Re: Vauxhall Gardens
"Is this why you came? You do not seem a man to flee myths." But she knows little of men. She knows little indeed, and you aren't really to know a man until vows have been exchanged. The one she truly knew, and she assumes she knew him well, she does not remember. Like dirt on a coffin, he is a whisper in her mind, a thing made of little substance and much unfounded certainty. But she believes herself wise, this girl raised upon seashells and in ballrooms. "Are they very frightening myths?" She asks it not with the titillation of drawing rooms and lips hid behind hands held between smooth fingers that do not know labor. She asks like a curious little starling, one outgrown her cage and not yet with the surety to fly.
She sees not his twitch of fingers. She walks close, begins moving again in her virginal vestments, and she leads him out beyond the glass confines of the hothouse, unintentionally away from the posy he regarded. She does not know to look for the twitch of his fingers, and she does not remember if her foreign suitor's fingers twitched. Her husband's fingers did not once twitch.
She listens to his tale with only a hint of new pallor in already pale cheeks. "Have you spoken with the other? The creature, were they real? I've no idea how to tell what was real. If the boy accompanying me into the church was, then was the rest real also?" She asks it lost, and it's a result of her class and upbringing, that she looks to him as if he has answers she could not possibly fathom in her tiny and female mind.