Friendly Valentine Quotes

You never called me back," he said. "I called you so many times and you never called me back." Magnus looked at Alec as if he'd lost his mind. "Your city is under attack," he said. "The wards have been broken, and the streets are full of demons. And you want to know why I haven't called you?" Alec set his jaw in a stubborn line. "I want to know why you haven't called me back." Magnus threw his hands up in the air in a gesture of utter exasperation. Alec noted with interest that when he did it, a few sparks escaped from his fingertips, like fireflies escaping from a jar. "You're an idiot." "Is that why you haven't called me? Because I'm an idiot?" "No." Magnus strode toward him. "I didn't call you because I'm tired of you only wanting me around when you need something. I'm tired of watching you be in love with someone else - someone, incidentally, who will never love you back. Not the way I do." "You love me?" "You stupid Nephilim," Magnus said patiently. "Why else am I here? Why else would I have spent the past few weeks patching up all your moronic friends every time they got hurt? And getting you out of every ridiculous situation you found yourself in? Not to mention helping you win a battle against Valentine. And all completely free of charge!

They'll say you are bad or perhaps you are mad or at least you should stay undercover. Your mind must be bare if you would dare to think you can love more than one lover.

You want a piece of all this fabulousness?" He gestured to himself. "Well, my best friend comes along with it. I wouldn't cut you out of my life, Clary, any more than I would cut off my right hand and give it to someone as a Valentine's Day gift." "Gross," said Clary. "Must you?" He grinned. "I must.

But Valentine, why despair, why always paint the future in such sombre hues?" Maximilien asked. "Because, my friend, I judge it by the past.

I mean, there is a reason its initials are VD. I bet you more people contract syphilis on Valentine's Day than on any other day of the year. What a cause for celebration.

People aren't born good or bad. Maybe they're born with tendencies either way, but it's the way you live your life that matters. And the people you know. Valentine was Hodge's friend, and I don't think Hodge really had anyone else in his life to challenge him or make him be a better person. If I'd had that life, I don't know how I would have turned out. But I didn't. I have my family. And I have you.

I hope you feel better about yourself. I hope you feel alive. I hope that good things happen to you, and I hope that when the inevitable bad things happen you can handle them and learn a lesson and move on. I hope you know you're not alone and I hope you spend plenty of time with your family and/or friends and I hope you write more and get a seven-figure book deal. I hope next year no more celebrities die and I hope you get an iPhone if you want one. Or maybe a pony. I hope someone writes a song for you on Valentines Day that's a bit like Hey There Delilah, and I hope they have a good singing voice, or at least one better than mine. I hope that you accept yourself the way you are, and figure out that losing 20 pounds isn't going to magically make you love yourself. I hope you read a lot. I hope you don't have to almost die to figure out how valuable life is. I hope you find the perfect nail polish/digital camera/home/life partner. I hope you stop being jealous of others. I hope you feel good, about yourself and the people around you and the world. I hope you eat heaps of salt and vinegar chips because they're the best kind. I hope you accomplish all your hopes & dreams & aspirations and are blissfully happy & get married to Edward Cullen/George Clooney/Megan Fox/Angelina Jolie (delete whichever are inappropriate) & ride a pretty white horse into the sunset & I hope it's all sweet and wonderful because you deserve it because you did well this year in the face of sparkly vampires/great evil/low self-esteem.

As Luke knelt down beside his corpse, Clary couldn’t help but remember what he had said about having loved Valentine once, about having been his closest friend. Luke, she thought with a pang. Surely he couldn’t be sad — or even grieved? But then again, perhaps everyone should have someone to grieve for them, and there was no one else to grieve for Valentine.

It truly sucks to doubt your friends when you only have one or two of them, I realized.

I would never date a girl who insisted that I cut you out of my life. It’s non-negotiable. You want a piece of all this fabulousness?” He gestured at himself. “Well, my best friend comes along with it. I wouldn’t cut you out of my life, Clary, any more than I would cut off my right hand and give it to someone as a Valentine’s Day gift.” “Gross,” said Clary. “Must you?” He grinned. “I must.

Peace. That's what salaam means. Peace unto you." The words brought forth an echo from Ender's memory. His mother's voice reading to him softly, when he was very young. ... The kiss, the word, the peace were with him still. I am only what I remember, and Alai is my friend in a memory so intense that they can't tear him out. Like Valentine, the strongest memory of all.

My name? My name is nothing compared to Orion.” “No, I love your name. You’ve got tons of nickname opportunities. I got O, and that’s it. Oh, actually, I also had people calling me ‘Oreo’ in high school. Hated that.” “That’s bad, but at least you didn’t have to deal with ‘Valentino’s Day’ every Valentines Day. I had to ask out my friends’ crushes for them like I was Cupid.” “I’m so sorry, Cupid.” “It’s okay, Oreo.

But just promise me something, okay? I know how girls get. I know how they hate their boyfriends having a best friend who’s a girl. Just promise me you won’t cut me out of your life totally. That we can still hang out sometimes.' 'Sometimes?' Simon shook his head. 'Clary, you’re crazy.' Her heart sank. 'You mean...' 'I mean that I would never date a girl who insisted that I cut you out of my life. It’s non-negotiable. You want a piece of all this fabulousness?' He gestured at himself. 'Well, my best friend comes along with it. I wouldn’t cut you out of my life, Clary, any more than I would cut off my right hand and give it to someone as a Valentine’s Day gift.' 'Gross,' said Clary. 'Must you?' He grinned. 'I must.

Happy and giggly and bustly, the Hogfly ignored Hiccup’s strangled cries of: “Hoglfy! Come back here, Hogfly!” “Ooh!” it squeaked in delighted confusion. “You all look so lovely! How am I to choose which one of you to be my friend?” It perched on the sinister swoop of the Razorwing’s nose. “Where’s my biscuit? Are you married? Be my valentine…” “I can’t bear to watch…” groaned Fishlegs. It was like seeing an enthusiastic bunny rabbit trying to make friends with a heavily armed, bunny-eating cobra.

What’s really important is the essence of the life lived. A college degree isn’t going to tell me how well somebody lived, now is it? Does having a boat mean you lived a good life? Or a summerhouse? What about saving each valentine your son made or even working a roadside jam stand? A million, what do they call it?—selfies—on some silly website. What does it all mean, in the end?

Thinking of this friend I had. This friend I loved and keep loving--dead, but never really gone.

Did you ever think about boys?' I say, staring up into the dark. 'There wasn't room,' she whispers, and her voice is unbelievably sad. 'At first, after Connor, I was just waiting. I was going to get a new boyfriend soon- as soon as I was prettier or better, more perfect. But after a while there was no room for anything else. If I though about kissing or sex, I just started feeling ugly, too awful for anything good.

Our whole lives, it was like we were always trying so hard to be perfect - for our families and our friends, for each other - when the funny thing was, we didn't have to. In the end, we were better than that.

I'm thinking that my best friend killed herself so slow it was almost like a magic trick, and other people let her do it.

She didn’t have enough friends to be a bad one herself.

It's funny. Friendships are Catch twenty-twos when you're single and in your thirties. Friends are your life rafts. You try to help each other meet people, you confide in each other, you spend Thanksgiving, Valentine's Day, all those emotional land-mine holidays together. But sooner or later one of you is going to meet someone and be gone into the world of couples.

There were only ever two kinds of people in the world for Valentine," she said "Those who were fir the Circle and those who were against it. The latter were his enemies, and the former were his weapons in his arsenal. I saw him try to turn each of his friends, even his own wife, into a weapon for the Cause—and you want me to believe he wouldn't have done the same with his own son?" She shook her head. "I knew him better than that." For the first time, Maryse looked at him with more sadness than anger. "You are an arrow shot directly into the heart of the Clave, Jace. You are Valentine's arrow. Whether you know it or not.

I get out my hairbrush and wish for her—the real Lillian, and not the worst, most selfish parts of her. I wish for a warm, true best friend, one who didn’t die.

I can't answer your questions, but I can hold your hand while you search for answers.

I said, “What do I think? That's what I'm asking you? What is there to think?” “Looks like he wants you to be his valentine.” “Louise, I can read. But what does it mean?” “Oh, you know. His valentine. His love.” There was that hateful word again. That treacherous word that yawned up at you like a volcano. “Well, I won't. Most decidedly I won't. Not ever again.” “Have you been his valentine before? What do you mean never again?” I couldn't lie to my friend and I wasn't about to freshen old ghosts. “Well, don't answer him then, and that's the end of it.” I was a little relieved that she thought it could be gotten rid of so quickly. I tore the note in half and gave her a part. Walking down the hill we minced the paper in a thousand shreds and gave it to the wind.

Valentine reposes within the walls of Paris, and to leave Paris is like losing her a second time." "Maximilian," said the count, "the friends that we have lost do not repose in the bosom of the earth, but are buried deep in our hearts, and it has been thus ordained that we may always be accompanied by them.

Double Indemnity, Gaslight, Saboteur, The Big Clock . . . We lived in monochrome those nights. For me, it was a chance to revisit old friends; for Ed, it was an opportunity to make new ones. And we’d make lists. The Thin Man franchise, ranked from best (the original) to worst (Song of the Thin Man). Top movies from the bumper crop of 1944. Joseph Cotten’s finest moments. I can do lists on my own, of course. For instance: best Hitchcock films not made by Hitchcock. Here we go: Le Boucher, the early Claude Chabrol that Hitch, according to lore, wished he’d directed. Dark Passage, with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall—a San Francisco valentine, all velveteen with fog, and antecedent to any movie in which a character goes under the knife to disguise himself. Niagara, starring Marilyn Monroe; Charade, starring Audrey Hepburn; Sudden Fear!, starring Joan Crawford’s eyebrows. Wait Until Dark: Hepburn again, a blind woman stranded in her basement apartment. I’d go berserk in a basement apartment.

There had been romances in my schooldays--but all my friends had had those; we were forever sending each other Valentines, writing sonnets on the prefect's eyes... This wasn't like that. It was a thing of the heart and the head and the body. A real, true thing, grown-up.

Alai saw the tears but had the grace not to say so. "They're fartheads, Ender, they won't even let you take anything you own." Ender grinned and didn't cry after all. "Think I should strip and go naked?" Alai laughed, too. On impulse Ender hugged him, tight, almost as if he were Valentine. He even thought of Valentine then and wanted to go home. "I don't want to go," he said. Alai hugged him back. "I understand them, Ender. You are the best of us. Maybe they in a hurry to teach you everything." "They don't want to teach me everything," Ender said. "I wanted to learn what it was like to have a friend." Alai nodded soberly. "Always my friend, always the best of my friends," he said. Then he grinned. "Go slice up the buggers." "Yeah," Ender smiled back. Alai suddenly kissed Ender on the cheek and whispered in his ear, "Salaam.

I remembered Daemon's feather soft kisses on my cheek, and I remembered the clouds parting and the sun shining on a cold February day in Ireland. And as my baby girl was laid on my chest and my husband held my hand, I saw my best friend Kat walk into the sun kissed part in the clouds, hand in hand, along with the last regrets of my past.

His friend, his former friend, Valentine, and his wife, his ex-wife Madeleine, had spread the rumor that his sanity had collapsed.

Your lips are the beauty that I want to kiss.

A true friend fills our lives with the aroma of love.

You put the, 'Sun' into my day. Happy Sunday!

Life ignites inside of me as I reacquaint myself with my old friends, need and want, adjusting to the thrill, succumbing to the risk.

Life ignites inside of me as I reacquaint myself with my old friends 'need' and 'want', adjusting to the thrill, succumbing to the risk.

You are the ONE.. I want to be with.. FOREVER. I am the one.. who'll be CRAZY.. for YOU.. FOREVER. What LOVE is to me.. being CRAZY for YOU.. FOREVER.

My mother was born on Valentine’s Day and because of that, I have oddly always loved Valentine’s Day. I have friends who absolutely hate the day. And I get that, I do. I can see through it as much as the next person, but I still believe that at its core, it’s a day to recognize love. A day to send a note to someone, eye a new crush, make out, open champagne or sparkling apple cider, pop a cinnamon flavored gummy, and just remember for a moment that even if you’re not in love at the moment, love exists. That even when we don’t have love, there is the possibility of love.

I find myself somehow different My eyes running in his presence His walk as if he was drunk Neither day nor night, the moments were somewhere tonight Still unknown where his soul was Just thinking about him today onwards My soul says he needs me In my absence he cries behind me My presence makes him peaceful As if I remain in his soul Till my heart the love is tied His eyes unfolding every lies Say my friends are we made for life?!

Designed by Mia Mia is always sketching! She has dreams of being a world-famous fashion designer someday. In this story, she sketches a sleek winter coat, a birthday party dress for her friend Ava, and a Valentine’s Day outfit.

Starbucks’s truly beautiful idea was the simple realization that Americans wanted to spend more money for a cup of coffee, that they’d feel much better about themselves if they spent five dollars for a cup of joe rather than buy that cheap drip stuff that shows such as Friends suggested only fat white trash in housecoats (or people who actually worked for a living) drank anymore—in their trailer parks or meth labs or wherever such people huddled for comfort.

Hello?” “Hey.” She sounded pissed. “What the hell happened to you tonight? Jess said the three of us were meeting for Valentine’s Day, but you never showed.” “Sorry,” I said. “Something came up.” “Bianca, you’ve been saying that a lot lately. Something is always coming up or you have plans or…” Suddenly, I felt Wesley’s breath hit the back of my neck. He’d gotten up from the floor and slid up behind me without me realizing it. His arms slid around my waist from behind, his fingers undoing the button of my jeans before I could stop him. “… and Jess had her hopes up that we’d do something fun…” I couldn’t focus on a word Casey was saying as Wesley’s hand slid beneath the waistband of my pants, his fingers moving lower and lower. I couldn’t say a word. I couldn’t tell him to stop or show any reaction at all. If I did, Casey would know I wasn’t alone. But, God, I could feel my whole body turning into a ball of fire. Wesley was laughing against my neck, knowing he was driving me crazy. “… I just don’t understand what’s up with you.” I bit my lip to keep from gasping as Wesley’s fingers slipped to places that made my knees shake. I could feel the smirk on his lips as they moved to my ear. Asshole. He was trying to torture me. I couldn’t handle it much longer. “Bianca, are you there?” Wesley bit my earlobe and pushed my jeans even lower with his free hand as the other continued to make me shiver.

My individual relationships within the band were fluid affairs, with constructs that changed over time and circumstance. In the years we spent together, I would come to know every facial expression and recognize each of my friends’ singular quirks.

Valentine fell to her knees, clasping her breaking heart. ‘Maximilien,’ she said, ‘Maximilien, my friend, my brother on earth, my true husband in heaven, I implore you, do as I shall and live with your suffering. Perhaps one day we shall be reunited.

I promise not to step on you—I only look like a clodhopper,” he was saying when Jo reached them. He winked at Ella, who glanced away and blinked, as if surprised that he’d come so close to guessing what she thought. Jo slid up to the bar behind her sister, planted a stiff arm on the ledge, and raised an eyebrow at him. He glanced up and saw her. She expected him to blanche, or bristle, or pretend he’d just forgotten someplace else he had to be. A lot of men did that, when they realized that the girl they thought was alone had brought friends to look out for her. But instead he only said, “Oh,” softly, his smile so wide and earnest that crows’-feet appeared at the edges of his eyes; he smiled as though she was an old friend, as though he had been waiting for Jo a long time and was delighted to see her at last.

The bartender is Irish. Jumped a student visa about ten years ago but nothing for him to worry about. The cook, though, is Mexican. Some poor bastard at ten dollars an hour—and probably has to wash the dishes, too. La Migra take notice of his immigration status—they catch sight of his bowl cut on the way home to Queens and he’ll have a problem. He looks different than the Irish and the Canadians—and he’s got Lou Dobbs calling specifically for his head every night on the radio. (You notice, by the way, that you never hear Dobbs wringing his hands over our border to the North. Maybe the “white” in Great White North makes that particular “alien superhighway” more palatable.) The cook at the Irish bar, meanwhile, has the added difficulty of predators waiting by the subway exit for him (and any other Mexican cooks or dishwashers) when he comes home on Friday payday. He’s invariably cashed his check at a check-cashing store; he’s relatively small—and is unlikely to call the cops. The perfect victim. The guy serving my drinks, on the other hand, as most English-speaking illegal aliens, has been smartly gaming the system for years, a time-honored process everybody at the INS is fully familiar with: a couple of continuing education classes now and again (while working off the books) to get those student visas. Extensions. A work visa. A “farm” visa. Weekend across the border and repeat. Articulate, well-connected friends—the type of guys who own, for instance, lots of Irish bars—who can write letters of support lauding your invaluable and “specialized” skills, unavailable from homegrown bartenders. And nobody’s looking anyway. But I digress…

To lovers out there … There are people, who are focused on pleasing their partner in a relationship and there are those who are focused on pleasing strangers, social media, congregation, family, and friends about their relationship. That difference Is felt or experienced by their partner.

My friendly, card-carrying cupids!” beamed Lockhart. “They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I’ve ever met, the sly old dog!” Professor Flitwick buried his face in his hands. Snape was looking as though the first person to ask him for a Love Potion would be force-fed poison.

The essence of cool, after all, is not giving a fuck. And let’s face it: I most definitely give a fuck now. I give a huge fuck. The hugest. Everything else—everything—pales. To pretend otherwise, by word or deed, would be a monstrous lie. There will be no more Dead Boys T-shirts. Whom would I be kidding? Their charmingly nihilistic worldview in no way mirrors my own. If Stiv Bators were still alive and put his filthy hands anywhere near my baby, I’d snap his neck—then thoroughly cleanse the area with baby wipes. There is no hope of hipness. As my friend A. A. Gill points out, after your daughter reaches a certain age—like five—the most excruciating and embarrassing thing she could possibly imagine is seeing her dad in any way threatening to rock. Your record collection may indeed be cooler than your daughter’s will ever be, but this is a meaningless distinction now. She doesn’t care. And nobody else will. If you’re lucky, long after you’re gone, a grandchild will rediscover your old copy of Fun House. But it will be way too late for you to bask in the glory of past coolness. There is nothing cool about “used to be cool.” All of this, I think, is only right and appropriate.

Countries might collapse if people knew aliens that were more technologically advanced were protecting us,” Matias says and then waves his hand before I can disagree. “But that’s neither here nor there, Lotta. I have found your friend, and she went willingly to live across the galaxy with her alien husband.

To lovers out there ... Some people in a relationship, lose their partners by substituting Instead of adding to what they have. Once they have fame, money, car, house, beauty, job, friends . They substitute respect , treatment, love and care in relationship with those things. That is why ? The relationship becomes sour and dies.

Let her know you adore her. Do not make her heart guess. Boldly say how you love her. Thy devotion confess. Let her know you admire her, All her talents and dreams. Boldly reach for her fingers. Gently slip on a ring. Let her know that you need her, As a lover and friend. Boldly kneel and implore her, To be yours ’til the end.

FRIEND: Any advice for being single on Valentines day? ☹ ME: Whenever you see a couple laughing or kissing, start crying and scream at the guy saying…. ME: “HOW COULD YOU??!! YOU SAID YOU LOVED ME! I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING AND NOW THIS?!?!?! IT’S OVER” Then slap him and walk away, that would be interesting. FRIEND: This is why we are best friends

HERE IS A LIST of foods we discovered in America: Peanut butter. Marshmallows. Barbecue sauce. (You can say, “Can I have BBQ?” to a kid’s mom at potlucks and they’ll know what you mean.) Puppy chow. (Chex cereal covered in melted chocolate and peanut butter and tossed in powdered sugar. They only give it if you win a Valentine friend.) Corn-chip pie (not a pie). (Chili on top of corn chips with cheese and sour cream (not sour).) Some mores. (They say it super fast like s’mores.) Banana puddin. (They don’t say the g. Sometimes they don’t even say the b.) Here is a list of the foods from Iran that they have never heard of here: All of it. All the food. Jared Rhodes didn’t even know what a date was.

Preserved Children This recipe was on a plaque hanging in a friend’s kitchen. You will need: one half dozen small children one large field one sunny day 2-3 small dogs Mix the children and the dogs together. Dot them over the large field and stir in the sunny day. Sprinkle the field with flowers. Spread with a clear blue sky. Bake in the sun until brown.

valentine my friends stitched it up with golden thread like a red satin pillow they gave me other whole ones too roses and charms and red candles milagros to repair the real one they told me i was no longer allowed to give it away a pretty pin cushion a piece of mexican folk art a hundred beating poems left unanswered like a thing to wear around the neck they said you must heal we will protect you but i sat weeping at the computer forging ahead anyway with the small stitched thing struggling in my chest it knew that it had needed to be torn so that it could recognize and receive the hundred kindnesses traveling across three thousand miles at the speed of light a storm of petals and beautiful words and tiny hearts to keep it company

My Wild Woman welcomed me with open arms into the womb of my cave. She grasped me by the hand and, one by one, introduced me to my shadow creatures. I roamed, I raged, I roared, I explored and when I thought I was done, that I couldn’t possibly go any further, my Wild Woman drew me into her lap. She comforted me in the circle of her fierce embrace and affectionally whispered tendernesses to me. She firmly sent me back out to play until the creatures became my friends. She revealed to me the place where the soft glow of my inner hearth resided and there, we were joined by my Wise Woman, Together, they showed me how to ignite the fire with the parts of myself which no longer served the woman I was becoming and they held me while I grieved.

Why do you say things like that?” “Like what?” She’s back down crouching in front of me. “You say his family like you’re not a part of that.” I can see the heartbreak in her eyes as she continues. “Like you’re not my best friend just as much as he is. As if you’re not Raine’s father just as much as he is. Like being Jesse’s husband isn’t enough to make you part of this family.

And Doris had offered to pick up Valentine and Valentine had said, “My friend Pixie is on the way too, if you . . .” And included her, which was what a best friend should do, but then ignored her and refused to use her real name, her confirmation name, the name by which she would—maybe embarrassing to say but she thought it anyway—the name by which she would rise in the world.

To lovers out there … You can’t put your friends first, when you have a partner and when you are In a relationship. Marriages and relationships end when more than 2 people have a say in the relationship or marriage. Some even extort, sacrifice, undermine, ridicule, mock, disrespect, and humiliate their partners in the relationship so that their friends can benefit or have a laugh.

Each person has his own manner of waking in the morning after a drunken orgy, and as nothing is unknown to a Soviet citizen, so there is nothing strange in the fact that one Soviet citizen wakes up in one way, another so, and a third prefers not to awaken, but lies with face to the wall and eyes closed, waiting in vain for the friends who have forgotten to bring him half a vodka and a cucumber.

I brought all this on myself by telling Ramona the story of my life – how I rose from humble origins to complete disaster. But a man who has made so many mistakes can’t afford to ignore the corrections of his friends. Friends like Sandor, that humped rat. Or like Valentine, the moral megalomaniac and prophet in Israel. To all such, one is well advised to listen. Scolding is better than nothing. At least it’s company.

You will need to stay calm as you witness the candy floss in your daughter’s smile harden into brittle bitchiness. You will need to muster a new resolve as your son’s fascination with Pokémon shifts to porn. You will have to recalibrate your mothering instinct to accommodate the notion that not only do your children poop and burp, they also masturbate, drink and smoke. As their bodies, brains and worlds rearrange themselves, you will need to do your own reshuffling. You will come to see that, though you gave them life, they’re the ones who’ve got a life. They’ve got 1700 friends on Facebook. They’ve got YouTube accounts (with hundreds of sub- scribers), endless social arrangements, concerts, Valentine’s Day dances and Halloween parties. What we have – if we’re lucky – is a ‘Thanks for the ride, Mum, don’t call me, I’ll call you,’ as they slam the car door and indicate we can run along now.

How could such a bitter thing become a means of pleasure? Everything on Valentine was the opposite. Work needn't be suffering, it could unite folks. A bright child like Chester might thrive and prosper, as Molly and her friends did. A mother raise her daughter with love and kindness. A beautiful soul like Caesar could be anything he wanted here, all of them could be: own a spread, be a schoolteacher, fight for colored rights. Even be a poet. In her Georgia misery she had pictured freedom, and it had not looked like this. Freedom was a community laboring for something lovely and rare.

How could such a bitter thing become a means of pleasure? Everything on Valentine was the opposite. Work needn't be suffering, it would unite folks. A bright child like Chester might thrive and prosper, as Molly and her friends did. A mother raise her daughter with love and kindness. A beautiful soul like Caesar could be anything he wanted here, all of them could be: own a spread, be a schoolteacher, fight for colored rights. Even be a poet. In her Georgia misery she had pictured freedom, and it had not looked like this. Freedom was a community laboring for something lovely and rare.

Twas the night before Valentine’s Day, and all through the town, children were busy, not making a sound. They gathered their scissors, their glitter and glue, pink and red paper, and paintbrushes, too. They made cards that read, “Will you be mine?” and others that said, “My true valentine.” They trimmed giant hearts with stickers and lace, and added an arrow in just the right place. Then marking the envelopes with each friend’s name, they hoped that their friends were doing the same. And when they were done, they slept snug in their beds while visions of candy hearts danced in their heads.

Over a span of twenty years, Shakespeare churned out an impressively whopping thirty-eight plays, 154 love sonnets, and two epic narrative poems. While most people associate him with his plays, it was his sonnets that likely earned him admiration among his contemporaries. Yes, that’s right: In his lifetime, Shakespeare garnered more acclaim for his sonnets than he did for his plays. In England during the 1590s, writing plays was considered a bit hackish—a way to pay the bills—and not an intellectual pursuit. Writing sonnets was all the rage— and a way to gain literary prestige. These poems weren’t published for the plebeian public, but were written down and shared among the literati—and aristocrats looking for some intellectual cachet by becoming patrons to brilliant but perhaps financially strapped writers. So, while Shakespeare likely wrote nearly all of his love sonnets in the early to mid 1590s, they weren’t officially collected and published until 1609, well after the fad had passed. W. H. Auden said of Shakespeare’s sonnets: “They are the work of someone whose ear is unerring.” In today’s less poetry-friendly world, appreciation of these sonnets tends, sadly, to be relegated to classrooms, Valentine’s Day, and anniversaries. Which is too bad, because—though they do indeed rhyme—they are far superior to the ditties found in ninety-nine-cent greeting cards. In fact, they cover the whole gamut of love—the good, the bad, the erotic, and the ugly, including love triangles, being dumped, and jealousy. There is also speculation as to how autobiographical the sonnets are. The truth is that we know so little about Shakespeare’s private life.

What’s the most frightening thing to a child? The pain of being the outsider, of looking ridiculous to others, of being teased or picked on in school. Every child burns with fear at the prospect. It’s a primal instinct: to belong. McDonald’s has surely figured this out—along with what specific colors appeal to small children, what textures, and what movies or TV shows are likely to attract them to the gray disks of meat. They feel no compunction harnessing the fears and unarticulated yearnings of small children, and nor shall I. “Ronald has cooties,” I say—every time he shows up on television or out the window of the car. “And you know,” I add, lowering my voice, “he smells bad, too. Kind of like … poo!” (I am, I should say, careful to use the word “alleged” each and every time I make such an assertion, mindful that my urgent whisperings to a two-year-old might be wrongfully construed as libelous.) “If you hug Ronald … can you get cooties?” asks my girl, a look of wide-eyed horror on her face. “Some say … yes,” I reply—not wanting to lie—just in case she should encounter the man at a child’s birthday party someday. It’s a lawyerly answer—but effective. “Some people talk about the smell, too… I’m not saying it rubs off on you or anything—if you get too close to him—but…” I let that hang in the air for a while. “Ewwww!!!” says my daughter. We sit in silence as she considers this, then she asks, “Is it true that if you eat a hamburger at McDonald’s it can make you a ree-tard? I laugh wholeheartedly at this one and give her a hug. I kiss her on the forehead reassuringly. “Ha. Ha. Ha. I don’t know where you get these ideas!” I may or may not have planted that little nugget a few weeks ago, allowing her little friend Tiffany at ballet class to “overhear” it as I pretended to talk on my cell phone.

This Butterfly Stings by Stewart Stafford The gold of my eye dances on stage for me, Her wings wafting behind her in the chorus, Yet none glimpsed that girl's beauty as I did, This butterfly flew solo in my mind's eye. For two years hence, I concealed my interest, Yet I gazed at her endlessly, so close yet apart, Places of learning changed, but she did not, I foolishly let fly Cupid's token to my inamorata. Seeing my love in a looking glass reflected, Shadow feelings illuminated St Valentine's Eve, My butterfly became a sullen stinging bee, Crushing my tender rose in pieces at my feet. Nor would her wicked scorn end there, She told her friends who joined in my shaming, For years after, turning my last shreds of adoration, Into contemptuous hatred of her existence. Truly no one can take away our memories, Where my former crush still dances on occasion, O sweet butterfly of my youth, one last wish, Never fly away from these fond recollections. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

My friend,” said Monte Cristo, with an expression of melancholy equal to his own, “listen to me. One day, in a moment of despair like yours, since it led to a similar resolution, I also wished to kill myself; one day your father, equally desperate, wished to kill himself too. If anyone had said to your father, at the moment he raised the pistol to his head—if anyone had told me, when in my prison I pushed back the food I had not tasted for three days—if anyone had said to either of us then, ‘Live—the day will come when you will be happy, and will bless life!’—no matter whose voice had spoken, we should have heard him with the smile of doubt, or the anguish of incredulity,—and yet how many times has your father blessed life while embracing you—how often have I myself——” “Ah,” exclaimed Morrel, interrupting the count, “you had only lost your liberty, my father had only lost his fortune, but I have lost Valentine.” “Look at me,” said Monte Cristo, with that expression which sometimes made him so eloquent and persuasive—“look at me. There are no tears in my eyes, nor is there fever in my veins, yet I see you suffer—you, Maximilian, whom I love as my own son. Well, does not this tell you that in grief, as in life, there is always something to look forward to beyond? Now, if I entreat, if I order you to live, Morrel, it is in the conviction that one day you will thank me for having preserved your life.

Fifty miles out of Prague, the halved carcass of a freshly killed hog hangs, still steaming in the cold, from what looks like a child’s swing set. It’s a wet, drizzling morning and your feet are sopping and you’ve been warming yourself against the chill by huddling around the small fire over which a pot of pig parts boils. The butcher’s family and friends are drinking slivovitz and beer, and though noon is still a few hours off, you’ve had quite a few of both. Someone calls you inside to the tiled workspace, where the butcher has mixed the pig’s blood with cooked onions and spices and crumbs of country bread, and he’s ready to fill the casings. Usually, they slip the casing over a metal tube, turn on the grinding machine, cram in the forcemeat or filling, and the sausages fill like magic. This guy does it differently. He chops everything by hand. A wet mesa of black filling covers his cutting board, barely retaining its shape—yet he grabs the casing in one hand, puts two fingers in one open end, makes the “V” sign, stretching it disturbingly, and reaches with the other—then buries both his hands in the mix. A whirlwind of movement as he squeezes with his right hand, using his palm like a funnel, somehow squirting the bloody, barely containable stuff straight into the opening. He does this again and again with breathtaking speed, mowing his way across the wooden table, like a thresher cutting a row through a cornfield, a long, plump, rapidly growing, glistening, fully filled length of sausage engorging to his left as he moves. It’s a dark, purplish color through the translucent membrane. An assistant pinches off links, pins them with broken bits of wooden skewer. In moments, they are done.

In the days leading up to Valentine’s Day, in addition to the daily letter I also made sure to send her a Valentine’s card and a different bar of chocolate. I was buying really nice bars of chocolate, all different flavors and kinds. She was only allowed to eat them right there at mail call, and sometimes she would get several packages at once, so even though it was hard to do, she’d share bites of her chocolate with other people. I also made sure to give extra thought to the regular, daily letter that would arrive on Valentine’s Day: Jamie, In the beginning of our relationship I criticized your expectations in a boyfriend. I told you that you watched too many movies and lived in a fantasy world. In a way I was asking you to settle. Even through our arguments about what was realistic and what was a fairy tale, I did everything I could to be your prince in a world where I saw you as the princess that you are. I was wrong to ever question you. Your standards never dropped and it forced me to rise up to the level needed to keep you. Like a storybook romance, I’ve defended your honor, showered you with love, worshipped the ground you walk on, and will faithfully wait for you while you’re away. You have made me a better man. Because of you I live a life I am proud of and have become the father, brother, son, and friend my family deserves. Your love has positively affected every aspect of my life. And for that I could never repay you. But I will happily be forever yours, paying off my debt and love for years to come. Like your favorite movie, Beauty and the Beast, a tale as old as time, we are living proof that fantasy can be reality. Love always and forever, Noah I’d never been that outwardly romantic before. I’d never worn my feelings on my sleeve quite like I did with her.

metastases has become talk of a few months left. When I saw her in A&E, despite obvious suspicions, I didn’t say the word ‘cancer’ – I was taught that if you say the word even in passing, that’s all a patient remembers. Doesn’t matter what else you do, utter the C-word just once and you’ve basically walked into the cubicle and said nothing but ‘cancer cancer cancer cancer cancer’ for half an hour. And not that you’d ever want a patient to have cancer of course, I really really didn’t want her to. Friendly, funny, chatty – despite the litres of fluid in her abdomen splinting her breathing – we were like two long-lost pals finding themselves next to each other at a bus stop and catching up on all our years apart. Her son has a place at med school, her daughter is at the same school my sister went to, she recognized my socks were Duchamp. I stuck in a Bonanno catheter to take off the fluid and admitted her to the ward for the day team to investigate. And now she’s telling me what they found. She bursts into tears, and out come all the ‘will never’s, the crushing realization that ‘forever’ is just a word on the front of Valentine’s cards. Her son will qualify from medical school – she won’t be there. Her daughter will get married – she won’t be able to help with the table plan or throw confetti. She’ll never meet her grandchildren. Her husband will never get over it. ‘He doesn’t even know how to work the thermostat!’ She laughs, so I laugh. I really don’t know what to say. I want to lie and tell her everything’s going to be fine, but we both know that it won’t. I hug her. I’ve never hugged a patient before – in fact, I think I’ve only hugged a grand total of five people, and one of my parents isn’t on that list – but I don’t know what else to do. We talk about boring practical things, rational concerns, irrational concerns, and I can see from her eyes it’s helping her. It suddenly strikes me that I’m almost certainly the first person she’s opened up to about all this, the only one she’s been totally honest with. It’s a strange privilege, an honour I didn’t ask for. The other thing I realize is that none of her many, many concerns are about herself; it’s all about the kids, her husband, her sister, her friends. Maybe that’s the definition of a good person.

Dear Human, My Human, the Old Lady (that’s her name) is a Russian scientist. Old Lady made a big scientific discovery: found the key to my eternal youth. Or even to immortality, if we like. Old Lady made herself immortal first. I don’t blame her. Next, Martha-the-White-Rat. Then, me and my sister Milly—we trace our pedigree through the purest blood lines of Bavarian-born Spaniels. But then she stopped. My other siblings look all aged by now. But at my 17, I look no more than three or four. My sister Milly got stuck at puppy age. We watch the photos of our relatives on Facebook, and we are saddened that Old Lady did not make them immortal too. That she keeps it a secret. And I am so worried about my friend Fox Theodore. He is at the hight of his financial and physical might now, but I know he will age. My best friend. I once tried to unlock the Secret. Me and Raccoon. (Raccoon’s a human, but he is sort of my buddy.) That turned out to be my big mistake. Lots other Humans came coveting the Secret too, which resulted in a lot of unpleasant and funny stories. More unpleasant. In the aftermath, Old Lady had to flee and I got misplaced. All my own fault. Now I’m trying to get found. Have you seen my Old Lady? You’d recognize her: her hands and face are way too young, plus she always clips her amber brooch. If you see her, tell her where I stay: 7 White Goose Lane, Ducklingburg, South Duck United State of America P.S. Tell her from me that she is the very finest Human in the whole world and that I am very lonely here without her. Zip, the Spaniel Dog

When I was in fifth grade, the class celebrated Valentines's Day by sending valentines to as many people as we wanted. If you were sweet on a girl, you would send one to her. You might send one to a friend on the football team telling him it was nice to be on the same team. I sent six valentines to myself so I would not be humiliated by receiving no valentines. Those were the only six valentines I received.

Sister didn't have to make a special valentine for Billy Grizzwold. She found the perfect one for him at the card store. It showed a scary-looking Frankenbear-type monster with a bolt on each side of his neck. It said: Monsters come in every shape and size. But when it comes to creepy, you take the prize! She'd sign it, "Guess Who." She couldn't wait to see Billy's face when he opened it at the class Valentine's Day party. But Sister forgot to watch when Billy opened her valentine because among the valentines she received was one that took her breath away. It was all hearts and flowers and inside it said, “Will you be my special friend?” “Wow!” said Lizzy Bruin. “It must have cost a whole dollar!” “It’s signed, ‘Guess who,’” said Sister. “Who do you suppose it’s from?” “Well, I know who you hope it’s from,” said Lizzy. “If somebody sent me a beautiful valentine that cost a whole dollar, I’d sure want to know who it was from. There’s Herbie over by the punch bowl. Go ask him.” Sister started for the punch bowl, but Billy Grizzwold blocked her way. He had the valentine Sister had sent him. “I’ll be glad to get you some punch,” said Billy. “And throw it down my back?” said Sister. “No, nothing like that,” said Billy. “I’m sorry about all the stuff I did. And I really don’t blame you for sending me this. It’s really pretty funny. How’d you like that valentine I sent you?” “You sent me?” said Sister. “You sent me this valentine?” “Yep,” said Billy. “I saved up for weeks to get it.” Sister was confused. She didn’t know what to say, so she just said, “Thanks.

There you are, Franklin,” he said. “Your friends are waiting. We can’t start the party without you.” “I don’t belong at the party,” replied Franklin. “I don’t have any valentines to give.” “I know,” said Mr. Owl. “Your mother told me what happened. And I told the class.” Franklin moaned. “I guess no one’s going to give me a valentine now.” “Hmmm,” said Mr. Owl. “If Bear lost his valentines, would you decide not to give him a card?” “I’d never do that!” exclaimed Franklin. “Bear is my friend.” “Maybe Bear feels the same way about you,” replied Mr. Owl.

There were twenty-four cubs in Sister’s class, and every cub had to send a valentine to every other cub. They didn’t have to be expensive and you could make them if you wanted to. Sister thought she might just make one for that no-good, rotten Billy Grizzwold. She began to think about what it might say. Roses are red. Violets are blue. Nobody needs a doofus like you. Or: Daffodils are yellow. Roses are red. I need you like a hole in the head! “A penny for your thoughts,” said Mama. “Er--uh,” said Sister, “I was just thinking of a valentine to send to Billy Grizzwold.” “Is Billy a special friend of yours?” asked Mama. “A special friend?” said Sister, her eyes flashing. “Does a friend knock you down when you’re jumping rope? Does a friend chase after you with a dead mouse? Does a friend put a hop toad in your lunch box?” “I suppose not,” said Mama. “But--” “There are no buts about it, Mama,” continued Sister. “That Billy Grizzwold is a no-good nuisance and if he doesn’t stop bothering me…” “Why don’t you ask your boyfriend, Herbie Cubbison, to make him stop?” said Brother, who had come back to the table. “Boyfriend? Boyfriend?” shouted Sister. “You take that back!” “Everyone knows that Sister Bear has a huge crush on Herbie Cubbison.” “Mama, make him take that back!” cried Sister. “I’ve hardly ever said a word to Herbie Cubbison! Brother’s the big valentine sweetheart around here.

As the pile of valentines in front of him grew bigger and bigger, Franklin felt sadder and sadder. There were so many, and he had none to give in return. He sighed as he opened Bear’s card. “What’s wrong, Franklin?” asked Bear. “Don’t you like my card?” “I do! But I feel bad because I don’t have one for you,” said Franklin. “Oh that’s all right,” said Bear. “I don’t need a valentine to know you’re my friend.” Franklin smiled.

When I looked up, I saw Brody Valentine standing over me. He was someone in the school that I considered a friend, but really knew nothing about. We had zero classes together and occasionally saw each other in the hallways.

Come February, all of our off time was spent composing letters for the hundreds of valentines we sent out around the globe. Valentine cards had become a tradition of ours, born of the fact that we could never get ourselves organized in time to send out Christmas cards. With our ever-enlarging network of family, friends, and Foreign Service colleagues, we found that Paul’s hand-designed valentine cards—usually a woodcut or drawing, sometimes a photograph—were a nice way to keep in touch. But they could be labor-intensive. One year’s design was a faux stained-glass window, with five colors in it, each of which had to be hand-painted in watercolors—which took hours. For 1956, we decided to lighten up by doing something different: we posed ourselves for a self-timed valentine photo in the bathtub, wearing nothing but artfully placed soap bubbles.

Love grows in sunshine.

You should fly and release your love back out and into the world.

You don't need to hear love to experience it.

To lovers out there ... Never share your sexual pleasures or bedroom activities with friends about your partner, unless you are seeking help on how to improve, spice up things or to make it better, but If you are doing it as performance appraisal. Remember  Not all of them will be happy for you. Some will want to experience that for themselves. For them to do that . It means they need your partner . Some people will go for your partner , not because they love them, but it is because of how they treat you.

As the Family looked for Russia’s future leader, a series of meetings between Berezovsky and Putin commenced. By this time, Putin was the head of Russia’s secret police. Yeltsin had obliterated the top brass everywhere, repeatedly, and the FSB—the Federal Security Service, as the successor agency to the KGB was now called—was no exception. If Berezovsky is to be believed, he was the one who mentioned Putin to Valentin Yumashev, Yeltsin’s chief of staff. “I said, ‘We’ve got Putin, who used to be in the secret services, didn’t he?’ And Valya said, ‘Yes, he did,’ and I said, ‘Listen, I think it’s an option. Think about it: he is a friend, after all.’ And Valya said, ‘But he’s got pretty low rank.’ And I said, ‘Look, there is a revolution going on, everything is all mixed up, so there…’” As a description of the decision-making process for appointing the head of the main security agency of a nuclear power, this conversation sounds so absurd, I am actually inclined to believe it.

Ice may melt in the hot sun, but my heart melts when you smile

I also know she claims it makes her horny because she’s a nerd who thinks Benedict Cumberbatch is hot. At least I know I won’t get horny. I’m more of a Hiddlestoner.

friends’ old

From the boyfriend for Valentine’s Day, I guessed. I hated that holiday. Just an excuse to spend money on overpriced shit.

Zara,” I cut her off. “I can handle it. Just spit it out.” Her hands stop touching my head. “But can you? Handle it, I mean. Because I’m watching my best friend drown trying to keep you afloat.

My brain remembers Jesse’s best friend, Zara. The mother of Jesse’s first daughter, Zara. Our egg donor, Zara. Our surrogate, Zara.

Juvenalius has problems... though like most kids on the threshold of sexual awareness he only knows life sucks... he isn't clear about why. His mother rants on and on about the iniquity of his school having a gay straight alliance. She's quite safe about that, as Ryan is too shy to join, or is that scared? His only friend is a dog so the question of boy or girl-friend hardly arises... until he gets a valentine... from the least likely boy in the school.

Today was his thirty-first birthday, Valentine’s Day. None of his friends were in the pub, trying to impress the missus or girlfriend, taking them out for dinner. There were no flowers in the bar to celebrate Valentine’s, no complimentary chocolates on the counter, nothing, just hard drinking by the down-and-outs, seated and separated out evenly across the place.

Two Valentines are actually described in the early church, but they likely refer to the same man — a priest in Rome during the reign of Emperor Claudius II. According to tradition, Valentine, having been imprisoned and beaten, was beheaded on February 14, about 270, along the Flaminian Way. Sound romantic to you? How then did his martyrdom become a day for lovers and flowers, candy and little poems reading Roses are red… ? According to legends handed down, Valentine undercut an edict of Emperor Claudius. Wanting to more easily recruit soldiers for his army, Claudius had tried to weaken family ties by forbidding marriage. Valentine, ignoring the order, secretly married young couples in the underground church. These activities, when uncovered, led to his arrest. Furthermore, Valentine had a romantic interest of his own. While in prison he became friends with the jailer’s daughter, and being deprived of books he amused himself by cutting shapes in paper and writing notes to her. His last note arrived on the morning of his death and ended with the words “Your Valentine.” In 496 February 14 was named in his honor. By this time Christianity had long been legalized in the empire, and many pagan celebrations were being “christianized.” One of them, a Roman festival named Lupercalia, was a celebration of love and fertility in which young men put names of girls in a box, drew them out, and celebrated lovemaking. This holiday was replaced by St. Valentine’s Day with its more innocent customs of sending notes and sharing expressions of affection. Does any real truth lie behind the stories of St. Valentine? Probably. He likely conducted underground weddings and sent notes to the jailer’s daughter. He might have even signed them “Your Valentine.” And he probably died for his faith in Christ.

American DEWAR FAMILY Cameron Dewar Ursula “Beep” Dewar, his sister Woody Dewar, his father Bella Dewar, his mother PESHKOV-JAKES FAMILY George Jakes Jacky Jakes, his mother Greg Peshkov, his father Lev Peshkov, his grandfather Marga, his grandmother MARQUAND FAMILY Verena Marquand Percy Marquand, her father Babe Lee, her mother CIA Florence Geary Tony Savino Tim Tedder, semiretired Keith Dorset OTHERS Maria Summers Joseph Hugo, FBI Larry Mawhinney, Pentagon Nelly Fordham, old flame of Greg Peshkov Dennis Wilson, aide to Bobby Kennedy Skip Dickerson, aide to Lyndon Johnson Leopold “Lee” Montgomery, reporter Herb Gould, television journalist on This Day Suzy Cannon, gossip reporter Frank Lindeman, television network owner REAL HISTORICAL CHARACTERS John F. Kennedy, thirty-fifth U.S. president Jackie, his wife Bobby Kennedy, his brother Dave Powers, assistant to President Kennedy Pierre Salinger, President Kennedy’s press officer Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference Lyndon B. Johnson, thirty-sixth U.S. president Richard Nixon, thirty-seventh U.S. president Jimmy Carter, thirty-ninth U.S. president Ronald Reagan, fortieth U.S. president George H. W. Bush, forty-first U.S. president British LECKWITH-WILLIAMS FAMILY Dave Williams Evie Williams, his sister Daisy Williams, his mother Lloyd Williams, M.P., his father Eth Leckwith, Dave’s grandmother MURRAY FAMILY Jasper Murray Anna Murray, his sister Eva Murray, his mother MUSICIANS IN THE GUARDSMEN AND PLUM NELLIE Lenny, Dave Williams’s cousin Lew, drummer Buzz, bass player Geoffrey, lead guitarist OTHERS Earl Fitzherbert, called Fitz Sam Cakebread, friend of Jasper Murray Byron Chesterfield (real name Brian Chesnowitz), music agent Hank Remington (real name Harry Riley), pop star Eric Chapman, record company executive German FRANCK FAMILY Rebecca Hoffmann Carla Franck, Rebecca’s adoptive mother Werner Franck, Rebecca’s adoptive father Walli Franck, son of Carla Lili Franck, daughter of Werner and Carla Maud von Ulrich, née Fitzherbert, Carla’s mother Hans Hoffmann, Rebecca’s husband OTHERS Bernd Held, schoolteacher Karolin Koontz, folksinger Odo Vossler, clergyman REAL HISTORICAL PEOPLE Walter Ulbricht, first secretary of the Socialist Unity Party (Communist) Erich Honecker, Ulbricht’s successor Egon Krenz, successor to Honecker Polish Stanislaw “Staz” Pawlak, army officer Lidka, girlfriend of Cam Dewar Danuta Gorski, Solidarity activist REAL HISTORICAL PEOPLE Anna Walentynowicz, crane driver Lech Wałesa, leader of the trade union Solidarity General Jaruzelski, prime minister Russian DVORKIN-PESHKOV FAMILY Tanya Dvorkin, journalist Dimka Dvorkin, Kremlin aide, Tanya’s twin brother Anya Dvorkin, their mother Grigori Peshkov, their grandfather Katerina Peshkov, their grandmother Vladimir, always called Volodya, their uncle Zoya, Volodya’s wife Nina, Dimka’s girlfriend OTHERS Daniil Antonov, features editor at TASS Pyotr Opotkin, features editor in chief Vasili Yenkov, dissident Natalya Smotrov, official in the Foreign Ministry Nik Smotrov, Natalya’s husband Yevgeny Filipov, aide to Defense Minister Rodion Malinovsky Vera Pletner, Dimka’s secretary Valentin, Dimka’s friend Marshal Mikhail Pushnoy REAL HISTORICAL CHARACTERS Nikita Sergeyevitch Khrushchev, first secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union Andrei Gromyko, foreign minister under Khrushchev Rodion Malinovsky, defense minister under Khrushchev Alexei Kosygin, chairman of the Council of Ministers Leonid Brezhnev, Khrushchev’s successor Yuri Andropov, successor to Brezhnev Konstantin Chernenko, successor to Andropov Mikhail Gorbachev, successor to Chernenko Other Nations Paz Oliva, Cuban general Frederik Bíró, Hungarian politician Enok Andersen, Danish accountant

Come along.” Nick took her arm when they left the box, and with his superior height, navigated her deftly through the crowds. “Where are we going?” Ellen asked, for she did not recognize the path they were traveling. “To meet your fate, my lady,” Nick said, but his eyes were sparkling, and Ellen didn’t realize the significance of his comment until she was being tugged backstage toward a growing buzz of voices. “The green room is this way”—Nick steered her along—“but for you, we will refer to it as the throne room. Ladies and gentlemen…” Nick bellowed as he gently pushed Ellen into a crowded, well-lit room. “Make way for the artist’s muse and for a large fellow bent on reaching that punch bowl.” Applause burst forth, and the crowd parted, leaving Ellen staring across the room at Valentine where he stood, a glass in his hand, still in his formal attire. He’d never looked so handsome to her, or so tired and happy and uncertain. He set the glass down and held out his left hand to her. “My Ellen,” he said, as if introducing her. She tried to make her steps dignified before all these strangers, but then she was walking very quickly, then, hang it, she pelted the rest of the distance right into his arms, holding on to him with every ounce of her strength. She did not leave his side when the duke and duchess were announced or when his various siblings and friends came to congratulate him. She was still right by his side when the duke approached. “Well.” Moreland smiled at his youngest son. “Suppose I was mistaken, then.” “Your Grace?” Ellen heard surprise in Val’s voice, and pleasure. “I kept trying to haze you off in a different direction, afraid the peasants wouldn’t appreciate you for the virtuoso you are.” The duke sipped his drink, gaze roving the crowd until it lit on his wife standing beside Westhaven. “I was worrying for nothing all those years. Of course they’re going to love you—you are my son, after all.” “I am that,” Val said softly, catching his father’s eye. “I always will be.” “I think you’re going to be somebody’s husband too, eh, lad?” The duke winked very boldly at Ellen then sauntered off, having delivered a parting shot worthy of the ducal reputation. “My papa is hell-bent on grandchildren. I hope you are not offended?” Ellen shook her head. “Of course not, but Valentine, we do need to talk.” “We do.” He signaled to Nick, where that worthy fellow stood guarding the punch bowl. Nick nodded imperceptibly in response and called some inane insult over the crowd to Westhaven, who quipped something equally pithy right back to the amusement of all onlookers, while Val and Ellen slipped out the door. By the light of a single tallow candle, he led Ellen to a deserted practice room. He set the candle on the floor before tugging her down beside him on the piano bench. “I can’t marry you,” Ellen said, wanting to make sure the words were said before she lost her resolve. “Hear me out,” Val replied quietly. “I think you’ll change your mind. I hope and pray you’ll change your mind, or all my talent, all my music, all my art means nothing.

You’re sure he’s gone?” Ellen asked, unable to keep her voice from breaking. “He’ll stay gone? You’re safe from him?” “I am safe from him.” Val held her gaze. “You are safe from him. I promise you this, Ellen, with my most solemn word. My family owns two shipping companies, and we’d spot him before he disembarked at any domestic port. His ship was headed for Italy by way of Portugal, because he already has enemies in France. He can afford to run for a bit, since he took his personal jewelry with him. Recall, though, that he’s alone, he doesn’t speak the language, doesn’t know the customs, and I have friends who will keep an eye on him in Rome. Will you marry me?” “You’re going to keep composing, aren’t you?” Ellen peered at him worriedly. “That music, Val. It was… sublime. I could almost hear the frogs croaking and feel the tears on my cheeks—well, I could feel the real tears—and the flowers, I could smell them in the sunshine during that second movement. I think the Belmont boys were there too, and so was Marmalade. You have to keep writing. You have to. Is your hand all right?” Val sat back and braced one of his hands on each of her arms. “If I promise to keep composing, will you marry me?” “Yes.” It was a simple word but the most radiant in her vocabulary. Radiant like the notes of his symphony. “Yes. I will marry you, Valentine Windham, and you will write music, and our lives will always have something of the divine in them.” “Always,” he agreed, hugging her to him. And

She marched up to the door, banged it open with a satisfying crash, brandished her scythe, and announced herself to any and all therein. “Get your heathen, trespassing backsides out of this carriage house immediately, lest I inform your papas of your criminal conduct—and your mamas.” “Good lord,” a cultured and ominously adult male voice said softly from Ellen’s right, “we’re about to be taken prisoner. Prepare to defend your borders, my friend. Sleeping Beauty has awakened in a state.” Ellen’s gaze flew to the shadows, where a tall, dark-haired man was regarding her with patient humor. The calm amusement in his eyes suggested he posed no threat to her, while his dress confirmed he was a person of some means. Ellen had no time to further inventory that stranger, because the sound of a pair of boots slowly descending the steps drew her gaze across the room. Whoever was coming down those stairs was in no hurry and was certainly no boy. Long, long legs became visible, then muscles that looked as if they’d been made lean and elegant from hours in the saddle showed off custom riding boots and excellent tailoring. A trim, flat torso came next, then a wide muscular chest and impressive shoulders. Good lord, he was taller than the fellow in the corner, and that one was a good half a foot taller than she. Ellen swallowed nervously and tightened her grip on the scythe. “Careful,” the man in the shadows said softly, “she’s armed and ready to engage the enemy.” Those dusty boots descended the last two steps, and Ellen forced herself to meet the second man’s face. She’d been prepared for the kind of teasing censorship coming from the one in the corner, a polite hauteur, or outright anger, but not a slow, gentle smile that melted her from the inside out. “Mrs. FitzEngle.” Valentine Windham bowed very correctly from the waist. “It has been too long, and you must forgive us for startling you. Lindsey, I’ve had the pleasure, so dredge up your manners.” “Mr. Windham?” Ellen lowered her scythe, feeling foolish and ambushed, and worst of all—happy. So

Country life agrees with a man.” Nick slung an arm around Val’s shoulders. “So does a certain aspect of nature best enjoyed on blankets by the side of streams.” “What?” Val stopped and glared at his friend. “St. Just and Axel both saw you on Saturday, enjoying the shade with your Ellen,” Nick said, grinning. “What a lusty little beast you are, Val. I am pleased to think I’ve set a good example for you.” “Blazing hell.” Val dropped his eyes, a reluctant smile blooming. “I suppose I ought to be grateful they didn’t come running over the hill, bellowing for the watch.” “Suppose you should, but really, I think there’s a lot to be said for the healing power of some friendly, uncomplicated swiving.” “You think there’s a lot to be said for any kind of swiving.” “I do.” Nick’s expression was dead serious. “More to the point, you were overdue, Valentine, and not just for some romping.” “Maybe.” Val resumed walking, and Nick dropped his arm. “I was, probably. But one doesn’t always find what one needs when one needs it.” “One doesn’t, but you’re doing a fine job improvising.” Val glanced at him, seeking hidden meaning in Nick’s use of a musical term, but Nick’s handsome face was schooled to innocence. By