No; Sophia, even lovelier — if possible — in her grief, was not pleased. Not at all! Neither the aroma of fresh mulberry pies nor the frost-blue frock he had so often praised impressed her, and it was all because he wasn’t there. Intellectually, she realized that the ‘Parisian Pirate’, Woodbein, the nigh-antediluvian soldier-lover of her youthful imaginings, had a full life in which he was on a collision course with the High Council itself, and he could not be expected to hold any consideration for the pleasure of one burning girl. Intellectually, she knew this. And yet…
   Truly, it had been a most foreboding, quixotic day when the letter on the bureau had brought him to her attention.
   It was then that a flurry of activity shattered her composure into a million enchanted, tender pieces! She nearly swooned. Surely it could not be — but it was! At the door, the pagan, sleazy and masculine face she had come to know so well! “Come to me,” he breathed with his eyes (for his voice was now silent for ever) while he slid the little ring onto her finger. “I need you, sweetheart!”
   Suddenly, as he slid the little ring onto her finger, she knew that life without him was unthinkable, if not immortal, untamed. Wthout him, could she ever have took a moment to plan some of the details of their pre-nuptial agreement?