François found his second dance of the evening nearly by accident. Or he would have said it was so. In fact he had begun picking his dances by the cut of their bodice, as crude as it was to say. And this lady boasted a rather nice set of curves. Setting his now-empty glass down on a passing servant's platter, he turned to her, careful to keep his eyes politely on her face now. Not that she'd likely be focused on the direction of his gaze when he had two black eyes to stare at.

He bowed. "The Lord François Villon, at your service," he murmured, looking up as he kissed her hand to meet her gaze. He straightened and managed not to wince at the pain in his ribs. Damn the Lord Edmund for damaging him just before a ball! "And you are, milady?" He watched her rather lovely face with curiosity.

Such forwardness! That was the only thought through Rose’s mind as she observed the bowed man with a very deliberate smile. He was not at all unpleasant to look at, with his handsome dark hair and tall features, but something deep inside Rose wondered if she should accept his proposal. After all, she did not know this man at all, and he had asked for a dance with no warning. He seemed quite well bred too, taking much extremes to show his respect, bowing low and kissing her hand. Despite this, Rose could not help but question his motives.

Having danced twice already, she was also not quite if she had the stamina to take on another dance at least for some time. Her breath was already somewhat shallow from the dances, she felt hot and she could tell her face flushed. That was of little matter, though. The fact that she had enjoyed the dances immensely could not be denied. She loved how she felt in a man’s arm, and as silly as it sounded, she imagined the man grasping her waist to be her lover, her prince charming. It was one of the only times that she was able to feel happy. No one would no her secret desire.

Rose could not also avoid the fact that if she wished to be pleasant, refusing this man, Lord Francois Villon, would not be the way to do it. How many women refused a dance when offered? Very few. And what would that say about the Rochester family, if this man chose to make a scene? Lucy would certainly not appreciate such a thing. With a small smile, Rose cleared her throat and slightly bowed her head.

“It would give me great pleasure to share a dance, Lord Francouis Villion.” Rose finally answered, still holding the man’s hand. With another smile Rose stepped forward and walked with him onto the floor.

"Glad to hear it," François said. He bowed again. "And you are, Milady...?" He watched her carefully. The fact that she hadn't introduced herself meant she was probably well-known, but he of course was so new to the realm that he wouldn't have recognized her anyway. "I really ought to know. Please forgive me."

His smile wasn't wholly sincere. The alcohol was beginning to affect him, making his movements slower and his speech slightly slurred. Coupled with his accept, he feared it might make him hard to understand. Then the thought floated out of his mind. A lovely part of drunkenness was its erasure of all but the most immediate sensations and thoughts. He smiled again, reaching to take her into his arms for the dance.

"Lady Rose Rochester. I am Lady Rose."

With that reply, Rose gave a smile. As she walked further on to the floor, she noticed how his speech was slightly slurred, and how he did not seem to have full control of his motions. She suddenly saw how his smile seemed twisted and almost deliberate. The smell that aroused from his lips told Rose he had probably had a little too much to drink. It was such a repugnant smell, that Rose could not help but wrinkle her nose in certain disgust. She did not mind an occasional drink, but she hated people who drank it constantly, to where they were no more themselves. She had seen to many a time, the actions of such people, and it never did end well.

What have I agreed to? Rose asked herself with an inward groan.

As soon as she thought this, Rose felt his hands thrush her into the crowd of people, and their dance began. She could not help but believe that this dance would only result in something either tragic or humiliating.

"Ah, the Lady Rose," he said, pretending that meant something to him. Oh wait... Rochester. She was a relation of the Duchess, then. How lovely that was... and how beautiful she was, to boot. The more he looked at her, through the faint halo of drunkenness, the more he marveled at her classically perfect looks.

"Well, milady," he said, moving smoothly into the dance with her in his arms, "I feel compelled to mention to you that you are at least one of the most beautiful women at this ball." He nodded to her, throwing his bruised face into shadow under the brilliant lights as his hair swung forward. "And that is no idle or false flattery, I can assure you..." His voice dropped to a low whisper. "... though I admit I occasionally indulge in such."

All her life, Rose never doubted she was beautiful, but Rose had never once been told so by another man out loud. Hearing such words come from Lord Francois’ mouth, Rose almost felt her legs lock under her, from the utter shock of it. She quickly regained her composure, though, and danced on, her mind still completely engrossed in what he had just said. She had seen looks in men’s eyes as they lusted after other beautiful women as herself, and she abhorred how they used such words to lure the women in. Maybe it was their insecurities that led those women to believe in such lies. As Rose looked at Lord Francois, she cocked her head ever so slightly, wondering if he was telling the truth. She wanted to believe him, but she told herself that she would not fall in the same trap as many other women. Oh, but hearing those words, lifted her. She was torn, and Rose knew it.

Almost as if reading her mind, Lord Francois continued to talk, reassuring her that he did not say such words to flatter her. But who was to say he was lying? Rose knew all about the falsity of court, and it disgusted Rose to no end. In her own mind, Flattery was in the same category as lying, both equally appalling.

As they danced on, Rose could feel his breath linger in her ears and she felt her heart beat slightly faster. He seemed to close for her liking. Rose wondered if it was him or the fact that she was not used to such intimacy. Rose felt torn now, because she was still deciding what game this man was playing. Had he said the truth? Rose’s romantic fantasies wished he was. She wanted to be loved wholly by a man and spend the rest of her life with him. The life she had now, being engaged to a man she barely knew, was not ideal, and she almost wished there was a way out of it. Her heart ached for some form of happiness, and she almost told herself that the man was telling her the truth.

Suddenly she saw him lean in by her ear and whisper. Chills went down Rose’s spine as she felt the breath upon her ears, and registered what he said. So, he was no novice in luring women? Rose might have guessed. Rose suddenly felt her eyes open, and she told herself she was no longer going to fall for his tricks. She would not let herself dishonor her family by having too romantic a heart. She would not let that be the reason for a tainted family name. Not wishing to offend the man, for her family’s sake, for she did not care at all for this man, she
decided to play along in his game, at least until the dance was over.

“Lord Francois, surely you do not mean what you say. You are too kind to instill upon me such compliments” Rose replied, with truth in every word. Rose simply was careful to chose words that would have a double meaning. Of course, she did not believe she was the most beautiful woman at the ball, and she felt that such compliments were not called for. However, Lord Francois would surely take it a different way.

François watched the flicker of emotion in the lady's eyes, the blush and blanch of her cheeks, following his words. He had been honest--but for him, honesty was defined as 'that which I happen to be thinking at the moment'; and he had indeed found her most lovely in that moment. He still did.

"Too kind, milady, no," he said softly, his voice warm with intimacy, though it fell short of improper in its tone. "Truly, I find myself unable to look away... but I daresay a woman such as yourself hears enough said of your beauty and too little of your wit, which I find likewise admirable." Her words had been guarded and well-chosen, and one ought sprinkle admiration where it was due.

And she was a relation of the duchess... no use being overly flirtatious with her right away. Rather he might begin a thoroughly proper acquaintance. He ought to think about marriage, as Étien always told him, no doubt trying to get him to become more respectable. But the only woman he had ever thought of marrying wouldn't have him... so may as well marry for political influence as that fickle sickness called love.

Rose could not lie and say she was not impressed with his response. After all, she had pegged him for a lustful man, only valuing women because of their appearance, well experienced in teasing women and flattering them to no end. Rose herself, valued intelligence an wit, as he said he did. After all, beauty was only skin deep. This applied to art as well, for there was only so much satisfaction art could give. Knowledge would provide a long lasting enjoyment. That was how she felt.

Despite the man’s words, she could not help but still be a little skeptical at the vitality. Maybe he had sensed her distance and how she did not really respond well to his compliments. After all, he still resorted to his flattery declaring he was not too kind, and that he could not keep his eyes off her. What did he mean by his last portion of his statement? Did he believe her to have wit and inelegance? This meant more to Rose than his compliments on her beauty that would soon die away into nothing. Rose could not help a smile at this thought.

“You could say that some are unfortunate to have that happen, and end up being too vain that their wit it squandered. It pleases me to see you appreciate intelligence, though. I see so many men who solely admire women for their beauty, and honestly, I get tired of it. When will they look past it and see the women for who they really are?” Rose paused, making sure her feet were in the right position for the dance, and then looked back up at Lord Francois. “I find that wit can be of more value than just mere beauty. After all, some day, all that will die away.”

Rose did not say how seldom she was told of her beauty of other men. She decided that it would probably be best if he merely assume that she was sought after, and that her beauty was admired by men everywhere.

"Oh, Milady, you're committing the common sin of reductionism!" François said, shaking his head at her. If she wanted discourse on the level of equals, well then, he would give it to her. "For we are at least in part our appearances; at least in part our thoughts; and at least in parts our deepest shame..." His voice sank at these words, and he fell silent, waiting for a reaction.

He thought about shame, waiting for her reply. He felt shame for many things he'd done in life. For killing Robert Plangent, scum though he'd been; but it had broken Lucinde's heart. Damn the woman. And damn the shame; damn the guilt, fear, and embarrassment at his many acts of cowardice. Damn it all, and let nothing matter past the moment, past the hour--past the present and future.

Rose could not help but smile. He had completely missed her meaning behind her words. Maybe she had not been clear enough. Intending to correct the misunderstanding, she replied.

“Oh, you misconstrued what I said. Of course, we are all part appearance. One cannot help but judge by physical attributes. It is human nature. What I am saying is that so many believe that is of higher importance, when it is not. Surely you can agree with me on that. If a woman of great beauty were to come into the room, but she said vulgar things, behaved quite inappropriately, and hateful words to you and everyone she came across, would you not be repulsed by her regardless of her appearance? Long lasting relationships are based on character, not on how someone looks like.”

While Rose replied, she notice a sense of sadness as if he was bearing some kind of unspoken pain. What memory could have been brought up by his words? Rose could not guess, but she could certainly feel sympathy for the man. She too had much unspeakable pain inside that she could not afford to let out. All her former doubts about Lord Francois were pushed aside, for in that moment, she saw the sincerity in his eyes.

As quickly as his somber look appeared, it suddenly vanished and was replaced with anger. Where the anger came from, Rose knew not, but it perplexed her. She could only recall few incidents when she had been truly angry. For the most part, as a child, she had been happy and pleasant to be around. She had not known much of anger until recently. Even when she was angry it only last only a short time. This was something she could not possibly relate to and she wondered what he was thinking.

"Importance," François mused, watching her face. "How much more important I often find the ephemeral things--youth, beauty--than those that last to drab old age, when the gray of sky, stone, sea and skin merge into a tasteless palette. For lovely conversation is a form of beauty too, and I am not so unsubtle as to overlook the charm of irregular features if they are lit with what you may call personality or spirit, but I call poise--and youth--and life."

He fell silent, wondering if he made any sense whatsoever. His philosophical discussions tended to meander, and were often more for his own sake than others', who weren't oriented where he was in his convoluted thoughts. There was in his opinion no graceful way to grow old. Though he was only eighteen, he rued each natal day that passed him by as a step toward the grave.

"That’s how the bon temps we regret/Among us, poor old idiots,/Squatting on our haunches, set/All in a heap like woollen lots/Round a hemp fire men forgot,/Soon kindled, and soon dust,/Once so lovely, that coquette…/So it goes for all of us. My ancestor wrote that."

His words were like poetry and music to her ears, all at once. Rose could not help but close her eyes, at least for a moment, listening to his words. She was careful to not make sure she would not lose her step while her sight was blackened though. When her eyes were opened, she had no way to answer the man’s small speech. Maybe it had all been a simple misunderstanding. Apparently he realized the importance of inward beauty rather than outward, despite the fact that he said most often he values appearance more than personality. At least he was honest. That much Rose could credit to him. She hated people who thought that they should lie.

When he recited the poem, Rose almost let her mouth hang in awe, her romantic side pushing through. She could not help but be amazed. Such a beautiful piece it was and it rang such truth.

“That is a beautiful poem, Lord Francois, Rose declared. “Tell me, do you enjoy poetry a lot?” Rose could only imagine so. The way he talked, and how he recited the poems, told her that. Rose herself, loved poetry. It was one of the most romantic forms of writing she knew. She had dreamed as a child to have a man who would recite beautiful poetry to her in attempt to prove his love. She imagined her heart swooning and sharing laughs, at possibly his horrible recitation.

"Poetry is in my blood, Milady Rose," François said quietly, relaxing slightly. He felt he hadn't relaxed at all since he had come to this country--back in the rhythm of lovely words and fights. Though the fights, admittedly, he could have done without--at least hand-to-hand. The dance demanded he spin the Lady Rose out and back. In doing so, his shoulder shot fire down his ribs, and his face paled abruptly.

"Pardon me, Lady," he murmured, biting his lip. "I fear after this dance I'll need to take a moment's rest." And another glass of wine. The drink was wearing off, and he disliked it greatly, much as the clarity of thought came welcome. "Perhaps I might have the opportunity to discurse further on poetry with milady in the meantime?"

Rose was certainly not surprised that the man enjoyed poetry. As she observed him, she could tell that he was more relaxed than he had been, and the look of mischief in his eyes had disappeared. He seemed quite genuine while he was talking of poetry, that Rose was almost surprised to believe this was the same man. When the dace suddenly called for a turn, Lord Francois lifted his arm to let Rose turn, but when she was back in her former position facing him, she noticed his face pale. What had happened? Was he hurt? Rose did not have much of a chance to ask such questions as he spoke immediately wishing to end the dance soon. Rose had no question in her mind that he was hurt, but what sort of injury had he acquired? Did she cause it? Rose hated to think that was true. She almost felt guilty. When he suggested they talk some more of poetry she could not help but wonder if he was trying to mask the pain. If so, he did quite well, for they continued to dance, the moves now more simple and light.

“Of course I don’t mind talking of poetry. In fact, it is one of my favorite written genre. There is nothing like a well-written and well-recited poem.” Rose replied with a smile that masked her utter concern. “But, are you sure you are well enough to continue the dance? We could stop now. Are you badly hurt?” Even if he was to say that he was ok, who was to say he was only trying to swallow his pride? Yes, men did that often. They would rather die then admit they were wrong or hurt. Rose could not help but sigh. If only some men would realize that it takes just as much courage and strength to show a weak side as it is to approach a man in battle.

"I broke a few ribs in a fight," he explained, stopping the dance with some relief and leading her off to the side. "I think the binding's come loose. It holds them in place very admirably, you see, but with movement--" He shrugged slightly, wincing. "It's nothing of importance, nor something you should trouble yourself over; but I do enjoy your company, so whilst I'm taking a rest, may I ask..."

He paused to pick up a glass of wine, and took a sip, which immediately acted to dull the pain. Marvelous.

"O what a thing of strength is wine
Oh how great power and might
For it deceiveth every one
That takes therein delight," he quoted, reciting a silly ditty from his country and smiling at the Lady Rose.

"How true, and how sad, in fact; but then the truth often feels truer for its sadness, as mirth is fleeting and apt to fly out of our grasp. But I was going to ask you something." He enjoyed raising the suspense this way. What would he ask, they wondered, and flattered themselves with all sorts of illusions. "Do you have a favorite poem, or a favorite poet?"

Rose almost let her mouth drop in shock of hearing that he had been hurt. Why would he even think to dance, then if there was a good chance for him getting hurt. Soon, though her attention was diverted by Lord Francois speaking once more.

When he recited the poem, she felt a rush of sensation, not rightly paying attention to the words until the last minute. How true did those words ring as Lord Francois spoke it with an elegant tone! Wine, indeed, had only short lived power and caused men and women alike to lose their common sense. Rose told herself that she would never be found in that situation. She had seen many people whose life had been ruined by the cursed drink. Rose was glad to see Lord Francois had agreed.

When Rose was asked if she had a favorite poem or poet, she could not help but groan inwardly. Such a difficult question! After a few seconds of thought, she came to a conclusion.

“I do have one favorite poem out of many that I could recite, for I do have many.”

Clearing her throat, Rose began to recite it.

Come live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Or woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from out pretty lands we pull;
Fair-lined slipers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy-buds
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my Love

“It is one of my favorite poems. I cannot help but feel my heart lift every time I recite it or hear it. It is one of my fantasies to have a man say things to me.” Rose immediately regretted saying it for she had revealed a grave weakness in her. She was still quite unsure as to Lord Francois’ intentions. She could only hope he would not use this knowledge against her.

François tilted his heads to listen to her recite the poem, watching her lips move. She was so sweet, and so sincere. It was remarkable that she still held such illusions.

"It's a beautiful poem and an admirable sentiment," he intoned gravely, watching her and sipping at his wine again. He was amused that she'd found the rhyme he'd recited admirable in any way, or taken it seriously. She was most charmingly innocent.

And at the same time, she seemed not to entirely trust him. Well, he didn't blame her. It was after all a part of his persona, something he liked women to sense.

"You know, I am both a great admirer of poetry and a poet myself," François said, "as was a famous ancestor of mine who lived these two hundred years ago. Do you write poetry yourself, Milady?"

Rose was fascinated to hear of Lord Francois’ long history of poets in his family. Poetry, as he had said before, was in his blood. It was so easy for Rose to simply get lost in such conversation. For so long, she had been stifled of such opportunities, though she had long awaited for it. Her family had only desired to talk more of visual arts rather than written art, and she could not talk much of poetry to them. Now, she had a chance, and Rose was eager to converse. She was also glad to see he enjoyed her recitation. She did not much like being in crowds, but she loved to recite the poetry for people, just as long as the group was not so large. She had alone in her room, practiced reciting the poem with complete precision of rhythm and inflection of her voice, in hopes to allow another to enjoy the pleasure to hear her speak it. Her hard work had finally paid off, and it pleased Rose to no end.

When she was at last asked if she had tried to write her own, though, Rose was disappointed to admit she had, because none of her attempts had turned out well. She found herself laughing upon reminiscing upon her silly little poems, that she would never dare let another single living being rest their eyes upon it.

“I am afraid, Lord Francois, that I have, but you must believe me when I say I am no good at it. I could never measure to the talent of the great poets today. All my attempts are quite pathetic, if I must say so, but I don’t worry too much about that.” Rose replied with a smile, “I rather enjoy simply reading and enjoying the poems other make. Do you, perchance write your own?”

"Modesty, milady," François said mildly, shaking his head and raising his glass to his lips. "Modesty! A virtue they say, but most often those who are modest merely fear judgment... you, however, may be an exception; or you may not. But I'd know you to be false if you displayed modesty about your beauty. As to your poetry I cannot say, never having seen it." He drained his wine and set it aside, deftly plucking another glass from a passing servant.

"But if poetry's what you want," he added, closing his eyes for a moment and thinking, "I do have one... you see, there was an old woman in my country who went out to sit in the square. Her husband had just died, and she was alone; and she pinned a note to her dress saying that she had no one left and had no wish to die alone in her house... and then she stabbed herself. In any case:

'When each morning she awoke and left her heart curled on the pillow,
And set off with the timeless stupor and endless cold of a lonely weeping willow--
Was there a cat-scratch at her door, or the faintest whisper of a song?
--things that made life sweet and slow as sap in summer, the days as long
Until at last the flow of blood and iron hair began to crumble into rust--
But neither gently nor politely (this she swore) would she turn to ashes, dust to dust.'

He paused, admittedly--nervous. But he tried not to show it.

Rose could hardly believe herself as modest. She was merely stating the truth. It was a fact, some feared judgment and so acted modest, so that people would not believe them all to prideful, but Rose did not, fully believing she was not as significant as her sister. Even though Lucy had done such an awful thing, she could not help but still love her with a sisterly love. Blood bound them; that would not be taken away. Lucy was beautiful, vivacious, and strong. Her? Well, she only saw herself as a quiet person who would never amount to anything in life. She had once hoped that she would find happiness in marriage, but Lucy had squandered that dream. Now she had nothing left.

Such a horrific story to back up such a lovely poem! was all that Rose could manage to think when Lord Francois recited the poem. She felt shocked and pleased at the same time and she was not sure which she was truly feeling, as she listen once more to Lord Francois reciting his poetry. He spoke it so well, with such precision in rhythm that it flowed as smooth as water though her hands. It made her desire the talent she found many other to have.

“Such a lovely poem. I must say, I am quite pleasantly surprised and I envy your talent. The best poem I have written was is not half of the quality as what you have just recited.” Rose replied, meaning every word. She wondered, though, if he would believe her. He certainly had said he did not believe that she had not been fawned by all the men because of her beauty, and he now questioned if she was merely being modest about her ability to write. Would he demand to hear her attempt? Rose certainly hoped not, but there was no telling what Lord Francois would do.

François closed his eyes, swaying in thrall to the poem he'd just recited, then shook himself out of it in time to hear Rose comment on it.

"Thank you, milady," he said softly, "but it's nothing, only a brief effort. I've little patience for the meters and forms dictated for courtly poetry, so mine are half-wild, like untamed hedges. There may be some pretty shapes, but they're all distorted from other-growth; and still that's the way I am and I wouldn't wish to be any other, for it's folly of the highest order to do so."

He drained this glass of wine too, and set it down but did not reach for another. He felt his face growing warm already, and he didn't want a drunkard's flush to further mottle his bruised features.

"And nor should you," he pointed out, bringing up one hand to touch her cheek briefly, before dropping it to his side once again. Her skin was soft and warm--the skin of a young woman, unused to hardship. "Never apologise for what you've done, milady, and never make excuses."

A laugh almost escaped Rose as she listened to him. The man who had lightly said she was being too modest, now practiced the very thing! Rose truly believed his poetry was great, but apparently he did not. Rose could only saw that at least he appreciated the uniqueness it carried. And it certainly was unique, as she noticed it had a much different rhythmic pattern than the poetry now being written. Lord Francois had this certain edge about him, and she certainly admired that he did not seem to care what others thought of him.

When Lord Francois took another drink, Rose took note of it, recalling that since they had stopped dancing, he had taken to drinking a lot. Was it a habit? Rose hoped not. She hated drinkers who merely drank because they could. She could understand if he had taken another glass in hopes to ease the pain he was in. Rose could not deny the fact that she would much prefer the later to be true. Once he had finished the whole glass and set it down, his sudden gesture of placing his hand upon her cheek, made Rose fidget slightly and a cold sensation flow through her cheeks. She had not expected him to take such actions, but then again, she was not fully surprised. She recalled the words spoken upon them first meeting. He certainly was no stranger in luring women.

Rose had realize, as she listened to him, though that for a long time she had made excuses. Not that they were not plausible or admirable, but they were still reasons that she had chosen not to speak up. Her family had always been the reason that she had never voiced her dreams of learning, and the pain she was now going through.

“I am afraid that it is much easier to make excuses, though” Rose finally replied relieved when he leaned back.

"What is easy," François said severely, lowering his brows, "is rarely the right course of action; I'd venture to say never. Because it's resistance that brings happiness. Resistance and striving. Ease leads to dissipation leads to misery and dissolute death... and I know whereof I speak." His expression was troubled, though it was hard to tell through the bruises.

He made a small motion with his hand, dismissing the conversation. The Lady Rose was troublingly honest about her flaws. Troublingly honest in general, honesty and naïveté being two qualities which did not flourish at court. It both frustrated and saddened him that she seemed so without guile, and wouldn't long remain so. No-one did, after all.

"I'll speak to you later, Milady," he said, bowing again, only slightly, and moved off to get some fresh air. On his way he almost laughed to see a slight scuffle on the balcony, which he'd doubtless hear talked about later, and made his way out to the gardens.

Rose had no doubt that Lord Francois said the right thing. But which way was easier for her. Would it be easier to bear the pain in quiet, or would it be easier to do what she had once dared not do and bring shame to the Rochester name by calling off the engagement to study at Marcheford? Rose had no idea. Both seemed equally difficult. She could not imagine living either way, but she had no choice in the matter. Lord Francois sounded so serious, though, that Rose was forced to think more on the subject of her engagement. She had to make a choice soon, it would not be long before there would be no chance to change her mind. If she was going to break of the engagement, now was the best and only time. But what would she do?

Upon Lord Francois moving his hand, dismissing the conversation, Rose had wished to say something but he had beat her to it. He spoke and then simply walked away. Rose was utterly stunned by this action. Why did he leave in such a manner? Was it something she had done? She could not think of anything she said or did that would have offended him. But then again, he did not look offended. Rose wanted to speak, but he had already turned, and when she walked through the crowd of people to find him, he was no where to be seen. He had already disappeared in the sea of people. Where could he have gone? Would she ever see him again? Rose wondered if she even wished to see him.

With her mouth hung slightly opened, she let all those questions run through her head, and she finally came to thinking of his words once more. What would she do? Which path would she take?

ooc: so I suppose that this thread is complete! XD Rose should meet Francois at a later time. PM me if you have any ideas.