Pale yellow, the sun sat on the lip of the horizon, readying itself for a lunge higher into the sky. Overhead the last traces of dark blue were melting into the clear blue-white of a beautiful late-spring day. Wind caught and snapped in the single sail of the dory, carrying with it the slap of waves against bow and salt in the air. Hudson sat on the tiller bench, one sun-darkened arm draped loosely over the length of wood that set his course shoreward, homeward.
Dusk sat over the hills, darkened the water of the loch and tempted the stars out to play. Running, one fell from the sky in a blaze before vanishing. Crackling orange and red and gold, a fire protested the night, and strawberry-blonde hair kindled with its light. Laughter danced with the sparks, warm alto and pleasant tenor mingling in the stolen hours before daylight would make its demands.
Cloudy gray, the sky could have been oppressive. Instead the light was timeless, washing away distinction between morning and noon, noon and evening. Heather and bog-violets rustled in their little pottery cup on the windowsill, breathing sweet air into the room. Knitting needles ticked against one another from the deeply padded chair by the fire, and Hudson watched from the doorway.
Weeping, a dreary fall of rain soaked the dark scar of the small mound of earth. Staring blindly at carved granite, the words there had no meaning. A handful of dried heather scattered over the dirt; rain soon pressed it into the mud. Shoes squelched into the mud of the path, away from the new grave.
Golden glow of lamps lit black-inked words on a smooth page. The warm scent of highly-spiced cider rose and mixed with pastry and parchment. Quiet words were a background murmur, the sound of other people about a soothing balance to over-much solitude. A bell tinkled for the opening door, and short seconds later Hudson looked up to see a pair of violet eyes.
Green leaves turned the sunlight to something pleasant, with a babbling brook adding to the riot of children's laughter. The splash of a fish struggling against a line was followed by a squeal of triumph, and a shout of pride. Small feet ran across dirt and grass, followed by an easier, longer stride. Raven-wing black hair glimmered with sparkling highlights in a chance sunbeam.
Laughing, workers collected their pay and called out farewells while the warehouse doors rolled down. Turning back into the silent space, crowded with crates and boxes, the building seemed to sigh and settle for the night. Eva had left with the others, and now Hudson climbed the stairs back to his office. Outside his window, lanterns hanging from ship?s lines turned the harbor into a fairy meadow.
Pale yellow, the sun sat on the lip of the horizon, readying itself for a lunge higher into the sky. Overhead the last traces of dark blue were melting into the clear blue-white of a beautiful late-spring day. Wind caught and snapped in the single sail of the dory, carrying with it the slap of waves against bow and salt in the air. Hudson sat on the tiller bench, one sun-darkened arm draped loosely over the length of wood that set his course shoreward, homeward.
Dusk sat over the hills, darkened the water of the loch and tempted the stars out to play. Running, one fell from the sky in a blaze before vanishing. Crackling orange and red and gold, a fire protested the night, and strawberry-blonde hair kindled with its light. Laughter danced with the sparks, warm alto and pleasant tenor mingling in the stolen hours before daylight would make its demands.
Cloudy gray, the sky could have been oppressive. Instead the light was timeless, washing away distinction between morning and noon, noon and evening. Heather and bog-violets rustled in their little pottery cup on the windowsill, breathing sweet air into the room. Knitting needles ticked against one another from the deeply padded chair by the fire, and Hudson watched from the doorway.
Weeping, a dreary fall of rain soaked the dark scar of the small mound of earth. Staring blindly at carved granite, the words there had no meaning. A handful of dried heather scattered over the dirt; rain soon pressed it into the mud. Shoes squelched into the mud of the path, away from the new grave.
Golden glow of lamps lit black-inked words on a smooth page. The warm scent of highly-spiced cider rose and mixed with pastry and parchment. Quiet words were a background murmur, the sound of other people about a soothing balance to over-much solitude. A bell tinkled for the opening door, and short seconds later Hudson looked up to see a pair of violet eyes.
Green leaves turned the sunlight to something pleasant, with a babbling brook adding to the riot of children's laughter. The splash of a fish struggling against a line was followed by a squeal of triumph, and a shout of pride. Small feet ran across dirt and grass, followed by an easier, longer stride. Raven-wing black hair glimmered with sparkling highlights in a chance sunbeam.
Laughing, workers collected their pay and called out farewells while the warehouse doors rolled down. Turning back into the silent space, crowded with crates and boxes, the building seemed to sigh and settle for the night. Eva had left with the others, and now Hudson climbed the stairs back to his office. Outside his window, lanterns hanging from ship?s lines turned the harbor into a fairy meadow.
Pale yellow, the sun sat on the lip of the horizon, readying itself for a lunge higher into the sky. Overhead the last traces of dark blue were melting into the clear blue-white of a beautiful late-spring day. Wind caught and snapped in the single sail of the dory, carrying with it the slap of waves against bow and salt in the air. Hudson sat on the tiller bench, one sun-darkened arm draped loosely over the length of wood that set his course shoreward, homeward.