A/N: I felt there is a small irony that needed sharing. I'm sorry if you think it didn't. As I've written this story, I've used less and less French. Not ironic in and of itself, but the fact that almost 2 months ago I moved to a French speaking country for the year makes it slightly more strange. Why don't I use more French? I really should.

However, without further ado, the next chapter.

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Cecily stared out at the water, the waves lapping at her bare feet as she sat on the rock. The moon was full, and the light danced on the water as she had never seen it do before. The sea was truly amazing. It was a shame that the week was over so soon.

From the house, the final strains of the quartet faded into the night, and Cecily could hear the last of the carriages leaving the house. It had been a grand party, with all of the Count's acquaintances of any importance. She had mingled and danced and had an amazingly good time. Who would have ever known that the same nobles who pranced about in ridiculous finery at the opera house could have a genuinely good time?

She had slipped out nearly an hour before, tired of talking of a world she had no true place in. The waves whispered words that she was more familiar with, words of silence and freedom. It was completely improper to have removed her shoes, but Cecily hadn't been able to help it. The warm water and the constant waves had called to her, and there she was, glad that none of the party-goers had recognized her.

Tomorrow they would take the train back to Paris, and the fairy tale she had been living for a week would end. Nicholai had been most generous, and he and the Count had taken her everywhere that she could have wanted to go on the trip. They had eaten fine foods, drank perfectly-aged wine, gone boating, to concerts, to shops, everywhere. To tell the truth, Cecily felt a little guilty at all the extravagance, but Nicholai had always whispered in her ear that she was worth far more than finery.

Nicholai. She bit her lip to fight off a blush just at the thought of him. He was truly amazing. He had formally asked for her permission to court her on the train. She, of course, had granted it. It had been a most wise decision.

"Cecily? Is that you out there?"

She turned, watching the young Russian walk down the beach to her. "Yes, I'm here. Come sit with me!"

"But your shoes must be…" he spotted the discarded shoes on a rock. "Ah, I see."

"I'm sorry!" she cried. "I'm not much for being a fine lady, I know."

He sat above her on the rock, looking down at her with a smile in his eyes. "I much prefer you this way, you know."

"Do you?"

"Oh yes," he said with mock seriousness. "Fine ladies are always so busy being ladylike that they have no time to be a lover."

"And I do?"

"If you should like to."

She licked her lips hesitantly. He had laid the choice in front of her, and all she could do was stare at it. "I would."

Slowly, Nicholai moved down on the rock, wrapping his arms around her waist as he did so. He drew her close, and Cecily relaxed into him. She felt his fingers tracing her jaw and looked up at him. He was so close. So very close…

"May I kiss you?" She could feel his breath on her lips as he asked. She nodded. It truly was a pity that the week was over so soon.

They held each other for awhile longer, watching the moon set. Cecily's breathing became slow and even, and Nicholai gently lifted her up. She clutched sleepily at him. "Not Aminta now," she whispered quietly. He wondered what that meant as he laid her in her bed, calling the maids to change her. When they left to fetch her nightgown, he leaned down and placed a kiss on her forehead.

"Sleep well, dear one. Dream well."