He made me feel beautiful. That's the only answer I have for why I could never quite forget him. Where I hid myself in black and shadows, he wrapped me in red, daring the world to scoff, inviting them to look, to admire the girl he would have as his bride. He was the only man to ever give me jewelry or flowers, the only one who ever looked at me in a way that made my heart ache with the desire in his eyes. The smile on his face when he offered me his arm and said "shall we?" seemed to contain pride and radiated a sort of impish joy.

I could have done worse, and in fact, in the intervening years, I had. I sat in my room and stared at the bust of him my mother had made before she died. It wasn't quite right. The eyes were too large, the brow too prominent, but it was close. I traced the thin lips with my fingertips and sighed. He wasn't handsome, but he had had a certain charisma that sort of made up for it. And he had wanted me. I had realized that once I got older and had gotten over the self-loathing of teenage girls. If he just wanted out there were other women. Women who were slower of mind, more easily convinced to do his bidding. Women with no one to bring sand worms to devour him.

But it was to me that he had proposed by way of bargain. Perhaps he had come to me by way of coincidence, but he had decided to claim me for his own. I laughed bitterly at that thought. It was not exactly PC to speak in terms of claiming a woman these days. Indeed, men were often afraid to show any possessiveness, lest they be called abusive. But perhaps it was only the abusive men who were openly possessive anymore because the others didn't dare show it. I was fairly sure he wouldn't have been afraid. After all, he had been though the black plague, he was from a time when a woman belonged to her man, and where he cared for her and watched over her as he might a pearl of great price.

And now, alone, my parents dead, and my divorce from a true monster done with, I longed to be that valuable to someone. Even the Maintlands, my ghostly godparents, had been called into the hereafter, leaving me alone in the big house on the hill. I was utterly alone. Truly and honestly this time. Again a grim smile touched my lips and I turned away from the bust on my desk. There was no way he would every want me now. I was used and broken goods. I should have called his name when I realized that he had really and truly wanted me specifically, but the ego and hubris of youth had told me that I could do better. I had lived, dated, married, and had done so poorly. I had wasted what I should have given to him or at least held in careful trust.

Now it was too late. I longed to say his name, to intone it thrice like a prayer or a blessing, but I was afraid. I was afraid he had found another girl; afraid he hadn't but would not want me, afraid of his anger or disgust, or worse, his indifference. There had been times, when things were at their worst , that I had nearly managed to call him. I would say his name once, my heart filling with warmth at the security and safety he would bring with him, the way I could imagine him saving me from the hell I had gotten myself into. I would say it a second time, a bit more hesitantly, beginning to think of how I was unworthy of his protection, of how I had earned my husband s cruelty by not holding my end of a bargain that ultimately would have been of the most benefit to me.

I would then stop and remain silent, unable to finish what I had started, unable to call he whom I had no right to call, unable to risk his disdain. I had to have the hope, the dream that he cared, and deep inside, I knew calling him would prove to me that things were otherwise. He was best left as a fantasy, as a dream. I had saved myself in the end, anyway.

Besides, what would life be like, with a ghost for a husband? I had tried to imagine it at times, when a more mischievous mood had compelled me. Mostly my ruminations were comprised of sensations. Cold hands on mine, colder breath on the back of my neck, inhumanly strong arms around me, a deep rumbling voice in my ear in a room I had assumed empty. He had seemed playful; I could see him delighting in catching me unawares. I could also see him being devoted, despite his rakish demeanor. All in all I longed for him. I longed for a dead man that I didn't even really know. I couldn't help laughing at myself a little then. After all, there I was, mooning over a guy who I hadn't seen in over ten years, who had nearly killed my parents and who had swindled his way into nuptials with me. Still, what girl wouldn't be flattered by that?