Gallant

Olivia hurries after it, feet pounding across the rug, candle nearly guttering as she throws the door open onto shallow darkness. Though he never answers, her mother writes on as if he has, entry after entry full of strange, veiled terms of their courtship, of birds in cages, of starless skies, writing of his kindness and her love and fear, and then, at last, of Olivia. One step, and she half expects to feel some magic current, some errant breeze forcing her forward or buffeting her back, but the truth is, she feels nothing. The chill finally begins to ebb, leaving her breathless on the steps.