Skander's Tone Was Mild But Peeved

God grant every gentleman
Such hawks, such hounds, and such a leman.
With a downe, derrie down...

It's the first of March, which is hard to believe. I was a little turned about on the matter of the Leap Year - I could not recall if it gave February a day or took one away, and how many days February had to begin with, and it all seemed very high-handed and unfair to February, even if February is the Monday of months. Also, I finished a book around 12:30 last night and could not decide if it should belong to February or March... I decided February had got enough books and gave it to March.

Now, to the matter in hand. Katiebug hasn't put up her link to her monthly snippets game just yet, but I'm afraid this is the most leisurely time I will have to participate in it. I have a notion that you might be getting tired of the sheer amount of Plenilune which has been populating The Penslayer lately. Of course, Anna was wrong on that score about The Brew, but people do like change... Unfortunately, Plenilune is what's going, and thank goodness it is going and not spinning its wheels. Now, without further ado (because I can make ado in much quantity) here are pieces of my scribbles:

March Snip-Whippets
(that is to say, snippets from February that I'm posting in March)

...she was joined at her right hand by another woman who had left the dance. Margaret did not recognize her; underneath the plumage of white feathering and chiffon and masque of black velvet and swan’s-down, she did not think she would have recognized the woman if she had been her own mother. She swooped close, paused a moment like a bird stalling in mid-flight, and finally alighted soundlessly in the next chair. Two pale gold, owlish eyes blinked at her out of the masque. Margaret’s face felt naked under that stare without a masque of its own.
Plenilune

Margaret lost sight of him for a while after that. The crowd came between, moving out of the ballroom and down a long, high, dark passage which was full of draughts. Margaret shivered and wished for a wrap, but there did not seem time to get one and she would not have asked Rupert. She went with him silently, shiveringly, until they reached a high beaten copper door, tabbied with red glint and verdigris, and were let out into the dark, windy garden. The wind rushed at Margaret, sending her red skirts dancing, and she clenched her fists to keep from recoiling or being carried off on the gale. What a wild night on which to light bonfires!
Plenilune

They stepped out into the long colonnade along the south wall of the nave and followed it with the fresh, green-purled garden rushing wave-like up to its stone walk; somewhere in the lower barberry bushes a starling was singing, and very strongly, as if it would sing out its heart with its notes. It was always windy at Lookinglass, but the south colonnade was more sheltered than the rest of it and for few moments, as they walked along, Margaret had the sense of being in the curling inside of a whelk-shell, cool and white and flickering with pale colour while the sea-roar of the wind boomed around them.
Plenilune

He comes because I bid him come, and there are yet men who come when I whistle for them. Do you bide quietly now and we will all come up again to see you this evening and fuss and make much of you. Sleep, now.”
Plenilune

To her surprise it was unlovely, a serviceable but battered thing, the sheath plain hard leather casing, its chape and locket of half-heartedly decorated metal; the cross-guard was plain, the pommel sported a mere unimaginative sunburst which seemed mockingly incongruous for a man who might have been Overlord of Plenilune. But the potency had been there—was still there—and the shining of it which Margaret could not see but could feel was glinting on it yet.
Plenilune

"Nay, but it is at high tide that the tide begins to turn."
Plenilune

He appeared that morning, not in grim costume to reflect the fate of Plenilune laid out of the blade of a sword, but in a jacket of sparkling white, pristine, supple, comfortable, and stitched with bravado. The smell that came from him—or was it more of a sense?—was of mingled thunderstorm and spice which made the senses and smells and colours around him pale in comparison.
Plenilune

No doubt he felt her gaze, for presently he turned on one bare heel, very smoothly and like a dancer, and caught her eyes with his—the hypnotic sort, she thought with another little panicked flutter where her heart was: so pale blue they were nearly silver. For a moment his face was only eyes, those witching-blue, hypnotic eyes, and then, suddenly, he smiled—a gash of a smile across the lower part of his face, that was like a spate of rain and a spate of sun at once, a mirthless sort of humour. And about his eyes, when she looked back at them, there were sudden thin, deep wing-lines that were like grief and laughter both at once, so that she could not decide if the light look of mockery was in earnest or only from long habit.
Plenilune

She stared at him carefully between the light-laced edge of the curtain and the amber-coloured background of the room, stared into his harlequin face, half in light, half in shadow…and somehow she knew that it was not merely to settle a score that he chose to stay. She had stayed then because they had both been something like exiles, and so something like friends; and now that the exiling was over—for him, at least—the friendship had remained. So he stayed, and she knew why...
Plenilune

"Is Plenilune a hollow cup for you with which to hold your wine?"
Plenilune

4 ripostes:

  1. Just the sort of post I needed to gird me up before my daunting drive into a city I've never driven in before. (Having not got my license yet.) These bits are all delicious and I thank you for each and every one of them! I especially love the second-to-last. It have me a warm feeling. :)

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  2. Jennifer,this is some of the most truly 'romantic' prose I've ever read. Brava! I'm sending a link to this to a good friend.

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  3. That first snippet... Oh. I don't truly know why it struck such a chord with me, but all I could think was: "Yes. Owl Eyes. I know exactly what she means."

    Jenny, your writing holds such beauty. The glinting not seen but felt, the sensation of walking within the confines of a whelk-shell, the little bird singing its heart out through its music, the owl eyes, the smile of both rain and sun--I've said it before, and I'll say it till the day I die: you have an amazing gift. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing it with us.

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  4. Umm ditto everything Katie said.

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