***
That afternoon, I join Sergei in the library for my lesson, though I arrive a bit early. I search through the shelves of books until I come across a familiar volume. Richard Lovelace. Pulling it from its shelf, I let it fall open in my hand, exposing a scrap of paper tucked into the pages. I take it carefully and have a seat.
My Divine Helen,
I feel great sorrow in your words, yet I cannot but hope you will have the courage to speak them to my person. Please, meet me again as of last.
Yours always,
Paris
I take the paper over to the lamp and light it aflame. Did I have the courage to speak to him again? I must find it within myself, I decide. He is due that much at least. Though part of me joys at the thought of seeing him again, another part cringes, knowing the pain my words will cause us both. I scribble a note of my own, replacing it in the book before returning it to the shelf.
Wait for me, sweet Paris. For I will come.