Page 70 of The Good Duke
Are you certain it is that and not the absolute absence of any meaningful thoughts in your damned head?
Not this again.
A frantic and bitter frustration built inside.
There’d been a time the absence of anything in a notebook had enlivened him; before now, the emptiness on a sheet hadn’t stirred panic. Rather, to Simon, a blank page had been a temptation far greater than any fruit the Devil could have dangled before him.
He’d never been without words—that was, thewrittenkind. The verbal ones, on the other hand, he’dneverpossessed.
His fingers? They’d fairlytwitchedto pick up a pencil or quill pen or whatever had been close at hand.
Only since his return had he been tormented by this grating lack of ideas, which only sent his anxiety into a heightened spiral.
Exhaling a long, black curse more creative than anything he’d spouted since he’d received word about his new title of Duke of Greystoke, he fanned the pages.
His gaze caught the lone sheet with several verses scratched upon it.
He hastily flipped back until he’d landed on that particular one.
Do not bother reading it. You are absolutely not adding anything more to this poem.
Simon glared long and hard at the page.
And then, God help him, the yearning proved too great. He glanced down and scanned the verses he’d written the day Persephone caught him woolgathering.
An old friend, resurrected,
From the ashes of oldmemories,
Old laughter, an echo in themind,
It kindles remembrances of—
Suddenly, the words, in his mind flowed. They set his hand into motion.
It kindles remembrances…
Once lonely, always sad, untilher.
Her smile heals…
A balm upon an achingsoul.
And just like that, having surrendered to the subject that had compelled him to write, Simon crouched low and found himself lost in the vision. And it was such a wonderous place to be.
She is the light—
Salvation is thy name.
A light knock sounded at the door.
His heart racing, Simon jerked his head up.
Persephone.
He remained bent low over his notebook, his shoulders bunched up as they invariably climbed when Simon immersed himself in his work.
She’d returned, and the absolute only reason accounting for this eager anticipation stemmed from the fact that, whether Simon liked it or not, Persephone was proving to be a muse and one who supplied him with material to draw from.
