She stood in the bright moonlight at the door

Of a strange room, she threw her slippers on the floor —

Again, again

You heard the patter of the rain,

The starving rain — it was this Thing

Summer was this, the gold mist in your eyes;—

Oh God! it dies,

But after death —

To-night the splendour and the sting

Blows back and catches at your breath,

The smell of beasts, the smell of dust, the scent of all the roses in the world,

the sea.

At first you scarcely saw her face,

You knew the maddening feet were there,

What called was that half-hidden, white unrest

To which now and then she pressed

Her finger-tips; but as she slackened pace

And turned and looked at you it grew quite bare:

There was not anything you did not dare:

The Fête

– Charlotte Mew

There was a light tang, a sense of September in the very air of Four Winds, it mixed with the salty scent of the sea and the gold of ripe grain fields. Leslie West, now Moore, for past sixteen years watched with mild indifference, that enchanting landscape that opened from the shadowy windows of the upper story of Moore's house.

Everything was still.

There were old, spruce trees filled with green-grey shadows, old cross-lots road, a well-grassed path, and there behind the trees rose like a creamy seashell Elizabeth Russel's little house, with a neat but old-fashioned garden, still blooming with vibrant red late summer roses, and a twinkling brook.

The Glen Presbyterian Church had rented that house, to someone outside, or almost nearly so, so Miss Cornelia had pointed out a couple of days ago when their paths had crossed, but Leslie hadn't paid much attention to Cornelia's words, as Dick had been more challenging than usual that afternoon.

Leslie's eyes scanned the room, slowly her gaze settled on a cracked vase full of fragrant flowers that filled the room with their sweet fragrance. The cracks breaking the smooth surface of the vase were like a constant reminder, of a past, her past, of the past of her lost family and of moments of happiness that had long since disappeared. That past was in every object, and sometimes even in the air of this old house, sticky, pressing, cutting.

The memories were heavy, they were always present, like the mist that rose to the surface of a forest pond every morning. Sometimes at certain moments, Leslie could almost hear her brother's happy laughter rushing up the stairs until the voices changed to the voices of the tenants, they hadn't come in a long time. The room was modest, but every piece of furniture was carved with love if not skill, for Frank West hadn't been very handy with tools, even though he'd imagined he was. Pure white muslin curtains shaded the window showing her mother's embroidery, and in the corner was a small dressing table with a cracked mirror.

And on the wall, right where the dusty light beam seemed to almost dance, was a framed certificate, now all yellowed with age, but carefully preserved. Slightly bitterly, and rebelliously, Leslie brushed the dust with her fingertip that had gathered in the corners of the framed certificate. And again she remembered how her grandmother West had remarked in her wobbly voice, weakened by fever, "When I'm no longer here, I'll leave you a small sum, my dearest lass, to fulfill your dreams, and not just yours. Queens, yes, yes. Don't shake your golden head my dear, you will get there, and you will shine, among other young, clever people from all over this Island of ours, and I can soon draw my last breath in contentment, knowing this."

Leslie, straightened her back and looked at her shadowy image reflected on the surface of the stained glass. Contorted, turned inwardly like a Medusa whose gaze turns everything to stone. Purposefully she turned and moved with silent steps down the creaking stairs downstairs and walked into the parlor, avoiding looking up at the curved hook that had taken her father's life.

Carefully, she checked all the rooms, there were handful of modest furniture, old rosewood tint, lacking the elegance of the other houses in the Glen, but this was almost the back end of Four Winds. Here was no damask wallpaper shading the walls, no gilt-edged mirrors, no children's laughter, no more. The neat rooms were empty, even the room at the back with a lock on the door, and the white-washed kitchen was empty, the copper pots gleamed reddish-brown on the wall.

Moore's house was a failing farm, and it looked like it. Well-swept yard, was quiet. Then Leslie tilted her head as the panicked cackling of the geese came from the goose shelter.

Lifting her pale blue skirts over her arm, Leslie ran. And as she ran she called, sharply, first, and then coaxing lit in her voice, "Dick, Dick, where are you, leave my goose alone, Dick, where are you hiding!"

Suddenly, a figure moved in the shadows of the yard. The cackling of the geese died down as they calmed down. And the quiet contented chuckle echoed until it rose to a rough maddened laugh. Leslie forced herself not to flinch as she said calmly, persuasively, "Dick, come on, come on, don't play."

The shadow moved, and the man stepped forward. He was bulky, and bloated, with features that had once been clearcut, brown-blonde hair was full of hay. The white shirt was open at the neck, and something that could be a bruise, or the mark of a old sailors tattoo was visible on his collarbone, a jagged shadow. His eyes were peculiar. Other was green and other brown. He smiled, but the smile was devoid of understanding, as he said, "Pretty, pretty, pretty," as he extended his rough, dark-furred arms toward Leslie.

Leslie looked long at Dick, that human wreck, her husband of past sixteen years, and at last she said, in an even calm, if not now gentle voice, in which there was not an iota of the revulsion she felt in her soul, "Come in, it's getting late."

Dick reached out his hand, and confidently, without possessiveness, touched Leslie's waist, and stifling a shudder, Leslie matched her steps with Dick's stumbled ones. When Dick had drunk his usual tea, and began to doze off, Leslie carefully locked the door of his room and collected her geeses from the goose shelter.

The evening shadows colored the shore road redder than usual, as Leslie roamed with her geeses, momentarily free. Grass was sparkling green, and close by was an old birch grove, and beyond that Miss Russel's house, the hill led down, and Leslie was leaning to open the gate for her goose, as the clatter of the carriage curved past her. A young couple, for their happiness was absolutely glowing, the handsome dark-haired youth did not take his eyes off the woman in a greenish-gray dress, whose reddish-brown hair shimmered in the dusk of the evening. The woman looked at Leslie with a smile and a hint of something else, an unknown, unnamed feeling in her large greenish-gray eyes, that look, it spoke to her, it pierced Leslie´s heart, for it was just like that unknown woman, with her white gloves and happiness, was mocking her.

Leslie answered the look, with her own, the unknown woman's lips parted as if in surprise, as the evening light shimmered around them, a mix of reds and golds, a nimbus of colors. That exchange of glances, intent, surprised, and reserved, hostile, lasted maybe a few seconds, no more or less, and then the carriage turned to birch grove, out of sight.

With suddenly nervous fingers, Leslie flung out from her belt blood red poppies, which she had collected a few moments earlier, her geezes trampled the poppies under their feet. The evening was calm and shimmeringly beautiful, the kind of balmy September-evening that comes occasionally in these parts.

Suddenly Leslie found herself wishing that there would be the worst and most terrible autumn storm, which would lash the land with rain and the harbor of the Four Winds would almost be buried in great waves that would perhaps reach here, and she could slide into their embrace, like a seafoam would. But as always when thoughts like this flooded Leslie's consciousness, so did her responsibility, her burden, a chain, because she had nothing else. With a inner shudder Leslie gathered up her geeses and started walking towards her home where an empty bed awaited, no wedding bed or a wedding supper for her, never again.

Anne Shirley Blythe, a Mrs. Blythe, only for a few hours, looked with eager eyes at the fragrant garden, all around her, the secrets of whose flowers she would come to know just as Captain Jim's story had momentarily revived the previous owners of the house.

For a moment, Anne's thoughts wandered to that confusing encounter on the shore road, which had been a similar coincidence as in her old dreams, from time before Green Gables. And to that fair girl, whose beauty and vivid presence had brought to mind Browning's immortal verses, as instantly as creeping knownledge in her heart, that had flamed from that one mysterious glance, a knowing of a kind, that had sent shivers down her spine.

Quietly Anne uttered, in a whisper.

" That quick the round smooth cord of gold,

This coiled hair on your head, unrolled,

Fell down you like a gorgeous snake

The Roman girls were wont, of old,

When Rome there was, for coolness' sake

To let lie curling o'er their bosoms.

Dear lory, may his beak retain

Ever its delicate rose stain

As if the wounded lotus-blossoms had marked their thief to know again!"

There was a certain glint in Gilbert's hazel eyes, the power of which she had come to know during her engagement, as he murmured, gruffly. "We are not in Venice, as in that Browning poem, but these shadows are cool, and neither lotus flowers, nor sirens' song, are to me so sweet as you in this at the moment."

And handing her bouquet to her husband with a flirtatious gesture, Anne whispered, in her queenly way as Phil had put it, "Well, then, let us keep our bridal tryst here then!"

And as Gilbert's strong arms slowly wrapped around her waist, Anne, buried her fingers in Gilbert's curls, and for a moment she was conscious of the fatal, and bewitching, ripe fragrance of red roses in the throbbing evening, as the nightingale sang softly.

AN: For Alinya Alethia - I have been promising this for you quite some time now. For everyone else I want to say, that this story can take quite dark turns certain times, as Leslie can be morbid person on occasion. Happy reading moments and hopefully joyful times with this little narrative of mine. The title comes from Stephen Sondheim´s song Being Alive, from Company(1970)