She believed she was young again, if only for a moment.
Sylvie was large, soft, and luscious back then. In full bloom by the age of 14. Immediately, she stepped into nothing less than a supporting role in every opera performance scheduled for the season, and onto the threshold of becoming a woman with a seasoned tenor nearly three times her age.
“Have you checked the roses today, Jon? Are they ready?” Jon glanced toward the window while assisting Sylvie with her robe. Working to help untangle her hand, which had gotten caught up in some errant threading near the armhole and was flailing about like a trapped bird. Her blue-veined skin, sheer as tissue paper, looked as if it might tear from the strain of it all.
“Bring one to me,” she commanded, once the crisis was over.
And so he left. By the time Sylvie reached the window, employing her most judicious footsteps, Jon was already downstairs, across the lawn, and in the greenhouse that consumed only a fraction of the acreage she owned…