xii. written

[heloise]

[ Lucrezia writes in curled letters, more like pictures than text, a little poetry or is it a riddle? ]

πόλυ πάκτιδος ἀδυμελεστέρα χρύσω χρυσοτέρα


[ Meanwhile she is at the laundry room, seated on the floor with her light green gown spread about her. She has both hands on one machine, watching the colors spin through the glass with amazement on her face. Yellows, blues, greens and purples! ]

[ trans.; than the lyre, far sweeter in tone than gold, more golden. ]

Comments

[heloise]

The lighthouse. [ She grins. ]

I should like to call you Pharos.

[mors]

You know it! [Oh, he seems pretty delighted by that.] Then Pharos it is.

[heloise]

Only through books. And you may call me Lucrezia. Borgia.

[mors]

It's a pleasure, Lucrezia.

[heloise]

The pleasure is mine. [ She even does a little curtsy. ] Dear beckoning light.

[mors]

[My my! His grin widens.]

You flatter me!

[heloise]

[ She grins in response! ]

Only when deserved.