The 11th hour

Every day, I feel like I've taken the wrong route.

From the smallest of choices (a piece of Nutella toast- to eat or not to eat?), to ones that really weren't under my control (ought we to have moved back the US at all?)- every day I catch myself wondering if, unlike Frost, I'd made all the difference with the road I've taken, but not in the very positive manner his choice appeared to affect him. Doubts, confusions, and a nagging sense of 'this is wrong, this isn't what I want'- all this comes with the terrible, terrible memory of a choice.

The biggest one is probably the same that assails most people- what do I really want to do? What to do I really care about? One month ago, I was sure English Literature was the course I was cut out for, the path I wanted my life to follow. I'm not so sure anymore.

I've always prided myself on love for the 'environment', always spoken (more than a little boastful of my own perceived sensitivity) of the torments the human race inflicts on Gaia, and other poetic lines that conveyed the urgency and the supreme catastrophe the Earth seems to be heading towards. It's only when I watch documentaries, or read articles or books that really deal with the crises (various as they are) that threatens our globe that that seriousness of my own boasts hits me. And that's what I'm worried about now. What do I want to do?

I want to help. Not necessarily help people (I'm not a community person), but perhaps, indirectly. I want to be a part of the band that wants to make a difference to what's happening to the Earth, I want to help heal her, or get her on the road to recovery. Of course, I'm not impertinent enough to assume that Gaia can't take care of herself, but it's what I want to do: at least help her, in any way I can.

Marx once said that a problem only arises when the materials necessary for its solution already exist/are in the making. I never really enjoyed what I read of the man, but this is one reassuring thought that's stuck with me. Perhaps we can make a difference, all of us. Perhaps we can hope to make amends for what we've done, are still doing, to this planet.

I've rambled from where I began, something about choices. Well, as I see it, we're all suffering that indecision now. It's time to put regrets behind and pitch ourselves into the present. Carpe diem, as one of my teachers shouted exuberantly, often enough.

There's no reason I can't enjoy Milton and help stop deforestation at the same time. In fact, I think the two go hand in hand. Save the best of the past, but also, invest in the best of the future.

I sincerely hope Marx was right. But hey, so many people seem to think he was absolutly dead on in other things, mayhaps he's not so far off the mark here.

That, as Gandalf once said, is an encouraging thought.

My Last Duchess

My Last Duchess
(Ferrara)

Robert Browning
That's my last duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
That depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain drawn for you, but I) [10]
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much" or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough [20]
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart - how shall I say? - too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 't was all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace -all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech, [30]
Or blush,at least. She thanked men - good! but thanked
Somehow - I know not how - as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech - (which I have not) - to make your will
Quite clear to such a one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss
Or there exceed the mark"- and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set [40]
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse
- E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence [50]
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

There was no use. She had made up her mind to die.

Alfonso drew his silk-lined rabbit skin gloves over his hands, his eyes fixed on the lurid glow of the sunset above him. The clouds were still being scattered across the firmament, tugged around by the depleted remainders of the storm that had hit the land last night. The same winds played among the branches of the newly fuzzed pear and cherry trees, their sighing strangely soft and almost wistful compared to the gusto with which they had raged.

He paid hardly any attention to the beauty of his surroundings, though. Wrapped in his dark daydreams, they skirted the edges of his mind, unable to break through the bleak wall of resentment, rage and revenge that he had built up there. The faint cooing of the tame doves, the clip-clop of the white pony’s hooves on the paved paths below, the tinkling of the fountain as the water cascaded around the battling god and into its sculpted basin- none of these held any joy for him.

She occupied his thoughts completely.

‘My Lord?’

Alfonso turned his head at the voice. Imperious eyes lighting on the entrant, he frowned.

‘Yes, Giotto?’

The lad looked nervous, as well he might, coming into the presence of the Duke of Ferrara unannounced. ‘My Lord, Fra Pandolf sent me. He, he said to tell you that the portrait is complete.’

‘Is it now?’ Alfonso turned away, his eyes rising once more to the painted sky. ‘Very well, tell him I will meet him in the Blue Room.’

‘Yes my lord.’ The boy bowed to his back, and prepared to leave. When he was halfway to the balcony door, Alfonso stretched back an elegant hand. ‘A moment, Giotto.’

He could hear the stilling of footsteps. An expectant hush filled the air.
‘What did you think of the portrait?’

Giotto hesitated for a moment. Then, he responded. ‘It is a fine likeness, my lord.’

‘Indeed? How fine?’

The boy seemed to be struggling for an answer; Alfonso could tell without even turning around. Growing up in the court of Ferrara had taught him that much could be read of a person’s thoughts and feelings by paying close attention to their breathing. It was that knowledge that he called upon now, though the learning was so ingrained in him that it came almost by second nature.

‘How fine, boy?’

The note of harshness that he allowed to creep into his voice provided just the right prod for the dunce. ‘Very, very fine my Lord. In the portrait, she stands as if, as if she were alive.’

‘Is that so?’ Alfonso allowed a small smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. ‘You think Fra Pandolf has merited such commendations?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘I wonder why.’ The smile changed into a diabolic sneer. ‘I greatly wonder why.’

***
With a flourish, Pandolf whipped aside the cloth that hung over the canvas. Alfonso was momentarily stunned. The likeness was indeed remarkable.

‘What think you, sir?’

He blinked once, twice, to clear his mind of the maelstrom of emotions that had begun to rampage on the sight of her face. ‘It is what I paid you create.’

Fra Pandolf bowed respectfully, but couldn’t manage to keep a tiny smirk off his face. It was not every day that a young painter received even a modicum of praise from discerning patrons of art. The Duke of Ferrera was widely regarded as one of the most critical of connoisseurs to be found in any of the city states.

‘Thank you, sir. It has been an honor working for you.’

The sunlight glanced becomingly off the young man’s hair, setting the golden highlights within it aflame. His eyes were a clear, aquamarine blue, his hands strong and long fingered. Standing there, he seemed to mock the conventional image of the starved, bird limbed artist, scrabbling about on hands and knees for any pittance of a commission that might come his way. Even Alfonso, who had had many dealings with artists, had never seen one so healthy, so young and so confident as Pandolf.

Doubtless, the Duchess had noticed his beauty too.

‘Tell me Fra Pandolf, how did you enjoy the making of this marvel?’

The smirk was erased from his face, and Pandolf looked genuinely confused for a few moments. ‘I would hardly call it a marvel, sir.’ He answered, his face smooth once more.

‘I think you are being too modest.’ Alfonso smiled and reached for the decanter that stood on the table between them. ‘Sit down my friend. You have earned a rest from your labors.’

Pandolf sat, his hand stretching out to grasp the glass Alfonso extended to him. Lowering his eyes, Alfonso feigned intense concentration on his own wine, but watched avidly under his long lashes as Pandolf (stealing a quick glance at the Duke) sniffed cautiously around the rim. So the boy was suspicious. Suspicious that the master knew he had something to hide? Alfonso would have to play his cards correctly to see this through. He would have to call all his courtly skills to his service once again.

‘Was the Duchess a good sitter?’

The young man looked surprised at the question. ‘Why, yes sir. She hardly fidgeted at all.’

‘Indeed.’ Alfonso stroked his chin. ‘I would have thought her restless, not like to stay still for a long while.’

Pandolf shook his head with a laugh. ‘No, no sir. She was as quiet as a mouse, really.’

‘Hm.’ Alfonso strode from his chair to view the portrait. ‘That explains the faint rosy blush upon her cheeks I suppose.’

Pandolf’s hands shook imperceptibly as he raised the wine to his lips. When he had wet his mouth, the artist lowered the glass again and answered ‘Rosy, sir? That is the usual complexion of well bred ladies, I assumed.’

Alfonso gazed at the painting for a while longer, allowing the tension in the room to grow. ‘Tell me, Fra Pandolf,’ he said finally, ‘did the Duchess ever speak to you during your sessions?’

He turned around sharply, just in time to catch the flicker of fear that flashed across his face. ‘She did, yes. Sometimes.’

‘What did she speak of?’ Alfonso waved a hand to stop Pandolf’s splutters. ‘No, no, nothing is too small for me, Fra Pandolf. Tell me everything. I dearly love my wife, but she is extremely, shall I say, closemouthed with me. I wish to know whether she would speak to someone who is not her husband, not bound to her. Maybe, then, I would consider providing her a companion of some kind. She is lonely, do you think?’

The young man’s hands clenched and unclenched around his glass. ‘Sir, I think, she is.’

‘Ah. How did this come up in your conversation?’

‘I would ask her what she had been doing that day, before the sitting, and she would tell me. I’ve found it the best thing to do, in order to get that flush of life in a sitter’s face, to speak to them, to treat them as living beings and not mere objects to be painted. The eagerness with which she spoke, sir, it was a trifle…’

‘Trifle what, man?’

‘Sad.’ Pandolf finished rather lamely, and drained his glass. ‘It was sad.’

Alfonso looked down at his own untouched cup. ‘You think she needs company, then?’

Pandolf nodded. He looked questioningly at the decanter.

‘Drink, drink to your heart’s content. You have earned it.’

Filling his cup, Pandolf asked the pensive Duke, ‘Sir, do you think I have done wrong to speak to her?’

‘Why would I think that?’

Pandolf shrugged. ‘Many men are jealous of their wives. That was what I first thought, when you began to question me. I was afraid you harbored some suspicions about my conduct with your wife. I assure you sir, it was nothing less than perfectly honorable.’

Alfonso forced a laugh onto his face. ‘I did not suspect you, my friend. Why would I withhold any gratitude from you, who have given me this marvelous piece of work?’

The young artist blushed. ‘It is my best sir, I hope it stands for long years in your house.’

‘I am certain it will, my man.’ Alfonso downed the contents of his glass in a single gulp. Pandolf did the same, and laughed. Outside, the birds continued to shrill and twitter in the branches of the orchard trees, as they had done earlier that evening. There was one note in particular that irked the Duke, one plaintive voice that was raised slightly louder than all the cacophony that surrounded it. He yearned to throw something at the dratted bird that disturbed the peace of his wine so. Then again, he reflected, his grip tightening about the cup’s stem, perhaps the poor little winged thing could be excused. Perhaps it was just, what was the word he had used? - Lonely.

***
‘Send the Duchess to me.’

The serving man bowed and exited the room on silent feet. Turning to the window, Alfonso mentally rehearsed the lines he would greet her with, the confessions he would wring from her, and then finally…

‘My Lord? You sent for me?’

Alfonso glanced over his shoulder, and beheld his wife.

The Duchess was a small woman, barely reaching his shoulder even when she reared herself as straight as possible. Her skin was like translucent marble- pale but seeming to encase a great light within itself. Today her dark brown tresses had been pinned in elaborate coils at the top of her head and pierced through with jeweled clips. She smiled, pleased, as ever, to be near him.

Lonely. Yes, that is plausible.

‘Come here, Lucetta.’ He smiled and held out his arms to her. She stepped into his embrace and nuzzled close, encircling him with her arms. For a moment, Alfonso was content to hold her.

Then she began to hum and the illusion shattered.

‘Lucetta?’

‘Hm?’ Mid-bar, the Duchess looked up at her husband, her eyes curious.

‘Are you, lonely?’

Lucetta frowned. ‘Why do you ask, my lord?’

‘A little bird brought the news to me.’

‘A little bird?’ Lucetta stepped away, her eyes lighting in suspicion. Alfonso fancied he could see a tinge of guilt there as well. ‘Who has been telling you these things?’

‘It matters not. Just answer my query.’

‘Well, I have to admit, sometimes, when you are away…’

Alfonso cocked his head forward, the better to convince her of his interest.

‘…the days grow long.’

‘So you are lonely.’

‘It is only human to feel so, husband.’

‘Is it?’ He spun away from her, and looked out upon his balcony. ‘I wonder then, why I do not feel it?’

‘My Lord, you must be of a sterner constitution than I.’

‘What do you then, to abate this loneliness?’

He heard the faint rustle of her gown as she twitched it about in nervous hands. ‘I read, my Lord. And pray.’

‘Is that all?’

‘There is naught I can do, besides that.’

‘You do not speak to others then?’

When he looked at her, her brows had contracted, her eyes showing the faint stirrings of anger. ‘Of course I speak with others, my lord. The servants would not be able to get through a day’s routine smoothly if I did not chide them about their tasks. Donna Bianca is useless when it comes to managing household affairs. I have a good mind to rid this place of her.’

‘Do you consort with men in my absence, Lucetta?’

She flashed him a look of pure annoyance, which slowly subsided behind an ironic smile. ‘Of course I do, husband. That is, unless you consider Signor Angelo and his son female.’

The kitchen help and the gardener. Of course she would taunt him with mention of them. Could the woman not see that he was serious in his questioning?

‘You know what I mean, wife.’

‘Of course I do. And I have answered your question.’

He took a step forward, his fist rising. ‘Do you presume to mock me?’

‘Mock you?’ The duchess shrank back, but a trace of rebellion was yet burnt clear across her features. ‘My Lord, are you accusing me of being unfaithful to you?’

‘What else could produce this?’ he demanded, and in one clean, practiced sweep, he unveiled the blushing portrait.

‘Behold those cheeks, those sparkling eyes! Why does that harlot’s smile decorate your face, woman? Why should your face colour in the presence of any man but your husband?’

The Duchess gazed upon the picture for a long while, and then finally raised her eyes to her husband to answer. ‘It is a masterpiece. I trust you paid Fra Pandolf well.’

Alfonso could contain himself no longer. With a growl, he struck her backhanded across her face and she fell, gasping, to the cold floor. Slowly, she put up a hand to feel at her lip. It came away red.

‘Alfonso, what has come over you?’ her voice was pitched high, nearly hysterical with rage. ‘Has the storm whirled away your wits?’

‘Silence!’ he bellowed, and slapped her again. The sound rang and redounded off the stone walls, not even the old tapestries managed to muffle it. For a moment, he was shocked at his own violence, but that evaporated when she turned her face to him again.

‘What have I done to you?’

She presumed to ask! If she had been anyone but his wife, Alfonso would have admired her, admitted to her bravery and courage under fire. Not now, though.

‘What have you done? What have you done? You have dragged the name, the ancient name I have given you through the dirt! You have coupled, like a pagan witch, with lowborn, sweaty artists and gardeners in my bed! You have laughed behind my back, you are and your mongrel lover, and forced me to pay for this- the fruit of your debaucheries! You whore!’

The Duchess had risen by the time he yelled the last word, and she stood, calm and resolute. ‘Nothing will convince you that I have done no wrong.’

It was not a question, and Alfonso would not stoop to present her an answer she did not wish to hear, nor that he wished to give.

‘What would you have me do?’

He took a step forward, he was directly before her once again. He raised his hands slowly, and placed them gently, almost lovingly about her white neck. ‘I would have you give yourself to me, forever.’

A cold smile wreathed across the Duchess’ face. She stared into his eyes, silent.

And then spat into his face.

***
‘You have my condolences, sir.’

Alfonso sighed and nodded. The envoy watched him, unsure whether he had said the right thing or not. The Duke was known to be touchy when it came to his last wife, the one who had died in such mysterious circumstances. It had been given out that she taken a chill from the summer storms, and expired shortly after. Whispers, mostly from the servants’ quarters, hinted at something much darker.

‘She was a beautiful woman, my friend. There are not many like to her.’

‘I am sure, sir. It is a great loss.’

‘Would you like to see her?’

The envoy was taken aback, momentarily. ‘It, it would be an honor sir.’

‘Come with me.’

Wending his way almost unconsciously through the passages, Alfonso allowed his mind to wander towards an anticipation of what was to come. The moment when he stood before her, the corner of the cloth grasped in his hand, what power seemed to reside in him then. His very existence seemed attuned to it.

‘Here we are.’

A sweep, and there she stood. He turned to judge the man’s reaction. He looked entranced, and well he might. She was certainly a beauty, the earnest glance struck right to the heart of the beholder. A smile curled about his lips. Ensnaring beholders even in death, the harlotry hadn’t been put aside. She must certainly be burning in hell.

‘This is her, sir?’

Alfonso nodded. ‘That is her, man. That’s my last Duchess.’

***

Something I wrote two, three years ago. Now that I look at it it's wishy washy and could be improved. And priorities have changed. Still, it's a good index of my literary achievements (or lack thereof!)



The rain whistled through the gaps in the windows, dotting the clean white bedspread that lay over the tiny cot. Adrian watched with a tiny smile on his lips, as the drops appeared with increasing frequency on the sheet he had labored so hard to clean. Putting a hand out, he let it get wet. The sensation of the cold water trickling down his callused fingers calmed him.

He sighed and drew his hand back, wiping it briefly on his shirt before turning back to the scarred wood desk with its scattering of papers. Lowering himself onto the rickety chair, he pulled the nearest sheet towards himself and scanned it tiredly. A few small errors came to his notice; he corrected them with casual indifference. After all, this was only his hobby. It wasn’t like his life depended on it.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor in a corner of the room, the Muse smiled.

Adrian’s tired eyes stopped in their unenthusiastic perusal of the paper. What was this? Suddenly he felt re-energized, re-vitalized, refreshed. Creative energy, such as he had never felt before was coursing through his veins. He knew this was the inspiration he had been waiting for. He knew this was the right, no, the perfect moment to begin his masterpiece prize-winning novel.

Casting aside the half covered paper, Adrian hastily grasped a fresh sheet. He raised his pen over it and paused. Words, phrases, ideas, were all pounding away inside his head. Which one should he unleash first?

Over in her corner, the Muse played a game of dice. She waited as the cubes spun, her green eyes never leaving their whirling surfaces. Finally, they stopped. Her eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. Double sixes stared back at her.

His pen darted across the paper. Sweat beaded on his brow as he strove to get the words out as fast as he thought them. His hand muscles tensed and flexed, visibly knotting under his skin; he paid them no attention. All he was conscious of was the motion of the pen in his hand and the ideas and images rushing through his mind.

The rain continued to lash the window.

The Muse had closed her eyes. She appeared to be meditating. Her wrists rested on her knees, her hands hung loosely, palms facing downward. The black waves of her hair rippled slightly in the occasional breeze that gusted through the gaps in the window.

Adrian scribbled away, wholly absorbed in his work. In the course of three minutes, his untidy scrawl had filled a whole page. Once he looked up from his labors, only to glance at the clock ticking on the wall before him. After that time check, his eyes had not strayed from the manuscript again.

Lightning flashed outside.

The Muse opened her eyes. She gazed straight ahead at Adrian. Lifting one hand, she smoothed away a few stray strands of hair that had blown into her face.

The spell was broken, for the time being. He leant back in his chair, panting slightly, as though he had just walked a great distance with no water to hand. Which he had, in a way. His brain felt as though it had run a ten-mile race, and his hand was numb. With some difficulty, he pried his curling fingers from around the sweaty pen. He closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts for the next onslaught on the paper.

The Muse sat calmly, watching him, judging him. Was he ready? Ready to bear the burden of inspiration? Ready to sacrifice his time, his patience, his social life, and shut himself into the fulfillment of that inspiration? The test was yet to come.

Adrian opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the paper that lay before him, only half filled. The empty space seemed to beckon him; it longed to be covered, it longed to be clothed in his script. He sat there for a while, doing nothing but stare at the sheet. Then his hand reached, trembling, for the pen. To begin his second attack.

The green eyes of the Muse darted to the room door. Yes. It was time.

A knock sounded on the door, startling Adrian and making him drop the pen. He blinked in consternation for a few moments, then rose from his seat and crossed the space of empty flooring to the door. Reaching for the doorknob, he pulled it open.

His eyes widened when he saw who it was.

A young woman stood there, one hand still raised as if to knock. She was swathed neck downwards in a long brown coat; black leather gloves covered her hands. Her black hair was loose; it fell about her shoulders in a tousled way. Thick lashes shaded brown eyes, and two shapely eyebrows arched above them. Her lips curled upwards in a smile when she saw him.

“Adrian! Finally!” she threw her arms around him, almost knocking him off balance.

“M-Maria?” What was she doing there? It been two whole years- no, wait! - Three whole years since they had parted in hatred, each vowing to never speak to the other again. He had often thought about her, missed her even, and regretted nearly every day the many harsh words they had exchanged. But for the past few days he had been fairly successful in pushing away those painful memories. Why had she suddenly decided to come again?

The Muse folded her arms. She was prepared to wait for the results, no matter how long they took in the coming.

Maria stepped back from him and peered intently into his eyes. But she said nothing.

He decided it was up to him to speak. “What brings you here?”

She smiled, a trifle sadly. “I came because…because…” she stopped, and seemed unable to go on.

“Because?”

Drawing a deep breath, she closed her eyes and continued. “Because I realised I still have feelings for you. I decided I wanted to work things out. Truth is, I’ve missed you Adrian.” She opened her eyes now, and looked straight into his. “Please, if it’s possible, let’s work things out?”

She hadn’t said it, but he understood that she meant the time was now or never, that unless he seized this chance, they could never again contemplate the idea of restarting their relationship.

Lifting a hand, the Muse pointed a slender finger at Adrian.

Ideas burst in his head like fireworks, the desire to write them down, to record them on paper, to further his begun novel bubbled like molten lava through his veins. It was a stroke of inspiration crueler than the first one. His eyes were torn from Maria to the abandoned pen and paper lying on his untidy desk. Almost before he knew it, he was halfway to it, his hand already outstretched for the pen.

“Adrian?”

Maria’s voice halted him. His hand fell to his side; his raised foot was lowered. He stood between them- desk and door, woman and pen, Fame and a Second Chance. Which should he choose? He knew intuitively that if he chose one he would lose the other forever. Maria, or the novel? He knew that unless he utilized the inspiration racing through him immediately, he would never produce his dream novel. He knew that unless he walked away from that desk with her, would lose all chances of working things out. Which should he choose?

The Muse rattled the dice in her cupped hands. Closing her eyes, she cast them onto the floor. They spun, whirled, the numbers flashed before her green eyes. Thunder rumbled outside. Finally, they settled. Two ones stared silently up at her.

Adrian decided.


Seven years later…

The Muse stood on the wide windowsill, looking down at the middle-aged man who sat at the desk before her. He had changed little with the years, perhaps his hair showed a few gray strands and his forehead a few faint lines, but that was all. He was bent over a sheaf of papers, reading them with a curious expression of loss on his face.

The door opened, and a smiling woman entered. She too, had barely changed; maybe she was a little plumper. She stole across to the man and tapped his back. He turned, and seeing whom it was, smiled.

“So you’re finally back. How was school?”

The woman laughed. “According to your daughter, wonderful. Apparently the class was treated to cookies today.”

“Oh?” the man laughed too, and stood up from his desk. “And where is my little cookie monster?”

“Here Daddy!” a small, lithe figure dressed in a pinafore came bounding into the room, her small bag still dangling from her shoulders. With a huge smile, she jumped into her father’s waiting arms.

“I thought you were supposed to remove the bag when you come home?” the woman asked with a slight frown.

“Now, now Maria. Let’s forget it for now, shall we? It’s not harming her is it?”

Maria shrugged, and then smiled abruptly. “Oh well, you’re right. But I just hope she remembers next time, we have to have some more discipline in this house.” The man just rolled his eyes. Maria laughed at his expression. “All right, all right, no lectures for now.” She walked to the door, and then turned back to him. “Come down. There’s cookies and milk for everyone!”

“More cookies!” the little girl squeaked. “Let’s go Daddy!”

Laughing, Maria walked out.

The man took slow steps, and once he reached the doorway, turned around to face his desk once more. There sat his stack of papers, the fine beginning of his novel. For a moment, the old desire to write, to win fame, came over him again. Almost he forgot the little girl in his arms. Almost he thought he could see a slender figure silhouetted against the light curtains, watching him.

“Come on Daddy, let’s go!”

He blinked. Then smiled. He had almost lost himself in a dream! Chuckling, he turned away from the desk and carefully shut the door.

The Muse turned from the empty room. With a little sigh she sprang from the sill, into the open air. As she drifted from the house, letting the wind take her to her next visit, only one thought ran through her head.

Adrian had chosen well.