A Page, which may contain a proposal of sorts

It may be very true that once in a while, things fall beautifully into place like perfect puzzle pieces. If we are lucky enough for these once-in-a-whiles, happiness warms all troubles away.

And troubles seemed to fall away from Ceci's mind like dust in sunlight.
All but one.


Marguerite was the first to hear all.
They sat together on a farm fence behind her house. The sun warmed Ceci's face while memory's goosebumps crept up her skin.

"I would never have believed it," Marguerite said, "had I not come upon the two of you in the hallway that night. The distress in the air was almost... visible. And poor Mr. Lennox," she gave a light laugh, "looked so distraught!"
Marguerite reached forward where she sat perched on the edge of the fence. She placed a hand on Ceci's knee. "Honestly, Cecilia. Sometimes you have such a presence... I believe you could hardly imagine what you do to people's nerves. And so you have to believe me when I tell you that your Mr. Lennox is a brave, brave man."
Ceci shook her head. Not that she distrusted her cousin's words; she was thinking of Corran and the burning house again. "I know," she said.
Ceci frowned and tried to rub away the goosebumps. She heaved a great sigh, but didn't return the smile her cousin sent her.
"So what is the dilemma?" Marguerite asked after a few moments of silence.
Ceci snapped her gaze back at Marguerite and raised an eyebrow. She suddenly felt quite cold and rubbed her arms again. "Think about it for a moment, cousin. I'm sure you'll come up with something."
Marguerite scowled at Ceci. The dilemma was of course, obvious. She had only wanted to hear Ceci explain it. "There's no need to be sardonic, Ceci. Honestly."
Ceci sighed again. "I've not yet met Sir Lennox. And Corran won't tell me directly if he's mentioned my existence to his father. That is the dilemma."
They were silent again for several minutes. In the space of that time, a mourning dove spoke off in the distance.
"Oh, hell!" Ceci suddenly exclaimed, pounding a fist into her lap. "This is exactly why I promised myself never to get involved with gentry." Then she bit her lip.
Marguerite looked slightly shocked. Slowly she descended from her seat and looked up at her cousin. She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it when a figure caught her eye.
For a moment she expected it to be Christopher, but it was not. It was, in fact, Mr. Lennox.
He traveled slowly and deliberately through the tall field grass with that familiar blue hat in his hand.
Marguerite took a step back as Corran nodded to her with a grin. He reached up to Ceci and pulled her gently down from her perch.
Marguerite wondered if he'd heard what Ceci had just finished saying. If he had, she doubted he would display such a beaming smile as now shone on his face. It would be wise to retire now, she decided. She bid them a good evening with a nod and a special look at Ceci--a warning look that told her they would discuss her disconcerting declaration at a later date. And she left them to make her way home.

"Good afternoon, Sicily," Corran said, plopping his hat down on the fence post and leaning up against the beams.
Ceci couldn't sustain a frown. "Have you adopted Pearl's pet name, then?"
Corran smiled. "I feel as though I should be allowed a name for you all my own."
"I should tell you, I have so many now I can hardly remember them all."
"I'll keep that in mind," he replied.
"And to what do I owe the honor of your presence this afternoon, Mr. Lennox?" Ceci asked, teasing him with a little curtsy.
"You won't get away with that for long," Corran said, leaning forward on his elbows. "Soon, you see, I aim to make you Mrs. Lennox. Then the joke will be on you."
Ceci straightened awkwardly. She almost stumbled, in fact. It was the first that he had ever mentioned any kind of official... attachment.
Corran noticed her stumble. He took a step toward her, reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small velvet pouch. "I haven't a ring just yet," he emptied the contents into the palm of his hand. "But it may serve, for the present."
And what an ironic moment for Ceci to turn clumsy. For about half a minute she simply stared at Corran's hand, and as she fumbled with the slippery, silky chain resting in his palm, he gave a chuckle. He leaned forward and kissed her temple. Then, carefully and expertly he fastened the delicate silver chain around her neck, just touching the little jewel with two fingers where it rested below her collarbone.
"There you are, love." he murmured. "Beautiful."
Ceci found herself tipping forward to wrap her unsteady arms round his waist and to press her face up into his shoulder. And she couldn't see it, but he lifted his head, closed his eyes and grinned, staggering back against the fence with her sudden weight pressed against him. He laid a hand on her soft head of curls and breathed deeply.

Malte

"There is an hour to go until sundown, at which time we will tie up at the quayside from where our journey began. Perhaps it will begin all over again tomorrow, perhaps none of it ever happened. What, then, is time? And who are we, returning in an altered light? Have we any way of knowing, when the bells ring for sunset and we have reached a point in the stream that we have passed before?
I just ask, Malte. You do not need to answer.



"He wound up with his own mercantile house in the city, ships in the harbor that sailed far and wide and came home from foreign parts with holds full of fan coral, narwhal tusks, and turtle shells, all of which were fashioned in his workshops into true works of art. While transforming its fruit, he still stayed true to the ocean from which his wealth derived. From walrus tusks he created creatures with long heads and slanting eyes. He claimed that the creatures knocked on the ivory from within; he was merely the man who applied the knife to let them out. It was when he acquired the nickname the Amber King that he began to expand the summerhouse into a castle.



"So it is with us. We keep our miracles close to our chest. We cannot interfere in the course of events, anyway. To everything there is a season. The living have nothing but that, and soon the story will be played out.


FROM
Prince
by Ib Michael