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Apple-sweet and lily-limbed, she stands in the flower meadow under white sunlight, above soft grass. A wide-brimmed straw hat rests on her golden head as she gazes up at the pale blue sky—an endless blue, light and fresh in its simplicity, so unlike the sapphire color of his eyes or the heavy cobalt of his suit jacket. Unlike his fiancée, Ciel stands under the cherry tree, a good distance away but close enough that he can still see the delicate pattern of her white organza sundress.
Summer is good for her, Ciel realizes, good for girls like Lizzy who had honey running through their veins when there should have been blood.
He watches as she walks to a patch of pale purple geraniums, a wicker basket strewn over one arm, and begins gathering the blossoms with light, delicate touches. They fall into her, as if they craved her touch, each crying take me, take me! under the peach pink of her rose palm.
Above them, a bluebird sings the song of June and Ciel wonders how long he will have to stand there, feigning disinterest, when all he wants is to be near her, to warm his hands under the heat of her sun fire. His fingers long to touch her childish, sweet mouth—to gently graze her plump lower lip, always the color of May roses. He wants to stand close to her, to bask in her light, to marvel how she seems to be made of dreams and children’s laughter, to understand the music in her speech and the sunshine in her manner.
He wants so many things, and not all of them are good—most are terrible, black, and cold and there is such a short list of beautiful things he wants to reach out and touch, to possess and own and have.
Across the meadow, Lizzy has finished gathering her flowers and is now making her way to another patch of colorful blooms and Ciel watches the way she moves, how she seems so perfectly happy in this bright, summer arcadia that has been crafted especially for her. He watches how she flings the straw hat from her golden hair and laughs merrily when butterflies appear, fluttering their gossamer wings.
Lizzy turns back to him.
The breeze blows strands of honey hair into her face and she pushes it back impatiently, smiling all the while. Her cheeks are stained with pomegranate rouge and, for a moment, the scowl on his lips softens as she waves, so innocent in her joy that the curve of his own mouth turns up, mimicking her actions with a sincerity he thought depleted.
There are no words for this, he decides, eyes still watching, heart half-open. She was born to be adored, loved by the hearts of poets and princes, though he is neither. He has nothing of grace to give her and the crown she will one day wear will be borrowed. And surely, his rational mind thinks, she belongs to another land. A land like this, filled high with soft meadows and gentle sighs, the careening laughter of children at play and murmured whispers of lovers nearby. She deserves flowers of every color and sunrises shaded pink; she deserves the adoration she has been born to receive.
She is poetry in a dress but Ciel has never been much of a poet—has always found their flowing verses difficult to read, much less comprehend.
But for Lizzy, who is half a miracle in his eyes, he might be willing to try.