Read Online The Secret of the Emerald Sea by Heather Matthews - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Heather Matthews
Tags: Literary, Romance, Literature & Fiction, Fantasy, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Literary Fiction, Teen & Young Adult, Mythology & Folk Tales, Fairy Tales
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golden light, sunshine, and beauty. Jane was sure his eyes would be the gentlest amber brown under his dark, straight brows. His nose, so finely sculpted, was almost as pretty as his lips, with their Cupid’s bow and fresh, pink color.
His face was long, his head rectangular; his chin was square and chiseled, and his cheekbones were high. Suddenly, he smiled, and Jane was utterly lost. It was such a smile that even fair Venus might envy it. It was white and straight and so very genuine. It made his eyes glow and brought out tiny and charming lines at each side of his mouth.
He is exquisite , Jane thought, like living sculpture . In the lamplit twilight glow of the darkened theatre, he spoke quietly in a hushed voice:
“Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality overstays their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea?
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
Oh how shall summer’s honey breath hold out
Against the wrackful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout
Nor gates of steel so strong but time decays?
Oh fearful meditation! Where, alack,
Shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s chest lie hid back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
Or none, unless this miracle have might –
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.”
Jane was in ecstasy. He was reciting Shakespeare. The same beloved sonnets of her childhood that she had almost forgotten, or tried to forget!
Chapter Fourteen
This beautiful young man was saying the same words her mother had said, as she’d read to her tiny daughter so long ago. Jane had not understood so many things about the sonnets when she was a little child, but her mother had patiently explained some of the simpler meanings to her. She had dwelled most on the fear of the passage of time, and the desire to love forever, when they, themselves, were only mortal.
As the young man finished reciting, his words rang in Jane’s ears even as applause rained down on them all. Now, she saw the sonnets in another light. They were codes, perhaps, or a link between the other world her mother had known and the world they lived in together in their small village. The sonnets had been meant to reinforce Jane’s humanity , she was sure.
This sonnet was particularly special to her, for she had always loved nature imagery in poetry, and the idea of summer’s honey breath fighting the cold and miserable times to come was unbearably romantic to her.
She squeezed the Cupid, her eyes glittering in the darkness. She waited for the boy to continue his recitations, and she prayed there would be more, for this night was flooding her with memories both exquisite and painful beyond bearing. “He’s wonderful at reciting!” she gushed in the Cupid’s ear.
* * * *
The Cupid smiled back at her. He had never heard poetry before. He felt more like a true child in this moment. Perhaps the young man who spoke so truthfully and poignantly had disarmed him with beauty . He held tight to Jane, who should have been weary of carrying him by now, but she did not utter a single word of complaint.
The Cupid much preferred this part of the recital to the children’s infernal singing. In truth, he loathed the children of the village. Often, he was forced to play with them or else people would find it odd, and yet he had no desire to make cakes out of mud and fight with wooden soldiers and pull toy wagons!
That was wonderful , he thought, his heart stirring. He felt truly touched after the sonnet ended, and a tear came to his eye, for he had never heard such beautiful sentiments. They were bittersweet, yet joyous. He could not remember crying before. He had not thought he could.
“My name is Blake Stirling,” said the handsome young man who stood alone on the stage. The applause had died down now. “Some of you may remember me as the babe born to Lord and Lady Stirling sixteen years ago. I left the village when I was five
His face was long, his head rectangular; his chin was square and chiseled, and his cheekbones were high. Suddenly, he smiled, and Jane was utterly lost. It was such a smile that even fair Venus might envy it. It was white and straight and so very genuine. It made his eyes glow and brought out tiny and charming lines at each side of his mouth.
He is exquisite , Jane thought, like living sculpture . In the lamplit twilight glow of the darkened theatre, he spoke quietly in a hushed voice:
“Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality overstays their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea?
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
Oh how shall summer’s honey breath hold out
Against the wrackful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout
Nor gates of steel so strong but time decays?
Oh fearful meditation! Where, alack,
Shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s chest lie hid back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
Or none, unless this miracle have might –
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.”
Jane was in ecstasy. He was reciting Shakespeare. The same beloved sonnets of her childhood that she had almost forgotten, or tried to forget!
Chapter Fourteen
This beautiful young man was saying the same words her mother had said, as she’d read to her tiny daughter so long ago. Jane had not understood so many things about the sonnets when she was a little child, but her mother had patiently explained some of the simpler meanings to her. She had dwelled most on the fear of the passage of time, and the desire to love forever, when they, themselves, were only mortal.
As the young man finished reciting, his words rang in Jane’s ears even as applause rained down on them all. Now, she saw the sonnets in another light. They were codes, perhaps, or a link between the other world her mother had known and the world they lived in together in their small village. The sonnets had been meant to reinforce Jane’s humanity , she was sure.
This sonnet was particularly special to her, for she had always loved nature imagery in poetry, and the idea of summer’s honey breath fighting the cold and miserable times to come was unbearably romantic to her.
She squeezed the Cupid, her eyes glittering in the darkness. She waited for the boy to continue his recitations, and she prayed there would be more, for this night was flooding her with memories both exquisite and painful beyond bearing. “He’s wonderful at reciting!” she gushed in the Cupid’s ear.
* * * *
The Cupid smiled back at her. He had never heard poetry before. He felt more like a true child in this moment. Perhaps the young man who spoke so truthfully and poignantly had disarmed him with beauty . He held tight to Jane, who should have been weary of carrying him by now, but she did not utter a single word of complaint.
The Cupid much preferred this part of the recital to the children’s infernal singing. In truth, he loathed the children of the village. Often, he was forced to play with them or else people would find it odd, and yet he had no desire to make cakes out of mud and fight with wooden soldiers and pull toy wagons!
That was wonderful , he thought, his heart stirring. He felt truly touched after the sonnet ended, and a tear came to his eye, for he had never heard such beautiful sentiments. They were bittersweet, yet joyous. He could not remember crying before. He had not thought he could.
“My name is Blake Stirling,” said the handsome young man who stood alone on the stage. The applause had died down now. “Some of you may remember me as the babe born to Lord and Lady Stirling sixteen years ago. I left the village when I was five
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