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Oh--

[Oh, well, hello, that's her caught, isn't it? Rosalind smiles despite herself, more preoccupied with his hands than the prospect of any fantastical creatures. It's not the first time he's caught her like this, of course. It isn't even the first time he'd caught her like this here. But it's only been two weeks, and she's still reeling over the fact he's here at all.

She relaxes against him, her head tipping back.]

I'm not precisely certain where the proper ones live-- I've heard stories pinpointing them to the mountains, but I'd rather a bit more reconnaissance work before we simply leap there.

But I do know for a fact there's miniature ones to be found on the beaches.

A real beach, Rosie. Not just Battleship Bay —

[Ugh. It seems almost a crime to invoke Columbia and its sights by name somehow, as if voicing the name makes them that much more real in a place where he'd like nothing more than to let them fade into obscurity.

But still, the prospect is exciting. A real beach — a real ocean. Battleship Bay had been as much of a man-crafted farce as the rest of Columbia, and really that just makes the promise of the real thing all the more delicious.]

We could make a day of it — at least an afternoon, certainly...

We could, couldn't we . . .

[They've never done that before. Oh, once they'd gone down to Battleship Bay, if only to say they had, but Madam Lutece could never be seen in something so frivolous as a bathing costume. Eating ice cream and walking around the docks had been risky enough, and even that they'd done quickly. There was no question of dancing, nor staying til dusk just to watch the sunset. They'd come and gone quickly, ignoring all the usual pleasures a beach might bring because they'd had to.

But here . . .]

We could go swimming. All those lessons at Girton would finally pay off.

Or you know, loath as I am to volunteer for any more rowing...

[He's thinking of the same things, of course — the breathtaking freedom they've been afforded here, all the things they used to do with none of the strict decorum attached, all the things they'd longed to do and never could because the risk was far too great.

Window-shopping along the boardwalk. Sharing an ice cream. Holding hands. Dancing.

God, they could dance. They can do anything they please...]

Perhaps we might find a little boat, just the two of us...

So long as you don't complain.

[Rosalind twists in his arms, facing him properly, so he can see the way she's beaming.]

But I hardly see why we have to choose. We can go rowing, and then swimming. We can build ourselves a bonfire and take our evening meal on the beach, and watch as the sun sets and the stars appear. And when we tire of it all, we'll simply return home.

...We're really free of it.

[It's almost breathless, the way he says it — like if he says it too loud, something will shatter.]

Columbia. Comstock. Dewitt. All of it — it's over. It's just us.

[He holds her tighter, an infectious sort of smile starting to pull at his mouth without him even realizing it.]

We're finally — it's finally just us...

Yes.

[It's not as if she hasn't known that for five months. It's not as if she hasn't already tested out her newfound freedom in a hundred different ways. But it's so different with Robert here, because he represents the biggest and best freedom of them all.]

There's nothing we can't do here, darling.

[She cups his cheek, pressing her lips together to try and keep her own smile under control.]

My darling. I could call you that in the midst of a crowd here and no one would care. I could kiss you there.

You may well have to, now that you've said that.

[He leans into it fondly, starting to sway the two of them back and forth in an almost instinctive dance, just from the sheer merriment of it all.]

For science and all, you know.

Is that right?

[Her hand slides down, both her arms wrapping around his neck as they sway.]

State it correctly, then, if we're doing it for science. Our hypothesis is . . .?

Twofold. First: the location in which a kiss is shared bears no correlation to the potential social ramifications, if any, of that kiss.

[And around they go in an easy circle, spinning across the bedroom floor.]

And second: a kiss shared in present circumstances is measurably and demonstrably more satisfying than ones shared historically in Columbia.

The next step is experimentation, of course.

[She hesitates for just half a second, and then adds:]

Well? Shall we? There's no time like the present, and I should so like to come to a favorable conclusion before the end of the day.

One moment, before we do.

[Because "shall we" isn't even a question, is it — not when the delicious question is when shall we, rather.]

Valentine's Day. You have something in mind for it already, don't you?

. . . a few ideas.

[A beat. She pulls her arms back, though she doesn't try and squirm out of Robert's grip.]

Most of them simply celebrate the fact that-- well. You're here. [She lets that linger for a second, then adds quickly:] And we're in a place where we can enjoy being in public without repercussions.

Tell me. I know it's on your mind, you've mentioned it more than a few times now in passing.

[And because they'll do everything, of course, but she wouldn't be singling this out in particular if it weren't destined to be special in some unique capacity. That's what he needs to know, all told. He needs to know how to make that rare dream of hers a reality.]

Don't leave it to me just to guess, or I'll end up going off and plagiarizing Marlowe or somesuch again.

[That earns a quiet laugh. Rosalind glances away, though, her fingers curling anxiously in his shirt.]

. . . I--

[It's so stupid, is the thing. It's such a silly little fantasy, more befitting a teenager than a grown woman. It isn't as if she thinks Robert is going to laugh; god knows he's the one usually more inclined to these kinds of things. But perhaps that's why she's so hesitant to say it: this isn't her role, but his.]

I want to indulge in, in all the things normal couples get to. In public, I mean, I want--

[Hrgh.]

There's so much we're allowed to do now, Robert. Everything we once had to pass on, picnics and-- and walks on the beach and kissing and dancing, it's all ours for the taking. That's what I want. I want us to be able to celebrate our first Valentine's day in public. Dinner and dancing and-- and all the romantic trappings therein. I want to eat in public, and walk down the street under your arm, and kiss you at the end of the night, and not once be treated as if we were anything but ordinary.

...You want me to woo you.

[As it turns out, he actually does laugh, but it's not mean-spirited in the slightest. Quite the contrary, it's one of those erratic, breathless, surprised sorts of laughs that come out when one tries to fill a space without quite knowing how, when recognition bubbles up and tickles from the inside out, and giddiness escapes in little bursts like soap bubbles making rainbows in the sun.]

Start to finish — the whole ticket? A real, proper bout of courting you. Pick you up at the door, fumble the flowers I've brought you in my nervousness, babble something about how fine you look and cross two sentences together in my haste? Dinner, dancing, not wanting to say goodnight, making excuses to stretch out the night a little too long, keeping you out in the open air in a dress with no shoulders just to gallantly come to your rescue with my suit coat...

The first time that we've never yet had. That's what you'd like?

. . . yes.

[All of it. All the things they'd dreamed about when they were seventeen, all the gestures and words and acts they'd had to find in others. She'd had Henry and he'd had Victoria, and oh, they were all right, but there wasn't a year where the Luteces hadn't wished there was someone else in their suitor's place.

Even once they were united, it wasn't like that. Their first Valentine's day in person had been an exercise in terror, really. They'd celebrated, yes, but only within the confines of their home. Only once they'd both gone around to make sure all the curtains were firmly closed and the door locked, and even then, Rosalind had been absolutely certain someone was going to find them out. She'd been shaking as Robert tugged her up to dance, outright shivering in his arms, so utterly terrified that her happiness was about to be snatched away from her.

But here . . . here, they can do what they'd like. And god, but doesn't he paint a pretty picture? All the romance, all the awkwardness, all the fumbling gestures and little glances, the flowers and sweet words and badly disguised eagerness . . . yes. That's precisely what she wants.]

Please.

...Well, now I'm anxious. Botch this too badly and you might just realize you could land a far better catch than me after all.

[But he's grinning at her, bound and determined to draw a laugh out of her as well, as he whirls her in a circle one last time.]

Will you have any pity at all for me, should I flub it miserably?

Oh, honestly--

[It isn't a laugh, but she does bite her lip to suppress a smile, so well done Robert.]

I suppose it depends, doesn't it? I'll treat you just the same as any suitor of mine, so at least be assured you're being held to a fair standard. But pity will be entirely contingent on how precisely you err, if indeed you do.

Darling, didn't you all but eat alive all your other suitors? I'm not so sure how well I'll fare, by that standard...

[EAT SHIT HENRY]

I most certainly did not. Simply because they failed to meet the most basic standards is hardly my fault, is it?

[Eat shit, Henry.]

You shan't think a good evening consists of a glass of wine, a my, don't you look pretty, my girl, and a quick trip back to one's dormitory, now will you?

Dearest, you can't very well ask me that, when I'm already biased. Any evening that I get to call you my girl is a good evening, as far as I'm concerned.

[He says, lifting her up into his arms for another twirl this time.]

Who did that? Was it Henry? It sounds like Henry. Charles would've said "milady" or something equally merriment-killing.

[Well okay no, there's no responding right away, not when he's twirling her. Rosalind finally laughs, first content to simply move as he directs her, and then pressing up close when he sets her down.]

Of course it was Henry. Charles had an aneurysm when I implied I might like something more than a chaste kiss on the cheek.

[Her smile doesn't falter. But there's a moment, there and gone, where a flash of false memory slips to the front of her mind. Charles never liked to kiss me in public, ten years worth of false memories and assumed hallucinations inform her. He preferred chastity in public, and modesty; he was always harping on about virtues . . .

No. No, he wasn't, because that wasn't real. Rosalind blinks, dismissing the thought, and adds:]

Ah-- Henry, on the other hand, was gung-ho from the first outing. Which was rather flattering, I suppose.

Charles's brave self-denial is as admirable as it is stupid.

[He says as he sets her down, freeing up one of his hands to catch her chin and hold it in place while he ducks in to kiss her thoroughly.

Eat shit, Charles, and eat shit, virtues, too.]

And I feel certain I can more than outperform Henry — in quite a few aspects of the endeavor, come to think of it.

[She rises to her toes, leaning forward to try and catch his mouth for a second the instant he pulls away. That kind of kiss isn't allowed to be limited to one. But oh, he's speaking, and Rosalind lingers close by, pleased at the way she can feel his breath against her mouth.]

There's little use in trying to sway me. You're going to have to prove it, Robert.

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