A Sunday self-indulgence
This particular Sunday has been hot and sticky -- far, far too hot to indulge myself with baking, although I'm craving homemade cinnamon-raising bread. The Monday ahead will be devoted to work, alas, and no self-indulgence will have breathing room.
(Let us not talk of tropical storms.)
So I allowed myself a different kind of indulgence -- thirty minutes and a few hundred words to play with the Stonewoods, and to think about Morgan's clothes. Alice likes Morgan's clothes, too...
Alice wouldn't begin this if Morgan weren't downstairs, kneading his own particular bread mixture and whispering sweetness into every inch of dough. It's not that she's ashamed of it, precisely; it's more that his smile and swagger and shoulders would distract her from this small sensual pleasure, no, would overwhelm her.
Alone in the late summer dusk, then, she opens the old oaken armoire which holds his clothes.
The aroma of that inner sanctum is delicious: cedar and moss and something spicy that is not sandalwood but freely given by a tree of his own growing. The fragrance is down deep, as deep as Morgan's power and as good, and it moves from wood to cloth to heart in one luxuriant breath.
Whenever she indulges herself with this, she always goes first to the suit he'll wear on his first day of the new school year. She slides the sleeves through her fingers, enjoying its softness, its texture, the hempen strength inside silk. In the dimness of the armoire, the green-brown of it seems to shimmer like wind-tossed leaves.
She knows that whenever he wears it, women's eyes follow him and think of cool midnights in old woods. She knows that he is unaware of this effect. She also knows that these women have no idea of what delight can happen at midnight in a wood with Morgan, the way textured bark can press magic into a Queen's back when a Guild-man leans in, the rain of leaves when he kisses her.
Her fingers go then to the cloak he wore when first he kissed her at midnight. It is hempen strength inside silk, green-brown, and it can reflect starlight when he chooses.
It is utterly enveloping, and a hedge-Queen once hid inside his cloak, inside his strong arms, and cried out loss where no one but a Guild-man could see. She touches the tearstain there, just there, which still holds salt and star.
She slides the edge of the cloak through her fingers, enjoying its strength. She is the true warrior in the family, but he is and was a good man to have at her side in a fight.
Then she goes downstairs to the kitchen. While Morgan kneads the dough, she stands behind him and traces his arms' strength with her fingertips. Wherever her fingers touch, he shivers, and outside the kitchen window, leaves lightly rain down.
“You're trying to distract me,” he grumbles, as always.
“Would I do that, my heart?” she says, and kisses the nape of his neck, and wishes for midnight.
..........................
May you have the best of indulgences, whatever feeds you most, to begin your week!
(Let us not talk of tropical storms.)
So I allowed myself a different kind of indulgence -- thirty minutes and a few hundred words to play with the Stonewoods, and to think about Morgan's clothes. Alice likes Morgan's clothes, too...
Alice wouldn't begin this if Morgan weren't downstairs, kneading his own particular bread mixture and whispering sweetness into every inch of dough. It's not that she's ashamed of it, precisely; it's more that his smile and swagger and shoulders would distract her from this small sensual pleasure, no, would overwhelm her.
Alone in the late summer dusk, then, she opens the old oaken armoire which holds his clothes.
The aroma of that inner sanctum is delicious: cedar and moss and something spicy that is not sandalwood but freely given by a tree of his own growing. The fragrance is down deep, as deep as Morgan's power and as good, and it moves from wood to cloth to heart in one luxuriant breath.
Whenever she indulges herself with this, she always goes first to the suit he'll wear on his first day of the new school year. She slides the sleeves through her fingers, enjoying its softness, its texture, the hempen strength inside silk. In the dimness of the armoire, the green-brown of it seems to shimmer like wind-tossed leaves.
She knows that whenever he wears it, women's eyes follow him and think of cool midnights in old woods. She knows that he is unaware of this effect. She also knows that these women have no idea of what delight can happen at midnight in a wood with Morgan, the way textured bark can press magic into a Queen's back when a Guild-man leans in, the rain of leaves when he kisses her.
Her fingers go then to the cloak he wore when first he kissed her at midnight. It is hempen strength inside silk, green-brown, and it can reflect starlight when he chooses.
It is utterly enveloping, and a hedge-Queen once hid inside his cloak, inside his strong arms, and cried out loss where no one but a Guild-man could see. She touches the tearstain there, just there, which still holds salt and star.
She slides the edge of the cloak through her fingers, enjoying its strength. She is the true warrior in the family, but he is and was a good man to have at her side in a fight.
Then she goes downstairs to the kitchen. While Morgan kneads the dough, she stands behind him and traces his arms' strength with her fingertips. Wherever her fingers touch, he shivers, and outside the kitchen window, leaves lightly rain down.
“You're trying to distract me,” he grumbles, as always.
“Would I do that, my heart?” she says, and kisses the nape of his neck, and wishes for midnight.
..........................
May you have the best of indulgences, whatever feeds you most, to begin your week!