Forgive me for being so long absent, my faithful and wonderful readers! I've been quite busy with all kinds of things, including essays on the Industrial Reovlution.

I adore you all, as I always have, and please enjoy! I apologize in advance for the horrible rhymes later on; I'm not much of a poet,especially when it comes to rhyming.

Jehan was going to save her. He didn't know how, of course; his favorite plans all involved duels and horseback riding. None of these would work, however. Jehan feared the hooves of horses, would flee at the mere mention of a swordfight, and was too poor to buy any metal armor.

Jehan, his determination fierce but brain infuriatingly blank, turned to pen and paper.

He would write her a poem! He would tell her, in it, to go down to the back room and search him out, and he would whisk her away from there.

Only Jehan would think a poem could save a life.

He dipped his pen in the ink, smiling all the while, and began to scratch away.

Azelma was crying, which had been her principle activity for the past few days. Gibelote clicked her tongue whenever she scuttled past Azelma's room.

"A new bride ought to be happy," Gibelote would mutter. She did not elaborate.

Azelma would hear her sometimes, and cry all the harder. She had heard her pass today, and nearly drowned herself.

The tears fell to the floor, one by one; Azelma watched them fall with an air of a wounded child. She was defeated. It was a horrible feeling.

"I shan't marry him, I shan't…" she was repeating, but it only served as a comfort now. She knew that she had lost, and must be married.

"I shan't marry him…I shan't…"

It was quick, but surprisingly loud; a piece of tattered paper, rough-edged and tear stained, flew under the door through the crack.

Azelma hobbled over to it, not wishing to unwrap herself from the coverlet, and picked it up.

Azelma was a slow reader, very slow, but eventually she made it through the note and was filled with a kind of apprehensive joy.

She through the coverlet to the floor, along with the paper, and stood poised to bolt.

She took a step towards the door, and was pained. She took a step away.

It was not like her to answer the call of strange poems in the night. It was a frightening prospect, and oh! But she was timid.

Who awaited her in the room when she got there? How would she know it was the poem's author?

One question plagued Azelma most of all during that minute of quick thinking and fear: what if he wasn't good?

What if?

She picked the poem up again, and ignoring the fact that this would delay her trip to meet her secret poet by several minutes,Azelma read it again:

"Yours is the ethereal beauty that I seek

I see you now; in temper bleak

A hint of rose does tint your cheek

And sorrows innumerable leave you meek

Meek like I, your gentle knight

Who shall not hesitate, for you, to fight

Although I'm faceless, to you, just might

You meet me just this once; tonight?

I lie in places shrouded in shadow, beyond the fierce spitting hellfire. Won't you come to me?

Your Knight

Azelma's was the beauty that someone sought? It seemed, to her, impossible, and she felt the tears stinging her eyes again.

She was not beautiful. She was not anything but meek and stupid; she hadn't even the level of intelligence necessary to read all the words in the poem!

All she knew was to head to the back room, which was beyond the kitchen; she had figured that out simply because the few patrons who dared enter at all referred to the kitchen as "Satan's fire."

Beyond the kitchen, she knew, was only the back door and a room that was always locked.

He must be in that room.

Azelma screwed her eyes shut and sighed. It would be "right horrid" of her to leave such a burning, passionate gentlemen waiting. Azelma swept away.

Our dear sweet little mouse; she always did what she was told.