"I don't know what happened that day you appeared in Belloc's garden. Everything happened so fast and seemed to happen of itself . . . it was as though I were a mere spectator, dragged unwilling and unknowing onto a stage in the middle of someone else's play, helplessly watching dire and all-too-real events unfolding around me, and trying to cope without a script. But still, that's no excuse for my part in what happened. Though I never meant to hurt you . . . there seems to be no end to the harm I've done . . ."
She was silent a long moment. But then, her gaze inward, she said, "I, too, went blindly to that place, guided perhaps by some instinct. I am not sure." She closed her eyes and sighed, deeply. But then, she seemed to reach a decision. Opening her eyes, considering the irrythmic chaos of the wind-blown fields once more, as though recognising something in their patterns for the first time, she moved to where he stood and took his hand. When he looked at her, she was gazing shyly up at him. "I am glad, though."
At that moment, he didn't care whether or not she had forgiven him, or if she fully understood his part in what had changed her life so violently. He cared only that he loved her. Perhaps that would not always be enough, but for the moment his sense of relief was overwhelming. Taking her in his arms, for the longest time he was too overcome with emotion to speak.