Appreciation of the Soul
Watching the room on the arm of my husband, I look, calmly at first, then more frantically, for faces that are neither miserable nor unfriendly and my eyes alight on the third of my most recent companions. Standing close enough to Albemarle that I can feign interest in her and her family's movements around the room rather than his my eyes follow the curve of her lip, the bust of her gown, the way the light touches her skin. The pride in her bearing puts me to shame, and I wonder whether she and Zainab have spoken since Zainab returned.
They arrived separately, but it could mean anything - her brother had arrived with his fiancée, after all.
As I watch, for just a moment my eyes hang on hers, then follow the line of her gaze to Zainab. She bites her lip in thought just slightly and I suddenly have to hold back the urge to take her arm and invite a waltz around the room.
For all that rumour says she is untameable, for the times Nelson has spoken of how well her family has done to raise such a headstrong, powerful woman, she seems the sort to be in desperate need of affection - something that right now I can understand.
For a moment I contemplate Albemarle once more - they didn't sleep well, and I can see it in the darkness under their eyes but there is nothing I can do presently - to keep searching would be to accept madness.
Amelia, though. I have only known her recently, but in no way have I known her. A flash in my mind takes me back to the day we saw her prowess with the bow and arrow. I know how strong she is - the musculature in her arms, her stance now, the way her gown falls at the back as it curves down...
My lips part as the image of hers gently pressed to mine becomes more urgent, a hand reaching to stroke a face, my eyes given the freedom to caress away any uncertainty in her countenance. Where Albemarle brings out my passion, and Zainab my arousal, Amelia...Amelia brings out my care. With her I would want to prove that the tiny scar I saw on her ankle was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. While I worship my lord, I would give devotions to my lady, light a flame in her core from that same scar - the beginning of all - and warm her heart by adoring her body and adorning it with my own. My lips would be sure to tenderly awaken every inch of her to the fact that the body I devote my ministrations to, the body I pay homage to: her body and soul are worthy of every drawn, held, gasped second we spend. Spent, together. Of crucial importance to me it is that she, and she alone, for no more reason than who she is, knows she matters.
The moment passes, a word is spoken, my body tense, held. How is it that I am in the arms of one who is not any of the three about whom I dream?
