[A folded note left for Lynneth at the College.]

[Astra]

Lynneth,

Of late I find myself thinking about what could be, and what could have been. About watching the stars with you. About a quiet chat over coffee. I realized, reading your poem, that Mae had not entered these dreams at all. She has not for some time.

Virtue is something that resides in the heart, even if it is not acted upon. I could have been able to ignore it, the passing looks you give me, the gentle touches and the kind words. But now all that I remember is my shame; all that I see reflected in your longing glances is my own failure.

Even then, do I love you? If I do, it is something shameful. It is something wrong. How can I answer that to myself, much less give you the answer you deserve?

Yet it burns that I cannot, should not, must not say the words. Even more, it burns to think of Mae and know that I would be betraying her, the woman who has sacrificed so much for me to walk my own way.

Often, we find ourselves succeeding in part and failing in part, and here is the clearest example of that. I have succeeded in ending my desire for Mae. But I have failed utterly in ending my desire.

Unless the world changes, this can never be. But please, do not shun me. Please do not hate me. We are comrades of the Cinquefoil Rose. These feelings will pass in the fullness of time.

The note is unsigned.