After the door closed, HonorÃ¨ let out a quiet chuckle. If the girl was as innocent as she supposed, then she'd likely be thinking about the kiss for a long while before she fell asleep with it on her brain. "..should make for interesting dreams." She tried to recall her first kiss, but while there were shadows there, she could not put a face to it. It was like this every time. ValÃ¨re aaid it was simply her mind not wanting to think about his death, but she'd seen her dead betroths portrait. It didn't feel like him. Shaking off the maudlin feeling, she continued on the way to the garden. She'd been like this since dinner when Lord Martinez had mentioned Gawain, as if he'd known her previously. It was frustrating.<br/><br/>She gave one of the Ritter Hex's a smile and moved into the garden. Even as late as it was, she could see the flowers in the moonlight. It was a perfect night for a walk. Brushing aside a bit of imaginary lint, HonorÃ¨ moved to a bench, and leaned back and stared up at the moon, sky and stars. Ever constant was the moon, looking at generation after generation of humans wandering lost and alone. As she looked, and believed herself to be alone, she began speaking to the moon, one of her few frivolous habits.<br/><br/>"A black cat among roses,<br/>Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-quarter moon,<br/>The sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock.<br/>The garden is very still,<br/>It is dazed with moonlight,<br/>Contented with perfume,<br/>Dreaming the opium dreams of its folded poppies.<br/>Firefly lights open and vanish<br/>High as the tip buds of the golden glow<br/>Low as the sweet Alyssum flowers at my feet.<br/>Moon-shimmer on leaves and trellises,<br/>Moon-spikes shafting through the snow ball bush.<br/>Only the little faces of the ladiesâ delight are alert and staring,<br/>Only the cat, padding between the roses,<br/>Shakes a branch and breaks the checkered pattern<br/>As water is broken by the falling of a leaf.<br/>Then you come,<br/>And you are quiet like the garden,<br/>And white like the Alyssum flowers,<br/>And beautiful as the silent sparks of the fireflies.<br/>Ah, Beloved, do you see those orange lilies?<br/>They knew my mother,<br/>But who belonging to me will they know<br/>When I am gone."<br/><br/>It was a depressing thought, but at her age, she had all but given up hope of being married and having children. It was not their place, her sister would say.