A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,3
crossed behind their heads, and their knees were bent in order to brace themselves better against the hillside, just the way they had been accustomed to lying there during every full moon for at least one night of every pleasant month this past year or more.
During that time Marguerite had been taught the names of all the constellations and had learned much about her father as well, for Geoffrey Balfour had spoken freely during these intimate interludes in the dark, sharing much of his unique philosophy of life with his only child now that she had reached the ripe age of ten.
“Papa?”
“Hush, kitten, I’m thinking about your question. If there truly is a man in the moon, and you can see his face, wherever does the gentleman keep his body? Ah, but Marguerite, dearest child—why do you suppose he even possesses a body? Are the grand doings of the moon and the stars to be measured by the paltry yardstick of the earthbound?”
“But, Papa, it is only to be expected. If the man in the moon has a head, he has to have a body.”
“Is that so? Only consider this, kitten, on a more worldly level: because a man possesses a purse, does that mean he must necessarily have money? Possibly. But not necessarily. In short, Marguerite, do not presuppose everything or even everyone in this universe is as you expect from your own experience. Look at each creature you meet, every situation that presents itself to you, and see its individuality, its variables, its strengths, and even its weaknesses.”
“Very well, Papa, if you want to be stuffy. I shall do as ordered.” Marguerite scrambled onto her knees to beam down at her papa. “I see before me now the most handsome, the most wonderful, the most kind and positively brilliant gentleman on this entire earth, in this entire universe.” And then she frowned in sudden confusion. “What don’t I see, Papa?”
Geoffrey Balfour smiled up at his daughter. The smile was somehow sad, and tugged at her heart. “Now you’re beginning to understand. You see only that which I deign to show you. Like the man in the moon, kitten, I might keep very disparate parts of myself hidden. Or possibly I do not possess any other parts and am as shallow as our Chertsey streams in the midst of a blistering summer. But, no. I’ll answer your question. I’ll tell you what you don’t see, so that you learn nothing is as it seems. You don’t see inside my very pretty, yet also very empty purse, Marguerite—that object I spoke of a moment ago. You don’t see my flaws, my laziness, my failures. Neither, Lord bless her, does your dearest mama. Your grandfather—ah, well, he tolerates me, doesn’t he? But, then, I am always a scintillating conversationalist at table, and I don’t pick at my teeth with my dinner knife. In short, I do my best to please. So you see, kitten, if you look carefully, look deeply, you will find the goodness and the flaws as well. When you love you can overlook the flaws, but when you have need, you can use those same shortcomings to your own advantage. Perhaps that’s why the man in the moon hides most of himself from view. To protect himself. God knows we all have something to hide.”
Marguerite lowered herself to the ground once more, again taking up the position of stargazer. Her papa had shared something important and intensely personal with her, and she felt she had to return the favor. “I have a most terrible temper, Papa,” she said as the silence between them grew to be uncomfortable, the first such interlude Marguerite could remember. “But I take especial care to hide it very well.”
“So you have, kitten, and so you did—until this moment,” her father pointed out. “Not that I was ever unaware of that particular failing. Remember, I have known you forever, and it’s difficult for a small child to hide her temper, especially when she is shrieking and kicking and launching her toys at her loving papa’s head. But you’ve learned to control your ferocity these past years, for which, might I add, your mama and I are endlessly grateful, even if we know that terrible force could be roused if the right pressures were applied. Loving you, we don’t employ those pressures. But an enemy, someone who wished you ill or was searching for a way to best you—”