The Messenger's words

Where did that Corran go?
Pearl wandered down the hall, into the library, opened the door to his study, closed the door, turned out of the library, down the hall again... where in heaven's name did he go?
His bedroom door was wide open. The open doorway practically beckoned her in. But Corran wasn't there. In fact, his room was strangely vacant. Well, all of his things were there, in scattered disarray, but it was cold and uninhabited.
As Pearl turned to exit, the sound of something slipping to the floor caught her attention. She turned. The sound was of paper--a letter had floated to the floor, where it now lay beneath the window light of a melancholy gray morning.
You know that old adage? The one concerning a cat? Well, curiosity nipped at Pearl's fingertips, and she reached down to pick up the letter.
And then, interest moved her eyes slowly over Corran's handwriting.

It was a love letter.
Pearl gloried in the notion; she held in her hands an actual love letter.
Her heart leapt excitedly in her chest; a love letter to Sicily! Oh, it was just too fascinating. It was something straight out of the romance Mother had forbidden her to read.
Slowly, a certain realization came to Pearl. As she read the letter over again, her racing mind suddenly realized that she held in her hand the answer to all of her problems. Especially the ones concerning her lovesick elder brother.
Oh, it was just too good!

And that silly brother of hers would never send this letter. It was neglected. And as Pearl looked about the room, she notice about a half-dozen unfinished copies of it.

Thus, she deduced that the task was now hers. By chance she'd come across it, fate had chosen her to act where her heartsick brother would not. The happiness of her two favorite people in all the world (besides mother and father) depended on her.
So she folded the letter carefully, sealed it (rather messily, but no matter) and delicately addressed it to Miss Sicily-- no, not Sicily! she hurriedly crossed out Sicily-- Miss Cecilia Moore.
---

It only took Pearl half an hour to find Sicily's house. She'd never been this way before; mother and father always took her a different way to town. And they would never allow her outside the Estate ground without that goose of a governess.
But Pearl, clever as she believed herself to be, evaded them all easily.

And what a small house! When compared to Lennox Estate, it was a doll's house. A lovely little doll's house with a lovely little garden and roses all round it. Wouldn't she just love to live in such a house!
But the minute she lifted a fist to knock, the door swung open with a crash and somebody tumbled right into her. She rolled backwards, off the front stoop and into the roses.
"Toads! Who're you?" a scruffy, scrawny pale boy stood up and scowled down at her.
Glowering herself, she got up out of the roses and stood to face him. "What a rude little boy you are! Where's Sicily? I have something important to give her."
"Who's Sicily?" the rude boy said, hands on hips.
"Sicily! She lives here."
And thank goodness, for Sicily appeared right down the front walkway as Pearl spoke.
"Pearl?" Sicily said, surprised.
Pearl spun around. "There you are!" she said, looking relieved and exasperated at the same time.
"That's Ceci, not Sicily, you goose!" the boy shouted from behind.
"Quincy, don't be impolite," Ceci said. She looked tired and worn-out for the ages.
"Quincy? Is that your brother?" Pearl said.
Behind her, Quincy scowled again and crossed his arms in indignation.
Ignoring the question, Ceci said, "Would you like to come in, Pearl? I'll make us some tea. Heaven knows I'll be needing some."
Pearl followed Sicily into the little doll house. Quincy glowered at her as she flounced past.

The house smelled of lavender and cinnamon and old books. But it smelled warm, too. Not like Lennox Estate, which was always cold, no matter how many flower bouquets and fireplaces filled each room.
At the little worn table, Sicily and Pearl sat, a little porcelain tea pot between them. Pearl was having a tea party in a doll's house with Sicily. It was something out of her five-year-old pretends. And the love letter that now lay nestled in her pocket made the whole event that much more fantastical.
Sicily took a long drink of her tea. When she put the cup down, she looked curiously at Pearl. "Now that we have our tea, was there something important you came for? Is everything alright?" Ceci knew perfectly well the bounds of Pearl's allowances; it wasn't likely Pearl was here with her mother's permission. So she must have come under some significant pretense.
"Yes. But I have something to give to you," Pearl carefully pulled the paper thing out of her pocket. "It's very important. Only... you mustn't read it now. Wait till I've gone home, you'll want to read it in private, by yourself."
"Oh..." Sicily said, taking the letter and staring at it strangely.
"I'm only the messenger," Pearl said. "Though... the person who wrote that doesn't know I'm giving it to you." This last confession came before Pearl could think.
Sicily raised an eyebrow. She didn't look angry or disappointed, just amused.
"You're probably anxious to read it. I'll finish my tea and go home." Pearl swallowed the contents of her cup and stood up.
Sicily followed her to the door, and stood leaning against it as Pearl headed back down the walkway. "Thank you Pearl," she called.
Pearl turned and waved.
She smiled to herself.
Things were about to begin.

Wearing my glasses, too tired to focus.

Okay, so I'm supposed to write this email to a certain person concerning some drama that happened last year, and I really really really don't want to. Notice the absence of commas in that sentence. I've been putting it off for weeks. My excuse tonight is that I feel like my brain is going to explode out of my right temple and start oozing down my forehead. Lovely imagery, right?

Wouldn't it be great if there were a button you could push to just make a part of the past go away? You know, as if it never even happened. Erase it from everyone's memories forever.
To hell with learning from your mistakes.
This one is pointless. The only thing I've learned is that you just can't argue with someone who simply won't listen. But how often do you come across such people? Heaven, I hope they're not common. Because one more time, and I'll lose it.
And I'm so tired of talking about it and hearing about it and worrying about it.
Worry eats into your mind. It consumes your thoughts, it won't let you sleep. At least, not without bad dreams. And if you're a chronic worrier like me, it gets to be a sort of disease.
I would love to learn how to be happy being happy. Even when I'm happy, I'm not happy! Isn't that crazy? When there is absolutely nothing in the way of my happiness, I can still find something to be unhappy about. Only, it's not a something; it's not tangible... it's some invisible impediment that exists without reason.


My thoughts are getting crazy. I want to be like my friend Meredythe: she has this special trick to finding her "happy place."
Wait... do I even HAVE a happy place?

It was all Yellow

A Page of Confessions: He's going to spill

Corran was sure he was a thought away from complete insanity. He paced the floor of his room, holding the letter he'd just spent four successive hours writing. Four hours was an age in his young lifetime, it seemed, especially given the current state of his nerves.
He left the parson's house so frustrated, confused and angry that he hardly knew what to do with himself. He began by running as fast as he could on the uneven ground of the meadow land towards Lennox estate, but gave that up when he almost tripped over an unsuspecting rock. He kicked the innocent rock and sent it flying. Then he ripped the hat off his head, threw it on the ground and began kicking that.
Honestly.
Any one of his acquaintances would have thought he'd gone mad.
And in all likeliness, he had.

He read over the letter in his hand for the fiftieth time.
It was a confession, but no matter how many times he wrote and rewrote, it sounded like incredibly uncanny filth.
If she read it, she would either laugh or pity him. Perhaps both. And neither were the lesser of two evils.
Corran shuddered.

"Miss Cecilia Moore:
I write this to you with a pen because I am too much of a coward to speak the words to you. I would rather be in blissful ignorance of your reaction to what I might say instead of watching that impression grow on your face as I speak.
In any case, I must tell you, now, before I go completely mad from silence.

The truth is that I love you.

I wonder if you're surprised. Or perhaps you would feign surprise to me if ever I spoke the words for your ears. Because I can't imagine how in my bumbling words and actions I could not have betrayed the truth. It is so evident in my recollections and I often curse myself a complete idiotic mess.
Men often take courage in the pen.
I find that I can too; I would write over and over of all your loveliness, as romantic etiquette allows. I would write what is in my thoughts every time I look at you. And it is all the truth, for you are complete loveliness in words, actions, appearance, character and mind. Loveliness and wit and laughter and life. What man couldn't love a woman who personifies these things?

If I am not a coward and I deserve, somehow, that you should not presently despise me, I will come and see you and hear your answer to all this. Soon.
Until them I'm tortured. I give you leave to pity me.
I said once that I would store up all your pity and use it to my advantage one day.

Yours,
C. Lennox"

A Moody, Wordful Page that Doesn't Say Much

Ceci walked slowly towards the little front door of the pastor's home. It was a small red door and it looked warm and welcoming-- as it was supposed to, Ceci knew. And yet, to her this small red door was a reminder that she must plaster a smile to her tired face and envelop her weariness in a pleasant disposition. For James' sake.
The fist of wild flowers she'd gathered drooped at her side. She'd no idea how much farther her endurance would take her; she worried that she mightn't outlast James' recovery.
She stopped at the door, heaved a cleansing sigh and crossed the threshold.

Ceci slowly climbed the stairs to his room carrying a tall water jug of the flowers. She thought she heard muffled voices from a distance and wondered for a moment if her fatigue was getting the better of her senses.
She stopped abruptly at the open door.

Corran Lennox sat in a wooden chair beside Mr. Carter's bed. He leaned towards James, as though they were engrossed in a secret conversation.

Ceci was surprised. Naturally. She'd seen neither hide nor hair of Mr. Lennox since the fire. Not that he was obligated in any way--not for all the world; saving James' life had been more than enough. Much more.

The floorboards creaked as Ceci stepped out of the doorway.
Corran immediately looked up at the sound, and Ceci had to flush and announce her presence.
"Excuse me," she said quietly, offering the water jug as explanation of her appearance.
For some odd, unexplainable reason, she could not quite meet Corran's eye.
As she crossed the room to place the flowers on the nightstand, James suddenly reached out and grasped Ceci's wrist. Startled, she turned to him.
"Thank you," James whispered to her.
Finally Ceci's gaze fell on Corran, who looked stone-cold and expressionless. And pale.
She nodded and smiled in response to James and made to leave.

At the bottom of the stairs she paused. The whispered conversation had not resumed and for a disquieting moment, Ceci suspected Corran might follow her.
She slipped out the back door and out into the kitchen garden.

Something strange had happened there in that room.
She had known for quite some time--as much time as she had for personal reflection--that the fire had changed many things. Things related to Corran. Er-- Mr. Lennox.
Why did she have trouble meeting his gaze? And why did he look so frightfully cold? There was a dark, painful feeling in Ceci's chest.
She sat down on an overturned pot beneath a scrubby apple tree. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. Then in back-aching weary and dejection, her head fell forward and her long hair shook with a sob that shuddered through her body. She could keep her countenance no longer today, and she collapsed into convulsing tears, hugging her arms to herself.

When she'd finished, she slowly sat up; it was painful. Her hair clung to her wet face. She brushed it away and wiped at her cheeks.

There was Corran standing by the back doorway; he was leaning against the door frame, watching her. But when she looked up at him, he turned away, as though he could pretend she couldn't see him and he hadn't actually seen her cry.

What did she expect? That he might rush to her and take her up in his arms to comfort her?
She wanted at least a kind word; she wanted him to assure her of her own strength.
But he only stood there at the door.
Slowly, he turned his head and dared to look at her again.
Ceci stood. And what she said next she did not mean as harsh. "Is there something you wanted?" It sounded horribly cold. But wasn't that just how Corran was now?

He looked unnerved at her words. Minutes passed before his response came. "No," he finally answered.
Ceci heaved a sigh. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lennox. I-- I didn't mean for you to see me in such a state. And I am sorry if I was rude."
"Not at all," Corran replied.
She walked towards him and the door. "Thank you for coming to visit James. He doesn't have many visitors, but I'm sure it lifts his spirits to see you."
Thank you for saving his life, she thought, and thank you for living through it.
"I had heard his condition was much worse. I'm glad to see that he seems to be recovering well. No doubt, thanks to your care."
These last words were spoken with such gentleness that Ceci looked up quickly into his face.
There were no smiles. None.
No laughter, no easiness; Ceci's heart was so heavy she wondered how it could be suspended so weightlessly in her chest.

Corran reached the front door. He stopped, holding it open so that the wildly brilliant sunlight illuminated his hair in a fiery halo. Ceci wondered if he were waiting for her to say something. So she said, "Good bye, Mr. Lennox."
He seemed to start at her words. He gazed at her for a few long moments then heaved a giant sigh, turned and was gone.
Through the window, Ceci watched him retreat down the stony path, shoving his blue hat down on his head in a frustrated gesture.

The sunlight suddenly retreated behind a cloud; everything became gray and shadowy, sorry shades of once burnished fall colors.

Who would want to paint a dead rabbit?

Life and time... and seconds and minutes and hours
Days and months and years.
Ages. Generations.
Ancestors and Descendants.
Lineage.
Marking time.
Making time.
Living the time you've got
Instead of wondering about tomorrow.

But I am not self-righteous.
I do not pretend to know how
Or live without wasting time.
I am just the same as you.
I try
and sometimes I fail.
I fail more than I succeed.
But when I succeed
I am happy.
And sometimes I am happy when I fail
Even.
(But only sometimes.)
Because sometimes it is not so bad to fail
I think.
Sometimes.
At least I tried.

Try, try, try.
Life is trying—
All the time.
Life and time.
And trying.

Even more words on a page

Corran wasn't allowed to ride.
He spent two weeks in bed and was allotted a strict amount of time out-of-doors, for fresh air.
But his doctors did not understand that he needed to be outside. The fresh air was more vital than warmth and rest and medicine. He needed sunlight. He needed wind and cold air to clean out his lungs. And his doctors would be horrified by such a statement.

He knew what he needed. Even if he didn't want to admit it, even if he couldn't have it.
Couldn't have her.

And he was so tired. He was tired of the stuffy rooms and the stifling heat of the bedclothes. He was even tired of the books in his library.
He was tired of thinking. He was tired of dreaming.
Because it was the same dream each and every night. And as much as his heart leapt at the lingering image of her when he awoke from his dream, it reminded him of just how far away she was. Not in physical distance, mind you--farther away in mind and spirit. He knew she couldn't be thinking of him--not with a dying man to care for.
Would she ever come to visit again?
Would it matter? Does she care enough to wonder how I am? Or did she only come for the books in the library and for Pearl? He would wallow in self-pity and imagine how much more she could love his sister than she could ever love him. Self-pity was a new feeling to him and it became so habitual that he never wanted to feel anything else.
Anything else took too much energy.

More Words on a Page

There was something wrong with her brother.
Pearl knew. She noticed everything, even the things they tried to hide from her.
For her own good, they said.
This was something else, though.
And it wasn't just his injuries, either. It was definitely more than that, it was something inside of him.
Pearl didn't know what is was. She just knew... that it was.
And she was sensible enough not to ask him straight out as she usually did.

Before the fire, Pearl used to tease her brother about his lady friend, Sicily. She sincerely liked Sicily, which was the reason she felt so free to tease. And besides that, in her own little-sister way, it was a method to get him back for all the time he spent teasing her--not that she really minded it; she was a good sport. But all the same, there was something, something that told her--indirectly--that her brother was in love.
With Sicily.
She teased him mostly for the fact that he always called her "Miss Moore." Pearl thought that was silly; they were all good friends now, weren't they?

But things changed.
They had changed--after that horrible fire.
But it was more than the fire itself. Corran had changed. And it bothered Pearl.

After Theo had left and gone into the army--and as yet they'd received no correspondence from him--after that, she and her brother had become closer. Maybe it was through Sicily. But they used to talk about--everything and anything together.
Now they never talked.
At dinner Corran was silent--that is, when he came to dinner. And they never had their tea together anymore.
Things had changed.
Pearl kept one eye and one ear open in order to discover--observe--anything that could help her understand what was going on, what was wrong.
That is, one eye and one ear when they weren't both glued to her schooling; her governess was a no-nonsense woman and rarely allowed time for observation.
Reading and writing and art. She hated mathematics. And Corran used to take her out at night to look at the stars--but that never happened anymore.
"You brother was injured--he is an invalid. Give him time to recover, Pearl," her governess told her.
Give him time.
If it were up to him, Pearl thought, he'd take all the time in the world and I'll be eighty when he finally decides to STOP being an invalid.

And Pearl hated trying to be patient. It took too much energy.