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Tell me what you see,” Michael said. Lucy looked about the room. She didn’t see anything much at first but old dusty furniture and old heavy draperies here and there. There were two large windows, but vines grew all over them, so that they didn’t let in much light. There was nothing else but dust and shadows. Lucy was disappointed. Then she began to wonder. What made the shadows? They moved across the room and disappeared, and other took their places. And every one of them was the shadow of a person. They walked about soundlessly and appeared to gesture and talk to one another. “Michael!” Lucy whispered softly, touching his arm. He was smiled vaguely, as though thinking of something far away. “Michael, who makes the shadows?” Michael looked down at her and smiled. “They’re the shadows of the people who lived in this castle,” he said. “It’s part of the magic.” “Then – it is enchanted! I felt there was something odd about it.” Michael was silent again and Lucy followed the direction of his eyes. He was watching the shadow of a young girl as it moved about. She seemed very beautiful and graceful. She wore long robes, with sleeves that fell to the floor, and her hair was long, hanging to her knees. She was walking back and forth and every once in a while, Lucy thought she held out her arms in their direction. “What does she want?” she whispered. “Is she trying to tell us something?” “She’s tired of waiting,” Michael said, “for the enchantment to be over. She gets very impatient sometimes. That is Gloria, the first princess who ever lived here. This castle was made for her.” “Was she a – Fairy Princess?” “Well, not at first. Would you like to hear about her?” “Oh, yes!” said Lucy. ↗
And as she looked at the pool she saw the waters gather up into a column, rushing up foaming and standing there before her startled eyes, and turn into the form of a man. Not a man, a god. So perfectly formed, so handsome, with such wisdom and desire in his eyes and such quiet joy on his lips. He was breathtakingly beautiful and Anne felt herself grow weak with some unnamable longing. His eyes met hers and caught her soul tight, and she could not look away as he read every thought in her mind. “Come,” he said to her in a voice like liquid silver, “I know your mind, and it is one with mine.” Anne could not speak, but she did not need to. Her eyebrows raised in question. He laughed, “Why to love, of course. ↗
This is what it means to be a fanatic - but a fanatic, that is to say, in a very special sense. It has little in common with the obsession of the politician or the artist, for instance, for both of these understand in a greater or lesser degree the impulse which drives them. But the sportsman fanatic - that is another matter entirely. His thoughts fixed solely on a vision of that mounted trophy against the wall, the eyes now dead that were once living, the tremulous nostrils stilled, the sensitive pricked ears closed to sound at the instant when the rifle shot echoed from the naked rocks, this man hunts his quarry through some instinct unknown even to himself. Stephen was a sportsman of this kind. It was not the skill needed that drove him, nor the delight and excitement of the stalk itself, but a desire, so I told myself, to destroy something beautiful and rare. Hence his obsession with chamois. ("The Chamois") ↗
The necklace, Marcos,” she said firmly, leveling the gun at his heart once more. “I’ll take it now.” “It’s not here, querida. You waste your time.” Francesca lowered the gun to point at his groin. “Killing you would be too good. Perhaps I will simply have to deprive the female world of your ability to make love ever again. I am quite a good shot, I assure you.” She’d learned out of necessity. And though she never wanted to harm another human being, she had no compunction about making this man think she would do so if it meant she could save Jacques. His voice dropped to a growl. A hateful, angry growl. “You won’t get away with this. Whoever you are, Frankie, I will find you. I will find you and make you wish you’d never met me.” Her heart flipped in her chest. She ignored it. “I already wish that. Now give me the jewel before you lose the ability to ever have children.” Bitterness twisted inside her as she said those words. Ironic to threaten someone with something she would never wish on another soul. But she had to be hard, cold, ruthless – just like he was. He stared at her in impotent fury, his jaw grinding, his beautiful black eyes flashing daggers at her. Very slowly, he reached up with one hand and slipped his bowtie free of its knot. Then he jerked it loose and let it fall. ↗
Suddenly, he wanted some credit for it. He wanted someone to thank him for not crapping on the institution of love. He wanted someone to thank him for not being yet another dilettante. He wanted someone to thank him for quitting poetry. He wanted some great poet to thank him for quitting poetry instead of desecrating it with his amateurishness. He wanted some unborn child to thank him for not conceiving her and not leaving her a hope chest full of mawkish villanelles. He wanted some sort of organization of martyrs to give him an award. He wanted to be decorated for not putting up a fuss. He wanted to be the president of forgettable people. He wanted there to be a competition for the least competitive person, and he wanted to win that competition. He wanted some sort of badge or outfit or medal or key or hat. He wanted to be asked to stand. He wanted to be considered. He wanted to be considered in earnest before being ignored. He wanted all the insane and beautiful and passionate people in the world to take one moment of silence in gratitude for the ones who had ceded them the stage-- he, the unread poet, the sacrifice, the schoolteacher-- he wanted one goddamned moment of appreciation. ↗
Jared was completely gone now, holding his stomach and laughing so hard that tears were running down his face. Matt turned on him and snapped, "It's not funny," which only made Jared laugh harder. "Any of you guys strict about top or bottom?" Angelo asked, "'Cause if so, you'll screw it all up-" "Literally," Cole said. "And we'll have to start all over." Angelo turned to Matt. "If you got a strong preference you better say so now." "Lay it all out, so to speak," Cole said. "On the table." Angelo said. "For all to see." "Zach does like to watch," Angelo said, winking at me, and I was relieved that with the direction the conversation was going, nobody took him seriously. "Then it's settled!" Cole said. "Who's going where with whom first? Zach, I think you're up." He winked at me. "Or you soon will be." "Oh dear God," Mat moaned, hanging his head. "I knew I shouldn't have come." "Don't worry about it a bit," Cole said. "I'm sure Zach can coax at least one more out of you." Jared laughed so hard, I was amazed he managed to stay in his chair. ↗
She might come in to bride-bed: and he laughed, As one that wist not well of wise love's craft, And bade all bridal things be as she would. Yet of his gentleness he gat not good; For clothed and covered with the nuptial dark Soft like a bride came Brangwain to King Mark, And to the queen came Tristram; and the night Fled, and ere danger of detective light From the king sleeping Brangwain slid away, And where had lain her handmaid Iseult lay. And the king waking saw beside his head That face yet passion-coloured, amorous red From lips not his, and all that strange hair shed Across the tissued pillows, fold on fold, Innumerable, incomparable, all gold, To fire men's eyes with wonder, and with love Men's hearts; so shone its flowering crown above The brows enwound with that imperial wreath, And framed with fragrant radiance round the face beneath. And the king marvelled, seeing with sudden start Her very glory, and said out of his heart; "What have I done of good for God to bless That all this he should give me, tress on tress, All this great wealth and wondrous? Was it this That in mine arms I had all night to kiss, And mix with me this beauty? this that seems More fair than heaven doth in some tired saint's dreams, Being part of that same heaven? yea, more, for he, Though loved of God so, yet but seems to see, But to me sinful such great grace is given That in mine hands I hold this part of heaven, Not to mine eyes lent merely. Doth God make Such things so godlike for man's mortal sake? Have I not sinned, that in this fleshly life Have made of her a mere man's very wife? ↗
