She resembled her sister: fair skin, blue eyes, rose-petal lips, and all that stunning flaxen hair. But the fire within her—that mighty conflagration that Roland had adored in Rosaline—was a dying ember in Celia.
Still, Roland was riveted, unable to make the slightest move. If Celia swept out through the window and onto the balcony, as she looked like she was about to do, Roland would be caught.
“Sister?”
That voice—like a stringed instrument, only richer. Rosaline!
For a fraction of a second, Roland saw a shadow in the doorway, and then: the clean, graceful profile of the only girl he’d ever loved. His heart stopped. He could not breathe. He wanted to cry out her name, to reach for her—
But his sweating palms betrayed him and his grip faltered. For several eternal seconds, Roland felt like he was hovering in the air—and then he plummeted six long stories to the muddy ground.
A memory:
The open doors of a dilapidated barn.
Roland recognized it as the rickety structure on the northeast corner of the castle grounds. The sun swept past the doorway at about six o’clock on summer evenings, so Roland guessed by the golden light on the hay that it was nearly seven. Nearly suppertime—or the ever-too-brief stretch when Roland could persuade Rosaline to steal a few moments alone with him.
Through the wide wooden doors he saw twosilhouettes huddled in a dark back corner. There, between the chicken feed and a rusty pile of sickles, Roland saw his earlier self.
He barely recognized the boy he’d been. They were one and the same, and yet something made this boy actually look young. Hopeful. Unspoiled. His woolen tunic hugged his body, and his eyes were as bright as a newborn filly’s.
She
did that to him—stripped away millennia spent toiling on Earth, his entire existence in Heaven, and the weighty Fall afterward.
He might have been experienced at war, at rebellion against the divine, but when it came to romance, Roland’s heart had been the heart of a child.
He sat on a three-legged wooden stool and gazed—so earnestly it embarrassed him to recall it—at the gorgeous blond-haired girl before him.
Rosaline reclined on her side in the hay, oblivious to the thistles that clung to her satin gown. Her hair had a luster that was lovelier even than he remembered, and her skin was as smooth and bright as fresh-skimmed cream. Her downward gaze meant that all Roland could see of her fair blue eyes was the soft curtain of lashes drifting over them. In those days, her full lips had two expressions: the pout they clung to now and the brief gift of a smile she sometimes bestowed on Roland. Both were desirable. Both did strange things to him.
She shifted in the hay, feigning boredom but feigningit poorly. She was transfixed by his every movement, he could see that now.
“I do have one more trifle. Should my lady like to hear it?” his past self said.
Roland recalled the eager tilting of his past self’s chin and burned with shame. Now he remembered why she had taken so much convincing to agree to meet him in the barn.
All he did was assault her with bad poetry.
The boy on the stool did not wait—he clearly
could
not wait—for Rosaline’s ladylike groan. And when Roland launched into his gruesome verse, no one would ever have guessed that this failed sonneteer had once been the Angel of Music.
“Snowy peaks are sub-sublime
,
Compared to dazzling Rosaline
.
Soft-eyed kittens are unkind
,
In the lap of Rosaline
.
As a poem’s made of lines
,
So am I of Rosaline
.
They that toil to sheaf and bind
,
Then to cart with Rosaline
.
As the nut transcends the rind
,
Such a nut is Rosaline
.
He that mysteries would find
,
First must eyeball Rosaline.”
At the end, Roland looked up to see Rosaline’s face pinched into a frown. He remembered it now, struggled to endure it a second time, and
Still, Roland was riveted, unable to make the slightest move. If Celia swept out through the window and onto the balcony, as she looked like she was about to do, Roland would be caught.
“Sister?”
That voice—like a stringed instrument, only richer. Rosaline!
For a fraction of a second, Roland saw a shadow in the doorway, and then: the clean, graceful profile of the only girl he’d ever loved. His heart stopped. He could not breathe. He wanted to cry out her name, to reach for her—
But his sweating palms betrayed him and his grip faltered. For several eternal seconds, Roland felt like he was hovering in the air—and then he plummeted six long stories to the muddy ground.
A memory:
The open doors of a dilapidated barn.
Roland recognized it as the rickety structure on the northeast corner of the castle grounds. The sun swept past the doorway at about six o’clock on summer evenings, so Roland guessed by the golden light on the hay that it was nearly seven. Nearly suppertime—or the ever-too-brief stretch when Roland could persuade Rosaline to steal a few moments alone with him.
Through the wide wooden doors he saw twosilhouettes huddled in a dark back corner. There, between the chicken feed and a rusty pile of sickles, Roland saw his earlier self.
He barely recognized the boy he’d been. They were one and the same, and yet something made this boy actually look young. Hopeful. Unspoiled. His woolen tunic hugged his body, and his eyes were as bright as a newborn filly’s.
She
did that to him—stripped away millennia spent toiling on Earth, his entire existence in Heaven, and the weighty Fall afterward.
He might have been experienced at war, at rebellion against the divine, but when it came to romance, Roland’s heart had been the heart of a child.
He sat on a three-legged wooden stool and gazed—so earnestly it embarrassed him to recall it—at the gorgeous blond-haired girl before him.
Rosaline reclined on her side in the hay, oblivious to the thistles that clung to her satin gown. Her hair had a luster that was lovelier even than he remembered, and her skin was as smooth and bright as fresh-skimmed cream. Her downward gaze meant that all Roland could see of her fair blue eyes was the soft curtain of lashes drifting over them. In those days, her full lips had two expressions: the pout they clung to now and the brief gift of a smile she sometimes bestowed on Roland. Both were desirable. Both did strange things to him.
She shifted in the hay, feigning boredom but feigningit poorly. She was transfixed by his every movement, he could see that now.
“I do have one more trifle. Should my lady like to hear it?” his past self said.
Roland recalled the eager tilting of his past self’s chin and burned with shame. Now he remembered why she had taken so much convincing to agree to meet him in the barn.
All he did was assault her with bad poetry.
The boy on the stool did not wait—he clearly
could
not wait—for Rosaline’s ladylike groan. And when Roland launched into his gruesome verse, no one would ever have guessed that this failed sonneteer had once been the Angel of Music.
“Snowy peaks are sub-sublime
,
Compared to dazzling Rosaline
.
Soft-eyed kittens are unkind
,
In the lap of Rosaline
.
As a poem’s made of lines
,
So am I of Rosaline
.
They that toil to sheaf and bind
,
Then to cart with Rosaline
.
As the nut transcends the rind
,
Such a nut is Rosaline
.
He that mysteries would find
,
First must eyeball Rosaline.”
At the end, Roland looked up to see Rosaline’s face pinched into a frown. He remembered it now, struggled to endure it a second time, and
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