When I come to my old home, suddenly I remember what matters. Maybe this time I can take it home with me.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

I came on with the thought to write for the sheer hope that Nathan might read it-- if I had known he had already checked my weblog I would have been writing on it in the lab just to be able to tell him my thoughts.

Nathan... I miss you, too. I almost forgot tonight was abnormal but as soon as I came in Henry was acting really odd, the same disturbed way he acted when I came home from Bethyl every afternoon. Then I remembered you weren't here. I don't think I ever said the Bronte books were written by the same person. Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights are in two very different styles, and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is different from either of them. After I finish this book, however, I intend to go into a deep study of all their lives; if I start researching them now, something will probably spoil the ending of this book for me, and I don't want that to happen.

Darkthorns, I don't know if The Tenant of Wildfell Hall will be to your taste, but since you liked those other two you mentioned, you will probably at least be able to get through this one. It starts out slow... much slower than the others, but for me it picked up in momentum so much it's hard for me to do anything but read it. Thank you for your reply. I had no idea anyone had found my weblog. Now that I'm on Blogspot I feel that my weblog is in the middle of a desolate wasteland. I got much more traffic with Livejournal.

I am almost overwhelmed with the desire to obtain more information about this author and her novel The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. I have not been afflicted with such passion for a book in longer than I can remember. I have become a true bookworm again-- glued to this novel, and loathing and scorning every interruption from it. I am over three-fourths done with it, and then finally I will be able to research criticism about this book about which I have never heard. It cuts me more deeply than Wuthering Heights or Jane Eyre ever could, though the similarities between all three fascinate me. That these sisters existed on this earth is as overwhelming to me as considering Beethoven existed on this earth.

I have been doing very well with Nathan gone-- even though it's only been five hours or so. I cleaned up the house some and did some shopping-- got some peppermint patties to cheer the night, and if that doesn't work, I will get a mocha valencia. I haven't done anything else today besides read Wildfell, write in my journal and review old entries. I wish I had more time-- I would work on Hugh Worthington in a heartbeat. I am tempted to take it to work, but for one, the book is too fragile to travel, and for another, the keyboards at work are too uncomfortable and send shooting pain to my wrists-- death to anyone wishing she was a writer, as blindness to a painter.

Anyway, my time is drawing near.

Nichol entered the shabby parlor with misgivings. It was still difficult to believe that someone as elegant as Hildegarde might live in such deplorable conditions. Perhaps she did not use any of the rooms Nichol had seen, but then, which did she use?

She made a motion to draw back the velvet draperies and let light into the room, but a single pull at the cord, and a course of spiders trickled from the curtain folds. A shiver ran down her spine and she moved backward, not wishing to make greater evil with her tampering. Hildegarde showed no sign of returning from her errand soon and Nichol felt impatient for some distraction from the oppressive quiet.

She spied on a far table an antique phonograph which, despite its apparant age and neglect, was not broken. It was loaded already with a cylinder and Nichol was curious to hear the machine at work. Studied in Victorian technology, she was able to crank the phonograph and put it into operation without risking its destruction, though it appeared quite sturdy and pliable to her directive.

After a pause of crackling interposed with false starts, the cylinder elicited a slow, ponderous melody in a minor key. This, Beethoven's seventh symphony, was something Nichol had claimed for herself long before she learned Lysander loved it. That this might be the cylinder with which he had listened to his favorite music thrilled her to the point that goosebumps went down her arms.

She hugged herself for the sheer need for warmth and closed her eyes as the music's dark beauty washed over her like the chill comfort of starlight. She was so wrapped in aural pleasure that the jounce of the parlor door against the wall shocked her. The movement was so violent that the door vibrated on its hinges as Nichol stared, in dumb shock, at the wild-haired man in the doorway, towering over her like an ungainly devil. As he moved closer, sending her backward with fear, she saw that a slight limp accounted for his unusual posture, but for that there was no doubt of the unfathomable height and breadth of him.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked in German: the words all the more unpleasant for their gutteral nature.

Nichol's eyes narrowed as she saw a bully who meant to intimidate her with brashness. "I am amusing myself with a cylinder till Hildegarde returns."

He swore as he brushed past her and swiftly cut off the music. Nichol's ire rose despite her good sense, which reminded her that the machine was his possession, not hers.

"This instrument is very delicate. You had no right to touch it." His voice shook with unexplainable agitation.

"It seemed sturdy enough under my hand," Nichol responded impatiently, despite reason. "I am knowledgeable with these machines, and if I had thought that my actions would harm it, I would never have wound it and set it."

"Knowledgeable?" He sneered at her, a hulking devil in the shadows of the parlor. "Who the hell are you?"

"Nichol Durand. I am here on business with Hildegarde Engel." As she spoke, she moved to the draperies and pulled them apart sharply. Light broke through spiderwebs and dust motes, flooding the velvet room in white. Nichol turned to the man, expecting him to cover his face in horror, or shriek at her, for the fact of some supernatural curse, but he merely looked at her.

For the first time she saw his face, which was not credited by his large, ungainly form. His eyes were pale as glass, like a cat's eyes, and his bright hair surrounded a face blanched and chiseled as a statue's, gracefully carved as though by a loving sculptor. His beauty was so unexpected that Nichol stared at him openly, almost unaware that he was surveying her with the same meticulous detail.

She had forgotten her shabby dress, her skirt and threadbare sweater which might have been fashionable for its thrift-store appearance, if not for its apparant authenticity and the lack of Bohemian grace with which she wore it. Her ash hair was looped sloppily behind her head, and her glasses, crooked, exemplified her large gray eyes.

There was nothing to provoke reaction in her dowdy look, but his eyes widened and his mouth curled derisively as he looked at her. His hands clenched into fists and he swore wildly, then tore his gaze from her and lunged through the door, snatching it closed behind him with a disruptive clash that reverberated through the now-silent room. Nichol stared after him with mingled astonishment and disgust.

What an animal he is, she thought derisively.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

(You stole me away to a place where the wind in the trees moaned like the restless dead
Where spiders plotted my death in the dooryard
You surrounded me with the shadow of your love till all I could see was darkness, and I dreamed.)

I wandered thus through dream-fields with a piece of poisoned apple lodged in my throat
I floated above the ground and my skirts trailed through the grass: my burial shroud dragged the ground
A shadow moved behind me, but my instincts were blunted
I reacted slowly, turning from the menace and fleeing toward our shanty
That wooden contraption of sticks and twine, where my love waited by
Plying a jew harp with careless grace as I danced for
You, every step, every curtsey, for my savior.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

"And Hugh? Where did you meet him? And what is he to you?"

"The only friend I've got in the wide world. May I see him, please?"

"First, tell me what is is to you and to this child?" 'Lina rejoined, her black eyes flashing with a gleam, before which the brown eyes for an instant quailed; then as if something of a like spirit were called to life in her bosom, Adah answered calmly:

"Your brother might not like me to tell. I must see him first-- see him alone."

"One thing more," and 'Lina held back her mother who was starting in quest of Hugh, "are you a wife?"

"Don't, 'Lina," Mrs. Worthington whispered, as she saw the look of agony pass over Adah's face. "Don't worry her so; deal kindly by the fallen."

"I am not fallen!" came passionately from the quivering lips. "I'm as true a woman as either of you-- look!" and she pointed to the gold band encircling the third finger.
*
My fervor for my new Love's Shadow increases with each passing day, but as soon as I draw close to the computer, it's time to go to work. I have done a few pages of Hugh Worthington today, but now I'm hungry and thirsty, and will have tea before I go to work. I have had so much I wanted to say lately, but I have not gotten on to say it.

As soon as I have gotten my tea I will have my say...

Her hand is locked firmly in his own: it is warm and tangible. His fingers are stronger than they look: she thought they might be as lithe and ethereal as the rest of him.

"Where are we going?" Josette whispered with concern as he dragged her persistently at a dizzying speed through unfamiliar roads.

He did not answer, but reached a chain-link fence, and stopped. On the other side of it was an abandoned church with roof falling in. "Climb," he whispered fiercely. "Go as quickly as you can. I'll hand you up as far as I can."

"But what about you?" Josette questioned, but he made no reply, firmly hoisting her up. She grasped the links and climbed as well as she could. She reached the top and looked down to see if the man followed her, but he was nowhere to be found.

She gasped. She didn't even know his name to call for him.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

Engelburg. The name resonated in Nichol's mind. Of course-- this was where Gabriel had met and loved Gisela Weisse, a young ward of the household already promised in marriage. If the authenticity of Hildegarde's letters could be verified, this would be a powerful discovery indeed.

Nichol studied the letters at length while Hildegarde waited. Nichol sensed her confidence in the find. "Are more of Lysander's things at the burg?"

Hildegarde watched her closely-- too closely. Nichol began to redden, afraid Hildegarde was considering her personal interest in Lysander. "I don't know what belonged to Gabriel. I haven't the faintest notion about antique things. I am no expert." She arched a brow. "But you are, Miss Durand."

Nichol looked at her incredulously, wondering if there was an underlying implication to Hildegarde's words, or if she were going mad. "I am studied in artifacts-- yes."

Again Hildegarde was watching her, not as though she was making conjectures on Nichol's mind but studying her person in every detail. Nichol flushed again, considering her flung-up dull-colored hair, her eyes, which surely must be shadowed, beneath wide-rimmed glasses.

Then Hildegarde nodded. "I think you should come to Engelburg and see for yourself. "

Nichol stared at her in astonished silence. It was almost too good to be true-- and she was a little afraid of good fortune.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

I have to stay awake: please help me. I'm so drowsy I don't even care to surf the web. I've written three scenes already and I think it's made my eyes tired. I always dreamed of being a paid writer-- darn it, I am.

I can't think of anything to think about. I already made lists of groceries, chores and lofty life goals. Somehow even in this July I am freezing when I step outside in the darkness to drive home. I dread that void. Sometimes even my most favorite music can't shake me from that oblivion when I get in the car. It's like being an astronaut looking at earth-- lonely and cold.

I feel now that an inferno could not warm me. I see myself under the comforter now-- then I'll be warm and safe.

I want to start transcribing Hugh Worthington soon. I was considering tonight what things I want in my life and Gutenberg is one of them. I don't know how far my interactive fiction will go but it's worth a shot anyway.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

She slides down the wall next to him, fidgeting with her grocery bags as she does. "I have a roll-top can of Spam. And soft drinks." She smiles apologetically. "The convenience store doesn't have much now. They only carry things that don't spoil."

In the shadows she sees the barest glimpse of his smile. "You're kind to share with me."

"What else would I do? Go home and eat it alone, while you shiver in the dark? We might be the only two people left on this earth, for all it seems."

His pale gaze meets her. The look in his eyes is unfathomable, almost otherworldly. A shiver runs down her spine.

"What is it?" Josette asks. "Why do you look at me so?"

He puts one hand over hers and the can of Spam she is holding, surprising her to silence. A howl pierces the quiet, chilling Josette's blood. "Oh, God," she whispers with dread. There are wolves nearby: their population has increased rapidly with the decline of human civilization.

These are not scruffy forest wolves who hunt rodents and fear humans: these are virile descendants, fearless and set on dominating the abandoned city. They have an intelligence between one another that seems akin to telepathy as they hunt their prey, which is of a human nature.

"We must hide." There is terror in Josette's voice as she meets the stranger's golden gaze. "It sounds like they're coming this way."

He stands: he is much larger than he seemed when crouching against the wall. An aura of energy surrounds him as he looks around, his rags blowing in the wind. Then he looks at her.

For the first time, the light reveals his face. His skin is the palest golden white: his brilliant eyes too are golden. His age is indistinguishable by his lovely face: he is like a marble statue with the apparent likeness of youth but for the faint chiseling of age and weather.

He extends one hand to her and Josette looks at his long, graceful fingers, those of an aristocrat, not of a transient. "Come. We must hurry."

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

The winter wind blasts her as she ducks under the stoop and fishes for her key. Lingering in the doorway is a tall, lanky figure watching her.

Josette pauses, key poised in hand, as she meets the man's black stare. "Lysander," she breathes, her heart accelerating. For the first time that day she doesn't feel the cold.

He is dressed in black from head to toe: his pale face is framed by close-cropped black hair. "Josette." His voice is barely audible above the howling wind. She notices for the first time that his cheeks and hands are wind-stung and she wonders how long he has been waiting there: she left to carry out her errands hours ago.

"I want to talk to you." There was urgency in his voice. Her heart beat harder: she couldn't help wondering if he had missed her as she missed him, if he felt the hollow cold as she did.

As she exhaled her breath was marked by frost. She slid her key into the lock with a trembling hand and jiggled it slightly. In the cold, the lock tended to stick tediously.

She glanced back at Lysander, who was watching her face intently.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

I am so excited that this did not disappear that I'm beside myself-- I looked all over the Internet for this site and couldn't find it, but from what I can tell they had to change their name because CYOA was sueing them. Wow! I can't believe it's well over a year since I wrote this story! Time does fly-- what have I been doing for this past year? Here I am on the eve of my first wedding anniversary wondering how on earth I got here.

The old museum creaked and groaned against the wind that battered it in the storm. Bare branches tapped Nichol's window as they lost the last of their leaves in an autumn storm. Tucked at her desk with a small space heater, she shivered and drew an old gray sweater further around her shoulders.

Through crooked glasses she peered at the handbook she was reading on the effects of light on fragile documents. After staring blankly at the page for several moments she found she could not concentrate on it, distracted by the storm outside, and she marked it and placed the book aside.

Storms such as these roused her to impatience. It was warm and cozy to be indoors on such a night, with no imposition to travel beyond the small apartment she kept on the third floor of the museum, but it was lonely to share the storm with none but oil paintings and marble sculptures.

Convulsively she reached into her desk for the sheaf of old papers she kept, but just as abruptly ceased. She was tormented with guilt and self-loathing for turning again to the letters, the centuries-old letters that so impassioned her that no flesh-and-blood male could touch her. It was a secret she kept, a pastime she alternately loved and hated-- this adoration of a man long-dead, whose paintings of beautiful women hung protected in the museum, whose letters and documents she tended and supplied to interested scholars.

Gabriel Lysander had become more than a historical figure to her. She had looked too often at existing pencil sketches of his profile, trying to picture exactly how such a face would look in truth. She had so little to grasp of him-- faded documents, love letters. They only teased her senses, made her want to know more of him, made him all the more impossible to her.

This obsession she kept private. She never let anyone see her pore over Gabriel's journals or letters, or glance at his miniatures. Nichol calculated laboriously over all the information she knew of him, half-believing she could dream him alive through her will. If it were known were the artist was buried, she did not know if she could have brought herself to visit his grave, though it might have been best, to remind herself that she loved a man that had been cold bone and ashes long before her birth.

A crash resounded from somewhere below, bringing Nichol to awareness. Abruptly she rose from her desk, horrified by the thought that the vibrations of thunder might have toppled a priceless artifact. She descended the staircase with haste, shivering all the while against the permeating cold.

At the bottom of the staircase was a figure, half-illuminated in the glowing lamps, half in darkness as she faced the storm outside. Nichol's breath hitched in her throat as she encountered the unexpected human figure. “Madam,” she said, bewilderment rising in her polite tone. “The museum is closed for the evening, I'm afraid. May I assist you with something?”

The woman turned and looked at Nichol, rooting her to the spot with a sapphire-blue stare. She was dressed all in black, in a gown that swept the floor. Her ebony hair was knotted intricately.

Immediately her interested stare made Nichol feel self-conscious of her poor appearance: her uncombed dark-blonde hair and dark-rimmed eyes too long engrossed in books. She twisted the gray sweater over her shoulders nervously.

“I'm looking for a local expert-- Nichol Durand.”

Nichol's eyes widened. “I'm Nichol. How may I help you, Miss...?”

“Hildegarde Engel.”

Nichol realized as the woman spoke that she was German-- not so much because of an accent, but a certain discomfort with English. Her uncommon beauty made her distinctive in any society, however.

“I want to know of a nineteenth-century artist, Gabriel Lysander.”

Nichol nodded. Lysander was the only historical figure of which she was expert. Anyone who came to the museum to speak to her would be interested in that subject. “Are you a researcher?”

Hildegarde paused uncertainly. “You might... say that.”

She seemed disinclined to elaborate, to Nichol's surprise. Not wishing to interrogate her in the discomfort of the dark, cold foyer, Nichol gestured to the staircase. “Please come into my office. I have many documents and books that may interest you.”

Hildegarde spoke reluctantly, as though from far away. “I... have a document that may interest you, Miss Durand.”

Nichol raised a brow but said nothing more until they were in the solace of her office. Hildegarde withdrew a sheaf of notes from her purse: old notes, letters, tattered and yellowed. Nichol took them from her extended fingers and glanced over them. A cursory look informed her they were in Gabriel's hand-- she was far too studied in his writing to doubt it. Her hands seemed to catch fire with the weight of them, as the implications swept her. More information about Gabriel.

Where had Hildegarde gotten these?

A rush of questions was on her tongue, but Hildegarde stayed her. “From my home. There are many cases of documents I have found. We are renovating our burg, and I am going through old things, deciding what is precious. I began to suspect that these belonged to Lysander. I know little about art, but I know he lived at our burg for at least part of his life.”

Nichol looked from the letters to Hildegarde's pale face. As she stared, the startling thought clung to her that Hildegarde resembled the sketches she bore of Lysander-- but that was impossible, of course. Nothing more than Nichol's obsessive imagination.

He found her in the cold darkness of her room, lying on her bed as though sleeping. But the pallor of her cheek suggested more than repose. Jean went to her, lifted her shoulders, shook her. That was when he saw the garment tied around her chemise-- the corset. Blue rimmed her eyes and shadowed her fingertips: her breathing was shallow and uneven.

Hands shaking, Jean worked quickly, untying the whalebone contraption till Blanche fell loose and senselessly back on the bed. He touched her face, listened to her breath, till he was satsfied she would keep, for she would not wake to his voice or prodding.

He watched over her silently, till he heard her stepmother enter the house at the break of dawn, and slipped quickly through the window-- not before caressing her cool white cheek.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

Blanche woke with a delicious sense of peacefulness. Yellow light touched her face like a flower's caress, reminding her of the earthen garden she had discovered the evening before. Now more than anything she desired to return. As she dressed and bathed her face, she considered how she would slip there beyond her stepmother's notice.

Before she entered the corridor she fastened her mother's locket around her throat and admired its glimmering cheer.

In its glow was the semblance of flames, of wood and blowing ashes. A madman wobbled backward, viewing his work with satisfaction.

That afternoon Blanche found occasion to visit the abandoned garden when she was done with her chores. She kept quiet company there with birds and insects till the sun descended and she hastened back down the dusty road past Jean's house.

This time she paused to look, no longer absorbed in her discovery of the garden. His tall, lean form was blocked against orange light: he continued working after a perfunctory wave in her direction.

"Mr. Julliard," she cried in greeting, "have you forgotten me? Will I be put upon to attend the fair alone?"

He regarded her bold words with surprise, fingering his rake with bemusment. "If I had a mind to take you there, Miss du Brule, it would all be for naught. Your ban sidhe of a stepmother wouldn't let me twenty feet of you. "

"How then will I ever catch a husband, Mr. Julliard?" she asked with mock displeasure.

"Any man with eyes to see twenty feet before him would surely have you."

"Is that so? I am remarkably unpopular for that." She smiled at him again, conjuring both the childhood that was between them and the bitter years of separation imposed by each family's difficult circumstances. The she left, but not before unfastening a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her basket and leaving it to float to the road and catch in the weeds near Jean's fence. He said nothing, continuing to rake the field but his face grew burned as though sun-scorched.

Only when Blanche was long out of sight and the sun almost completely down did he reach to retrieve the scrap of white fabric caught on barbed wire.

She entered the house even more elated than the evening before. After months of brooding she had invented enough nerve to speak to Jean, her old friend, whose look now brought a warmth to her cheek. More than that, she had sent him opportunity to see her, though it was completely against her stepmother's wishes.

As she entered the house she called out for Muriel several times, but the older woman was nowhere to be found. She moved questioningly from room to room, till she came to her own room and saw a short garment lying on her bed. Her mouth opened with surprise as she lifted and beheld the marvelous corset.

"Happy birthday," Muriel said from the doorway.

Blanche turned to her, almost speechless. She had little knowledge of dates and did not know her birthday: Muriel had never celebrated any with her.

Her hands quivered as she unfolded the corset. "This is for me?" she asked.

"You're growing into a young woman now," Muriel said. "It's fitting you should have something to make you look decent." Her voice was hoarse and her eyes burned as she spoke, but Blanche scarcely heard her as she lifted the corset to her chest and looked at herself in the mirror.

"It's a two-person affair," Muriel said. "I'll help you on ooccasion. You'll wear it for Sundays, but not otherwise. When you marry, your husband can tie you into it."

Blanche's head swam as Muriel spoke of marriage. She had never thought Muriel would release her from bondage to her.

She slipped her gown over her head and folded the corset around her waist at Muriel's directive, then waited as Muriel laced it. Tighter and tighter it grew. Blanche dizzied considering how Jean would look at her garmented so finely, till she could think of nothing at all. She could scarcely breathe. She wished to ask her stepmother to loosen the laces, but she didn't want to offend her or impose on the unexpected kindness.

Lights flashed before her eyes, but still she remained silent, gripping the bedpost, staring forward. Before she fell unconscious she whispered Jean's name in a plea.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

There was little sunlight here. Cool shadows touched her face as she moved across the moist earth. Wondering, she dropped her basket and stepped further, drawn to the cool quiet.

In the middle of the garden was a plot surrounded by a corroded iron fence and marked by a headstone. Blanche could not read the time-obscured script, but as she recognized the trappings of a grave she no longer felt alone.

Around the abandoned grave grew wild pink roses whose long, curving thorns were as noticeable as its silken buds. Blanche bent and harvested several of the oldest blossoms to her basket. Late lilies grew around the garden walls: their fragrance was thrown with overgrown honeysuckle climbing the walls and every surface.

Blanche breathed deeply of the scented air, feeling that she had somehow come home. But the house to whom this garden belonged was a pile of rubble and ash, collapsed but for stone chimneys.

She dared not stay much longer. It was enough to have discovered this place and have a few moments of its solitude. She looked at the grave and on impulse, pulled the ribbon from her hair and wrapped it around her pink bouquet. It was her offering to appease the dead, for she had disturbed a place not traveled since perhaps her birth.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

Jean glanced up to see Blanche passing by and paused at the plot of land he was working. Rake poised, he took in her simple, shabby appearance: black tendrils curling beneath a bleached bonnet, angular arms protruding from outgrown cuffs. From one wrist dangled a basket of fruit and on her lips was a peaceful smile. In the evening light she appeared almost fey, and he wondered what thoughts made her smile.

He dropped his rake and went to the fence: she favored him with a glance, but whether she really saw him in the dimness he could not tell.

Later Jean found a gold locket in the dust, faintly glimmering, engraved BEA. He looked where she had gone, thinking of the shanty far into the woods.

Blanche entered the house, untying her frayed bonnet as she entered the kitchen. On the table lay a fine ebony comb, exquisite in weight and craftsmanship.

Her eyes filled with astonishment as she beheld the luxury. She picked it up and turned it over, examining it. Then she flew down the little corridor, glancing in each room. "Stepmother!" she called. "Stepmother, where are you?" There was a wondering lilt to her voice.

Muriel was nowhere to be found. There was not a sound in the place, and Blanche thought herself alone. She went to her room and removed the pins from her hair. It fell around her shoulders in a satiny mass.

Her fingers trembled as she lifted the comb to her scalp and pulled downward.

Jean knocked at the shanty door several times before entering. His heart pounded insistently: Blanche had not answered him, nor was her ban sidhe of a stepmother nearby. He lifted the locket from his pocket and made to drop it on the kitchen table, intending to leave without further action, but a sigh from the other room beckoned him.

He moved down the dim corridor to a small room lit with the last lights of day. It was small and bare: his eyes were drawn instantly to a figure slumped against the wall, head forward, face concealed in a tangled mass of black hair.

Jean went to her and tipped her pale face backward: rivulets of crimson coursed from her scalp. He found the ebony comb lodged in her mass, its deadly tines pricking her tender head. As quickly as he could he removed the comb and thrust it from them, then bathed her scalp with cool water and brushed her hair with her old horsehair brush. Before he left her, he fastened Beatrice's locket around her throat.

When Muriel looked in on Blanche much later that evening, she found her sleeping peacefully, and she looked on her untroubled face with displeasure.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

Some problems with Blanche:
(1) Muriel is a villain for no particular reason-- I contrived to make her bad and did so, but she is flat, without any personality at all. I want to go deeper into her spirit and describe why she is abusive to Blanche. This story departs from the Snow White tale at many points. That Muriel should despise Blanche because Blanche is young and pretty is stupid. I never intended that to be the case but because this is a retelling of SW that is an implication. Instead Muriel must hate Blanche not for herself, but for what she represents-- her beautiful mother, whom her father never forgot. Because of this hatred and insecurity Muriel deprives Blanche of her mother's possessions while also depriving Blanche of a mother figure in herself. Blanche ends up being starved not merely in physical poverty but also for love and comfort.

Blanche's father was no true villain either. He meant well: he married Muriel to be a mother to his daughter, but Muriel-- despite her practical upbringing-- fell in love with him, wanted to be loved as herself, not as a surrogate or replacement. Father could not do this and after his death, Muriel was deprived of hope completely. She was left with Blanche-- a reminder of her husband's first wife, the woman to whom she could not compare.

Blanche loves Muriel, though their relationship is dim and shadowed. Blanche is not bitter but optimistic: she has long ceased to expect any love from Muriel.

(2) Jean falls in love with Blanche. He is a poor farmer, can only offer an extension to her boring existence in marriage to him. Blanche does not acknowledge Jean's feelings for her. She is troubled by them since she doesn't want to marry him.

Jean devotes himself to Blanche's protection, somewhat as she devotes herself to Muriel. Jean is the one that breaks the spells Muriel puts over Blanche. With each save, Blanche is grateful but unmoved by his affection.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--