“Fine,” Porphyria said, suppressing a smile. Though she wasn’t a retiring type, this was a often a leap of faith she hesitated in taking: who knew what he would think of her afterwards; or worse, maybe, depending on his reaction, who knew what she would think of him. It took a moment to decide which of her poems to launch into - To Desolation was her first thought, but possibly unsurprising, it had been thought a little bleak - so instead she settled for starting with, “‘The world I know...’” It had just as much morbid imagery as the rest, she supposed, but reflected her opinions more personally than some, and had a brighter edge about it. Nothing in the least pleasant or romantic, of course. Only Romantic ideals. Storms and liberty and death, mostly.

She recited two brisk stanzas of it before finding her feet had carried her as far as she had intended to go, so broke off just after a mention of cliffs and lightning she had always liked, and glanced at him again. “I think that’s my cue,” she offered, nodding at her maid approaching, but raised an eyebrow at him quizzically, wondering what he thought. Not that she should care.

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