Strasbourg, 3 December 1527
She’s in the garden of Herr Weiss’s big house. From behind a column, without being seen, I follow her fine profile, the mass of hair that she wears loose, her slender fingers against the edge of the basin.
A cat goes and rubs against her cloak. Her caresses look like the repeated gestures of a ritual and her murmured words sound like a magic spell: there’s something strange about her movements, casual in a strange and fascinating way.
I come out into the light that is raining down from above, but behind her, so that she can’t see me. As I sidle up beside her, I become aware of the sharp smell of woman, an intoxicating blend of lavender and humours, that crossroads of earth and sky, heaven and hell, that makes you die and resuscitate in an instant. I fill my nostrils and study her from close up.
A cool voice: “Are my monthlies driving you out of your mind, man?”
She turns around, with bright black eyes.
I’m astonished “Your smell…”
“It’s the smell of low things: freshly turned loam, the body’s humours, blood, melancholy.”
I plunge a hand into the icy water of the basin. Her eyes attract mine; her mouth a strange curve in her oval face.
She looks at the cat. “Yes. Have you ever seen the work of Master Dürer?”
“I’ve seen the Imitatio Christi, the cycle on the Apocalypse…”
“But not the melancholy angel. Or you’d know that it’s a woman.”
“It has feminine features. Melancholy is a woman.”
I’m confused, I feel the itch of desire spreading through my body, beneath my clothes. I study her sharp profile. “Would that be you?”
She laughs; shivers run down my spine. “Perhaps. But the woman is in you, too. I’ve known Master Dürer, I posed for him once. He’s a sombre man. Frightened.”
“The end, like everyone else. And what about you, are you frightened?”
It’s a serious, curious question. I think of Frankenhausen. “Yes. But I’m still alive.”
Her eyes laugh, as though she’d been waiting for that answer for years.
“Have you seen blood flow?”
She nods gravely. “Men are scared of blood, that’s why they make war, they’re trying to erase its terror. Women aren’t, they see their own blood flow every time the moon changes.”
We stay silent, looking at each other, as though her words had imposed a silence with their sacred wisdom.
Then, “You’re Ursula Jost.”
“Which would make you Lienhard Jost?”
The same silence, sealing an alliance of fugitives. Her eyes scan the details of my face. Her hand slips under her cloak, then on to my wrist, where an old scar is etched: her finger runs along it, marking it with the red of her blood.
I feel myself turning pale, a wave of cold sweat spreads beneath my shirt, along with the sudden desire to touch her.
“Yes. My husband.”
lol you dont get THAT kinda romance in movies XD *raises eyebrows at jenius Deidra* jenius romance? XP