“If you were to marry, who would you choose?”

The question seemed to appear from nowhere. It was quick, treated with such an impermanence it seemed to float away with the wind, like a question pulled randomly from a hat. You had paused, given a small “uhm,” but had not answered. He did not seem to want to hear, the curiosity passing as quickly as it came with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Marriage talk was uncommon within the Ministry. The joyful little couple stayed together without so much formality, for the abbey was closely knit, and they would still see each other daily without such obligations that came with a wedding or marriage. Only those in the higher Clergy found themselves with the task of marriage and children as an unshakeable obligation, so why did he ask you? A perfect lady in his eyes, as you kneel in the garden to help the older pan bury the roots of his roses, but not a woman of the Clergy.

You echoed his question only days later. “If you had to choose someone to marry, who would you choose? ”Knelt in the violets, hair down around your cheeks. His heart ached.

He approached you from behind, taking that very hair in his hand and wrapping it around his wrinkled fingers. He did not tug, only held, as he looked down at you, considering. He pondered those fluttering lashes, that chest that moved faster now, in breaths in and out.

“The only woman I know, without regard to my mother,” he said, giving a gentle smile. “I would have to pick you, dolce rosa.” Satanas, why did you look like you wanted to cry? His hand reached around, thumb brushing firmly over your cheek and then your lips. “I wouldn’t hurt you. You’d be in my every portrait; half of all my worth would become yours.” You shivered, and he sighed.

“If you say no, I will be disappointed, but I will not force you.” He exhaled slowly, deeply. His breath was faintly of tobacco and chamomile. “Tell me yes, o bellezza del giardino.”