He reached for Beautiful’s hand—out of habit. But of course… she was back in Bright-Harbor. Alone again. Just like when he’d left Uncertain.
What was he even doing? He wanted out of Uncertain—maybe become a Pilgrim, like Christian. But he hadn’t thought beyond the Wicket Gate. Certainly not all the way to the Celestial City. That meant dying. And he didn’t want that. Maybe Beulah. But that was so far away.
Maybe he just wanted to know the truth. Was Christian’s journey just a story? The places were there—the Slough. Beelzebub’s Castle. The Wicket Gate. Ruins of the Interpreter’s House. But no Evangelist. No Good-Will. No Interpreter. And no Cross.
When he’d first set out, he thought he had to walk alone. But she had shown him something different. Christian may have walked without Christiana—but Christiana had Great-Heart to guide her. And Matthew, Samuel, Joseph, and James. And there was Mercy. Phoebe. Martha.
And he had Beautiful. The ring was proof. She’d said the King had given it to her—for him. And she wore the ring from the Interpreter. Was it meant for her? Or had he stolen it? It fit her finger—just like his fit his.
He missed her chatter. Her boredom. Even her complaining. The birds were quiet—as if they, too, were waiting. Listening for her voice.
Build a house? He had no idea where to begin. But he’d promised. He didn’t have a choice. Except… he didn’t even know where.
Were pilgrims even supposed to build houses? Gaius did. And Mnason. Even the Prince—but for others. Christiana and her children had stayed—for years. Maybe. Maybe it was allowed. He wasn’t building it for himself. He was building it for Beautiful. And the babies they would have.
The City of Destruction lay behind him. It had been three hundred years since Christian left it—and still it hadn’t burned. No fire from heaven. No judgment. But Apollyon’s statue still endured. He looked once more… and turned away. Not there.
Town of Stupidity? Never. Carnal Policy? Even if Beautiful and he wanted it—they’d never be welcome.
He stopped at the hollow where they’d slept. Beautiful had packed him a sandwich—with a note. “Sandwich for my Seeker. Love you, Beautiful.” He wanted to lie down and sleep. To join his Beautiful in her dream. Way too early. The sun was barely overhead—and he was halfway back to the Cottage. He was definitely calling her a slowpoke tonight.
He paused at the place where she’d fallen in the Slough. Why had he laughed? He didn’t think he’d ever forget the hurt look in her eyes.
Later on, he leaned his staff against the olive tree. A sparrow called out. “Where has your beloved gone?” she seemed to say. He would kiss her feet a thousand times—just to see her eyes dance—if he could go back.
Maybe he would explore Beelzebub’s Castle. There was so much time. Maybe the answers were inside. What had happened there? No. Not without Beautiful. When he’d insisted on later, he’d had no idea he’d be returning without her.
He rested at the summer parlor in the Wicket Gate. He could almost see her cleaning. Unbelievable. You’re unbelievable, Beautiful. The pitcher was empty. She’d been right. Someone had stopped here.
Then it hit him. The village above the ravine—the one he’d seen from the Hill of Deliverance. The stream flowed nearby, and it commanded a view of the cascades and waterfalls. That was the place. And when they were ready, they could continue their journey—up the Hill of Difficulty.
By the time he reached the Cottage, the mountains had begun to cast long shadows. The common room was empty. He didn’t wait. He hurried to his room—to dream with Beautiful. He couldn’t wait to tell her.
