The Comte de Valmy

A minute or so later I left the salon, to walk straight into as nasty a little scene as I had yet come across.
Philippe was standing, the picture of guilt and misery, beside a table which stood against the wall outside the salon door. It was a lovely little table, flanked on either side by a Louis Quinze chair seated with a straw-colored brocade. On one of the chair seats I now saw, horribly, a thick streak of ink, as if a pen had rolled from the table and then across the silk of the chair, smearing ink as it went.
I remembered, then, that Philippe had been writing to his uncle, Hippolyte, when I called him to come downstairs. He must have come hurriedly away, the pen still open in his hand, and have put it down there before going into the drawing room. He was clutching it now in an ink-stained fist, and staring white-faced at his uncle.
For this time of all times he hadn't managed to avoid Monsieur de Valmy. The wheel chair was slap in the middle of the corridor, barring escape. Philippe, in front of it, looked very small and guilty and defenseless.
Neither of them appeared to notice me. Leon de Valmy was speaking. That he was angry was obvious, and it looked as if he had every right to be, but the cold lash of his voice as he flayed the child for his small-boy carelessness was frightening; he was using--not a wheel, but an atomic blast, to break a butterfly.
Philippe, as white as ashes now, stammered something that might have been an apology, but merely sounded like a terrified mutter, and his uncle cut across it in a voice that bit like a loaded whip.
"It is, perhaps, just as well that your visits to this part of the house are restricted to this single one day, as apparently you don't yet know how to behave like a civilized human being. Perhaps in your Paris home you were allowed to run wild in this hooligan manner, but here we are accustomed to--"
"This is my home," said Philippe.
He said it still in that small shaken voice that held the suggestion of a sullen mutter. It stopped Leon de Valmy in full tirade. For a moment I thought the sentence in that still little voice unbearably pathetic, and in the same moment wondered at Philippe, who was not prone to either drama or pathos. But then he added, still low, but very clearly, "And that is my chair."
There was a moment of appalling silence. Something came and went in Leon de Valmy's face--the merest flick of an expression like a flash of a camera's shutter--but Philippe took a step backward, and I found myself catapulting out of the doorway like a wildcat defending a kitten.
Leon de Valmy looked up and saw me, but he spoke to Philippe quietly, as though his anger had never been.
"When you have recovered your temper and your manners, Philippe, you will apologize for that remark." The dark eyes lifted to me, and he said coolly but very courteously, in English, "Ah, Miss Martin. I'm afraid there has been a slight contretemps. Perhaps you will take Philippe back to his own rooms and persuade him that courtesy toward his elders is one of the qualities that is expected of a gentleman."
As his uncle spoke to me, Philippe had turned quickly, as if in relief. His face was paler than ever, and looked pinched and sullen. But the eyes were vulnerable: child's eyes.
I looked at him, then past him at his uncle.
"There's no need," I said. "He'll apologize now." I took the boy gently by the shoulders and turned him back to face his uncle. I held him for a moment. The shoulders felt very thin and tense. He was shaking.
I let him go. "Philippe?" I said.
He said, his voice thin with a gulp in it, "I beg your pardon if I was rude."
Leon de Valmy looked from him to me and back again.
"Very well. That is forgotten. And now Miss Martin had better take you upstairs."
The child turned quickly to go, but I hesitated. I said, "I gather there's been an accident to that chair, and that Philippe's been careless; but then, so have I. It was my job to see that nothing of the sort happened. It was my fault, and I must apologize too, Monsieur de Valmy."
He said in a voice quite different from the one with which he had dismissed Philippe, "Very well, Miss Martin. Thank you. And now we will forget the episode, shall we?"
As we went I was very conscious of that still, misshapen figure sitting there watching us.
I shut the schoolroom door behind me, and leaned against it. Philippe and I looked at one another. His face was shuttered still with that white resentment. His mouth looked sulky, but I saw the lower lip tremble a little.
He waited, saying nothing.
This was where I had to uphold authority. Curtain lecture by Miss Martin. Leon de Valmy had been perfectly right: Philippe had been stupid, careless, and rude...
I said, "My lamb, I'm with you all the way, but you are a little owl, aren't you?"
"You can't," said Philippe very stiffly, "be a lamb and an owl both at the same time."
Then he ran straight at me and burst into tears.
After that I did help to keep him out of his uncle's way.

FROM
Nine Coaches Waiting
by Mary Stewart

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

Blackbird

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Black bird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
all your life
you were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

-why, the Beatles, of course

Bewildered

To invent a person.
Not to create, not from nothingness.
But there, in existence,
in shadow.
Sharp edges on his face
and such a tiny light in his eyes,
but
enveloped in shadow,
faded into the crowd.
No one notices but me.
And because I noticed,
he is mine to invent.
I give him a name.
I spell it out for him.
He says his name, and suddenly
it's his.
I
can coax a smile from his lips.
His laugh
mercilessly
ridiculously clear
can be mine.
The light that plays in his eyes
that was once only a tiny light
that was once only mine to notice
suddenly...
will not leave my thoughts.

And there it is.

I thought I had invented him.
That he could be mine
through the heart I unburdened...
No.
Because now I am captured
no kidding.

Now what can I do?

The Invisible Child

"You all know, don't you, that if people are frightened very often, they sometimes become invisible," Too-ticky said and swallowed a small egg mushroom that looked like a little snowball. "Well. This Ninny was frightened the wrong way by a lady who had taken care of her without really liking her. I've met this lady, and she was horrid. Not the angry sort, you know, which would have been understandable. No, she was the icily ironical kind."
"What's 'ironical'?" Moomintroll asked.
"Well, imagine that you slip on a rotten mushroom and sit down on the basket of newly picked ones," Too-ticky said. "The natural thing for your mother would be to be angry. But no, she isn't. Instead she says, very coldly: 'I understand that's your idea of a graceful dance, but I'd thank you not to do it in people's food.' Something like that."
"How unpleasant," Moomintroll said.
"Yes, isn't it," replied Too-ticky. "This was the way this lady used to talk. She was ironic all day long every day, and finally the kid started to turn pale and fade around the edges, and less and less was seen of her. Last Friday one couldn't catch sight of her at all. The lady gave her away to me and said she really couldn't take care of relatives she couldn't even see."
"And what did you do to the lady?" My asked with bulging eyes. "Did you bash her head?"
"That's of no use with the ironic sort," Too-ticky said. "I took Ninny home with me, of course. And now I've brought her here for you to make her visible again."

From
Tales from Moominvalley
by Tove Jansson

A Word or Two long awaited

Quincy dropped the flowers one by one on the table. They were all from Marguerite's over-abundant garden, and Ceci's duty was to arrange them artistically in a tall crystal vase that sat in the middle of the table. Unfortunately, some of the flowers had been decapitated or de-petaled thanks to Quincy's absent-minded expertise, and so the arrangement appeared rather sparse. Ceci had to stifle a grin. Quincy's antics no longer annoyed her like they used to. And all in all, she appreciated his efforts, as he was a boy, and most boys would rather have swallowed a toad than agree to pick flowers for a party. She really couldn't complain.
This was the last of the flower arrangements, the last in a long process of decoration and preparation. Marguerite, lovely and flustered, would not stop moving about, straightening this and fixing that and smiling at everyone.
Early guests appeared and were ushered through the sweet smelling parlor out to the beautifully furnished lawn. The garden seemed to spill across the open grass and the soft space was carpeted by rugs and billows of fabric. A long banquet table stood beneath a canopy of red and yellow leaves, the very beginning of autumn color.
Ceci sighed as she watched Marguerite smile and greet her guests, and thought how well happiness suited her features. Mr. Brooke bustled joyfully through the doors and out onto the lawn, kissing Marguerite smartly on both cheeks. Ceci laughed heartily.
Three violinists appeared, and Ceci took charge of ushering them to a corner beneath the shady branches of the canopy.

And there appeared Christopher, looking unusually tall and beaming gloriously. The moment he spotted his Marguerite, he swept her into an unabashed kiss, wherein all the guests cried out that they should share the first dance.
And so the lawn was cleared of obstacles, and the sweet couple waltzed in so close proximity that Ceci could barely distinguish the two; they seemed to be almost one person.

Sam Redford asked Ceci for a dance, and then his cousin William. She danced with Christopher once--he felt it his duty to tear himself away from his bride-to-be for a dance with her closest friend-- and once with Mr. Brooke, who bounced along on his two left feet. A few others asked her, but she turned them down. She wanted to fade into the background and observe rather than partake; she wanted to soak in this happy, care-free celebration. After all, it was only a moment in her lifetime; she wanted to remember every detail... before things changed and she had to say goodbye.
The sky grew darker, and candles were lit all around the little party. They sparkled and flickered like warm stars and their little lights cast glowing spots on faces and hands.

Suddenly, a streak of green flew past, followed by a streak of pale blue. Ceci sat up straight.
"Why you little!" Pearl squealed, her pale curls flying behind her.
Quincy laughed wickedly as he fled her wrath.
Ceci set her wine glass on the stool by her elbow and slowly (with hands shaking) threaded her way through the growing throng of dancers on the lawn. She stepped hesitantly through the brightly-lit doorway and into the shadowy hall. It was empty; Ceci breathed a sigh and barely stopped to wonder whether she were disappointed or relieved... when a dark shadow in the corner caught her eye.

He held that familiar broad-rimmed hat in his hands, which kept moving slowly along the brim. His head was bent, staring down at the floor and his bright hair was mussed--more so than usual. And he stood against the wall, just inside the front doorway.
Ceci turned round and looked at him for a long moment. It was her intent to make him look up through the persistence of her gaze. She felt her heart beat against her ribcage like a trapped bird. It was truly torture, having memorized a hundred intelligent things to say in preparation for such a situation only to have them flung from her mind just when she needed them. She couldn't bear her own silence-- to say anything, anything--
"Mr. Lennox!" Marguerite's voice suddenly appeared from behind, and they both jumped.
"Oh, thank you for coming!" she stopped abruptly when she finally seemed to notice Ceci standing rigidly in the hall. "Won't you... both... come out into the party?"
At which point Ceci turned quickly and followed on her cousin's departing heels. Corran followed too, slowly, watching that retreating head of dark curls.


"Sicily!" Pearl cried, grabbing at Ceci's arm. "Come on and dance with me! Now they've stopped with all those boring formal dances... c'mon!" She pulled Ceci into the fray and twirled herself beneath her raised arm.
Pearl was always the fantastic one for diversions. The music's rhythm beat in Ceci's ears, for they danced close to the little orchestra (three violinists plus a reed-flutist and Sam Redford with a make-shift drum) and for a moment she didn't think of anything.
It didn't last too long, however, for Quincy stole up close to Pearl and dropped a little beetle in her hair and of course she had to go after him again. And all at once an arm suddenly pressed round Ceci's waist and drew her aside from the dancing crowd and the pounding music.
A voice close to her ear said her name. Only... coming from that voice she could barely believe the name it gave, or its frightening nearness to her.
"Ceci..."
Ceci looked up into Mr. Lennox's face. She felt her cheeks burn. The music and the dancers faded into the background.
"Could I have a word?" His voice was still an intimate whisper, but somehow strangely formal. He waited for an answer.
Ceci wondered--senselessly, for such a moment--where his hat had got to. He wasn't holding it in his hands; they were empty.
"I... I didn't know you would be here," was the only thing she could think to say.
Mr. Lennox smiled. His eyes left her face, where they had been so transfixed, and wandered. His smile slowly faded as he said, "As much as I regard your cousin and Mr. Tout, I came only with the intention of... if not speaking with you, at least seeing you."
His eyes traveled quickly back to her face, as if to gage her reaction.
An image suddenly came into Ceci's mind: Mr. Lennox-- Corran-- heaving on the ground, black with soot and blood and struggling to breathe. It was one of the left-over nightmare images from the day James Carter lost his house to a fire. She took in a sharp breath to cover the gasp that came out.
"I... I finished your book, Mr. Lennox--the one you loaned to me. It was quite good and very... very true." Ceci said.
Mr. Lennox frowned again and looked away from her. "I wish you wouldn't call me that. I thought we were friends enough to hear you say Corran... not Mr. Lennox."
"But you never gave me leave to call you Corran," Ceci replied.
"Your brother used my first name hardly a moment or two after I met him," Mr. Lennox returned.
"I'm not like Quincy. And I never knew for sure whether we were friends," Ceci said.
"Not friends?" Mr. Lennox said, surprise apparent on his face. His brow furrowed in a way Ceci could never remember seeing before.
"Well, I'll have my book back then, if we aren't friends. Strangers hardly borrow books to each other."
Ceci flinched. She couldn't tell from his face or from his voice whether he were teasing or not. But she thought not.
She took in a deep breath. "I simply don't know what to say to you. What is it you want from me?" She said.
Mr. Lennox sighed. "I'm skirting the issue quite clearly," he said. "Pearl gave you my letter?"
Ceci nodded, looking down.
"Then I'll tell you. I meant every word of it."
Ceci didn't look up. After a moment, Mr. Lennox reached out to her and grasped her hands.
"Ceci," he said, leaning closer to her. "If we can't be friends, then perhaps we might find another arrangement. Look at your cousin."
Ceci turned to gaze out at the crowd and saw Marguerite happily engulfed in Christopher's arms.
"I simply... simply cannot escape from the thought that you and I should end up that way." Corran's voice was a penetrating whisper again.
Ceci could feel his grip on her fingers tighten as though he would draw her to him. She looked back at him, and her heart fluttered unnervingly in her chest. There was that image of a gasping, choking Corran trapped in her mind. "Just promise me right now that I'll never, never, have to endure such a terror as you gave me... the day you disappeared into that burning house. I wouldn't bear it again, Corran Lennox." To her dismay, tears pricked at her eyes. They gathered into pools at the corners and before she could stop them, fell down from her lashes onto her cheeks.
Corran only smiled down at her. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek and her temple and her hair.
Out came a little sob and she leaned into his embrace. She let the tears fall freely and reached up to put her arms about his neck.
And he buried his face in her hair.

Matti and Niila in Pajala

"As early as in class six Niila's awkward relationship with girls started to become clear. It had nothing to do with his appearance, even if he was no beauty, with his typically Finnish potato of a nose, prominent cheekbones, and hair that was always greasy, no matter how often he washed it. He was lankier than I, and perhaps a bit jerky, fumbling in his movements. But he wasn't repulsive. On the contrary, he radiated a sort of energy that prowled around like a caged animal, looking for a way of escape. It would be an exaggeration to call it an inner fire, perhaps; but it was something warm and vulnerable. It rankled within him and the girls could sense it. He had will power, a root forming in his back bone."

"All the time there were other girls in the background, not my type, it's true, but there nonetheless. Girls who were adventurous. Who were willing to take risks, cling to the edge of the precipice by their fingertips, who were willing to launch themselves into the night sky. "

From
Popular Music from Vittula
by Mikael Niemi

A Page Concerning Invitations

Marguerite sat at the desk in her little room, smiling in the sunlight radiating through the window. Her hand paused over a sheet of clean, blank paper. At her elbow was a neat stack of letters, all sealed with bright red ribbon and addressed in her tiny, neat handwriting. Her cheeks were still pleasantly rosy after a kiss from Christopher, and their forthcoming nuptials filled her thoughts.
Presently, she deliberated over a certain invitation... for the stack of letters all contained invitations to her engagement party. She had just finished Ceci's, and the thought of her dear cousin reminded her of a certain Mr. Corran Lennox, whom she suspected of particular regard for Cecilia. She wondered if such an invitation would cause consternation; it was of no particular concern to her whether or not the young man attended the party. The very idea of it was due to Ceci alone.
Marguerite wished she might ask Christopher his opinion. But he had gone on errand to town (for what, he wouldn't say.)
As she sat by the window, debating the correct action in her mind, she heard a soft knock at the front door. So she put her pen down and left the room to answer it.
She opened it wide to find Ceci standing in the doorway, looking rather... unlike her usual self. Ceci stood with her arms crossed tightly to her chest, paler than usual and stony-faced.
"My dear! I was just thinking of you, and that we haven't spoken for ages. Come in from the chill!" Marguerite ushered her cousin into the parlor, where Ceci sat without a word on a vacant chair.
"I'll fetch you some tea-- you look colder than ice!" And Marguerite hastened off.
When she returned, she pressed a hot cup into her cousin's icy fingers.
Ceci sipped carefully at the liquid. The steam rose from the cup and brushed the rosiness back into her cheeks.
"What is it?" Marguerite said finally, leaning forward. She wasn't usually blunt, but she'd never seen Ceci in such a peculiar state before.
Ceci looked up at her cousin. She set the little tea cup on the table near her elbow. Then she sighed and retrieved a paper from her pocket.
Marguerite thought she saw her cousin's fingers tremble as she cradled the little slip in her hands. It was a letter, she finally realized.
"Is it... some terrible news?" Marguerite asked slowly, fright beginning to steal up her throat.
A grimace spread across Ceci's face. "No," she answered. She began to flatten the creased paper over her knee, and wouldn't look up to meet Marguerite's eyes.
"Then, heaven's sake, what?"
"Did Christopher ever write you a love letter?" Ceci asked, finally glancing up at her cousin.
Marguerite blinked in surprise. "No," she said.
"He told you that he loved you?"
"Yes," Marguerite said simply. "Is that what that paper is in your hands? A love letter?"
Ceci looked down at her lap again and nodded.
"Who is it from?" Marguerite asked, though she could easily guess.
"From Corran."
"Mr. Lennox?"
Ceci gave a quick jerk of her head.
"Well..." Marguerite wondered at her cousin. "Why are you so pale? You don't return his sentiments?"
Ceci didn't answer immediately. The long pause Marguerite understood as a negative, until Ceci said in a hoarse whisper, "I hardly know."
"Oh," was Marguerite's reply.
Ceci looked up at her with desperate pleading in her eyes. Marguerite could see a sheen of tears forming on the surface. She reached forward and clasped her cousin's cold fingers tightly in her own.
"I can't offer you any insights," she said quickly, "but you are the cleverest young woman I know... as well as the kindest. I'm confident you'll find the truth you need."
"Only... even if I find it, how am I to be sure I have the... the nerve?"
Marguerite stood up and gently pulled her cousin to her feet. She gave a little laugh.
"My very dearest Ceci! God bless you, if there's anything to doubt in you, it isn't your supply of boldness!"
Marguerite pressed Ceci into a tight hug, closing her eyes and willing her own abundance of happiness to pass to her beloved cousin.

Marguerite was left with a look of gratitude from Ceci's pale face as she stood in the doorway to watch her make her way slowly down the grassy hill behind the house. She paused there for a time, staring out into the sky and the departing sun.

When finally she returned to her desk of invitations, her hand paused once more over the blank paper. She glanced out the window again.
Then resolutely, she penned the invitation to Mr. Lennox.

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.

Words on a page (or I really need to find a better title for this...)

No one thought James Carter would survive long after the flames devoured his house and his livelihood. Cecilia knew quite well what everyone thought. And yet her days that followed the terrible incident were spent by the man's side, constantly leaning over his body as he lay still and bedridden. The bed belonged to the parson, who dutifully took in the homeless and the tragedy-stricken. James Carter was immediately examined by the apothecary, and Ceci herself arranged a room for him as soon as she heard the doctor's diagnosis: it was grave, but not fatal.

The way she doted over the poor man, everyone was sure she had promised herself to him and that they were engaged. Why else would she remain his constant nurse, vigilantly tending to his every need? But in truth she had not promised him anything. It was her relentless compassion that drove her to care for Mr. Carter. Compassion... tinged with a guilt she did not understand. It was through no fault of her own that his home and his work was destroyed.
It might have been the fact that James Carter, a helpless invalid, had begun to slowly hate her. For all his adult life he had doted on her, loved her from afar, made secret dreamy plans to bring her home as his wife. Those dreams went up in flames along with his house, his land and all his possessions, including the hearty sum he'd hidden away beneath the floorboards. It was all gone. And there she sat, day in and day out, spoon-feeding him like a little child, washing his sheets and helping the parson's wife change his clothes, to his utter shame and embarrassment. For the first time as an adult, he was dependent, completely helpless. And dependent on whom? The very woman he had always worked and desired to provide for, that she might depend on him, look up to him, love him. And now he knew with desperate certainty that that design was undone. He began to abhor her very presence, which was his daily reminder of this horrible truth.
But... could he not see her eyes as she tirelessly sat by his bedside? He missed the love in her look as she patiently cared for him. Her face glowed with life and compassion when she washed his face or brushed his hair. He did not understand any of this and was instead lost in his own misery. Day by day he grew more desperate and soon Ceci realized she must make an effort to ensure he didn't do any harm to himself.

It should be plain and clear by now that James Carter would never make any sort of husband for Cecilia. By "any sort" I mean to say that we all, without fail, hope and wish and dream for that someone who understands us and--very simply--completes us.
And though the more cynical among us love to assert the unrealistic sentimentality of this desire, still all the same it exists and the honest ones admit it.

In this story, for the good of our heroine (and subsequent hero...) she does not marry Mr. Carter, farmer by profession. However, Ceci leaves, in time, an indelible mark on his memory that he only understands in his old age... as gratitude.
Good for him.

The Experiment

Words on a page

Quincy was experiencing a state of boredom.
Unfortunately, boredom in relation to Quincy meant trouble.
Today the sun was out, the day was warm, the sky was an incredible shade of October blue. And yet, Quincy was completely devoid of interesting things to do.
If you've ever had the pleasure of understanding the behavioral characteristics of 11 year-old boys, you may know how quickly they find trouble--or trouble finds them. On this day, all Quincy had to do was get it into his head to go exploring.
This led him through the pastures behind his home, out into the open countryside.
Leaping over pasture fences and running swiftly through the tall meadow-grass, Quincy imagined he was riding a horse; an enormous dark-gray stallion just like the one his sister's friend Corran rode. Xerxes was a fantastic name for such a fantastic horse; he envied Corran, that man with the orange hair. Ceci always chided him for calling Corran by his first name. However, Quincy thought it perfectly normal; they both were young men coming into large inheritances, had much in common, and might as well start it off on a first-name basis.
Such was Quincy's reasoning and it sounded perfectly valid in his own mind.

Quincy was lost in his own imaginings and did not realize where he was for quite some time, and by then the sun had sunk much closer to the western horizon. Quincy gazed up at the glow of the sunset. It suddenly came to his attention that a low gray haze was growing in his periphery. It looked like the sun was singeing the tops of the trees.
Quincy jumped as a bright lick of flame fluttered suddenly above the far-away tree-tops. Without a second thought, he began racing towards the spot. A flame so high could not simply belong to a farmer's bonfire. Something was most definitely wrong.
As his heart beat wildly against his chest, Quincy wished his legs were longer so that his stride might stretch a greater distance. It seemed like ages before Quincy reached the sight of the flames. A sight it was, and Quincy's heart leaped in panic. He knew the small farmhouse that was now quickly becoming consumed in flames: it was James Carter's house. He flew like the wind, back the way he'd come, back toward home. Despite his somewhat scatterbrained, self-centered nature, he knew he could not put out the fire on his own. He was also aware of the fact that the closest homestead was across the farm land he was currently crossing, and that would be his home.
He reached the house within minutes, though it seemed like hours, and completely out of breath, he waved his arms frantically as he continued straight through.
"Fire! Fi-ER!" he hollered.
No one seemed present, for no one answered.
He ran back out the door and was nearly trampled by a great gray horse.
Mr. Lennox was coming up the lane. He stopped abruptly as Quincy rushed past.
"Fire!" Quincy screamed.
Corran looked startled for a moment. "Where?" he asked quickly, looking up at the house.
Quincy gasped for air. "James... Carter..." he breathed.
Without another word, Corran scooped Quincy up by the shoulders and dropped him on his horse's back. "Hold on tightly!" Corran ordered. He set off at a gallop.
Quincy nearly tumbled off backwards as the horse lurched into stride. He grasped at Corran's jacket and held on for dear life. He managed to peer back a moment and just glimpsed his sister Ceci running round the back of the house. When she saw the two of them racing down the lane, she dropped the handful of wildflowers, picked up her skirts and began to follow in a skipping run. She tried to call out to them, but the wind was rushing past Quincy's ears and the thud of the horse's hooves meeting the earth drowned out all other sound.
They reached the burning house almost instantly. Quincy's heart raced as wood and brick tumbled away from the half-consumed structure.
Corran fairly tossed Quincy off his mount, jumping easily down. Before Quincy could stand again, Corran was already through the dark entrance that was once a front doorway. Seconds passed and Quincy knew there could be no chance of extinguishing the flame until it had burnt away.
Of a sudden, Ceci was at his side, breathless. She was screaming and tears were streaming down her red cheeks. She shrieked at him, "Where's Corran?" And Quincy could only point at that dark entrance. Before either of them could do or say anything else, there was a horrifying groan and squeal, and the roof collapsed.
Quincy thought his lungs would burst or his heart would give out as his sister let out a cry of anguish.
There was a strange silence following the crash of splintered wood and crushed brick; in that silence, something emerged from the yawning shadow of a doorway. A bent figure stumbled and dragged a lifeless bulk out into the open air.
Before Quincy could react or even understand what was happening, Ceci was with the two dark figures, bent over both. She was both weeping convulsively and attempting to examine the lifeless bulk. The other figure collapsed, coughing a wheezing cough and shuddering on the ground.
Quincy found that his feet were finally moving, of their own volition, it seemed. The collapsed figure was indeed Corran. He was struggling to breathe. He was also blackened and bleeding around the arms and legs. A gash seeped on his forehead, trickling into his dirty red hair. Ceci was bent over the still, silent figure. Quincy realized the man was dead; he was not chocking and heaving like Corran; he wasn't moving at all.

And then, in an incredible moment, the still body suddenly convulsed; his chest flew upward as though his heart or his lungs were about to leap from his ribcage. Ceci gave a cry of astonishment. The man began to breathe and choke. James Carter was alive.