"You're more poet than anything." I folded my arms and glared at Ian. He sat perched on the edge of the roof, dressed like an adventurer. I coveted every part of his outfit -- the breezy shirt made of course cloth, the sturdy breeches, the leather boots that laced up to his calves, the dagger on his hip. Tomorrow he would set sail to a life I craved more than anything. But did he appreciate his opportunities? No. And I hated him for it. "Do you despise poets, Ingrid?" His voice was sad, but a grin twisted at the corners of his mouth as he finished his question. Those blue eyes of his cut in my direction with a teasing flash. "They don't DO anything." My thoughts and emotions ran in torrents, but I could see his flowing smoothly and quietly. Even in his uneasiness about the morrow, his face was a peaceful as a child falling asleep in his own bed. ...

Good girl! Make them work for it.
ReplyDeleteJanie, you comment pretty often on here! I think I first found this blog from Taking Dictation and was surprised to see my Aunt had commented on it.
DeleteYes, and I'm always awed and humbled and delighted whenever I see her comments. She is an amazing writer.
DeleteAh, Janie! You are one of only 2 or 3 people who have any idea what is going on. :D :D :D
ReplyDelete