Black cats cast no shadows on moonless nights...
     But there are no black cats here, are there? There is the scent of cooking from somewhere, old now and fading. There is the winding trail of smoke from a cigarette somewhere in the courtyard. And from a doorway there is the closing of the door, and some man makes his way out into the world again...
     From a window above, a light goes on, with the accompanying sliding of the windows out and open...
     And, as ever, there is the sound of water, gliding, rolling, running, slapping against the banks of the canals. One can never escape water, and be in Venice still...
     In the window there appears a figure, luminous - translucent. Cosimina wears only the finest silks, pale silver it is washed by the light of the moon, and even her skin holds that same iridescence tonight. The darkness of her eyes is invisible to you, to the world, but the darkness of her hair as she seats herself in the window is very visible. Soft - she has unbound it, down past her shoulders it ripples. It is the opposite of moonbeams. Men could (and will) get lost in those raven, ebon tresses.
     Taking up a hairbrush, she begins unhurriedly to glide it over her locks, smoothing the heavy ringlets out to waves for the night. In honour of you? You could only dream that she would be doing this for anyone but herself. Isn't that what they say?
     Cosimina is selfish, she thinks only of herself...

     It is at this time of night, the black cat hour, that the rolling Song of the Gondoliers may be heard, slapping against the sides of houses, abandoned palazzi, churches whose bells will be quiet the rest of the night, as constant (and inconstant) as the salt water through the canals of the city.
     Snippets of the song may be heard, reflecting off of the surfaces of stone, marble and water. "Luna, nostra fortuna. O Luna, nostro sfortunato." Sometimes, if one listens closely, one may recognize a voice, a gondolier that took them to dinner, ferried them to work. "Tirate i mari dentro, voi li trasmettete via. Sediamo sulle onde..."
     One voice carries more than the others, is deeper than the others, a commanding baritone. It nears your window, even as a dark-bodied gondola eases beneath the bridge from the Rio Santa Maria di Giglio. "Ci rendete l'amore voi. Li tirate dentro, voi li spingete via. La Luna, compone la vostra mente..."
     Moon, he sings, make up your mind...
     Paolo stands, his gondola gliding into the lagoon turnaround. With a graceful grab of the pole he turns the black body of his boat in a circle, pulling it up next to your building, the back of your building, and beneath your window, as promised. The song ends there, others pick up threads of it and sing out to the moon this night, guarding against the high rising waters.
     A door opens, a door closes, and sudden illumination shows the departure of a man from the front of your building. He must cross the arching bridge ahead to get back to the fondamenta. "Good night, signore!" Paolo says gravely to the retreating back. The retreating back does not pause. With good reason, Paolo would say. His dark eyes are full of swirling waters. Charybdis has nothing on him.
     Those dark eyes look upward to your window, he there standing tall and regal upon the black body of his gondola. "Good night, Cosimina. I see that the moonlight chases the suitors away. Or... is it just me." His voice is so deep, so grave, his face so serious. Can I not come to see you without have to kick the rest of the men of this city out of my way, like stray dogs upon the stoop?
     "Lower the ladder. I am coming up," as if you have a choice now that he is here. Ah, this is like Old Venice. Clandestine meetings witnessed and snooped upon by every neighbor, this city where everything is everybody's business. He moors his gondola, rope tied securely in the iron ring designed for this very thing four centuries before and he looks up, waiting for the rope ladder to be tossed out of the window.
     Hopefully still attached to the rings inside.
     It is called a Casanova Ladder, this invention. Or his noose, depending on who you speak with...

     "Good night, Paolo." The lazy motions of her hairbrush do not cease. She has reclined there, listening to your song, with the same faint smile that must be on the faces of the plumpest and cream-fed of black cats. Her hair ripples as the water beneath your gondola, and finally, she sets the brush aside.
     "The moonlight is inviting, not reclusive, but the moon sits above the world and looks down from a lofty perch. How will you reach the source of that light?" Her expression remains unchanged. Cosimina, the heartless. Cosimina, the thief of other women's husbands. She does not care now any more than ever for what others think, do you not see that? She curls one hand under her chin, leaning slightly forward to regard you. "If you have kicked other men out of your way, then that is your own problem and none of mine."
     The ladder is not lowered immediately; she waits, looking down upon you, making you wonder. Will she? Won't she? Will she spurn your lover's heart? Will she throw something down - and how heavy will that something be...
     But no; there descends the ladder, and then she disappears inside, sliding off the window ledge and into the bedroom. Her bedroom; she does not even allow you to leave a change of clothing there.
     Heartless...
     "Come up if you are coming," her voice calls from within, indifferently. "I do not have all night. I have a child for whom I must wake to make breakfast for, gondolier. So make up your mind."

     From the unsteady and undulating waters to the undulating rope ladder and the air -- he moves easily from one to the other and up to your window on the second floor. "You do not have all night? I thought that is precisely what you would have. All night," he mutters to himself as he climbs. This woman, she drives me to distraction...always with the pulling and the pushing like the fickle moon.
     Paolo appears in your window, dressed much differently than he was before. The outfit for the tourists removed, he is all in black, making his eyes seem all the deeper. Without further word to you, he rolls up the ladder. "Thank you for the lunch." It is a quiet thing, a soft thanks that was meant not as the opening of an argument but as the closing of an old one.
     The window is left open as he takes a seat on the bed. "How is Genevra," how appropriate she was named: White Wave. He demanded at least something watery about it, though left it wholly to you. Ah, he was so tender when she was born. He probably doesn't remember that. "I will be here when she wakes," he is announcing that to you, without asking. "And have breakfast with her. She will be surprised and happy." Don't ruin it.
     Paolo looks up to you, finally, the first moment to see you in the light. He stands from the bed and comes over to the bathroom door. "Is there... something you want to tell me?" You touched your stomach earlier... you spoke of getting another home... does this mean you are planning or ... it is already done...
     And is this why you have refused to see me for a month...
     "You drop hints like anchors," he seems to complain, always to complain, maybe that is not fair. "A bigger house... so... " dark eyes go to you, to your belly, as if he could tell.

     "It is good to see you as well, Paolo." Cosimina is dressed, now that you can see her, in a simple gown - a nightgown, really. White silk, patterned with ivory flowers, exquisite. Expensive. She is not wearing jewelry, nor is she wearing shoes. The room is fragrant, however...
     The candles might have something to do with that...
     If it were a different woman, you might think that she has busied herself providing a romantic environment for this tryst. Fat red and white candles flicker from alcoves and surfaces, dropping wax and providing the room's only light. There is the sweet smell of almonds, and with them, something heavier, more masculine - sandalwood, perhaps, or some other musk, masked by the scent of almonds that always follows her. "Genevra is well and will, I am sure, be happy to see you. Someone should be, yes? She has started singing lessons with that Belgian woman, I cannot remember her name right now. She is enjoying it very much and hopes to be selected for the next processional. You may stay tonight, but you are not to pester me all night about things - I have more important things to see to than your willful demands."
     Such sweet words. But her voice is not harsh; it is steady and even and unconcerned. She moves away from the wall, going to the wooden curio table in which she keeps various odds and ends - always locked when she is out of the room, never open to your sight. "I don't know what you're talking about, gondolier. A woman can say things without always there being some double meaning. Now do you want the cards read or not? Or do you have specific questions for me, rather than them?" Cosimina's dark gaze flickers to your own, a hint of challenge. Her hand moves to her hip, brushing, but if she has swelled at all, it is not visible in this light, or that gown.
     "So... so-so, Paolo. How appropriate. Did you bring the thermos as I told, or did you forget, just like a fool?"

     He did forget. You can see it in his eyes (they go sharp), in the darkening of his olive complexion (it darkens, too) and all of the sudden he stands there like a chastised Neptune. "The basket is in the gondola," he assures you, his hands raising. He turns from the silvery vision of you, with the smell of the candles, the light. No, surely this was for the man who left. You would never do this for his arrival.
     "Always, you have other things to do. Maybe I should just go. I dare not rush Fate as well as tempt it..." and he turns, heading back to the window. You don't want me here, fine. "Do you want me to sleep in the gondola? Would that make you happy? Tonight, bella, I would like you to tell me what would finally make you happy..."
     Paolo stills at the window, sighing. He is tired. He has spent much time calming the waters after the last flood. It seems pointless sometimes, and he is getting graver and graver all the time. And you! You always with the pointing and the men and the needling. For one night, would it be so hard to take this man in your arms and love him?
     "I will go get the basket..." he relents, lowering and swinging a leg over the ledge. "I will be right back. If you close the window, I will just bang on it until Signora Castorini wakes..." the woman right across the small canal. He shakes his head as he climbs back down. "I do not know why you have to be so contrary. Go away, Paolo. You are a fool, Paolo..."
     His voice trails as he lowers himself, still talking to you. At you.
     "What is so hard about it?" His feet thud in the body of his boat and water splashes, hooking an arm through the basket's handle, he begins to climb back up. "The moon is full, the waters are low, the night is here," and you are beautiful. "I am glad she is liking her lessons. Do you need more money?"
     All of this bickering. It is just his way of saying 'I miss you'.

     If it tugs at her heartstrings, she does not let you see it. Her expression remains precisely as it was as you move away, as you move to the window, and she moves behind you to speak out the window to you as you go. "You still have not told me what you want, Paolo," she reminds, "and so I will not close my window. Yet. But my patience has limits, remember it."
     You could hardly forget, with all the reminding that she does. She watches you in your movements, her thoughts as distant and mysterious as La Luna that you consider her. Her hair is in no disarray to indicate a lover's hand, but then, she was brushing it when you arrived...
     "She is liking her lessons very much. She tried to talk me into reducing her hours at the bakery, but work is good for her. She could be easily spoiled, how much you dote upon her. Sometimes one must be hard, for life to turn out the better in the end." She's still speaking of Genevra, surely. She could never mean you. Cosimina watches you go, she watches you turn. "Pass the basket up ahead so you have both hands free. You are not a young man, gondolier, to be using one hand on the ropes."
     She leans forward to take the basket or perhaps just to watch you, those dark eyes glittering in the dim candlelight. "Money is always useful. I do not need yet, no, but I will. I have many appointments to keep, and they will help, but they do not meet everything. Genevra needs new shoes as well."

     The basket appears before his head pops over the sill, then he comes into view. There you are, silver as the moon. "La Luna," he says, then he catches himself, handing over the basket to you. "Your thermos is inside, it is clean," he notes. Like Romeo he must seem, hanging from your window as if it were from a balcony.
     It would be romantic, except that Paolo is not romantic...
     "It is a good season," he continues, arms upon the sill, waiting for you to move so he can swing himself back into your bedroom. "So far. The money is good. I will make sure she has new shoes. What else ... does our daughter," see? he has ears to hear, "... need... lessons... shoes. You will tell me, yes, tomorrow before I leave. I will make sure to ... leave what you will need."
     He would seem sweet and caring. Except that Paolo is not sweet and caring.
     But you can say it is for the girl, right? It is for your daughter, his daughter that he is doting. "I am sure she is spoiled. She is still getting presents from that Signore Castello. Oh, Paolo, her face is so pretty. She needs a mask that will not be ruined by the rain." He rolls dark eyes. Yes, he hears about the gifts from all sorts of sources. Sometimes from the men themselves. His expression darkens like the swirling waters of the Adriatic prior to the floods of acqua alta.
     "I do not begrudge her gifts, but...you are right... she should not be... too spoiled by them. But... she must have shoes. So..." He nods. You will tell me what she needs. I will... give her whatever she needs. "The cards..." he is having to make up a reason for you to do a drawing.
     You see, he lied about that...
     Quickly, he covers it up. "I want you to look... see if you see what I feel." A pause. "About the work," his face darkens again. "... the song's power in the northeast, the ghetto." The Jewish Ghetto. The first ghetto ever to exist in the world. "I worry for that sector." And he does worry, that's not a lie.
     But it is a pretense...
     Why can he not admit it? Because you will tear out his heart...he fears it...
     Dark eyes lift, settling on you. They say what he will not allow his mouth to say. Need. Desire. And caring.

     She moves back from the window, though she waits for a moment so that you know your place. "At least you cleaned it," Cosimina remarks. "Once the mold gets in, there is no use trying to rescue it, it must be thrown away entirely. I do not think that Genevra has any other needs right now, but I will let you know after my appointment - the day after tomorrow."
     To what follows, she just lifts one shoulder, seeming not to care. "I have told them that they are not to buy her gifts unless it is appropriate to the occasion, and that they are to limit their generosity. Guiseppe, at least, seems genuinely to care for her on her own merits, and so I grant him a little bit of room, but she is your daughter, and he knows that."
     That much, she will grant you. She will not tolerate another man to try and steal your child, even if other men may lay with her...
     "The cards," Cosimina says dryly, glancing to you as she heads back to the curio table. "Wine first, perhaps? I suppose I can share with you my midnight feast. I had not intended to be generous, you have not deserved generosity, but I suppose since you are here." The desk is opened - or one compartment. There is a bottle of wine, red, and a covered tray. Prosciutto ham, sliced thin on crusty bread with equally thin slices of provolone and tomato and cucumber, baked and then cooled, and a bowl of tiramisu. There is only one spoon. "Sit down, you are looming, I cannot abide a man who looms. I will see what the cards reveal, but you must sit down. Do you wish to know only that, or do you have other questions? All cards on the table, Paolo..."
     "Before I begin..."

     He comes in, the ladder is pulled up again, the window left open to allow the cool breezes. "It is kind of you to share your midnight snack with me," he acknowledges it. And he removes his shoes, his weight landing on the bed. He looks at you, he looks at what you remove. It is almost as if you planned on doing this. With the candles. The food. The wine.
     Only you would never do this for him...
     "All cards on the table?" Paolo nearly smiles as he looks between dark lashes to you, peeking through the drape of them. Why must men have such eyelashes? "I want to know what you meant about the bigger house. You say these things, Cosimina, and then you leave," his hand gesticulates, waving at the air. "Leave me to think on it all day when I have to carry around the tourists, and all night when I have to lift the city."
     A hand moves through wavy dark hair, "That is what I want to know. More than the issue with the ghetto. Because you never have only one meaning for anything. Are you saying, you want to have another child..." A direct question comes out of nowhere.
     And then Paolo's gaze settles on you. "It has ... been a long time, bella," beautiful, he calls you. "What did you mean?"

     Of course she would never plan all of this for you. For herself, certainly. For one of her other men, quite probably. You? You are last. You are least. You are insignificant.
     Or so she tells you...
     Or so you tell yourself...
     "I torture you because you deserve it, gondolier. Someone must keep you in your place, or you will get a swelled ego, and the only lancing that may be done for such is more painful than you could survive." Cosimina moves to the edge of the bed, settling at the foot of it, carefully, easing herself down. "If I wished to have another child, what would you say?"
     She seems almost for a moment interested in what your opinion might be; but then she dismisses it. "Does it matter? If I am with child, Paolo, we both know whose child it is. I am well aware that everyone knows I am a coldhearted merciless beast of a woman who keeps you a miserable wretch, imprisoned by my beauty and my spells. But I do keep my promises. Do you, then, wish to see me with child?"
     Ah, she's back to torturing you now, in that lightly mocking tone that hides from you whatever might be underneath it. The dark hair ripples as she leans forward, taking up the bottle of wine, filling a wineglass - only one - and then holding it out to you, untasted. "What difference would it make what you want, after all? I will take what I want. As usual."

     "Since when have you ever cared about what anyone else thinks," he takes the wine with a quiet 'grazie' and takes a swallow of it. "And if it makes no difference to you how I feel about it, why do you ask?" A shrug. "A part of me wants very much to have another child," and by 'child' he means 'son'. "A part of me worries constantly about money. But," he exhales, he swallows more wine, "...you do not have a child to afford a child, you have a child to continue the family, the name..."
     Some people have children as an expression of love. But we would never do this...
     We who do not love...
     He makes a sound as he takes a piece of the bread, some of the prosciutto, a bit of the cheese and eats it. He is not a dainty eater. He eats with the same passion he argues. Everything is 'gusto' with this man. He drinks, he eats more, then he settles back on the bed in a half recline. "When have I ever had a moment for a swelled ego? Always you are there with the pin the size of a gondolier's pole," a bit of a smirk at that. No need to explain that look. "To pop it before it even has time to rise. It is a wonder we have one child, let alone this talk of another. I am just a mission for you, hmm? That is all for poor Paolo..."

     "Since when have I ever cared," Cosimina agrees, ignoring the food and leaning up against one of the posts of the bed. They are tall, they are carved, they are open. As open as she is not.
     The bottle is set down near to where you may reach. How convenient - this way she will not have to pass it when you run out and make your request. "Money is always difficult. I cannot tug too tightly, Paolo. If that thread should snap, there would be five very unhappy little mouths, possibly six, and three unhappy larger mouths. Neither of us wish this." Of your other wife's wishes, she does not mention. Instead, she turns, glancing to the open window.
     "Poor Paolo," Cosimina mocks. "How cruelly you are treated. I wonder, if you feel so sorry for yourself, why is it that you come to my window? Perhaps next time my window should be shut. Or perhaps next time I will actually be with another man, as you have accused me of being tonight though I was not. Not that you believe me. Your jealousy makes you see things, gondolier. Would you chain up the moon? It will always slip through your fingers."
     She leans back, settles back, closing her eyes with her hand on her stomach again. "However, as it may be. I am pregnant. Are you going to insult me by asking who is the father, Paolo?"

     He stands up, finishing the wine. A sign of his own offense. "You are better, hmm? You presuppose I will think you a whore. How is this different than me being jealous of the other men. How do you think," his voice raises a little -- though not as much as it would if Genevra were not downstairs sleeping. "... that is any different than you thinking I am cruel. Before I even get to... react to anything. You drive me crazy...always with this..." He puts the glass on the dresser.
     For a time, Paolo says nothing. He does not even look to you. It is as though he were doing the math in his head. Of all the things that must be done. Then those dark eyes lift to you. There it is, a moment of that sweetness that you have seen in him before. And for the first time in what must be ages now, he smiles.
     It looks like it might be painful...
     He moves away from the dresser. He moves to you, settling on the bed, moving the food away, sliding it with a hand that then slides against the silk of your nightgown. "How long have you known..." he wonders, his hands scrying on your belly as if it were large already. You aren't even showing.

     She waits where she sits, not rising, not moving, letting you stand. Standing or sitting, what difference does it make? "I am not a whore," Cosimina agrees, voice low, tensed and vibrant for a moment. "And I will grant you that, Paolo. You have never called me that. Whatever else."
     With her fine clothing bought by other men...
     With the jewels she taunts you with...
     But that, you have never said. If you have even thought it, you have not thought it where she would read it upon your face. And so for a moment, she relents. But only for a moment.
     "You are not cruel, but you have a disposition which could lead you to laziness. I do not allow you to be lazy. You can be lazy when you are dead and Venice is no longer our concern."
     But then there is that look on your face, and she has to go silent, watching, her own eyes masked by her lashes now, her hair rippling again as she shifts to make room for you. Your hand goes to her belly, and she sighs. "A week. I was very ill. I thought it was the shrimps that we got from the fishmonger's, but no, Genevra was fine, though very worried for her mama. And when it did not go of its own accord, I looked to the cards to see what fate had been attached to me." A shrug, and then, irritably she pushes at your hand. "Enough, Paolo. My belly will not suddenly grow fat underneath your touch. Time will do that. Haven't you done enough?"
     She isn't angry, though, despite the words. Instead, she sounds something less usual. She sounds ... tired. Cosimina's eyes close again. "I am going the day after tomorrow, to make sure that all is well, that they are healthy within me. I believe they are, but I would not wish to risk it, as I am sure that you will agree."

     They...
     They?
     "They?"
     Now he looks like he might faint a little. His olive complexion goes a bit pinkish and with a last circle of his hand he moves it as you wish. He doesn't bite at the 'lazy' remarks, as he might have any other night, or several times earlier this visit, or even as he did at lunch.
     No, you have moved past that with this news...
     "My place is there with you. You will tell me when your appointment is. I will take you to the taxi... we will go." He seems firm on that point. "And why do you push my hand away, why do you have to do this," Paolo says it quietly, and not in his usual defensive and argumentative fashion. "It sounds as though I have more to do ... more all the time. And... thank you, carita," little darling? "... for ... keeping me on my feet. For me, for Venice."
     And suddenly he kisses you. On your temple, on your cheek. "You are tired. I should let you sleep...and not too much wine, bella...and to think... hmm? Last time we were together... this happened, hmm? We argued a little...if you remember. I think you broke a plate on the wall over my head. I dumped you on the bed... we made love one night until the moon set over the Giglio..."

     "They."
     It is firm, but said with a little shrug; a resigned shrug at that. She is perhaps not as pleased as she ought to be. "Oh, very well. If you wish." Cosimina reaches over, dragging your hand back to her belly, placing your palm on it - push, pull. No rest for Paolo. "You do not know your own strength. Two, yes. They are fighting with each other even now. I do not know more, but I do know that it will be a difficult pregnancy. I will have to give up much of my energy to them."
     There is no talk of doing otherwise. The notion of not going through with it has seemingly not occurred to her, alien concept beyond even the TImelessness that is Venice. "You have not seen me for a month, Paolo. For a week - not this past week but the week before, I was too ill to even think. And then I was too ill to move but not too ill to think, and then I knew."
     Cosimina accepts the kiss on her cheek, though you receive a sidelong glance for it. "I have not had any wine, you fool, you have had it all thus far. Do you think it a coincidence?" And that the wine was there at all perhaps gives away more, then, but she does not give you time to dwell upon it. "The last time we were together, yes. Or perhaps the time before. I do not know yet. I will not know until I have been to the appointment."
     She does not argue with you about your attending with her. Perhaps she really has been ill. Perhaps she just says it to get your attention, though usually the words of the sort aimed at your head are like the thrown plates - heated, not this. But there is a shrug. "What we do, we do for Venice, yes? Unless that has changed, Paolo. And it has not. I am not ill, still. I am just a bit tired. And that is just because of my day."
     She presses at your shoulder, then moves to slide from the bed, to rise to her feet. "I know that it is not the ideal time, and that money is ever a problem. However, this is what is. And this is why I will need a larger house. Soon there will be three children, not one. And in a few months, stairs will become difficult for me." Pragmatic. Not romantic at all. She gives you a glimmering look over her shoulder.
     "Why do you dwell on how it happened, Paolo? Are you hoping that I will suddenly sigh and rest my head upon your shoulder, gaze into your eyes and say, 'oh, my darling Paolo, how very handsome you are, and I adore you with all of my heart, and if only the sea could rise to cover me so that we could forever be together'? I am not a schoolgirl, and I do not think either of us have very much interest in each other's hearts." She looks away again, and her voice softens, weakens. "However, you will have two more children before the year has changed, gondolier. I suppose the sea is fertile and teeming with life, yet."

     Why do you have to take everything that is good and beautiful and misshape it until happiness is sorrow and sorrow is joy? He frowns, pulling his hand away. "Of course not, love has nothing to do with it. It is a father's duty. Nothing more." How quiet his voice is upon that finish. It is not true, you see.
     But maybe you see and you do not care. As you say, as you always say, this is not about love. It is a partnership in magic, nothing more. Nothing more. Not even when you and he fight into a pile upon this bed and fight until fighting is not fighting anymore.
     "If I could find the Doge's Gold, all problems would be solved, si? But... I am too busy to go ...treasure hunting with Albizzina. I will ... begin inquiries on a new place for you. I have some savings." Something Rosalie doesn't know, you can tell that by the sidelong look he gives you, and then he rises again. "I will be able to put down money on what we... you," since you don't need me, "... need. I will get you a lower floor," he winces at that. A low floor means flooding problems. "Maybe some place with a ramp, something more...modern. Do you have to stay in this neighborhood?"
     Yes, clearly, let us deal with the mundane details. We, who are so unable to deal with anything deeper...
     "I will sleep on the sofa..." he says. "You should go to bed now. I will not be able to sleep for a while..." Paolo glances at you only, then heads for the bedroom door. "Good night, bella..."

     "Why will you sleep on the sofa when I need a man in my bed to keep my feet warm?" It is said imperiously. "You are here already. You may as well make yourself useful."
     Cosimina slides over to lie down on the mattress, stretching out languidly. Her body is on display. No doubt she entices lovers like this, but not you - surely this is just her making herself comfortable. "And they are our children, Paolo. Not mine alone. I give credit where credit is due. Look, I will see in the cards, we will see what the doctors say as well. Maybe I will not need a lower place. And I have some money saved as well - I do not expect you to put in for /our/ children and I only take, take, take."
     No matter what your other wife tells you while you wake and while you sleep. No matter what poison she drips in your ears with her syrup and sugar ways. I know better. And I will not allow you not to know better.
     "I would prefer to stay in this neighborhood, but," Cosimina shrugs against the pillows, "we will see what may be possible. Now get over here, gondolier. The Doge's Gold is not in my bed. But I am, and even though you do not appreciate it, I am a better treasure than all of the Doge's Gold. Morning comes soon enough and I will demand much of you then, but right now, I am cold. And it is your job to warm me."
     With that, she closes her eyes. She is so confident that this is a task that you will agree to, bend to her will like a reed upon. After all...
     She is beautiful...

Posted by rowan at January 17, 2005 08:49 PM