The days are growing shorter. Gusts of wind blow away the last bits of red and golden leaves clinging to the trees. Ophelia walks through the garden, her heavy, curling blonde hair falling behind her suspended in a kerchief. In her arms is a basket of gourds.
A hand snatches her from behind. She turns and meets a mirthful gaze. "Shelley!" She scowls unpleasantly. "Don't bother me."
Ignoring her, he binds her hands, forcing her to drop her basket. The gourds roll around the hem of her threadbare skirt. "How quickly it's grown cold. Isn't it invigorating, this wind?"
"Stop this nonsense. See what you've made me do? You'll have bruised squash for dinner."
"My love, can't you stop a moment and look over the river? Look at the golden trees, touched with the very last bit of daylight. Have you ever noticed how they grow orange before it gets dark?"
"I've never had a mind to look. And I am not 'your love.'"
He gazes at her steadily. "When winter comes, it will be the third year we've spent together in the wetlands. Can it be you still don't love me?"
Ophelia's violet eyes flash proudly. "I'm not 'your love,' Percy Bysshe Shelley. Leave me in peace." She looks cross till he turns and walks away, then casts a fleeting glance behind her. The wind catches her tendrils of long, pale hair around her face as she gazes at him enigmatically.
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