The long-abandoned house sat alone atop a weathered escarpment. Below was the cold and hungry sea, whose waves slowly ate away at the rock. One day the waves would triumph and the house above would come tumbling down, to disappear into the black waters. A hundred years from now; maybe a thousand. The end was inevitable. That was how the world worked.
The house showed its age. Windows were cracked; some were broken, allowing the winds to enter, along with dirt and other detritus. The shutters clapped and banged against the outside walls when the wind blew especially hard, leaving deep gauges in the faded paint that would never be repaired.
Inside the house was the accumulation of decades of neglect. Dirt covered the wooden floors and dust covered what little furniture remained. Shards of cracked and broken dishes littered the floor like an archeological site. The walls were stained with years of smoke and decay. Spiderwebs in the corners identified the house's remaining occupants. Otherwise, the house was abandoned.
Except for the two spirits who had made this house their home.
*****
Daphne and Niall were in love. They had been in love since they first met three weeks ago at the county fair. That first night, they danced and talked, finding they had nothing in common but a shared fascination for the other. Their parents--Daphne's mother and Niall's mother and father--found their counterparts across the large room and nodded cordially, understanding what just happened without understanding
how
it happened. They knew the magic of the fair, and the dance; they recalled their own moments when two strangers met and instantly became more than strangers.
It may have helped that Daphne was beautiful, with curly brown hair that rose up behind her as she whirled on the dance floor, with a lovely hand-made dress that hinted modestly at her womanhood, hidden underneath. She had vibrant eyes that were either green or blue, depending on the light. Looking at Niall, they shone like the stars in the sky.
It may have helped that nineteen-year-old Niall was handsome, with broad shoulders and a flat, planed, stomach, with bright blonde hair he wore in a ponytail. His eyes were as blue as the ocean, but they had been focused solely on Daphne since the first moment he had seen her, standing across the dance floor, talking with her mother, who was there as Daphne's chaperone. Seeing Daphne, he forgot where he was and strode up to her to ask for a dance. She glanced at her mother, seeking approval. Her mother nodded slightly and smiled indulgently at her only daughter, who had just turned 18 and was attending the fair's annual dance for the first time.
They danced. They talked of themselves. They danced some more. They fell in love.
This was not unusual. This was the fair. This was the magic of the night. And when the night was finally over, Daphne returned home to her farm, accompanied by her mother. Niall returned home to his farm, accompanied by his parents. They separated, yet they were still one. The bond was forged and was now unbreakable. They would be together forever.
For that was the magic of the fair and the annual dance.
*****
Nicholas and Sarah held hands as they surveyed their palace. The servants had done well: the table was set for a feast, the French porcelain dinnerware was spotless, and the silver serving ware gleamed in the candlelight. The gold frames called the eyes to the magnificent paintings hanging on the burgundy-colored, brocade-covered walls. Every possession they owned was on display; every
objet d'art
was carefully placed to inspire awe and delight. Everything was perfect, awaiting their guests.
"What shall we do until the guests arrive?" Nicholas asked his lover. He waggled his eyebrows in a most suggestive manner, conveying his desire without a word.
Sarah, having been his consort for longer than she could remember, understood him. She understood his need. As was always the case, she flirted back, saying neither "yes" nor "no" but making her lover work for his relief.
"But the guests, darling," she protested. "We cannot have them find us
en deshabille
. 'Twould not be proper in the slightest."
Nicholas gathered her into his arms, pulled her towards him, and captured her lips with his. "Hang the guests," he muttered. "I need you."
Sarah made one more token protest. "You always need me, my love. Cannot you wait until after they depart? Cannot you exhibit the slightest amount of patience?"
"Never," he said.
Sarah stopped protesting and started to cooperate, as they both knew she would. As she always did, after a small, token protestation. Nicholas had needs. Sarah loved to fulfill his needs, to give him some relief from the cares of the day. Thus, she relaxed into his hold and allowed him to slip the lace-fringed dress off her shoulders. She allowed him to find her pale breasts, white in the candlelight with rose-colored tips that rose under his nimble fingers, that peaked under the swirls of his tongue, that ached at the suction of his mouth.
She undid his belt buckle and pulled down his breeches, freeing his manhood. She stroked him lovingly until he rose, hard and tall, signaling his readiness.
He kept his mouth fastened upon one rose-tip while lifting her silk and taffeta skirt to her waist, finding with one hand the hair-covered cleft between her legs and stroking it as she stroked him until she was moist and ready to accept him.
Caring not for the imminent arrival of their guests, caring not for the gossip of the servants, Nicholas entered Sarah in one firm thrust, causing her to groan with the pleasure of his arrival in her most intimate place. He took her standing up against the wall, thrusting against her over and over in heated abandon, each thrust eliciting a moan of joy or a gasp of delight. He drove into her for minutes, until they fell to the floor, writhing together in frenzied coupling, fusing together as one body as they reached their pinnacles and endlessly fell.
They eventually finished. They got up slowly. Nicholas kissed his beloved Sarah before he pulled up his breeches. Sarah kissed him back before pulling down her skirt and smoothing it. In minutes, they looked as if nothing had happened between them, as if they had not just coupled frantically, moaning and groaning and gasping with the pressures that rose within each of them.
They got up and held hands. Together, they surveyed their palace, waiting for the guests to arrive.
*****
Daphne and Niall were supposed to wait for the wedding. That was the immutable rule of things: bonded at the dance, married in the New Year. That was the unchanging rule; that was the way it was. That was the way it had always been for the families on the coast. Outsiders may have different rules, but
their
rules were firm. Immutable. Eternal. There must be time for preparation, for contemplation, for the longing to build. First the bond, then the waiting and then, finally, the consummation.
