She lifted and rose translucent, descended fluidly, enclosed like alabaster wings the breath of life itself inspiration the inestimable ether long elusive, denied, ever sought still, the source of life, not water, no, this breath, vision, incidence, is the very source of life giving it form once giving it meaning nothing else was necessary or possible.
        They were thus upon scented silken sheets, in sun, in mottled glades and glens, in moonlight, in the deep caverns, in the waves rumpling the sandy shore, at the laden table, upon pillows scattering the rug, in reading, in singing, in gazing deep into the wells and gardens of each other.
Violet's sister did not sail away until the last.
She should have, but she didn't.
She should have died, but she didn't.
She couldn't understand why she hadn't.
She sometimes thought she had and was mistaken.
She came not able to know if she were mistaken and when.
She was left more alone than anyone should be.
There is no soul without the other 1/2. No tide without ebb and flow, no music without thee and me, no life without the tide, no soul without the flow coursing me and thee; there is no me without thee there is no other.
        "Now," she said entering and the beneficence of her smile enlightened the bowers, and the bounty of her being was generosity which transformed.
        "Now," she said, and they began.
Until Xandria died.
She died.
They said she died of love, that she had never been strong, that she was poisoned, that she fell.
None of these were true.
Xandria died.