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1001 English Nights – An Austenesque Extravaganza Vignette

1001 English Nights – Part two

“So, I see you did take me at my word, my dearest wife. You started you own novel, as I suggested.”

“You should know that I always do as you suggest, my dear husband,” Catherine blushed, while her husband placed a soft kiss on her cheek.

“Than I would suggest to prepare for dinner and “ he whispered, his lips almost touching her ear “ after dinner I shall try to find a way of entertainment which does not involve writing. Will you put aside your story until tomorrow?”

Catherine’s will was not in her power any longer; her strength had long abandoned her, while her mind could think of little else except Henry’s warm breathe, burning her skin. What story could he possibly means?

The next morning, it was not until the sun invaded her chamber that Catherine finally woke up.

She looked around  her husband was not there and rightfully so, as it was very late in the day.

She gently touched the pillow where he had rested – though ‘rested’ was not quite the proper word.

Blushing to her own words, she allowed the previous night memories to occupy her mind for an instant, than she send them away and started to prepare for the day. On her small office, she spotted the papers from the previous day – her story –  waiting. Yes, that would do perfectly.


Act three

Young and beautiful  Susananini, at her age of sixteen, was oblivious to all her father’s struggle and turmoil. In truth, she could hardly remember her father’s features, except for the paint that was watching over from the wall of her chamber.

Her maids, frightened and tearful,  brought news about the hoards of armies which surrounded the castle, which threatened to subjugate their manor, in their attempt to win her as a bride for one of their sons. Young Susananini glanced at her image in the mirror, wondering at such fullness. Presuming the eight lords and their army will forcefully enter the manor, what could they pretend? How will they decided whose bride will she became?

 She cared little about all these, because there were months since she knew her heart had been touched once for ever, and no one else could find the path to her soul. If he was or not one of those who were ready to die for her hand – there was no way for her to find.

It was one morning, very early, when she escape her rooms and run to the main balcony, to witness the sunrise The eunuchs were there, guarding along the main hall so she could not leave and no other creature could enter. Yet, the main door opened and, for not longer than a moment, he appeared in the door frame, only a few steps away from her. She remembered his eyes – blue as the sky  – staring at her, and his glance penetrating her soul and steeling the blood from her vain.  A cold shiver along her spine stoned her, while she could feel  his eyes traveling along her body – as she was dressed only in her night gowns. His lips, full and wet, opened to speak but that moment a din of voices and countless, heavy steps broke the silence – so in a minute she disappeared. She knew too well, that, had her father would discover that the strange laid his eyes upon her, it would be the last sight he would ever seen.

Since that moment, not a single moment pass without her remembering his eyes, his strong countenance, his features, his glance – and not a single night passed without her dreaming about him, while neither her mind nor he body could find peace and rest. If he was not the one to win her hand in marriage, to take her as his bride, to teach her about love and passion – no one could be…


Catherine found herself in sudden need of some cold water. Her lips became dry and a warm wave traveled along her skin. She cast another quick glance to the bed – which was still undone – wondering where her husband was. She read again and again what she had just wrote, wondering what would Henry think of her, if he would take a glimpse of Act three. Was it proper for a young, married lady, to think of such things and – even worse – to put them on a paper ? Will she ever dare to read those passages to Henry – as surely he will demand to know the rest of the story?  Or would she better rip the paper and write act three all over again,  within of the bond of decorum? What should she do ?


 Curious what happens next? Check the link to Carey Allyn Pierson’ blog and enjoy 1001 English Nights – Part 3 !



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