And now look at it, he thought as he gazed at the unused furniture hidden beneath yet more sheets. As tired as he felt, he couldn’t bring himself to lie down on the bed. He imagined it would seem like a betrayal of sorts to treat this place like home.
Too many regrets, he told himself. As little as he’d used this place over the years, he’d still been unable to divest himself of it. Kirk had rarely seen his nephews, owing both to his time on the Enterprise and their being scattered throughout the quadrant, so he supposed that holding on to his uncle’s old house had provided a familial touchstone for him, however infrequently he’d visited it. Just knowing it was there, waiting for him, had probably helped him in ways of which he hadn’t even been aware.
Kirk paced back through the house to the living room. He thought about checking outside for some wood, but then thought better of it, deciding that he didn’t have the energy to build a fire. Instead, he carefully pulled the sheet from the sofa and sat down.
As he did, his hand struck something. Kirk looked down and saw a hardcover book on the cushion beside him. He picked it up, the scent of its age reaching him, a smell he recalled from childhood; his mother had so loved books. Kirk examined the small, thin volume, bound in gilded leather. Its cover contained an ornate design, but no title. He turned it so that he could see its spine, and when he saw the words there, he read them aloud: “The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.” His voice echoed slightly in the room, evoking the peculiar impression that no words had ever been spoken here before.
But of course many had.
Too many, Kirk thought.
He shook his head. He didn’t remember leaving the book here, though clearly he must have on his last trip out to the house, before the nexus, before the Enterprise-B, before everything. It had been a gift from Antonia, on the second anniversary of their first date, just half a year or so before she would last speak to him. She must’ve suspected when she’d given this to me, Kirk thought. A tragedy in the offing.
He opened the cover of the book. On the front endpaper, he saw words flowing across the page in Antonia’s delicate hand. Dear Jim, she had written, Even though I don’t care much for the story, I know how much you love old books. This is just to show how much I love old Jim Kirk. Always, Antonia.
“‘Always,’” Kirk said. She’d been wrong about that, and wrong about the tragedy too. Kirk had been the forlorn Romeo, but Antonia had not been his Juliet.
And I knew that, Kirk rebuked himself. I knew it all along. He had done so much good in his life, but he would never forgive himself for what he had done to Antonia.
For a fleeting moment, Kirk considered contacting her now, telling her how sorry he felt for how badly he’d hurt her. He knew that he couldn’t do that for fear of changing the timeline, for fear of disrupting his plans to prevent the temporal loop, but even if he could speak with her, he understood that it would do no good. Kirk craved absolution, but he also knew that he did not deserve it.
Kirk leafed through the book until he reached the first page of the play. He began to read, but before long, his eyelids fluttered closed. His head lolled back on the sofa and he drifted to sleep.
Unfortunately for him, his slumber did not lack for dreams.
As Jim Kirk slid the pan of Ktarian eggs onto the low heat of the cooking surface, he felt the chill of the morning air. Thinking that he should start a fire, he dashed around the island and out of the kitchen. In the living room, he peered down beside the hearth at the log basket there, which sat empty. He then went over to the front door, opened it, and looked out at several stacks of wood, some of it cut, some not.
Kirk paced outside to his right and up the curved stone stairs to the front clearing. There, he reached down for a few pieces of firewood, but as he did so, his gaze came to rest on the axe that he’d left sticking in the stump. Suddenly feeling the need for some physical activity, he went over to the pile of unhewn tree segments, grabbed one, and set it down beside the axe. He pulled the tool free, then swung it up and around, bringing the blade down squarely into the short length of tree trunk, which divided neatly in two, each piece falling to the ground. He bent, picked up one of the pieces, and placed it back in position to be split.
Before he brought the axe down again, Kirk breathed in deeply. Where before he’d found the air cool, he now appreciated its crispness. He gazed around at the evergreen trees holding court about the house, and past them, at the stately Canadian Rockies, clad in the white folds of autumn snow. Beautiful day, he thought, and he knew that his sentiment wouldn’t last.
“You’re stalling,” he told himself. He peered over at the house, at the second-story window on the left, beyond which he knew Antonia still lay in bed. How could a man who’d once battled a Gorn in hand-to-hand combat, who’d by himself piloted a starship into the maw of a machine that devoured entire planets, who’d floated alone in a completely empty universe-how could he be scared to talk with the woman who loved him?
Because it’s not fear stopping me, Kirk knew. It’s guilt.
Kirk brought the blade of the axe down into the stump, then headed back into the house. In the kitchen, left over the low heat, the Ktarian eggs had almost finished cooking. From the far counter, Kirk retrieved the tray he’d already set for Antonia’s breakfast. In addition to a plate, flatware, and napkin, he’d also placed on it a glass of grape juice, a glass of water, and a small vase of larkspur. He set it down beside the heating surface, dished the eggs from the pan onto the plate, then added three slices of toast when they’d done browning.
Before he went upstairs, he walked back out into the living room, where he opened an antique wooden box ornamented with metal fleurs-de-lis. From it, he removed a small, black velvet pouch that contained a gift he’d acquired for Antonia: a golden horseshoe, on the arch of which had been affixed a miniature red rose. To soften the blow, he thought as he returned to the kitchen and set the pouch down beside the breakfast he’d made.
Taking a deep breath, Kirk picked up the tray and carried it back through the living room and then up the stairs. When he reached the second floor, he balanced the tray against the jamb, took hold of the knob, and threw open the bedroom door. Across the room, Antonia looked up at him from where she still lay in the antique four-poster bed Kirk had obtained for the house. Her long dark hair spread on the pillow behind her head like a crown.
“At last,” she said with a wide smile. She fluffed up the pillows behind her and sat up against them. Kirk caught a fleeting glimpse of her bare body before she pulled the sheet up across her chest. “I was wondering how long you were going to be rattling around in that kitchen,” she said. “I’m starving.”
“I’m not surprised,” Kirk commented as he made his way across the room. They had gone to bed before midnight last night, but had stayed up long past, exploring each other’s bodies. “I wanted to get all of this just right,” he said, settling the tray across her lap.
“Ktarian eggs,” Antonia said excitedly, almost singing the words. She peered up at Kirk with an expression of surprise and delight. “When did you…?”
“I brought them with me from Idaho,” Kirk said. They’d come up here to Canada five days ago, wanting to spend some time in the Rockies before the big snows of the winter began.
Antonia picked up a fork and took a bite of the eggs, after which she hummed in appreciation. “Delicious,” she said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“My pleasure,” Kirk said. He tried to smile, but felt only one side of his mouth rising. He dreaded what lay ahead.
After Antonia enjoyed another mouthful of the eggs, she looked back up at where he stood, one hand raised to the post at the foot of the bed. “Aren’t you eating?” she asked.