My Lord, your servants have turned against those you love. They say cruel and mean words. Do you not hear them?
My Lady, I hear the wind howling through the trees.
Surely, my Lord, you have not missed their strident tongues lashing those whom they deem offensive?
Ah my lady, it is indeed a wild wind that bears much malice.
So, my Lord, would you not speak to them so that their words of cursing which cut and stab will cease?
Yes, my lady, I would speak but the wind has no ears to hear and though, it claims me as its master it will not follow but goes its wild and destructive way.
Come, my lady. My cottage is near. The candles are lit and the fire burns warm.
Come, rest your sore heart in my love and let the wind rage till the morrow comes.
By Stephanie Nolte