North Side of the Tree. Maggie Prince

breath, as we watch the bishop’s coachman whip up the elegant piebald gelding which pulls his coach. The bishop waves and the coach moves off.

      My state of distraction is such that it takes a moment for John’s words to sink in. I look up at him. Here is someone who does not have secrets, who says what he thinks, regardless of the consequences, who says it in measured terms, and then listens to a person’s reply, whatever it might be. I have a moment of feeling quite overcome by wonder. “I could love you very easily, John,” I tell him. “Perhaps I already do.”