Fore note: English is not my native so I apologize if the sentences sound weird, the gram­mar isn't as polished as I would like and some words aren't the happiest choice, however I want to hope they won't prevent you to enjoy this piece.

There are some innuendos here and there. "He" and "his" in italic refer to That Man, "you" and "your" in italic to the couple - that's because in English there's no difference between single second person and plural second person.

This is a sort of side story for Podestaria, focusing on the Thalde ship, Biagio Tricano's parents.

Wishing Well

{ Les Retrouvailles des Amants }

"I wish, I wish, I wish..."

Throwing a coin in a wishing well is just like wishing upon a star: hopeful and useless, this is what you want to say as you watch your son standing before the cheap-looking, brand new wishing well your friend has placed in her new home's gar­den; yet all you say is: "If you say it aloud, your wish won't become true."

The six-pence hits the mortar bottom with a chink as he nods vigorously, look­ing at last at you; you're taken back as you feel a sweet, calloused hand squeeze your heart. He doesn't have your family's trademark weatherly eyes - not your Lady Aunt's stormy or your own rainy-Spring-day grey, neither your father's Mid­summer-afternoon-bright-sky blue. He has his eyes, a blue so deep it almost looks purple, the colour of lapis lazuli or the indigo hue.

And then you cannot avoid wondering... how much will he grow to look like him? Will he have his chestnut hair, so thick and soft it's almost a crime? Will he stand like him, tall and proud and grave as a judge - a king - on the brink to sen­tence a man to death? Will his stride scythe air and rain and fog like his? Will he have that switchblade smile of his, the smile you still fear and love and wish for you alone?

And then you cannot avoid remembering... when you were a girl of seven-and-ten, crossing the Magpies Bridge for the first time as you held your father's hand. You remember your wonderment before the sight of Elanne's three Pearls, shin­ing gold and silver and cooper above the city of Eimerado. You remember your astonishment before the sight of him gracefully jumping into your room, because you had already met In-Between and you though he was a mere delusion replac­ing your crush.

"Only this once, I will let you reach that door. But be assured that I will come back tomorrow and the night after and again and again and again," he had told you in the lingua franca.

You didn't run for the door, you didn't call for your father: you had a duty to­ward your family - Thirteen moons to lose the Belt / Grow the Seed between Worm and Snow / May the Goddess bless thou and / And the God take thou as his Bride: / Ignore the name and thou shall not be unhappy - and you thought anything that stranger had to give you would be better than the squalor of a urine-smelling club's toilet. None­theless, that didn't make the pain less scorching.

Memories cascade before your eyes like domino's tiles.

How you fiercely refused to know his name - to share your name - and the façade of formality you both held the day Kismet obliged you to officially start your acquaintance. How you clashed in the sunlight and how you meld under the moons and stars. How the kisses and the touches grew gentler, more feverish, as they lingered more and more on your skin. How, at the beginning, he would stay barely the time to satisfy his needs and how, at the end, he would pray the Dawn not to come yet.

When did things start to change? When did your crush fade away? When did he come to you in the brightness of the day for the first time? When did the after­math turn so sweet for the first time, as you basked in each other warm, the smell of sweat mingled with leather and forget-me-not? When did you dread for the first time the day of your departure? When did the bliss take on a bitter aftertaste? When did it turn painful? Maybe it was the day you taught to each other your mother tongues - you smile as you remember how amusing was his English and how embarrassing was your Vernolian.

You look at the night sky, the known stars choked by London's lights, as the children laugh and your friends keep on partying and you uselessly try to come back to them. You tried to move on, to forget him - to replace him - yet every new­found lover's hands felt so wrong and your son grew without your rainy-Spring-day grey eyes. You shake your hand to chase away those thoughts as if they were annoying insects.

"Time to go," you say, kneeling before your son and wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"Can we stay a bit longer? Please?" he asks, staring at you with his eyes and you know you cannot deny him - them - anything.

"Alright, you can stay while I get the car."

"Thank you, mum!" he says with a hug and a peck on the cheek and a smile, then he adds: "May I have another coin? For the well?" It's so amusing to hear a nearly-seven-years-old boy speaks in such a proper, flawless manner - he spoke in such a proper, flawless manner.

You roll your eyes as you slip the six-pence into his hands: you know you have to be stricter with him, because he always succeeds to get what he want from you - he al­ways succeeded to get what he wanted from you.

Your car is not too far, just a couple of blocks and then a walk through the play­ground. As you are looking for the keys, someone grasps you: your purse falls on the rubbery soil, spilling its contents, as you are crushed against the jungle gym's climbing wall's back and your hands are held above your head. For a fleeting in­stant, you think you have to kick and run and call for help. For a fleeting instant you are afraid and you wonder why this is happening to you.

And then you are overwhelmed by the familiarity of kiss and touch, by the memories of long gone encounters, the scents - sweat mingled with leather and forget-me-not - and the feeling to be back where you truly belong. You don't want to think about all the formidable things he had to do to open the Magpie Bridge, to be with you, not now and not here - you will have plenty of time to scold him once you'll be back home. Right now, all you want is to lose yourself in the longing, the despair fading into newfound hope, the thrill to be caught, and the foretaste of Love.

As your rainy-Spring-day grey eyes meet at last his, lips brushing lips, he speaks low with his voice flawoured with an unearthly accent and thick with desire, and you know this lovers' reunion is not the delusion of a dream.

"I missed thou, Isolde."

I wish, I wish, I wish... for my mother and father to be together once again.