The second part will be dealt with in turn.
Because I'm writing the hurt.
I'm righting the heart.
I'm righting the heart.
Max has arrived early, the way he was meant to. Lady Marguerite has made his filial responsibility clear. One of the Edgeworth sisters.
Max was awfully in love with Izzy.
Izzy - a blush of a girl with full lips and a talent for Italian. Izzy. Barbed wire Izzy. With flowers in her daisy-hair-happiness-filled eyes. Izzy with lavender pressed in her Bible. Izzy with marble skin and blue eyes. whispered, sky-blue.
Maxmaxmaxmaxmaxmax and izzyzzyzyzyzyzyzyzy. xyzzyxzyxyz translates into their love-making.
Lovemaking: him reading Hero and Leander while she bites her lips and watches him from underneath the sycamore. The willow, the chestnut, the maple. Trees as regalia. A forest. Hero and Leander.
Black-gloved hand rapping mournfully at the Edgeworth residence. Max clears his throat most demonstrably. Max.
Izzy is daydreaming of Max holding her against the waves, the sea, the ocean.
"L'océan Max. Regarde la!"
A tiny finger points to seagulls.
The seagull washes the cloud with his wing and turns on a chill towards the heavens.
Max's finger tries the doorbell instead.
A stuffy butler opens the door slowly. Slowly. S.lowly. S. Lowly. "A most magnificent poet, Iz"
Laughter.
Bubbles of laughter. bubbles, tiny and soapy. Splash
Izzy. Yzzi.
Max wants to laugh in his face; he abstains of course.
"Of course, a horse"
"Max, trebuie sa nu ma uiti"
"Nu te uit"
-
A flash of light passes. Then another. Identical sparks. Laughter. Running. Straining his neck to see these pieces of light finds Max quite wordless on the doorstep.
Wordless. With dark, heavy gloves in his hands. Wordless.
"Sir, if I may, well... I came..."
The butler uttered the sentence that butlers utter when they are expectant of young men about to court. Young men about to court.
There were a few scattered pieces of flesh in the living room. A shallow-breathing puppy in a frilly basket. A smattering of kitten-stuff in the corner. Kitten-stuff. Grecian urns tucked in dusty corners. This was a room flooded in light. A room where breathing is eloquent and symphonies are redundant. Because underneath the layer that survives the room is the layer that survives its visitors.
Such layering. Such a layer. Such a splendid occasion. Such nebulae. An indistinct invitation to retreat into the amorphous. The ill-defined. Ill.
It was, of course, within this blur that Max first saw Ada.
Ada. Ada, lean and lovely Adina.
Adina represented the shortened version of an already short name but Ava could not bring herself to say the full A-di-na when they were tiny, so Ada remained. Ada remained the two delicate syllables she'd scribble into the sand at the beach.
Ava, or Evangeline. Evangeline. Ada could not bring herself to say the full E-van-ge-line when they were tiny, so Ava remained. Ava remained the two lugubrious syllables she'd trace on foggy windows in the winter.
Ada, summer.
Ava, wintry. Not winter. Wintry.
So, Max. Max stood dumb-founded staring at Ada. Her ease. Her nonchalant, beautiful shoulders. Staring down at the white puppy in the frilly basket. Some freckles on her shoulder trickling down like acid stars on her back.
Max. Ada.
Ada and Ava were born eleven minutes apart. Ada first. Then Ava. Gorgeous Ava with her blue eyes and her soft hands. Curious Ada with her bright eyes and her magic. Ada was magic ever since she was born.
So, twenty years after Ada first opened her eyes, Max closed his against the framed image of her.
This moment is important. Max closed his eyes and Ada stepped forward.
Standing in front of him, mute and immobile, Ada represents beauty. Not beauty incarnate. But beauty in its luminous curiosity. Its refreshing and refreshing inquiry. A slight touch, a widening of the eyes. An ever-inching closeness. Train-tracks.
Max and Ada. Always side by side. Train-tracks.
"Abre los ojos"
" - "
"Ava! I quite forgot how to say this in Italian"
Ava feels language the way she handles material with her seamstress. Sensitive to softness was never something that moved Ada. Not in the same way it moved Ava.
Izzy is daydreaming of Max holding her against the waves, the sea, the ocean.
"L'océan Max. Regarde la!"
A tiny finger points to seagulls.
The seagull washes the cloud with his wing and turns on a chill towards the heavens.
Max's finger tries the doorbell instead.
A stuffy butler opens the door slowly. Slowly. S.lowly. S. Lowly. "A most magnificent poet, Iz"
Laughter.
Bubbles of laughter. bubbles, tiny and soapy. Splash
Izzy. Yzzi.
Max wants to laugh in his face; he abstains of course.
"Of course, a horse"
"Max, trebuie sa nu ma uiti"
"Nu te uit"
-
A flash of light passes. Then another. Identical sparks. Laughter. Running. Straining his neck to see these pieces of light finds Max quite wordless on the doorstep.
Wordless. With dark, heavy gloves in his hands. Wordless.
"Sir, if I may, well... I came..."
The butler uttered the sentence that butlers utter when they are expectant of young men about to court. Young men about to court.
There were a few scattered pieces of flesh in the living room. A shallow-breathing puppy in a frilly basket. A smattering of kitten-stuff in the corner. Kitten-stuff. Grecian urns tucked in dusty corners. This was a room flooded in light. A room where breathing is eloquent and symphonies are redundant. Because underneath the layer that survives the room is the layer that survives its visitors.
Such layering. Such a layer. Such a splendid occasion. Such nebulae. An indistinct invitation to retreat into the amorphous. The ill-defined. Ill.
It was, of course, within this blur that Max first saw Ada.
Ada. Ada, lean and lovely Adina.
Adina represented the shortened version of an already short name but Ava could not bring herself to say the full A-di-na when they were tiny, so Ada remained. Ada remained the two delicate syllables she'd scribble into the sand at the beach.
Ava, or Evangeline. Evangeline. Ada could not bring herself to say the full E-van-ge-line when they were tiny, so Ava remained. Ava remained the two lugubrious syllables she'd trace on foggy windows in the winter.
Ada, summer.
Ava, wintry. Not winter. Wintry.
So, Max. Max stood dumb-founded staring at Ada. Her ease. Her nonchalant, beautiful shoulders. Staring down at the white puppy in the frilly basket. Some freckles on her shoulder trickling down like acid stars on her back.
Max. Ada.
Ada and Ava were born eleven minutes apart. Ada first. Then Ava. Gorgeous Ava with her blue eyes and her soft hands. Curious Ada with her bright eyes and her magic. Ada was magic ever since she was born.
So, twenty years after Ada first opened her eyes, Max closed his against the framed image of her.
This moment is important. Max closed his eyes and Ada stepped forward.
Standing in front of him, mute and immobile, Ada represents beauty. Not beauty incarnate. But beauty in its luminous curiosity. Its refreshing and refreshing inquiry. A slight touch, a widening of the eyes. An ever-inching closeness. Train-tracks.
Max and Ada. Always side by side. Train-tracks.
"Abre los ojos"
" - "
"Ava! I quite forgot how to say this in Italian"
Ava feels language the way she handles material with her seamstress. Sensitive to softness was never something that moved Ada. Not in the same way it moved Ava.
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