The trees were entirely bare and swaying in the early winter's wind when Lyall and I met to visit a historic castle, now in partial ruins. Apparently, there was some dispute occurring between the National Trust and castle's current owners, the earl of something-or-other and his sister, both impoverished gentry with nothing but their titles and a hefty pile of estate taxes. The estate was in the process of being sold to the Trust but an entailment had complicated matters, the result being that for the past five years, the property had gone without maintenance by either party. The box hedges of the gardens were untrimmed, their shape only vaguely referencing what was once a rectangle. Vines and weeds spilled between the cobblestones of the walkway, while the prickly-thorned rose bushes—now leafless and budless due to the time of year—looked like something out of Sleeping Beauty's front yard. A sign nailed to the front door warned us that entry would be trespassing, which didn't seem to concern Lyall at all.

He had been to the Castle Arwyddion before and had thought that I would find its current state of abandonment romantic, in the 19th century sense.

"Romantic?" I said, attempting to pry my kitten heel out from the muck between two flagstones. "Gothic, I would say."

"I thought you would like that too," said Lyall, who sounded disappointed. "Do you need help?"

"No, I've got it. I'll just watch my step from now on."

We made our way up the wide stone steps of the portico, which were slippery with moss and fresh rain.

"It's pretty," I said. "I don't know that I would want to spend the night here, though. It looks haunted."

"It is haunted," said Lyall automatically, before clapping a hand to his mouth. I suppose that's the sort of thing I should have picked up on, but at the time I assumed he was only concerned that I would be afraid if I knew there were ghost stories about the place.

"Haunted?" I said. "I thought you were a rationalist."

"I would say I am."

"Well, you don't believe in ghosts, do you?" I teased.

After a long moment, he said, "I believe in what I see."

"There's a lot more to the world than what you can see," I said.

Lyall did not reply. He fiddled with the iron ring that served as a door handle and finally managed to push the door in, tearing apart a spiderweb stretched across the inner doorframe in the process. A loud and lazy creak issued from the hinges. Lyall stepped inside, his body disappearing in the darkness;

"Are you sure it's alright to go in?" I asked. "I mean...it did say—"

"Don't worry about it," he said briskly. "I've been here before, with no trouble."

I wondered why on earth he had been inside this abandoned castle before, but didn't say. On faith, I followed him inside. It smelled musky and ancient; whiffs of evergreen and something wet and mouldy overlayed with the remains of a thousand smoky peat fires.

"Your eyes will adjust," said Lyall quietly. He waited as I rubbed my eyes and tried looking around. As my pupils dilated, I realized it wasn't quite as dark as it had seemed. We were in a foyer with a stained-glass decorative window above the huge doors. It was cloudy with dust, but it allowed in enough light that I could see the grandiose curving staircase and several large doorways leading off to other rooms. On the floor, a carpet runner had clearly once resided but was long gone, leaving behind a slightly-less-filthy patch of flagstone floor.

"This place was probably beautiful," I said softly. "I mean, when it was occupied."

"It hasn't been in years," said Lyall. "You can imagine how much it must cost to run this place. The landscaping alone would be a fortune."

"But imagine living here. Walking down those steps every day...just imagine the view from the turret."

"Do you want to see it?" he asked.

"Can we?"

"I'll show you," he said. I followed him the grand staircase to a second floor hall, one side of which was completely open to the floor below. The railing was made of thick wooden bannisters, periodically anchored by posts that went to the ceiling above. I ran my fingers along one carved post and tried to interpret the designs, grooves and bumps that felt like illegible Braille and filled my fingertips with dust.

"Do you have a torch?" I asked. "It's awfully dark in here."

"I have a—well...I suppose I forgot to bring one," stammered Lyall. "I know I should have, I'm really sorry."

"It's alright," I said. "We'll just feel the walls, I guess."

"I can see a little bit," said Lyall, which surprised me since he obviously had much poorer eyesight than I did.

I followed him to a smaller corridor off the main hall, which was completely pitch-black.

"We're going to have to go down here, and then there will be a staircase with windows."

"Are you sure?" I asked, peering into the darkness. It was utterly black.

"Yes," he said. Lyall took a step towards the doorway and then turned around, realizing I had not followed him.

We looked at each other awkwardly, though we were barely able to see each other's expressions in the dim light.

"It's alright if you don't want to go," he said softly.

"No—no, I'll go. I'm just a bit...afraid I'll get lost, and not be able to find you. I can't follow you very well in the dark."

"You can, er, take my arm, if you'd like. If that would help," he added, quickly.

"I would like to do that," I said, feeling very shy all of a sudden.

Lyall offered me his forearm, and I laid a hand on it gently. His coat was tweed and nubbly. It must have been quite thick, because I could not feel the warmth of his body through it.

He guided me down the corridor, walking slowly. We did not speak; my holding his arm, and the darkness around us combined into an intimacy that deprived us of words. It was so quiet I could hear his breathing; the particular tenor and pattern that would eventually become the lullaby to which I would fall asleep every night.

Finally, he led me around a corner and bit of light became visible, slightly illuminating the draping of a tapestry on the wall.

"Here it is," said Lyall. There was a curving spiral staircase of stone before us, obviously the inner portion of a turret. We looked at each other in the fresh sunlight pouring through arrow slits high above. His mouth was a wide line, his lips slightly pressed together as though he was trying not to say something. I let go of his arm. He looked down at my hand's retreat.

"Shall we go up?" I said.

"Yes," he murmured. "Careful. You know these things are built to trip you on the way up."

"Are they really?" I asked.

"Of course," said Lyall. "A castle is a fortress, as well as a home. It's designed to protect the inhabitants when they are under siege. The knights running up the stairs are invading; the knights running down the stairs are defending themselves."

"Wow," I said sincerely as I followed him up. "You know so many things." The steps were very narrow; it was difficult to imagine a knight in full armour carrying a sword and sheath up the stairs.

"Only a few," he said.

"I think it's a lot."

"Well..."

We passed the first arrow slit. I had not realized how thick the stone walls of the castle were until I saw how deep the window was set.

"That's for arrows," said Lyall.

"Yes, I do know that," I said. "I wanted to live in a castle when I was little, though I never thought of it as a fortress. I thought it would be like a fairytale. But I guess they're really...not very nice places to live in. At least, not in the towers."

Lyall, who had turned around to watch me look out the slit, looked amused.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said, and yet his mouth had broaded into a smirk.

"You look like I said something funny."

"No, no," he said. "Come. Let's go up, it's a nice view at the top."

I followed him, beginning to huff and puff as we continued to climb with no end in sight. When I began to question whether the unbroken spiral, which gave no indication of how many storeys we had climbed or where one beginned or ended, would ever lead anywhere, we finally reached the opening into a circular stone room.

It had clearly been renovated, not recently, but certainly long after the medieval period. A ceiling had been installed that was patterned with oak panels, and two chairs with moth-eaten apholstery were sitting opposite each other, as if in conversation. The windows had been filled with glass, which was now cracked and broken in some parts. A ragged carpet was stained with water damage.

I wandered to the window and looked out. Lyall was right; it did have a beautiful view. In the distance, I could see the houses and shops of Cardiff bordered by leafless grey-brown trees. Closer to the castle, I saw the untended garden and curtain wall with its wrought-iron gate.

"There's no moat," I said, cheekily.

"What a shame," said Lyall. "Otherwise, I was going to buy it for you, but I suppose it won't do..."

I giggled, perhaps less at the ridiculous notion of Lyall buying a castle and more at the queer feeling it gave me to imagine us buying any kind of house together.

"I like it up here," I said. "I might do a bit of spring cleaning, but it would make a wonderful place to read."

"Yes, I thought so too when I was here before," said Lyall. He came over to look out through the same window as me. We stood close together but self-consciously not touching in any way.

"It's the kind of place you would go to when you want to be alone," I breathed.

"There's two chairs," he said softly.

"Or, almost alone."

We stood silent for several minutes, the quiet only broken once by a hawk's cry outside.

"Do you like this place?" he finally asked.

"Of course," I said, with enthusiasm. "It's...well, it just feels really enchanting, do you know what I mean?"

He took out his handkerchief and coughed into it several times before saying, "I thought of you when I came here the first time."

"That was nice of you."

"Mmm." He placed a hand against the glass, and stared at it as though it was more interesting than the view through the window. His hand looked very dark, backlit by the sunlight. His fingernails were wide and clipped quite short.

I don't know just what made me say it at that moment. It was completely irrelevant and out of the blue, but I blurted out, "There's a girl I live with who's in an awful predicament, and I don't know how to help. Or if I can."

Lyall was a bit taken aback at this sudden intrusion into what had been a very mild chat. He stepped back a bit from me, and asked, "May I ask what sort of predicament?"

"She's—she's gotten—well," I backtracked, "I don't know how to say this politely."

"You may say it impolitely, then. I won't tell," Lyall assured me, with the hint of a smile.

I was already breaking my promise to Mabli and Norah that I wouldn't tell a soul, although I didn't see how it could matter very much to Lyall. It wasn't as though he knew her, or knew anyone else who did.

I took a breath. "She's...going to have a baby, but she isn't married."

Lyall looked down modestly and said, "Ah. I see."

"Yes."

"And I suppose—the father won't marry her."

I shook my head. "She said he says it isn't his."

"Oh."

We stood in a terribly awkward silence. I had no idea what had pushed me to bring the subject up, and now I deeply regretted it.

"Perhaps she could go and stay with family," Lyall suggested quietly. He looked a bit pale. I noticed he was clutching his handkerchief.

"She can't," I said. "She has none."

"No family?" he asked, sounding surprised.

"She's an orphan," I said. "She was a ward of the Crown."

Lyall exhaled sharply. "Goodness," he said quietly, more to himself than me. "That's a relief."

"What? It's awful! How is she going to get by?"

"No, no, I meant—of course it's awful," he said. "Quite. I only—er—well, I only thought...perhaps—"

"You thought her family would be angry?"

"Er, well—no," he said shakily. "I thought...perhaps she was you."

I took a step back, my face turning pink. Lyall would not meet my eyes; his hands were folded tightly together against his stomach and his feet were pressed together, statue-like in his embarassment.

"You that I meant me?" I said. "You really thought—"

"No—no, no, I didn't think—I mean, it's not as though you look—I just—"

"I would never do that," I said. "And you know I'm not seeing anyone. And—Lyall, how could you think such a thing of me?"

I felt my eyes sting with the beginnings of tears. He looked terribly guilty, but I felt even worse. That Lyall would take me for such a girl—it was humiliating. I couldn't even look at him anymore.

When he spoke, his voice was quavering with some repressed emotion.

"I'm terribly embarassed. I really didn't mean to upset you."

I sniffed and crossed my arms over my chest. The room suddenly felt cold; a chill was pressing through the cracked windows.

"Hope," Lyall said, very quietly. "Please. I only thought—that perhaps—you might be asking for help," he said. I could hear the friction of rubbing fabric as he twisted his handkerchief compulsively. "Now, I know that you aren't, but I was...well, I was glad you would think to ask me...because I would, you know, I would help. If—if you needed it, which you don't, but...if you did."

I inhaled deeply and swallowed a mouthful of air. His soft, nasal voice was soothing to me, despite my shame and his obvious embarrassment.

"It's alright," I said. "I know—you didn't mean it that way. And I suppose it...it may have sounded as though—I may have given the wrong impression." I looked up at him; his brow was knit into a pained expression.

"Hope," he said hoarsely. "I, er—just forget I said it. Really. That would be best." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He changed the subject rapidly. Would you like to see the courtyard?"

"There's a courtyard?"

"Yes," he said. "And the keep, of course, in the centre. I can show you," he offered, plainly trying to shift my focus away from our unpleasant exchange.

"Please do."

I followed him back down the spiral stairs, peeking out the arrow slit for only a moment. When we reached the dark corridor, he offered his arm to me and I took it without speaking.

Back on the dark and dusty second floor of the great hall, Lyall began to pull something that looked long and narrow from a pocket inside his coat, but quickly put it began when he realized I was looking at him.

He cleared his throat. "We'll have to go downstairs again, I'm afraid."

"Yes, I expected so."

I followed him down the curving staircase, and down a hall on the main floor. Ancient tapestries seemed to cough up clouds of dust as we passed them.

"How do you know the layout of this place?" I asked.

"Er...I came here before. Just wanted to see the place," Lyall replied. "I was...curious."

Of course, what Lyall had actually been curious about had been reports of several Boggarts that had been plaguing the property for years, doing no small part in driving away any potential buyers other than the National Trust, but he couldn't exactly tell me that.

The courtyard was as run-down as the castle's interior, but it was much less gloomy. Browning foliage spilled out of the garden patch, and vines crawled up and over the edge of an Edwardian-era fountain. Some sort of stone statue was unidentifiable, its body and face completely fuzzed over in moss. The trees were beautiful; gnarled and weathered yews, their wavy trunks folding in and out like draped cloth on a marble statue. Though it was November, I could imagine how the courtyard must have looked in the summer; riotously green, buzzing with insects and overwhelmed by wildflowers and weeds alike.

Lyall sat down on a stone bench with claw-shaped feet. I remained on my feet, wandering from bush to flowerbed to moulding, leaf-filled birdbath.

"This is amazing," I murmured. "I hope the government opens it up to visitors."

"Maybe," said Lyall. "I would hate to see a place like this get renovated to oblivion and turn into a conference hall for corporate functions."

"With linoleums floors and Mac-Tac to protect the the dining room table?" I added, laughing.

"Precisely," he said.

"They might even put in an intercom," I said. "Wouldn't that be awful?"

Lyall paused at the word 'intercom,' and then said, "Criminal."

"I do love old places," I said wistfully, as I trailed a hand along the mossy edge of the birdbath. The leaves collected inside fluttered as they brushed my fingertips. "It would be a nice setting for a wedding, too."

"Are you planning one?" asked Lyall wryly.

"Not just yet," I said. "Unless you think I should start with the place settings and leave choosing a groom for the week before."

"I wouldn't recommend it," he said. "If you don't book far in advance, all the nice ones will probably be taken."

"Sometimes I worry they already are," I confessed. When I glanced at him, he was looking down at a dried out leaf he held, slowly rolling the stem between thumb and forefinger.

"Well...I suppose you only need one," Lyall said slowly.

"But they're awfully hard to find in stores," I said.

"No," he shook his head, smiling mildly. "I don't think you'll find a groom there."

"I don't suppose you're looking to get married anytime soon," I said. "I mean...unless you're seeing someone." I didn't know why it felt so odd to say something conversational like that, but as soon as I spoke, I felt embarassed.

Lyall pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I am not," he said slowly. "Although it's...not for lack of interest."

"No?"

He shook his head. Without looking at me, he said, "It's more like...lack of opportunity."

"Me too," I commiserated, as I joined him on the stone bench.

"Now, I doubt that's true," Lyall said. "You said that you work in an office around plenty of men."

"Most of them are married," I pointed out, "and the ones that aren't are—well, it hasn't worked out."

"Worked out?" said Lyall, sounding curious. "So you've, er—you've tried...?"

I felt my face glow red, and tried hastily to correct Lyall's assumptions. "I've only gone on a few dates. First dates," I stammered. "And nothing happened."

"I wouldn't assume that anything would happen," he said softly.

"The problem was, I felt nothing," I confessed. "And I wanted to feel something—anything—but I didn't feel anything at all. And they were very nice men."

"It can't be forced," mused Lyall. "Or forced away...I don't know which is worse."

He looked pensive, absorbed in twirling his little leaf, although his mind was somewhere else.

Forced away. So he liked someone, or had liked someone, and it hadn't worked out. I suppose I could understand that; he wasn't the sort of man who would appeal to all women. I could never imagine Val, or Mabli or Norah ever being attracted to somebody like him (perhaps Irene, but only because she preferred men that were easy to take advantage of). I was more curious about who it was he fancied (had fancied?) and why.

But it answered the question of why he so often seemed glum. He was never rude and he didn't complain, but there was something about him that always made me wonder.

"I know things will work out for you, in the end," said Lyall, breaking the silence.

"I do hope so."

"I know they will," he said, though his voice sounded rather less confident than could be desired. "I know you'll find someone and get married, and have your family, and all of that."

"I wish it were that simple," I sighed.

"It is, though," he muttered. "It is for other people. It is for everyone except me."

I was surprised by this statement; it sounded uncharacteristically self-pitying, narcissistic even. At the time, it seemed to me very unlike him; it is only after years of marriage that I have come to know those dark parts of Lyall which exist in all of ourselves, locked underneath layers of social custom and upbringing and which only reveal themselves to our most intimate companions. That he would let slip something so private and self-abnegating to me on that day in the castle courtyard was perhaps a sign that our souls were already beginning to interlock.

"I'm sure that isn't true," I said. "But I know it can feel that way."

"I guess you're right," he said. "You must forgive me. I know it was intolerably rude."

I laughed artificially, sounding very shrill. "Don't worry."

"No—no, I've been terribly rude today. Twice now," he insisted. "I don't know what's gotten into me."

"It happens to the best of us," I said. I felt a strong urge to touch his arm, to give him some reassurance, but it seemed inappropriate.

"I think I could make it up to you, though," said Lyall. "I mean—if you'd like."

"What do you mean?" I asked, curious.

"Well," he paused, and took a deep breath. "It's just that some of my friends are going to a—an event—a mixer, if you will."

"A mixer?"

"It's a dance," he clarified. "At a dance hall. I wasn't really going to go..."

"But do you want to go?" I asked. I suspected dance parties were not really Lyall's forte.

Lyall looked up at me for the first time in quite a while; his eyes looked hazel in the diffuse afternoon light. We were sitting so close together I could see the tiny follicles of his shaven jaw.

"I'd like to go if you'd like to go," he said. "As friends."

"I would love to go," I breathed. "It sounds like so much fun—and I haven't had a night out since Jeannie was here."

"It is formal though," Lyall warned me. "If that makes any difference to you."

"I love to dress up!"

The tips of his mouth were beginning to turn up; he seemed quite cheered, in his own subtle way.

"It's not this Saturday, but next," he said. "At eight o'clock. I could have you back by eleven."

"Eleven is perfect," I said, though I absolutely despised my curfew in that moment.

"Very well then," he said. He nodded towards a small, ivy-covered outbuilding with a moulding thatched roof. "Shall we have a look at the stables?"


That evening, I rifled through my closet, looking for something acceptable to wear to the dance. The bridesmaid dress I had worn to my friend Eula' wedding reception was at home in Aberystwyth, so it would have to be the pale yellow lace dress I had purchased four years ago for my school's Spring Formal. With its small puffed sleeves and modest bateau neckline, I wondered if it was a bit dowdy. We had a dress code at school that had to be obeyed, but going to a dance hall in your twenties was entirely different. Most of the women then would probably be wearing strapless dresses, or low-cut necklines at the very least. Still, I had no choice but to wear it as it was, as the lace appliqué was too complex for me to alter.

I didn't mention the dance to any of the girls in my house. It wasn't just that I didn't want them to hear about it and then decide to go themselves (althought that was part of my reasoning.) There was a gloomy mood in the house. Mabli was the source of it, but it was radiating outward, through Norah and I, who knew her troubles, and past that to the other girls, who were ignorant. Only Edith seemed unaffected. In fact, she seemed cheerier than she ever had been. On Wednesday, she arrived at supper late, and despite being thoroughly chastised by Mrs. Owens, she remained in high spirits, cordially asking every single person how their day had been and whether they noticed the lovely weather.

"My day was wretched," complained Irene. "Frances was late to cover me so I missed half my lunch. And nobody I helped mentioned me at the counter, so I won't be making any commissions."

"Yes, to be late when people are waiting for you is abominably rude," Mrs. Owens agreed pointedly, shooting a look at Edith. Irene seemed somewhat comforted by this expression of shared grievance, or perhaps she merely took joy in the aggression directed towards Edith, who was usually the favourite of both matrons.

"How have you been?" Edith asked me.

"Same as usual," I said, helping myself to another ladle full of cauliflower soup. "I never do the copying right, but I didn't make any typing errors today, so there is that."

"I think it's practically heroic, what you do," drawled Irene. "I would simply die of boredom if I had to work at an estates office, but I suppose some people are suited to that sort of work."

"It's an insurance agency," I said coldly. "And I suppose the work is dreadfully dull for people who have no imagination whatsoever."

"Doesn't it pay well, though?" asked Val, who was completely oblivious, as usual.

"Oh, it pays better than some jobs," Irene said airily. "Of course, you aren't going to make the sort of money you would earn in sales, but not everyone has that kind of motivation."

"All I know is I'm earning more than I would as a sales girl with no commissions," I replied.

"Girls," chided Mrs. Winchfill. "I think that's quite enough." She patted at her mouth primly with a napkin. "It's gauche to talk about money."

"I quite agree," said Mrs. Owens. "And I really don't see why you young girls are so obsessed with trying to get promotions and make more money when you should be focussing on more important things, like finding a proper husband."

Norah made a half-coughing, half-choking noise, and hid her smile behind a napkin.

"I'd like to get married," said Val dreamily, as she swirled the mashed potatoes around her plate with her fork. "I already know what kind of dress I want."

Mrs. Owens clucked with disapproval. "It's not about dresses, or spending a fortune on those big parties" she said, completely oblivious to the fact that she had declared money an inappropriate subject for discussion roughly thirty seconds ago. "The important thing is that you find a husband who will look after you so you can have children."

With a great thump, Mabli plopped her glass down heavily onto the table. A screech issued from her chair when it scraped backwards across the floorboards. She stood up, hands folded before her.

"I am not feeling well," she said coldly. "May I be excused." It wasn't a question.

"I don't think that—" began Mrs. Winchfill, but Mabli had already stalked out of the dining room and down the hall before she could finish her sentence. The matrons, Irene, Val and Edith all looked at one another in complete bewilderment; Norah and I stared down at our plates.

"Well," huffed Mrs. Winchfill. "I'm sure Mabli will apologize for her behaviour when she is feeling better."

"I'm sure she didn't meant to be rude," said Edith charitably.

"Rudeness is not a matter of intention, but of action," recited Mrs. Owens in a sing-song voice. It sounded like the sort of quote that came from one of the church programs she brought home on Sundays, printed with sermons and inspirational messages.

"I guess Mabli wouldn't agree," said Irene. "Some people just don't see the same value in old-fashioned manners. Still, it's a shame she left so abruptly," she cooed in a sickly-sweet voice. "It's chocolate cake for pudding."

"There will be no pudding for her after a performance like that," Mrs. Winchfill said sharply.

We spent the rest of dinner listening to Mrs. Owens and Mrs. Winchfill complain about the way young girls these days had no sense of morality, no manners and far too many ambitions. Occassionally, Irene egged them on, if only to torment the rest of us while -re-securing her place as the matrons' second favourite. Her recent argument with Jeannie had upset the balance of power in the house hierarchy, and Irene did not like that. Edith had always been the favourite of the matrons, because she was so quiet and self-sacrificing and perfectly well-behaved. (It also didn't hurt that, according to Norah, she came from money.) There was no beating out Edith for first place, but Irene generally held second, because she knew how to suck-up and did so as frequently as possible.

After dinner, on my way up the stairs, I heard Norah sneak into Mabli's room. I only heard a few murmured words and a muffled sob before the door clicked shut. I paused on the steps, not knowing if I should knock or go on my way. When I chose to continue on to my room, I tried to console my guilty conscience with the knowledge that Norah was in there with Mabli, and she was a much closer friend anyways. And the reality was that Mabli had never really been a friend of mine. Certainly, she ran with a very different crowd. They were what my mother would call "fast." I had gotten the sense, on more than one ocassion, that Mabli had thought me rather a stick-in-the-mud. But I had never hoped things would come to this.

When I saw my yellow dress on its hanger, hooked over my open closet door, I cheered up considerably, thinking of Lyall and the upcoming dance. It had been so long since I last went to a real dance, with boys there—going out with Jeannie didn't out. Lyall had said there were going to be a lot of his friends there, as well as people he went to school with. When I look back at those days now, I wonder why I never questioned how strange it was that so many of Lyall's former classmates should be attending multiple social events in Cardiff, when he had gone to school way up north of Inverness. Muggles don't notice very much, do they? his father had once commented, and though I knew it was a passive jab at me, I can't help but conceding the point.

I was such a silly, naive little thing. My head was in the clouds. I noticed only what interested me, and ignored the rest. Lyall, my petty squabbles at the house, my records, the latest Hollywood news and my novels were the only things I paid attention to. Mabli's unexpected pregnancy seemed like the absolute worst thing that could possibly happen. I don't know how I managed to attract Lyall, or what he saw in me. If I am strong now, it's only because of the fires I've walked through; if I am wise, it's only because I have been taught what so few people get to know. I have a child who is remarkable, even extraordinary, for his capacity to endure what would kill most people, and yet you only know of him because he taught a child who endured, and survived, even worse. Yet, here I am telling you my story, and how strange it seems that there are people who want to hear it, when I always thought no one would ever care to hear about the fifties, when I wandered, and danced on air, and loved; but safely, sheltered behind the fortifications of my heart.