“May I have this dance, Miss?” His deep voice rang throughout the vacant Victorian ballroom; his blue-black hair playing about his sharp face as he bowed to her. The girl’s brown eyes looked about. Everyone had left from the party just hours before.

“Of course.” She timidly replied, making a chaste curtsy before taking his hands as he whirled her around. ” But there is no more music, Dévon…” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but he could hear her just fine.

“Really? I can hear it.” The girl closed her eyes as he began to hush a familiar melody to her while they continued to dance. Was it Scarborough Fair? Tears began to stream down her cheeks. “My love?” He slightly pulled from her, his long fingers moving strands of ginger hair from her soft, pale features. A small hand clutched him.

“I can’t,” she started, as she cried into his shirt. “My husband, Mr. Dévon, I can’t.” Her lover sighed, stopping his movements to rest his forehead against her’s.

“I love you,” he muttered.
“I want to love you, too.”