Dolce says nothing. Not a word. Not a sound. He sits safe and comfortable in the company of wolves, glowing like the first, fond whispers of sunrise, but without any birdsong to accompany it. Not until Vasilia looses his tongue with a gracious sweep of her hand.

“Perhaps - long, long ago - I thought a poor chef would only deprive a noblewoman of the treatment she was due. I dreamed of a day when I could give you everything I thought you deserved and I could not provide. Perhaps by succeeding there, I would no longer feel as though I was falling short of you.”

“I do not think that anymore. Yet the dream remained.”

He holds his tea with both hands. Still, and thoughtful.

“I grew. [i]We[/i] grew. And I think love must grow along with us. Was this the sheep you swore an oath to years ago? True, he might have been living somewhere inside me, hidden away, but neither of us knew it at the time. How could we? You are not the same either, which also is not a criticism. Every day, we wake up to see somebody who is and must be different than the person we first married. How can our oaths be fulfilled unless love, too, is a growing thing?”

“Today, we get to share an old, fond dream. Whether or not the tea we drink here can compare to the tea shared in the late and lonely hours, what does it matter? I would not dare insult your love, Mistress, and suggest there are reserves you have not or could not give to me. But if I am permitted the boldness of a wish?” It is a risk, to speak without waiting. But it is also a performance. One he cannot keep from seeing through. “I would wish, with all my heart, to share this new, old dream with you. Grant me this precious choice and chance, to love and be loved anew.”