Stavanger Bay than a breeze next to this night

somehow erzulie had conceptualized that it was difficult for rosalyn to discuss such matters. she swept forward with a low croon, fitting herself against her beloved's lithe form, drawing kisses across the aloof beauty of the captain's features. yes. now she was free to choose; she was free to leave. in rosalyn's rejoinder all she had wished to hear, that the woman would not seek to bind her wings —
— some hot seed unfurling within the fertile ground of the harlot's barren heart; she swallowed the surprise she felt at the touch of saltwater at the corners of her eyes. "i did not become a whore to fall in love, rosalyn," erzulie murmured in a voice gone broken with some bittersweet sorrow. "i became one to avoid it." and yet here she was, here the pair of them; she gave a sardonic laugh through the rivulets of tears that had by now wet her cheeks. 
"qui n’avance pas, recule," she whispered, clearing her throat and seeking rosalyn's gaze. was she afraid? she did not know. "'what does not move forward, recedes.'" a snippet from the lessons she had been taught by marie. and for the first time, erzulie was unsure of taking another step further. her heart all but ached for rosalyn; the wariness that had been thrust bodily upon her now shone in her two-toned eyes. yet she had no words to loosen her tongue and ask of her lover that she not be hurt again.