"And the rain it raineth every day."
Days and days and days, and the rain held steadfast; ‘twould not abate.
Viola hath a house, a good house, the tree-house built by Jerry Bines’ own two hands and meant to be her own. It had withstood all manner of wind and rain and Island mischief in good faith ere then, but ‘twas no wonder that a home made of rough-hewn timber, with rain lashing at it from all sides and great gusts of wind setting its very cradle of tree’s limbs into motion, did feel more a ship’s hold than it ought to have, and she the poor sailor huddled within.
Damn Shakespeare, damn that writer of plays twice o’er for having writ her so (and damn him thrice o’er for making her think herself being writ). Would that he could have ever truly learnt that by omission alone he could not spare his bold lords and plucky ladies the things which had no place upon the stage but did nonetheless hap ‘tween those things he did reduce to little more than pageantry.
Thus did Viola’s ill-temper’d thoughts plague her in those days of endless rain, and thus was her first desire little more than to escape the tree-house when the sun did finally dare show her shining face.
‘Tis what sees her stealing into Sandor Clegane’s camp just past daybreak, for if she cannot bear any longer to be shipwreck’d Viola, then she can at least be bold young Cesario, plaguer of oft foul-tempered knights, for a time.
And it might e’en have worked, if not for the knight’s equally foul-tempered horse.
Viola hath a house, a good house, the tree-house built by Jerry Bines’ own two hands and meant to be her own. It had withstood all manner of wind and rain and Island mischief in good faith ere then, but ‘twas no wonder that a home made of rough-hewn timber, with rain lashing at it from all sides and great gusts of wind setting its very cradle of tree’s limbs into motion, did feel more a ship’s hold than it ought to have, and she the poor sailor huddled within.
Damn Shakespeare, damn that writer of plays twice o’er for having writ her so (and damn him thrice o’er for making her think herself being writ). Would that he could have ever truly learnt that by omission alone he could not spare his bold lords and plucky ladies the things which had no place upon the stage but did nonetheless hap ‘tween those things he did reduce to little more than pageantry.
Thus did Viola’s ill-temper’d thoughts plague her in those days of endless rain, and thus was her first desire little more than to escape the tree-house when the sun did finally dare show her shining face.
‘Tis what sees her stealing into Sandor Clegane’s camp just past daybreak, for if she cannot bear any longer to be shipwreck’d Viola, then she can at least be bold young Cesario, plaguer of oft foul-tempered knights, for a time.
And it might e’en have worked, if not for the knight’s equally foul-tempered horse.