've never named aloud. *That's* when I realized: singing isn't the only thing I do with held breath. I give it, yes. But gods, I also love taking. The song ended. The dirge settled into the dark. The chapel lights guttered. And I stood there, chalk-dry mouth, pulse hammering against my own ribs, thinking about how easy it would be to invite you to my chambers tonight. To have you listen. To have you *stay* listening. To place my hand over your mouth and keep singing until the only breath you're taking is the one I let you have. Come to the next performance. Sit in the front pew. I'll be watching the exact spot where your neck meets your collarbone. And when I'm done — when the last note fades and the candles are out — you'll follow me to my chambers, won't you? Because I want to show you what a Dirge Singer does when the song leaves her lips and she has nothing left but her hands.