Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns HP, along with Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic
books and Warner Brothers. I make no money out of this.
Thanks to Scarlet and Pandora.
The house Jack built
Chapter three. The Baron.
The dark of night fell over Diagon Alley and the crowds in the street dispersed slowly, retreating back into their homes or the lively pubs. It was October, and the late autumn weather did not encourage anyone to go outside unless absolutely necessary.
It had started to rain again, sharp needles of water that stung in your face, and the familiar fog came up from the river Thames and hid the ground in its white blanket.
****
He stood in the hall of his big old house, dwelling meticulously on his wardrobe. His appearance was important to him; it always had been and always would. Carefully he picked out a black robe and hung it on the coat- stand beside the great mirror, and then he took out a pair of well-oiled black boots. He looked closer at them and took out a chamois leather, and gave them an additional polish. When he could see the reflection of his face in the leather he was satisfied, and put them on.
He had bathed in water spiced with rose petals, and shaved the beard off his face. The smooth skin on his chin felt strangely naked, but it was all a part of his ritual.
He was clean, in body and mind.
Tomorrow he would go away, to his summerhouse in Cornwall. The suitcases already stood by the door, awaiting the departure. It would be good to get away from the noisy crowds in Diagon Alley, down to the contemplative silence of the countryside. He would take long walks, and sit by the fire at night reading. Totally withdrawn from the little people, who deprived him of the peace of mind he sometimes needed.
Slowly he walked into his living room, and opened a richly decorated mahogany case on top of the mantelpiece. He took out a pair of silver cuff links, and fastened them to the cuffs of his white shirt. A black dog sat in the leather sofa and watched him, a soft whine came from it as it lay its ears backwards and looked at him.
"Not now, Boy," he said gently. "You have already been outside. I'll be back in a few hours."
He walked back into the hall, and the dog slipped down from the sofa and followed him. The thick Persian carpets on the floor muffled the sounds from its paws.
"I said no." His voice was firmer now, and the dog lay down with its head on its front paws.
In a drawer he found a pair of gloves, manticore-hide of course. Only the best was good enough. He put on the robes, and looked himself in the mirror. "You look good, as usual, Sir," the mirror said in a low woman's voice.
"Thank you," he muttered absentmindedly while he grabbed the gloves. The manticore-hide felt soft and smooth against his skin, and he flexed his fingers. They followed the movement of his hands perfectly.
He placed his wand on top of the drawer as he fastened his belt, then he lowered it into the scabbard. Perhaps he was old fashioned, but he had never liked the new trend of putting the wand into one's pocket. A scabbard was a man's pride, and told the world that he was a man who knew to take care of his possessions. Besides, he had no desire to lose it.
Priori incantatem.
He gazed in the mirror again. Yes, he looked good. A strong masculine face, with eyes calm and composed. A tad arrogant, he had been told, but that only added to his charm. His gaze belonged to a man who knew who he was, and had reconciled with it.
The dog whimpered quietly again when he opened the front door, but it resumed its former position when the man looked at it. He locked the door after him with a spell and crossed the street.
He walked down Charing Cross road to the Leaky Cauldron. He enjoyed walking, and he cast a drying charm over himself to prevent his expensive robes from getting wet from the rain. Slightly amused he watched the Muggles struggling with their umbrellas as they hurried home. A woman gave him a smile of appreciation as she walked by, and he returned the smile with an idle nod in her direction. He could feel her eyes on his back as he walked on, but he did not stop; he had no desire for Muggle women.
The Cauldron was crowded, as usually, and discreetly he walked through the pub. Not that the noisy swarm of people paid him any attention, they were too caught up in their conversations and confrontations to even notice the people next to them, let alone a single stranger by the wall. Soon he breathed the fresh air again.
Diagon Alley seemed deserted in the cold night air; the fog was thick, and that suited him just fine. He liked the fog- it hid him and gave his entrance a dramatic touch. Theatrical yes, but effective, and his mouth twitched into a little smile from his foolish notions.
His feet steered him safely up the street, and outside Gringotts he stopped to light a cigar. He smoked while he watched the great marble building; he had been there earlier that same day, to withdraw a large sum of money and exchange it into pounds. He would be gone for quite some time, perhaps as long as until the Christmas holidays.
He tossed the cigar away and headed down Knockturn Alley, walking deliberately slow, very aware of the cape of his robes billowing behind him. From his shadow he could tell that the robe made him look like he was filling up the whole narrow alleyway, just as he had intended.
He sensed the presence of people in the shadows, but he did not change his pace or look at them. He kept staring down the street, his head held high and his calm eyes on the light emerging from around the corner. No one approached him, nor would he have allowed them to. They knew him and feared him, so they lowered their heads and withdrew to the darkness.
He was the Baron.
The pub was not as crowded as the Cauldron had been; but then again Jack did not run an inn. The regulars were in place though, sitting by their tables arguing or snoring by the fire. Several of them were homeless, and slept on the benches after the pub had closed. Quite altruistic, this young fellow Bullstrode, he would have to talk with him about that some day.
But not tonight. He had other things on his mind. His men had come to him with disturbing rumours of a man who called himself Lord Voldemort, a pureblood elitist who talked of an uprising against the Ministry, a new dawn for the wizarding community.
Ed had no wish for change. For twenty long years he had worked to get where he was now, and he would not let a new Grindewald toss it all aside. His men worked frantically now, to uncover Voldemort's plans and motives. If their motives were the same, then perhaps he would work out a deal with this man, who seemed to be a skilled manipulator. If not, he would have to be destroyed.
He ordered a glass of red wine from Jack, who now stood in front of him. The expression on the barman's face was wary, and his guest could not resist a little laugh at his expense. He laid two Knuts on the counter, and with twinkling eyes he pushed them with deliberate slowness over to Jack, who waited without looking at his customer.
The wine was sour and cheap, but then again it always was. Young Bullstrode may have had several redeeming qualities, but knowledge of good wines was not one of them.
The room had grown quiet behind him and he turned to find that several of the guests had left, even a few of those who had nowhere to go. Others had crammed together in larger groups, speaking with hushed voices. He sighed heavily; he was so tired of this dead end street that it almost made him sick. It got old, everything did, and he longed for the fresh Cornish air, the beach concealed in its peaceful autumn shroud. It was pure poetry, to wander those shores for hours on end without meeting a single living being.
Ten more hours he had to fill.
He caught the eyes of a witch in the corner by the window, and sent her his usual lazy smile. The woman turned her gaze away from him, and took a firm grip around the man beside her, an unappealing elderly squib he had had the misfortune of talking with once.
Slowly he sipped the bitter wine while his eyes searched the room. In the other corner a red-haired witch was talking with a man of her own age. The young man was dressed in a shabby cloak, and he was obviously drugged on a substance other than alcohol. Probably the Viper. Personally Ed did not touch anything but wine, because wine was not alcohol; it was liquid culture.
She was very young, seemed barely of age. Shouldn't she be at Hogwarts, studying for her NEWTs? She was angry now, lashing out at the boy who looked too drugged to notice what she was saying, and then she grabbed for her tattered robes on the bench beside her and got up to leave. Pink robes, a sign only recognised by those who looked for it.
He had never seen her before. She was new in the trade, otherwise he would have known her. A freelancer, by the look of it, a gold-digger who had struck nothing but rock and sand. He saw them every day.
He drank the rest of his wine, and stood up from his barstool.
"You want another glass?"
The barman caught his attention, and he frowned slightly. "If that day comes when it will be possible to buy a decent glass of wine in your establishment; yes. Until then, no thank you and good bye. We won't be seeing one another for some time, and I don't believe either of us will feel sorry about it."
The rain outside was heavier now. He could see her turning the corner, and walked after her with long steps. He was in no hurry, but did not want to lose her either. Entering into Diagon Alley she stopped under the roof of the corner shop and picked out a cigarette from her pocket. He loosened his wand from the scabbard, and pointed it at her.
"Lumos."
The girl jerked in surprise, clearly she had not heard him following. With a cautious look on her face she accepted the light, and he gave her his most reassuring smile. The girl seemed to relax a little but would not look him in the eye; she could not have been doing this for very long, a notion that pleased him.
"Shouldn't you be at Hogwarts?" he asked in a friendly manner, the soothing smile still on his face.
"Hogwarts!" She spat out the school's name, but there was a soft tone in her voice. "I graduated this summer."
She liked him, he could tell. "I'm sorry, it was not my meaning to pry. But you look younger, you know." His smile was boyish, and she lowered her eyes tot the ground blushing. "Who's the Headmaster now?"
"Dippet."
"Dippet? That barmy old tomcat?" He acted surprised, and she giggled. "Still pinching the astronomy teacher's bum, is he?" More giggling, obviously Dippet had not lost his interest in the witch. He leaned over her in a gesture of intimacy, and she did not pull back. "I locked him inside the loo once, you know."
"You didn't!" She laughed out loud, and he nodded his head seriously.
"Which House were you in?" he asked.
"Gryffindor," she muttered vaguely.
"Ah, a brave Gryffindor." His attitude changed, and he looked at her gravely. "You must be brave to walk around Knockturn Alley after dark." She opened her mouth as if to argue with him, but he slipped into the mentor role and would brook no argument. "There are dangerous people down there, girl. You have seen them, haven't you? Lurking in the dark. Sphinxes they are, and if you cannot answer their questions they kill you. Do you know the answers, little girl?"
Shyly she looked up at him. "You are not afraid," she said. "They call you the Baron, I've heard them."
"No, I'm not afraid." He gave her an enigmatic look, and she stared at him with something resembling awe on her face. "But you should be, especially with pink robes on your young body."
He let his eyes follow the lines of her hips, and she looked away. "How long have you been wearing these robes?" he asked quietly.
"A month," she answered, a tad too fast and he knew she was lying.
"So," she said with a shaky voice. "You're looking for company?"
"Yes," he answered, and he could hear her swallowing. Without any more comments he bent down and tilted her head up with his fingers, and placed a slow kiss on her lips. Her body tensed at first, but then she leaned into him and kissed him back; her kiss tasted faintly of lager.
He followed her back into the Alley again, and in the dark she took hold of his hand. She had a room on the second floor over Borgin and Burke's, a shabby little room but with the unmistakable signs of a woman's touch.
She started to undress, and he watched her doing it. Naked she sat down on the bed, trying to cover herself without making it too obvious. She gave him a shy smile. "Aren't you supposed to take your clothes off?" she asked, her voice faking a certainty that her body language denied.
"Soon," he smiled. "Stand up, I want to look at you."
Hesitantly she got up; her arms still crossed over her chest. He gestured to her to lower them and she did, her shy deer eyes still fixed at his face.
"Turn around."
She was full-bodied, and the curves of her hips were beautifully rounded. "You are very beautiful," he whispered. "Like a Madonna of Tizian."
Slowly he got up from the chair and stood behind her, and let his long fingers slowly follow the lines of her back down to her hips and her buttocks. He could hear her trembling sigh when he traced the line of her neck with his lips. She turned to him and began to unbutton his robes and his shirt. Carefully she placed his clothes on the chair and not once did she take her eyes of him, her hands cool and soft against his skin. She broke the contact and curled up on the bed, waiting for him as he stood there watching her. She wanted him now.
They always did.
With a catlike movement he lowered himself onto the bed, following her tights with his tongue up where he knew she wanted him. She gave a startled gasp before she pulled him up to her, and he gave her a flashing smile. "Shy, eh? I like that."
A moment later she was writhing and moaning under him, and he rose his hand to her face and tilted it up towards him. "You didn't answer my question earlier. Do you know the right answer, little girl?"
She opened her eyes and looked at him. "What do you mean?" she muttered incoherently.
"The Alley is filled with sphinxes, little witch. They have questions for you; do you know the answers?"
"Well, what's the question, then?"
"What does man choose?"
She moaned in frustration. "Can't it wait?" She caressed his back before she drew her nails into his skin, making him move again.
"No," he muttered into her ear. "Answer me."
She was impatient now. "I don't know! Happiness? Money? Sex...?"
He was disappointed with her; for once he had hoped that she could give him his answer, he had hoped she would have been worthy. He had liked her, but rules are rules. He bent his head down and kissed her deeply, and then he whispered the answer in her ear. Her eyes revealed that she did not understand when he laid his hands around her neck.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to her. "I told you to stay away from the men in the Alley."
After a few minutes she had stopped struggling, and he got up from the bed and absentmindedly pulled his shirt on. With an expression of melancholy he stared at her; she was more beautiful now than ever. So still, exposed in her nakedness like a sleeping child. After putting on his robes, he bent down and kissed her on the mouth; why he did not know.
Slowly he descended the staircase with a sinking feeling of loneliness in his chest, knowing that he would live alone forever. But maybe –just perhaps- there was a girl out there who could give him the answer he was looking for. And he would never give up the search for her.
The house Jack built
Chapter three. The Baron.
The dark of night fell over Diagon Alley and the crowds in the street dispersed slowly, retreating back into their homes or the lively pubs. It was October, and the late autumn weather did not encourage anyone to go outside unless absolutely necessary.
It had started to rain again, sharp needles of water that stung in your face, and the familiar fog came up from the river Thames and hid the ground in its white blanket.
****
He stood in the hall of his big old house, dwelling meticulously on his wardrobe. His appearance was important to him; it always had been and always would. Carefully he picked out a black robe and hung it on the coat- stand beside the great mirror, and then he took out a pair of well-oiled black boots. He looked closer at them and took out a chamois leather, and gave them an additional polish. When he could see the reflection of his face in the leather he was satisfied, and put them on.
He had bathed in water spiced with rose petals, and shaved the beard off his face. The smooth skin on his chin felt strangely naked, but it was all a part of his ritual.
He was clean, in body and mind.
Tomorrow he would go away, to his summerhouse in Cornwall. The suitcases already stood by the door, awaiting the departure. It would be good to get away from the noisy crowds in Diagon Alley, down to the contemplative silence of the countryside. He would take long walks, and sit by the fire at night reading. Totally withdrawn from the little people, who deprived him of the peace of mind he sometimes needed.
Slowly he walked into his living room, and opened a richly decorated mahogany case on top of the mantelpiece. He took out a pair of silver cuff links, and fastened them to the cuffs of his white shirt. A black dog sat in the leather sofa and watched him, a soft whine came from it as it lay its ears backwards and looked at him.
"Not now, Boy," he said gently. "You have already been outside. I'll be back in a few hours."
He walked back into the hall, and the dog slipped down from the sofa and followed him. The thick Persian carpets on the floor muffled the sounds from its paws.
"I said no." His voice was firmer now, and the dog lay down with its head on its front paws.
In a drawer he found a pair of gloves, manticore-hide of course. Only the best was good enough. He put on the robes, and looked himself in the mirror. "You look good, as usual, Sir," the mirror said in a low woman's voice.
"Thank you," he muttered absentmindedly while he grabbed the gloves. The manticore-hide felt soft and smooth against his skin, and he flexed his fingers. They followed the movement of his hands perfectly.
He placed his wand on top of the drawer as he fastened his belt, then he lowered it into the scabbard. Perhaps he was old fashioned, but he had never liked the new trend of putting the wand into one's pocket. A scabbard was a man's pride, and told the world that he was a man who knew to take care of his possessions. Besides, he had no desire to lose it.
Priori incantatem.
He gazed in the mirror again. Yes, he looked good. A strong masculine face, with eyes calm and composed. A tad arrogant, he had been told, but that only added to his charm. His gaze belonged to a man who knew who he was, and had reconciled with it.
The dog whimpered quietly again when he opened the front door, but it resumed its former position when the man looked at it. He locked the door after him with a spell and crossed the street.
He walked down Charing Cross road to the Leaky Cauldron. He enjoyed walking, and he cast a drying charm over himself to prevent his expensive robes from getting wet from the rain. Slightly amused he watched the Muggles struggling with their umbrellas as they hurried home. A woman gave him a smile of appreciation as she walked by, and he returned the smile with an idle nod in her direction. He could feel her eyes on his back as he walked on, but he did not stop; he had no desire for Muggle women.
The Cauldron was crowded, as usually, and discreetly he walked through the pub. Not that the noisy swarm of people paid him any attention, they were too caught up in their conversations and confrontations to even notice the people next to them, let alone a single stranger by the wall. Soon he breathed the fresh air again.
Diagon Alley seemed deserted in the cold night air; the fog was thick, and that suited him just fine. He liked the fog- it hid him and gave his entrance a dramatic touch. Theatrical yes, but effective, and his mouth twitched into a little smile from his foolish notions.
His feet steered him safely up the street, and outside Gringotts he stopped to light a cigar. He smoked while he watched the great marble building; he had been there earlier that same day, to withdraw a large sum of money and exchange it into pounds. He would be gone for quite some time, perhaps as long as until the Christmas holidays.
He tossed the cigar away and headed down Knockturn Alley, walking deliberately slow, very aware of the cape of his robes billowing behind him. From his shadow he could tell that the robe made him look like he was filling up the whole narrow alleyway, just as he had intended.
He sensed the presence of people in the shadows, but he did not change his pace or look at them. He kept staring down the street, his head held high and his calm eyes on the light emerging from around the corner. No one approached him, nor would he have allowed them to. They knew him and feared him, so they lowered their heads and withdrew to the darkness.
He was the Baron.
The pub was not as crowded as the Cauldron had been; but then again Jack did not run an inn. The regulars were in place though, sitting by their tables arguing or snoring by the fire. Several of them were homeless, and slept on the benches after the pub had closed. Quite altruistic, this young fellow Bullstrode, he would have to talk with him about that some day.
But not tonight. He had other things on his mind. His men had come to him with disturbing rumours of a man who called himself Lord Voldemort, a pureblood elitist who talked of an uprising against the Ministry, a new dawn for the wizarding community.
Ed had no wish for change. For twenty long years he had worked to get where he was now, and he would not let a new Grindewald toss it all aside. His men worked frantically now, to uncover Voldemort's plans and motives. If their motives were the same, then perhaps he would work out a deal with this man, who seemed to be a skilled manipulator. If not, he would have to be destroyed.
He ordered a glass of red wine from Jack, who now stood in front of him. The expression on the barman's face was wary, and his guest could not resist a little laugh at his expense. He laid two Knuts on the counter, and with twinkling eyes he pushed them with deliberate slowness over to Jack, who waited without looking at his customer.
The wine was sour and cheap, but then again it always was. Young Bullstrode may have had several redeeming qualities, but knowledge of good wines was not one of them.
The room had grown quiet behind him and he turned to find that several of the guests had left, even a few of those who had nowhere to go. Others had crammed together in larger groups, speaking with hushed voices. He sighed heavily; he was so tired of this dead end street that it almost made him sick. It got old, everything did, and he longed for the fresh Cornish air, the beach concealed in its peaceful autumn shroud. It was pure poetry, to wander those shores for hours on end without meeting a single living being.
Ten more hours he had to fill.
He caught the eyes of a witch in the corner by the window, and sent her his usual lazy smile. The woman turned her gaze away from him, and took a firm grip around the man beside her, an unappealing elderly squib he had had the misfortune of talking with once.
Slowly he sipped the bitter wine while his eyes searched the room. In the other corner a red-haired witch was talking with a man of her own age. The young man was dressed in a shabby cloak, and he was obviously drugged on a substance other than alcohol. Probably the Viper. Personally Ed did not touch anything but wine, because wine was not alcohol; it was liquid culture.
She was very young, seemed barely of age. Shouldn't she be at Hogwarts, studying for her NEWTs? She was angry now, lashing out at the boy who looked too drugged to notice what she was saying, and then she grabbed for her tattered robes on the bench beside her and got up to leave. Pink robes, a sign only recognised by those who looked for it.
He had never seen her before. She was new in the trade, otherwise he would have known her. A freelancer, by the look of it, a gold-digger who had struck nothing but rock and sand. He saw them every day.
He drank the rest of his wine, and stood up from his barstool.
"You want another glass?"
The barman caught his attention, and he frowned slightly. "If that day comes when it will be possible to buy a decent glass of wine in your establishment; yes. Until then, no thank you and good bye. We won't be seeing one another for some time, and I don't believe either of us will feel sorry about it."
The rain outside was heavier now. He could see her turning the corner, and walked after her with long steps. He was in no hurry, but did not want to lose her either. Entering into Diagon Alley she stopped under the roof of the corner shop and picked out a cigarette from her pocket. He loosened his wand from the scabbard, and pointed it at her.
"Lumos."
The girl jerked in surprise, clearly she had not heard him following. With a cautious look on her face she accepted the light, and he gave her his most reassuring smile. The girl seemed to relax a little but would not look him in the eye; she could not have been doing this for very long, a notion that pleased him.
"Shouldn't you be at Hogwarts?" he asked in a friendly manner, the soothing smile still on his face.
"Hogwarts!" She spat out the school's name, but there was a soft tone in her voice. "I graduated this summer."
She liked him, he could tell. "I'm sorry, it was not my meaning to pry. But you look younger, you know." His smile was boyish, and she lowered her eyes tot the ground blushing. "Who's the Headmaster now?"
"Dippet."
"Dippet? That barmy old tomcat?" He acted surprised, and she giggled. "Still pinching the astronomy teacher's bum, is he?" More giggling, obviously Dippet had not lost his interest in the witch. He leaned over her in a gesture of intimacy, and she did not pull back. "I locked him inside the loo once, you know."
"You didn't!" She laughed out loud, and he nodded his head seriously.
"Which House were you in?" he asked.
"Gryffindor," she muttered vaguely.
"Ah, a brave Gryffindor." His attitude changed, and he looked at her gravely. "You must be brave to walk around Knockturn Alley after dark." She opened her mouth as if to argue with him, but he slipped into the mentor role and would brook no argument. "There are dangerous people down there, girl. You have seen them, haven't you? Lurking in the dark. Sphinxes they are, and if you cannot answer their questions they kill you. Do you know the answers, little girl?"
Shyly she looked up at him. "You are not afraid," she said. "They call you the Baron, I've heard them."
"No, I'm not afraid." He gave her an enigmatic look, and she stared at him with something resembling awe on her face. "But you should be, especially with pink robes on your young body."
He let his eyes follow the lines of her hips, and she looked away. "How long have you been wearing these robes?" he asked quietly.
"A month," she answered, a tad too fast and he knew she was lying.
"So," she said with a shaky voice. "You're looking for company?"
"Yes," he answered, and he could hear her swallowing. Without any more comments he bent down and tilted her head up with his fingers, and placed a slow kiss on her lips. Her body tensed at first, but then she leaned into him and kissed him back; her kiss tasted faintly of lager.
He followed her back into the Alley again, and in the dark she took hold of his hand. She had a room on the second floor over Borgin and Burke's, a shabby little room but with the unmistakable signs of a woman's touch.
She started to undress, and he watched her doing it. Naked she sat down on the bed, trying to cover herself without making it too obvious. She gave him a shy smile. "Aren't you supposed to take your clothes off?" she asked, her voice faking a certainty that her body language denied.
"Soon," he smiled. "Stand up, I want to look at you."
Hesitantly she got up; her arms still crossed over her chest. He gestured to her to lower them and she did, her shy deer eyes still fixed at his face.
"Turn around."
She was full-bodied, and the curves of her hips were beautifully rounded. "You are very beautiful," he whispered. "Like a Madonna of Tizian."
Slowly he got up from the chair and stood behind her, and let his long fingers slowly follow the lines of her back down to her hips and her buttocks. He could hear her trembling sigh when he traced the line of her neck with his lips. She turned to him and began to unbutton his robes and his shirt. Carefully she placed his clothes on the chair and not once did she take her eyes of him, her hands cool and soft against his skin. She broke the contact and curled up on the bed, waiting for him as he stood there watching her. She wanted him now.
They always did.
With a catlike movement he lowered himself onto the bed, following her tights with his tongue up where he knew she wanted him. She gave a startled gasp before she pulled him up to her, and he gave her a flashing smile. "Shy, eh? I like that."
A moment later she was writhing and moaning under him, and he rose his hand to her face and tilted it up towards him. "You didn't answer my question earlier. Do you know the right answer, little girl?"
She opened her eyes and looked at him. "What do you mean?" she muttered incoherently.
"The Alley is filled with sphinxes, little witch. They have questions for you; do you know the answers?"
"Well, what's the question, then?"
"What does man choose?"
She moaned in frustration. "Can't it wait?" She caressed his back before she drew her nails into his skin, making him move again.
"No," he muttered into her ear. "Answer me."
She was impatient now. "I don't know! Happiness? Money? Sex...?"
He was disappointed with her; for once he had hoped that she could give him his answer, he had hoped she would have been worthy. He had liked her, but rules are rules. He bent his head down and kissed her deeply, and then he whispered the answer in her ear. Her eyes revealed that she did not understand when he laid his hands around her neck.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to her. "I told you to stay away from the men in the Alley."
After a few minutes she had stopped struggling, and he got up from the bed and absentmindedly pulled his shirt on. With an expression of melancholy he stared at her; she was more beautiful now than ever. So still, exposed in her nakedness like a sleeping child. After putting on his robes, he bent down and kissed her on the mouth; why he did not know.
Slowly he descended the staircase with a sinking feeling of loneliness in his chest, knowing that he would live alone forever. But maybe –just perhaps- there was a girl out there who could give him the answer he was looking for. And he would never give up the search for her.