The poet amused him. The men called him Jehan, and as far as Florian could tell, it was his first name. The others went by surnames, but everyone called the poet Jehan.

He wrote nice poetry, Florian thought, draping himself over a chair to watch. Rather silly poetry about spring and love and dreams that couldn't come true, but far better than the nuisances who tried to write what Florian had done into ballads.

Jehan looked up at him at last, lifting his quill off the parchment. "Enjolras?"

"What are you writing?"

"A story-poem, about a girl who falls in love with an angel who was thrown out of heaven."

"Dear Lord." He smiled to himself, closing his eyes, and said softly, "I must do that some day. I'd fancy a pair of wings."

"Enjolras?" Jehan asked again.

"It's nothing. But you must let me see your poem when you're finished."

"Of course."

Florian took his legends from the air and the land. He used the things he saw and heard, and he had never yet turned down a chance to play with something new and perhaps turn it into a masterpiece.

He was awaiting the poet's work with pleasure.

Chapter Three.
Back to Chapter One.