Francesca sat on the floor brooding. All her sonnets were so dark of late. She'd gotten up earlier than usual to have some quiet time. Her work was spread out around her on the floor.

The rug was getting worn, she noticed. She picked at the fraying edge, Keeping her fingers away from the cold stone floor. The morning light streamed in from the side windows. The windows facing the street had been permanently shuttered years before. Her front room was really a collection of the kitchen, dining room, and parlor, all open to each other. Only her bedroom, and the guest room she'd converted to a library, were closed off.

Life was supposed to be good. Minghella had just moved in the week before. She loved his calm presence and the way he made her feel more like a lady. A strong, older, grounded man was exactly what she thought she needed. And yet the sonnets continued their dark flow. It was like bleeding onto the paper. She reviewed the last week's work one more time, and filed it all away. She would cull it in a few months.

Minghella emerged from the bedchamber, wrapped up in his robe, and sank tiredly onto the chair across from her. "Why don't you write at the desk?" he asked. She grinned at him, and stood.

"The desk is for letter writing. I can't... make anything come to me there," she explained.

"You should try. Your work could stand more organization," he suggested. She blinked. "I'm not being critical, Francesca. I'm trying to help you. I don't know how you can keep anything straight surrounded by such a confusion of papers."

"It's how I have always worked, Khelly," she shrugged.

He stretched. "So, you have no theatre work today, and neither do I. You should make breakfast."

"On the fire?" she asked, horrified.

"Usually," he laughed, and shook his head. "You don't know how to cook. I should have realized that. I don't either. How will we survive?"

"The same way we did before, I suppose," she smiled. "I don't usually eat..." she began, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. She sighed, thinking it was the Marquessa. "She would drop by on our first full day together," she muttered, walked to the door, and opened it.

She founded herself confronted on the doorstep by a slender youth of about thirteen, dressed in the velvet suit of a page boy. He had a cap of smooth auburn hair and a page boy's cap set at a jaunty angle. As soon as she opened the door, he gave a low bow.

"M'selle Didias? I bring a message from my mistress, the Countess Rodkonski."

He straightened, and she saw he was a rather pretty boy, with eyes that were - disconcertingly - Rodkonski blue (there had been a great many stories about the old Count, Emilia's father, and his wicked ways with female servants).

Francesca smiled at him. "Wonderful! Well, come on in here. I'd rather the entire street not know my business."

She held the door open and let him in.

"Who is this?" Minghella asked, annoyed.

"A messenger from a new friend of mine," Francesca smiled at his crankiness. "Is this a written message, or will you be telling me, sir?" she asked the messenger.

"Oh, it's written," the boy assured her. He was looking around, seemingly both nervous and curious. When he saw Minghella he even looked startled, as though he were not accustomed to finding men in a lady's room, and then he bowed again swiftly. This time when he straightened, he drew a folded piece of paper from his jacket. Carefully folded and sealed, it was nevertheless a strange piece of paper for a letter, being crossed in the fashion of a
school exercise book. It had, however, been carefully folded and bore the impressive Rodkonski shield.

"Here it is," the boy said, a little unnecessarily, as he handed it over.

She took it with a quiet, "Thank you. I'd offer you a snack, but... well, I don't usually eat here." She glanced quickly at Minghella and carefully opened the letter. "I'd offer you a drink, but I don't think your... employer would appreciate it the kinds of drinks I have entering your person. But if you want to move those books, you can sit over there," she smiled, pointing to the love seat.

She focused then on reading what the Grafin had to say.

The boy walked across and moved the books carefully, almost reverentially, then took the seat, as prim and proper as a choirboy.

The note read,

"Dearest Mademoiselle Didias,

Thank you so much for agreeing to answer all our questions. When I told everyone here that I had met you and M.Vilaveic, they were quite wild with jealousy! And they all had heaps of things they wanted to ask ... but we agreed that it would be too bad of us to abuse your kindness - so in the end there are only three, which everyone agreed were the best (we had a proper vote). And then everyone said I could ask one more just for myself - because I had organized the whole thing.

By the way, you can trust Robin (who brings this note) totally. He is utterly devoted to our house, and is happy to run errands for me when he can (which isn't very often, I fear because they make him work very hard - although they are not cruel to him).

Now for the questions ...

In Lost Dreams of Alazan, Violetta tells Ernestino at the end that they must be sundered beyond worlds and time - but do you really, really think they could never, never be together again? Or could they one day, if he husband and her children were to die in a terrible accident? (Which would be desperately sad, of course ... )

***Francesca laughed out loud at this. "Good lord," she smiled.

Is Celestino based on a real person? Some of us think he is one of the Princes of Amber; some say Prince Merlin, and some say Prince Martin.

***That earned a snort.

Robin looked a little worried, before cautiously relaxing again.

And who is your favourite author of all time?

***"Ewww..."

Now for my question ... Do you believe that love can flourish between two people of widely different social ranks, as it does between Prince Ovidine and Serphana in The Bright Shield of Morning? Or is it always doomed?

Yours very very sincerely

Emilia Rodkonski."

"Will you wait for a reply?" Francesca asked Robin.

The boy nodded vigorously.

"If you would be so good," he said. "But ... I can't wait too long," he added, with a touch of anxiety.

She nodded. "Yes, I know. I will scribble fast."

She sat down at the desk and sharpened a quill.

"To the Grafin Rodkonski, and all the ladies at the Convent of the Unicorn,

Greetings my fellows. I was very happy to receive your letter. I appreciate that you have voted your questions down to three for the purposes of expediency. Since answers often bring more questions I will entertain more, of course, but such brevity is always best.

Violetta and Ernestino. What you must remember is that E is a man raised to adore the pure innocence of a creature like V. He loves her now, to the depths of his soul, but in the end she has married and given herself to another. He can never change that. She can never be his alone again. Even were her family to perish in some dramatic fashion, she would no longer be the girl he loved. She has had a husband and babies and such things change a woman. Would she deep down not be bitter at him for not finding some way, some miracle to save her from her fate? Would he ever be able to touch her and not know that she left him to marry another? That she bore another man children? And if they could overcome such thoughts, they would have to find each other again, and it is rare enough for love to meet the first time, much less for the same bodies containing two very changed souls to find it a second time. Beside which, V would not want him to have what is 'left' of her. She would want him to remember who she was.

Celestino is based on a real person, who shall remain nameless. I will tell you I have never met any of the Princes from Amber, so to base someone on any of them would be pure guesswork. If I were to try that, I would likely use Prince Brand. He is by far their most tragic figure - among the men. And he is dead, and less likely to come after me for it.

You ladies ask who my favourite author of all time is. I do not have one. I have near forty, and the list changes every few years, if not every month. I read a great deal. It feeds writing, I think, to read.

Well, if I had to pick one I would say it is Alicia Robard, and it is unlikely any of you have heard of her or could gain access to her work. I am hardly the first woman ever published in Begma - society just likes to pretend so.

And Emilia... what a question. I will call nothing impossible, and so I will not say that love is always =doomed= between persons of widely different social ranks. My personal experience is that any vast difference in the upbringing of people - whether that be the society they move in, the beliefs they harbor about a God, their ethnicity, or any such division - will lead to great difficulties within a relationship. Outside pressures can easily crush a love new or old, and that is under normal circumstances. When outside pressures are battering against love it is much harder to hold it together, much less see it flourish.

That said... there are people who are able to eat, drink, and breathe off the love they have found. There are examples of this in our own history (Prince Vlad giving up his titles and rights to marry Merelda, for example, a century ago,) but they are always accompanied by great sacrifice. Imagine what it was for a man to walk away from the only world he'd ever known, with nothing, to marry a common girl who also had nothing. As a well educated man who had made many friends, he got them by, but many shunned them. They called him a traitor. They called her worse. So... if love is the most important thing, and perhaps it even is, and nothing else matters... yes, it can happen. It is just very rare, I think, and painful."

Francesca stopped writing to wipe off her face. She hadn't realized she was crying until a drop hit the corner of the page. She took a deep breath and continued.

"I will send this off with this beautiful boy who sits so nicely in my parlour."

Struck out was: "It might be best" and "I'm not sure."

"Take good care, all of you. I wish you all the best I can,

Francesca."

She folded the letter quickly, and sealed it with red wax and a stamp bearing her stylized initials. She went over and sat down next to Robin. "You seem aware you are on something of a secret mission," she smiled.

Robin nodded, his young face serious.

"Your mistress needs take more care. It is not only nuns she needs to worry about. She risks the Queen's displeasure by even admiring me. Make her aware of that, if you value her."

Robin's eyes widened, and his jaw dropped slightly.

"Had she gone through her Uncle, this would have been safer for her. She has chosen to be resourceful, and while I applaud that, I do not want her hurt. She must take great care with this letter, and she should consider if she is to write to me again putting the burden on her Uncle, who is more able to shoulder what punishment might come of it. Please, tell her this, Robin."

"Yes," said the boy, sounding stunned. "Oh ... oh yes, Ma'am, I shall."

She handed him the letter. "Bide there a moment more."

She dug around through jars in the 'kitchen' to find some coins for him, and a piece of jewellery. She came back and gave Robin the coins, and showed him the pin. It was not worth anything much, a simple, stylized peacock, painted onto a piece of shaped pewter. "Give the Grafin this, and tell her it inspired The Lady of the Waterfall. He just looked so sad."

He took it in his hands, staring down at it, almost in awe.

"This inspired that lovely poem? But I shouldn't ... take it to her. She will say I shouldn't, Ma'am. She'd want you to keep it, I am sure."

Francesca smiled. "She can keep it for me. Until such time as we can meet publicly without it bringing her ill - then she can give it back to me. Beside, tell her I can't wear it out. It's too plain. And if I kept every little thing that inspired me I'd need the grand library."

She tousled his hair. "Really. Tell her time was running and I gave you no choice, for that is exactly what I'm going to do. And the longer you stay here, the greater chance there is someone will think something is amiss."

He shied away from her hand as though he had an aversion to being touched - or perhaps it was just that he was at an awkward age when the boy is on the cusp of becoming the man, and he was very chary of his own dignity. But he was grinning a little as he sketched her a bow.

"I know, Ma'am. But I'll deliver this safely to the Countess - I promise! And for the future she will use her Uncle as go-between. Well, I'll tell her to."

He bowed again to Minghella, once more to Francesca and then made his way to the door.

She opened the door, thanked him, and watched him go. When she came back inside, Minghella was standing.

"That was a bit over-dramatic, don't you think? 'If you value her'?" he grinned.

"I'm a dramatist, Khelly," she shrugged with a little grin, "and far be it from me to deny a boy a real adventure."

"Except that you believe it, that simple association with you is suddenly a black mark. Why is that?" he asked, losing his amusement.

"Their Majesties do not like my work. The Count Odelinski told me so. If anything I have pushed the line even more since he informed me of this. You are well aware of the nature of what I present, even if you refuse to direct it. And... I have a suspicion that the Queen may have favoured my first 'love' rather highly. But I've no evidence of that, beyond his ability to get out of the scrape that was our affair with so little pain, on his part."

She paused and looked into his eyes for signs of retreat. Seeing none, she crossed toward the bedroom. "So... are we going out to break fast or are you moving back out?"

He sighed. "I am thought so inconstant as that?"

"We only began speaking two weeks ago," she pointed out. He laughed and followed her.

"We're going to breakfast," he reassured her.

Jointly written by Mel and Liz

Begma :: Nickolai :: Emilia :: A Ride in the Park ::
The Go-Between :: A Grand Affair

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Copyright © Dana Lea Moore, all rights reserved.