It was Easter Season, time of resurection with goosey golden daffodils blooming, in Redmond Quays were verdant with the scent of grass.
Carl Meredith absently walks on the green grass, watching the butterflies fluttering along, there is Papilio glaucus, with its brilliant yellow-black wings, and there, Papilio canadensis.
There is a flash of burnt orange-red, so vivid and graceful in Carl's periphery, that for a moment a slight triumph beats within him, for perhaps now he could know, Limochores mystic, but as he cautiously turns his gaze, the flash is only a flamingly colorful hat.
It sits on a angle on a head, of a slender, almost frail woman, every feature of a her in shadow. But beside her walks Una, in her dark blue, as ever. Carl looks at his sister, and notices that Una still resembles a duskywing butterfly, with her senene, mournful air, amidst blooming greenery.
They walk and turn down the park road towards Carls patch of long-grass.
But there are differences, Carl notes.
Una's eyes have the same look she had years, years ago, when Rosemary had arrived at the Manse as a bride, and she had started to teach both Una and Faith household skills. Una had then looked, similar, bashfully pleased, but shy with it, as it had been unlooked for gift to be noticed, as it had been, for them all, in those days. And for Una it still was, he ponders.
The orange-red hat shimmers, and a gentle breeze brings to Carl's ears the cool, clipped voice of an unknown woman, "You are right about music, there is a kind of poetry, a very good observation you had, Miss Meredith."
Narrow, delicate, slightly freckled hands restlessly rub the brim of the hat, the movement is small, but it catches Carls interest, keenly.
Una's clear voice exclaims gently, "Carl, did you happen to run away from the library, to look for new species, perhaps. Professor Sorel, here is my brother, he is enthusiastic, especially about butterflies, but all animals under Christendom are his kindreds."
Curious, Carl examines the hat's owner.
Professor Sorel, is like, Staphylus hayhurstii, who has flown to a pale clover flower. Not at all as plain and unassuming as one might assume at first glance, but well disguised. A cool voice says, "Mr. Meredith, I once knew someone who also liked animals, but it ended in tragedy."
Next to Professor Sorel, Una startled, Carl noted, but she covered it with a fleetingly, with one breath as in Maywater Manse days as Mama withered towards the grave, and her hoarse breathing echoed from bedroom, Una and Carl had sat on the threshold, side by side, keeping vigil, trying to keep Deaths wings away, from golden, blithe Mama, but it had not worked.
Professor Sorel's gaze is the same one Carl recognizes, pondering, distant, cool, deliberate, for once one has walked through horrors, as in Western Front, the options are either to recreate oneself, or to force distance. With a small smile, not even a grin Carl starts to hum, " Look Not in My Eyes." softy and slowly.
Una, now seemed impatient, even brittle under her usual verneer of serenity, as Professor Sorel, turns and notes, " Butterworth is cloingly sentimental, I'm a pianist not a singer, , to so let me ask, to whose benefit was that?"
Carl grins, his smile as goosey golden and bright as golden-yellow daffodils that are dotting the green all around them.
Una laughs shakily, with her high silvery treble.
Afterwards, from the parlor of HayCorner incandescent strains of "Glorious Things of Thee Are Spoken", are shimmering, barely in time or in the right key.
In homely kitchen, in the lingering warm scent of honey cake, and lingering notes of well-breawed tea, a grade honored by Bakerian traditions.
Carl presses his chin against Shirley's shoulders as he notes, " Shirl, I met Una's Professor Sorel. She is moodier than Gertrude Oliver of olden days were."
Shirley leans back, once, for one heart-stopping moment.
Carl's soft hair tickles the nape of his neck, carefully, purposefully, he breaks free from the grip that wasn't really a grip, just a lean.
Shirley muses, "Does that mean I'm cutting half of this cake for Una's professor?"
A smile lights Carl's features, as he hums, thoughtfully, and finally replies, "Not a chance, you've been tinkering with the recipe for weeks."
A greenish-gold light shimmers over the Redmond campus, churches of all denominations, people flocking to follow the age-old traditions and the brilliance of the music.