It was the Spring Festival. The sun was shining, the weather temperate, and the birds were singing.
Literally. A band of jackdaws had set up along one of the roofs' edge, and they were accompanied by three seagulls singing in baritone. It was some locally popular sea shanty or other. The words weren't important.
He'd bought her corn on the cob on a stick. She'd won him a flower in the sewing contest, which he proudly displayed from his uniformed breast pocket. She was young and he was young and it was enough for her to be convinced that it was love.
When she left at the end of the Festival week, once more in her Novice's habit, they hugged and she promised that she would write with the fervent certainty of youth.
It was the next day, on the trek home, that Amanda's fingers closed on something in her pocket. When she drew out her paw, gently uncurling her fingers, she stopped short. It was the flower she had given him, pressed and folded neatly in a silken handkerchief.
The handkerchief was embroidered with the initials J. F.
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Literally. A band of jackdaws had set up along one of the roofs' edge, and they were accompanied by three seagulls singing in baritone. It was some locally popular sea shanty or other. The words weren't important.
He'd bought her corn on the cob on a stick. She'd won him a flower in the sewing contest, which he proudly displayed from his uniformed breast pocket. She was young and he was young and it was enough for her to be convinced that it was love.
When she left at the end of the Festival week, once more in her Novice's habit, they hugged and she promised that she would write with the fervent certainty of youth.
It was the next day, on the trek home, that Amanda's fingers closed on something in her pocket. When she drew out her paw, gently uncurling her fingers, she stopped short. It was the flower she had given him, pressed and folded neatly in a silken handkerchief.
The handkerchief was embroidered with the initials J. F.