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Francesca isn't in bed when Michaela wakes up.
Michaela blinks against the morning light, fingertips grazing the cool bedding where Francesca should be. Propping herself up on one elbow, the sheets pooling around her waist, she looks around the room to find Francesca perched stiffly on the chaise, wearing a robe over her nightdress, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She is staring out of the window, her expression grave, like something one would reserve for funerals, or perhaps, Michaela thinks with a sinking heart, the morning after a terrible mistake.
It has been a while since Michaela has slept with a newly self-aware woman—most of her encounters are with women who know exactly what they want and take it without hesitation, their desires already polished by experience. Francesca, though—Francesca had kissed her last night, in the corridor, with the fervor of someone discovering fire for the first time, only to now look as if she’d been burned.
"Good morning," Michaela says keeping her voice light as she sits up. "You’re up early."
Francesca turns towards her, and, to Michaela’s surprise, she looks as if she has been crying. "Good morning." Francesca looks down and Michaela has to force herself not to immediately stand and go to Francesca, to comfort her, lest Francesca push her away, in in the light of morning clarity. "There is something we must discuss."
Ah. There it is. The regret. Michaela folds her arms, willing herself to remain composed. She had known, of course, that Francesca was inexperienced—not just in the act itself, but in the enormity of what it meant. Still, she had hoped that the way Francesca had gazed lovingly at her, had kissed her last night, had moaned her name and begged for Michaela to give her more, might have meant that she was ready for them to become something more. Something real.
"Oh?" Michaela swings her legs over the edge of the bed and stands. She doesn’t reach for her dressing gown, thinking that perhaps if she lets Francesca see her in the thin night gown she’d chosen last night, if she reminds Francesca how she’d spent all night worshiping Michaela with her hands and her mouth, that maybe she will change her mind and decide not to end things. "Is this about last night?"
Francesca looks miserable. Perhaps she is not a willing executioner of her own wanting. But the thought of Francesca ending things despite not wanting to, doesn’t really make Michaela feel better. "Yes. About our actions."
Of course. Michaela wraps her arms around herself, suddenly feeling a chill, despite the lit fire in the corner of her room. Francesca is obviously regretful and about to call things off and it is all on Michaela. Michaela, who should have known better, should have waited, should have spoken longer with Francesca, making sure of her true desires before engaging in physical intimacy. But Michaela had been greedy, reckless, all the way gone on the way Francesca’s body had arched against hers, the way she’d whispered Michaela’s name, voice rough with want, making it sound like the most beautiful word in the world. But that was last night. In the dark. Now, Francesca sits in the light of day, still and sad, and Michaela has no one to blame but herself.
Michaela opens her mouth—to say what exactly she isn’t sure—when Francesca speaks again.
"Last night was wonderful. Truly. I never imagined I could feel pleasure like that or make someone else feel such pleasure." Francesca’s cheeks flush, but she holds Michaela’s gaze, earnest and wide-eyed.
Michaela feels such deep relief at Francesca’s words that she almost tears up. Francesca does not regret them. Not in the slightest. Michaela could jump for joy. She controls the impulse, not wanting to seem over eager and reveal herself to be too far gone. "Good," she says, smiling smugly as she steps closer. "Because I enjoyed myself as well. You were spectacular."
"Thank you." Francesca offers a watery smile as she reaches out to grasp Michaela’s hand in hers. "I don’t regret it, I promise. Only—" She sighs shakily. "I fear we may have been too hasty, in seeking our pleasure. And now we must bear the consequences."
Michaela's relief is short-lived. "Consequences?" Michaela repeats, frowning.
"Yes," Francesca whispers, tearing up. "I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me at the time, and I don’t know how I will explain this to my family, but I shall find a way. I swear it. You will not be in this alone.”
Her words, though worried and perplexing, are still somewhat soothing (Francesca wants to protect her! To be there for her! From what, Michaela isn’t entirely sure, but the care is real, all the same).
Michaela keeps her voice low, as she crafts a response, hoping to ease Francesca’s fears. "Francesca," she says, "we needn’t tell anyone of this. Not yet, not ever, if you don’t wish to. What happens between us is ours alone. No one has to know."
“But Michaela,” Francesca blinks up at her, bewildered. "How will we hide it, when the evidence will soon be obvious to everyone?"
Michaela tilts her head, still deeply perplexed. "What evidence, Fran?"
"Evidence of our want, that we have…" Francesca leans in, whispers. “Made love."
Oh. Now Michaela understands. She steps forward, squeezing Francesca’s hand, and using the motion to sink onto her lap. Francesca pulls Michaela even closer, nuzzling her face against Michaela’s chest.
"I know our desire is obvious to us, Fran, but do you remember what I told you last night? About how common it is for women to be close and how most people, especially men, don’t even believe what we did to be possible?" Michaela presses a kiss to Francesca’s cheek, feels her nod. "Good. So you mustn’t worry. No one else need know of our connection unless you tell them."
Francesca shakes her head, pulling back to look at Michaela. "I understand that, but Michaela, I am speaking about the consequences of our pinnacles." Francesca presses a hand to her own stomach, then very lovingly rests her hand on Michaela’s stomach. “The evidence of our having made love that we shall both soon bear."
Michaela stares at Francesca’s hand, stunned. The words—the consequences of our pinnacles, the evidence—repeat in her mind until it fully sinks in. Surely, Francesca does not actually believe that she has impregnated Michaela? Surely not. But the look on Francesca’s face—so doggedly determined—and how she has started to rub soft circles on Michaela’s stomach, makes Michaela believe that Francesca likely does think this impossibility to be true. Oh dear. Michaela puts a hand over her mouth to hide her disbelieving laugh. "Oh," she manages weakly.
Francesca blinks up at her, earnest and utterly serious. "It won’t be immediate, of course," she continues, taking Michaela’s shock as concern over prenatal preparations. "But given how many pinnacles we both had, it stands to reason we shall have quite the brood soon." Francesca looks terrified, but she continues with a bravery that almost makes Michaela wish she really is with child, because scared as she is, Francesca is prepared to protect her and it is as sweet and admirable as it is misguided. "I confess, I hadn’t considered how two women coming together in pleasure might multiply the chances, but it seems only logical."
Michaela sighs, feeling so much care for her sweet, naive love that she almost can’t contain it. "Francesca," she says, "who told you that pinnacles lead to babies?"
Francesca frowns, then says, defensively, "It is common knowledge, is it not?"
Michaela stares at Francesca’s grave expression, the amusement she initially felt now fading. Francesca looks so uncertain and yet wants to do right by Michaela and it is making her want to cry, a little. Michaela cups Francesca’s face in her hands. "Oh, sweetheart."
Francesca must misinterpret her tone because her expression goes even more grave. "I know," she says solemnly, her hand coming up to grip Michaela’s wrist. "We must prepare. The household will notice soon enough—the sickness, the growing bellies—and we’ll need to arrange for midwives, for cribs, for—" She stops abruptly. "I don’t know how many babies we shall have but I know there shall be at least four, from my end and more—"
"No, Francesca," Michaela says, small and heavy hearted. Francesca doesn’t sound excited for children but she doesn’t sound upset either. And hearing her speak of them, wrong as she may be, is a reminder that Michaela will never be able to give her children, if she wants them. "There shall be no children."
"I don’t understand what you mean," Francesca says, looking even more confused. "We both had pinnacles. Multiple, in fact. I felt it. So that means—"
"Francesca," Michaela interrupts, "pinnacles do not create babies. Not by themselves." She hesitates, then adds, "Not between women at all, actually."
Francesca’s eyes narrow. "But—" Her voice trails off then firms with the same stubborn tone she uses when trying to convince Michaela to adhere to housekeeping matters. "My mother…and John. They all but said it was necessary. That without it, conception couldn’t occur."
"It’s necessary for men," Michaela explains gently. "But not in the way you think. It’s not the pinnacle itself that does it. It’s the—" She sighs. "Francesca, do you actually know how babies are made?"
Francesca stares at her, her hand loosening around Michaela’s wrist. The confusion on her face breaks Michaela’s heart. "Of course I know how babies are made," she says, in a clipped voice. "When a woman reaches her pinnacle with the person she sleeps with, they create a child. Obviously, with two women it is double the children." When Michaela shakes her head, Francesca’s eyes widen. "Is that...is that not correct?"
"Not quite, no," Michaela says. She slides off Francesca’s lap to sit beside her on the chaise. Takes Francesca’s hands in hers, lacing their fingers together. "The pinnacle isn’t required. I have been told that it makes the act of procreation with men more pleasurable," Michaela pauses, unable to imagine that lying with a man could be anything but foul, before she goes on. "But it isn’t the cause. And between two women, it’s impossible that they would impregnate each other. No matter how many times they—we—" She rubs her thumb over Francesca’s knuckles, soothing herself as well. "No matter how many times we try or how good it feels."
Francesca looks enraged, then sad. "John lied to me?"
Michaela’s shakes her head. "No, I don’t believe so. I’m sure he was simply relaying the information he was told, that pleasure was tied to purpose." She looks Francesca in the eye, to make sure she gets her point across.
Francesca looks stunned. "So when he—when I didn't—" She shakes her head. "How does it work?" Francesca asks. “Please explain it to me because obviously I am pathetically ignorant and—” She stops, frustration—at herself, at the world for keeping her in the dark—making her lose her words.
"I’ll get the medical books from the library." Michaela says. "They have diagrams and more precise, academic explanations without metaphors, which I know you dislike."
"No." Francesca puts a hand on Michaela’s arm, stopping her before she can stand up. "You’ve read those books. Just explain. If I need more clarification I will go to the books, afterwards. Just tell me. Please."
"Okay, Fran," Michaela says, shifting closer. "Don’t fret, I’ll tell you everything. Let’s start with the basics."
Francesca nods, stiffly. "Please. I want to understand."
"Men carry seed inside their bodies," Michaela begins, thinking back to the conversation she had with her mother, whose own mother was a midwife, right before her debut. Of the conversations she’s had with many other women since. "When they reach their pinnacle during coupling, they release their seed inside a woman’s womb. If this seed takes root inside a womb, a child will start to grow. But no matter how many times a man and women sleep together, there is no guarantee that there will be a pregnancy. It is somewhat up to chance and neither party can do anything to prevent or further the process one way or another."
"And…" Francesca’s brow furrows in concentration. "What of two women?"
Michaela shakes her head. "We have wombs and no seed. So, no matter how many pinnacles we share, no matter how fiercely we love each other, we cannot create life this way."
"Oh." Francesca’s eyes widen as she absorbs this new information. "So it wasn’t me? Our lack of children…I believed that because I could not reach my pinnacle during our coupling, that because I did not love him like he loved me, that I had cursed it. And now you’re saying it is a medical process that I cannot affect?"
"Yes," Michaela says softly, squeezing Francesca’s hand. "You did nothing wrong. Even if you had a million pinnacles at the time, you would not have been able to control conception. That is beyond anyone’s ability."
Francesca is silent so Michaela repeats herself. "Francesca, please believe me. This is the truth. It was beyond your control. You did nothing wrong."
"I did nothing wrong," Francesca repeats, slowly. She doesn’t sound like she really believes it yet but Michaela knows it will take time to unravel the guilt and shame and ignorance of her own body. She has seen it before, when she enlightened other lovers and saw them reckon with reality and shame and rage. Always anger at being kept in the dark. Like Francesca now, though she looks less frustrated and more thoughtful as the minutes pass. "And you’re certain about us? That we can’t…"
"Quite certain, yes," Michaela assures her. "Though if we could, we’d have a dozen children by now, given last night." The joke lands and Francesca’s smiles, a small one but a smile all the same. "Thankfully we are spared a spontaneous brood."
"Yes, we are," Francesca says. She lowers her voice. "Would it be terrible if I said it is a relief?"
Michaela squeezes her hand again, understanding what Francesca is getting at. "That we are able to seek pleasure with each other and not worry each time about possibly creating children?"
"Yes," Francesca whispers. She looks down at their joined hands, her face unreadable. "I thought—I assumed motherhood was inevitable. That it was simply what women did. But when I imagined it..." She swallows hard. "It was always for him. Never for me." She looks up, suddenly uncertain. "Is that horrible?"
"It is not horrible at all," Michaela says, thinking about their previous conversations, soon after the funeral, where they had spoken about this topic haltingly. The conversation was always so focused on guilt and duty that Michaela had suspected that perhaps Francesca did not actually want children for herself.
"No?" Francesca searches Michaela’s face and whatever expression she finds must be comforting because she lets out a relieved sigh.
"No." Michaela thinks carefully about her next words, stuck between wanting to be honest and scared of exposing her vulnerability. "The truth is…" Michaela decides in that moment that Francesca has shared so much with her today and that if they are to build something real, she too, can be honest. "The thought of children has never quite appealed to me, either."
"Really?" Francesca doesn’t sound shocked. In fact, Michaela thinks she sounds almost pleased? Like she doesn’t find what Michaela has said to be strange or silly in the least.
"Really," Michaela confirms. "It never has. Even when I was a child. I liked making my girl dolls kiss—" at this revelation Francesca smiles— "but I never wanted to take care of the baby dolls my mother would gift me. And when I got older, I found that the maternal instincts I was told would appear with age simply never came."
"It did not appear for me either," Francesca whispers. "I thought there was something wrong with me. That I was broken for not longing for children the way I was told I should. The way every other married woman I knew did."
Michaela strokes her back, gently. "There’s nothing wrong with you," she says firmly. "Some women ache for children. Some don’t. And some—" She presses a kiss to Francesca’s hand. "Some simply haven’t been afforded the opportunity to properly consider what they want."
Francesca exhales shakily, her fingers tightening around Michaela’s wrists. "And if even after taking time to think I decide I never want them?"
"Then you shall be in good company," Michaela says. She brushes a loose strand of hair behind Francesca’s ear. "You don’t owe the world a child. You owe yourself the chance to discover what you desire, without fear or obligation."
"Yes, well." Francesca no longer looks uncertain as she meets Michaela’s gaze. "What I desire, is a life with you. Whatever that will look like."
Michaela softens, letting Francesca pull her close. She rests her head against Francesca’s chest. "You don’t have to be sure of anything right now, Fran. Not even about us—"
Francesca catches her wrist, and presses a kiss there. Then another, holding Michaela’s gaze the entire time. "But I am sure. Of you. I think I have been, for a while. It is just that my body knew before my brain, what I wanted. But it is you, it always has been."
"You cannot," Michaela sniffles, hating that she has suddenly teared up but she is helpless to stop the tears from coming, not when Francesca is being so frank and open with her adoration and saying with such conviction that she wants Michaela forever. "You cannot say things like this, for I shall start to believe them."
"Believe them," Francesca says, wiping Michaela’s tears. She leans down to kiss them away, over and over until they stop. “It is the truth, and I shan’t change my mind. Not ever—"
Michaela kisses Francesca before she can finish. Softly at first and then deeper, finding her way back on Francesca’s lap, her hands tangled in her hair as they melt into each other.
"And what about me," Francesca asks, shyly, pulling back with kiss swollen lips and a flushed face. "Am I yours?"
"Always."