Bethberry held the poet's gaze for some time as she considered his froward words, so at odds with his gentle manner, and then she calmly scanned the guests. Yes, they were finding their groove, in that odd metaphorical echo of days gone vinyl, and she need not attend so much to them. She turned her gaze back upon the poet and scanned his face to take his measure in a manner almost as impudent as his own. She recited to him:
We wove a web in childhood,
A web of sunny air....
He raised an eyebrow as if to say, 'And?...'
Be cautious, I would advise you, Word-thief, of claiming for me the name of 'Charlotte,' for I could be doubly Charlotte, and yourself bear not a small resemblance to a Branwell who was ensnared in that selfsame web. Yet I would not wish to assign you his fate, although it is one with which apparently you are already half in love.
She smiled a maddeningly aloof half-smile, which nonetheless managed to signify that libations at least need not be ever-deferred.
Come, Word-thief, you need not plead so pitiously to quaff your thirst. Let us find a glass and other company with such a taste as ours for wordhoards.
With that, they meandered gingerly to the wine barrels, cautiously avoiding any entanglements with Shelob and watching not to trip over any Wilburs that might have been set loose in the ever-growing menagerie that was claiming the Picnic.
[ September 22, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]
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I’ll sing his roots off. I’ll sing a wind up and blow leaf and branch away.
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