. . . companions were to be valued, wherever one found them.

I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.

They say everyone needs something to love.

And then he was kissing her, and she was struck by his nearness, his solidity, his smell. It was of the garden and the earth and the sun. When Cassandra opened her eyes, she realized she was crying. She wasn't sad, though, these were the tears of being found, of having come home after a long time away.

It was such a pleasure to sink one's hands into the warm earth, to feel at one's fingertips the possibilities of the new season.

She was the breeze on a summer's day, the first drops of rain when the earth was parched, light from the evening star.

Thinking of nothing. Trying to think of nothing. Thinking of everything.