And here is a sneak peak of Ruben - the man is still proving elusive. I thought Shackles would be the obvious place to find him, but instead I went to Cloudy Climes and Starless Skies, which is the story of their life that Byron Kae tells to Dil. Again its a reflection of Ruben ... but I think its an illuminating one. *** The gentleman gave a graceful bow of the sort I was supposed to be able to perform myself and such as I’d seen the dancers in the ballroom offer their partners. Then turned away. Which was when an unbearable thought struck me. “Please,” I called out, “please don’t tell my father you saw me crying.” He paused. “Of course not.” He hesitated a moment, and then came back. “But, you know, there’s nothing wrong with crying. Unless you do it so liberally without a handkerchief. Then it’s rather ill-advised.” “Crying isn’t manly.” “Perhaps not, but it’s certainly human. I do it all the time. My name is Ruben, by the way. My father is Lord Iron.” I blew my nose into the handkerchief, and feeling I had already trespassed enough on his good will, tried to return the now-rather-scrumpled ball of fabric to its owner. He smiled, which made his eyes crinkle. “Keep it; I insist.” “If you cry so much, are you very sad?” I asked him. I was feeling a little better now, and there was a warmth to this stranger’s manner that made me want to like him. And trust him. He wasn’t like the other guests, pristine in the glittering ballroom. Oh, he was dressed like them, but he was careless somehow, in all the exquisite tailoring that fit him perfectly, and not at all. “Sometimes. But I cry for other reasons as well. Over art, or because the world is beautiful, or occasionally even in pleasure. I find it hard to account it any sort of sin.” Perhaps because it had been a long time since someone had spoken to me as if I was their equal, and looked at me as though I was more than a problem to be solved or a misshape to be realigned, I blurted out, “I think I’m full of sins.” He smiled at me, very gently, and took a seat on the bench. I’m sure you can imagine how Ruben looked in the rose garden by moonlight. “What sort of sins, dear-heart?” he wanted to know. His voice was velvet-soft, and his eyes steady on mine. He was so full of impossible certainties about himself and about the world, and I wanted so much to believe in him, this man who made weakness seem like strength. I told him everything.
Posted on: Thu, 30 Oct 2014 23:34:44 +0000
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