“You got into Queen’s?” he scoffed, referring to the Academy in Charlottetown where those with a vocation in mind chose to pursue them. Anne had not only gotten accepted, but gained the highest marks out of all the applicants in Prince Edward Island.

(She was tied with Gilbert though she often, and with much convenience, forgot that fact)

Billy, the thick-headed oaf, elected to ignore this certitude. He had nothing of import or quality to say for Queen’s Academy, having not applied (and in his innermost musings, known that he was not smart enough to be accepted anyway), and therefore inwardly envied and outwardly ridiculed those who had passed.

Anne, through no provocation of hers, nevertheless received his special brand of scorn.

“You may have fooled the Cuthberts, and our classmates. You may have even fooled this entire island. But you’ll never fool me. I know who you are,” he said this in low tones, and lower still as he crept closer and whispered in her ear like she were his lover murmuring sweet nothings to warm her heart, “the Cuthberts didn’t want you in the first place. They were stuck with you, there was no one else. You may have gotten lucky with them, but you ought not to forget who you are and where your place is.” He grinned then, blinding and malicious. “I feel sorry for the Cuthberts. If I were them, I’d have treated my dog better than you. You’re lower than dirt. You’re an orphan, and who could ever truly want you?”

How she burned and burned, the nerve of this insolent and ill-mannered fool! And yet—she meant to say this out loud, make the most of her extensive vocabulary but, her body betrayed her. Her throat felt parched and her feet leaden. Where had her voice gone? The words that were otherwise ready for her to wield as weapons or shape as clay? Where was her indignation?

Her spirit?

Just as quickly, heat melted to cold, noise gave way to a ringing silence and she felt herself rooted to her spot, Billy’s awful, smug smirk frozen before her eyes until—

“ANDREWS!”

Gilbert’s voice pierced through the static that clouded her mind and Billy’s ugly visage was, at last, removed from her line of vision as he turned towards their schoolmate. Anne did not wait to see what would commence between the two boys, however. As soon as the feeling returned to her legs, she imagined she walked out of there with the poise and dignity befitting a nobility such as the Princess Cordelia.

(Bolted, would have been closer to reality)

With nothing but moonshine for light and the faint rustling of the poplar trees for conversation, Anne was her own company. She thought for sure Diana would have come to her side by now, but she supposed that no one had really seen her leave. Billy, for once, hadn’t made a spectacle of himself though somehow this was worse, for she shuddered at the intimate way he had pressed himself onto her as he purred his contempt.

She did not even deign to consider that one witness to that deplorable interaction and what it meant that he had not followed her so for the moment...

She was utterly alone.

Evenings were a curious thing. There was, after all, something quite romantical about the night—lovers meeting in secret to proclaim their forbidden romance, friends exchanging hushed yet excitable stories beneath blankets by candlelight, oh the adventures to be had under the dusky twilight!

But, it was not called the witching hour for nothing. Terrible things happened once the moon had come to siege the sky for every sin, if only for a moment, could be hidden beneath the cover of darkness—ghosts and wolves and brigands and villains abound, and demons too.

Anne’s demons were not of the horned and pointy-tailed kind. Though they too were born of baneful things, they were mostly made of shadows, wispy and seductive intimations that brushed softly against her mind, lulling and comforting and infinite, till it was a pervasive tumor that lay siege to her sense of reason before she ever realized it was a threat.

She looked at the mud tainting her legs, at the stark contrast between muck and cloth, and thought about how she was much like her stockings.

I am a stain. All I’ve ever given Marilla and Matthew and even Jerry since I got here was grief. And Diana... I dread to think how many times I’ve gotten my bosom friend in trouble! As for Cole, the only reason he is still my friend is because he’s miles away in Charlottetown and therefore spared from my importunate nature. Not to mention, I almost drove Miss Stacy to quit her first year here. I’m nothing but trouble! Though I have no love for it, it must love me, for why else would it follow me wherever I tread?

Anne sniffed, shame filling her gut as she fought back tears. I’m just a stupid, orphan girl. There’s no imagining my way around that. No one could ever want me. No one.

So immersed was she in her melancholy that she hadn’t noticed someone was calling her name till a hand descended on her shoulder.

She shrieked (a shrill, embarrassing, banshee of a sound), closing her eyes even as she whirled around to face her assailant.

“Whoa!” exclaimed a deep and resonant voice.

“Whatever riches you may think I possess I assure you sir I am as poor as the dirt beneath your feet, poorer even, than a cow that grazes a pasture for I am utterly incapable of producing anything of value and I—”

“Anne!”

She hadn’t realized she was without breath till she let out a long and heavy exhale. It occurred to her, then, that the tenor by which her name was said was uncannily familiar, the scent of her would-be attacker was that of sun and grass and clean sweat and deeper still, an aura redolent of quiet, fortitude and refuge.

She opened her eyes and breathed.

“Gilbert.”

“Anne,” he chimed in equally, susurrous tones. When she let out another astonished gasp, the air before her crystallized in an algid cloud.

“Where’s your coat?”

She groaned. Of course! Of course, she forgot her coat and bonnet when she left in a huff. Why, walking out may be as dramatic an act as they came, but the books failed to mention just how inconvenient it was! How had the heroines in her favorite literatures managed their adversities with so much courage and grace? And such humor too! While she must have her exposé out in the cold, with (at this, she is gratified) no audience in sight (and at this, she is mortified) save for one, as she cowers and quakes in her boots?

The ardor that fueled the ire in her blood had by now dissipated, leaving an icy and hollow blitz in her veins. Humiliated to her core, she demanded of him, in squeaky volumes, “What are you doing here?”

So she cleared her throat and asked, more stately, again.

Gilbert shook his head. He did not answer. Instead, he looked at her with wide eyes—silver pupils darting back and forth, as if he couldn’t take in the image of her enough. She felt the fleshy, apple of her cheeks flush, a bit of heat returning to her body though a shiver continued to wrack her bones.

“You’re freezing,” he blurted, before an urgent concern (that made Anne rather uncomfortable, as she was wont to be whenever she found herself in Gilbert’s presence—alone or elseways) driving his motions had him divesting his own coat and, without evocation, wrapping it around her frame.

Encased as she was in his jacket and engulfed in the warmth from his body that had suffused itself onto the cloth, the sweet and opulent smell of him further intensified.

(As did the beat of her heart)

(Though this, if asked about, she would vehemently deny to her grave)

“I don’t need your pity,” she averred in what she hoped was a cold and unforgiving demeanor, even as her hold on the coat about her shoulders only tightened.

“It’s not—”

“Isn’t it?”

He sighed, his face scrunched up in exasperation and though a part of her felt abashed at her behavior, a larger part was content to drown in thorough defeat.

“We’re friends, aren’t we Anne?”

She licked her lips, something of a nervous habit. His eyes darted to track the movement and his throat bobbed. She felt her blush deepen.

“Are we?” She whispered.

He laughed though it was more tight than it was humorous.

“Must you always answer my questions with questions?”

She glared at him in the universal expression of, you’re asking for it.

He chuckled in genuine good-nature this time and she felt her irritation abate as she joined him. But their mirth abated all too soon and Gilbert was once more looking at her through hooded eyes that did nothing to lessen their intensity.

“I don’t know what Billy told you that made you react this way, but nothing good ever came out of his foul mouth anyway so, whatever it is he said—don’t believe it,” he shook his head. “It’s not true.”

At once, where she was bereft, the animosity welled within her at the reminder. The wrath that had been absent when she stood before Billy Andrews was now within her grasp and expelled itself onto the nearest presence—Gilbert.

She shoved him. It was a commiserable attempt since he hardly moved, but he let her anyway and she felt a little of her dauntless energy return.

“You can’t say that. You don’t know!”

“Then help me know,” he pleaded.

“I can’t,” she exclaimed, an unwanted sob building in her throat. “It’s too gruesome.”

“Then at least tell me that you don’t believe it,” he took her hand in his with utmost care, his palm coarse with calluses born from a life tending to a farm, his fingertips of ice. And yet, she had never felt so delicate, her hand cradled within his. “Tell me you know he’s wrong.”

“That’s the worse part,” she whispered as she pulled her hand away. “He’s absolutely right.”

A frightful silence had descended upon them. Even the wind had died and the poplar trees halted their rustling, as if Mother Nature herself wanted to be privy to their conversation.

“You can’t mean that, you don’t know what you’re saying—”

“And you do?” she sighed, running a hand—that same, still-tingling hand that Gilbert held what seemed like only a heartbeat ago—over her face.

He groaned. “Not this again.”

She scowled at him. “What do you care anyway? Why are you here? What I do or what I talk about with other people, worthless they may be, is none of your business.”

“And if I want to make it my business?” he countered, the muscle in his jaw ticking from restrained frustration.

She frowned. “What do you mean, Gilbert?”

“Tell me what Andrews said and I can prove to you, I can guarantee, that it’s not true.”

“But it is!”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes. It is! ”

They bickered in this fashion as if they were six instead of approaching sixteen. She insisted on her truth (or rather, Billy’s truth), though she hadn’t the faintest idea why. Is this not what she craved? Is this not the assurance and acceptance she sought her whole life? But still, she found herself scoffing.

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about!”

He rolled his eyes and in snide intonations, rebutted, “Because you won’t tell me!”

“FINE!” she relented and snarled, nay, practically spat the words at him.

“I’m an orphan! Is that what you wanted to hear? Maybe my parents loved me, once upon a time, but apparently not enough to live for me.” Her voice was guttural, her words laced with so much acrimony, it was unrecognizable to her. “I’m a burden to Matthew and Marilla, who wanted a boy in the first place and instead was saddled with me. I bring misfortune on anyone I touch. I’m nothing but a curse. No one could ever want me.”

There. She said it. And again, that insidious reticence, how she was beginning to abhor it. She closed her eyes, unsure of which she was dreading more: his resignation or condescension.

As it stood, she had neither to fear, for what she received was far worse.

He laughed. Laughed!

“How dare you, Gilbert Blythe!” She fumed. She punched him on the shoulder, though his chortles only grew in volume. She made to cuff him again, but he caught her fist in his and pulled her closer—closer than either of them had ever emboldened to be.

No one was laughing now.

“You are an idiot, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert,” he murmured, his whisper a hot hiss of breath against her cold and beggared lips. She had never been more aware of the weight of her hand in his, she had never been more aware of him. “A downright fool.”

She was mindful that she should have been peeved by this imputation, her common sense screaming at her to react and do so with equal and voracious impudence.

If only the rest of her faculties got the message.

For though his words were intended to wound, the effect was rather lost in translation. Not when there was an undercurrent of awe in his inflection, not when he said ‘idiot’ and ‘fool’ as if that was not what he meant at all; like they were terms of endearment rather than grave offenses.

As if Gilbert had his own personal meaning just for her, and it was the very opposite of its conventional connotations.

“Am I?” She returned in watery tones for she trembled under the weight of all that implied.

He smiled and it was slight in breadth but tremendous in affection. He stepped closer till she had to crane her neck just to be able to take all of him in, her face tilted towards the moonlight. He stopped his beaming then, for a silvery stream had caught his eye.

She hadn’t realized she was crying till he brushed away a droplet.

“I guarantee you,” he repeated, his eyes fervent and bright, “no one could have ever provided you a better home than the Cuthberts. And Diana—she’s positively radiant around you and she was never that way until you came along. Cole found the courage to be who he truly is and you helped him achieve that. And it was you who orchestrated the plan to keep Miss Stacy in school and believe me, she has never regretted the experience for a single moment. This whole island is alive because of you, you emit a gravity of your own and anyone who meets you can’t help but fall into your orbit. If that’s not enough to convince you…”

That same rough hand, from which he never relinquished her violent fist, now urged her to bloom her fingers so that he might place it on his chest. There she rested them and there he cupped her fingers, with a lambency that made her ache for she didn’t expect such a touch from one who lived most of his life as a laborer.

There she felt his heartbeat, strong and certain and—and racing.

How could it thud so hard and so fast when they hadn’t been running or walking since they began? Astonishment etched itself across her features.

“How—?”

“Do you really need me to spell it out for you?”

“For old time’s sake,” she strived to banter, afraid to reveal herself.

(Afraid to acknowledge the truth)

“How did you figure that no one could ever want you? I’m right here,” he avowed. “I’m here, and I want you. So much.” He shook his head and released a laugh that was riddled with disbelief. “I can’t even begin to explain just how so. I want you, plain as that. I wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you and I want you now and I’m—” he gulped. “I’m quite certain I’ll want you for as long as I live.”

She gaped, the flow of her tears halted from her stupor at such an exaltation. All this unbeknownst to Gilbert, her countenance spurred him to quip with a, “Well, Miss Shirley-Cuthbert, what say you about that?”

His lips stretched into a timid smile that betrayed his timorousness all the same.

“I’m at a loss for words,” she admitted freely. At that, his smile dimmed but did not diminish altogether.

He did, however, let her go.

(She hadn’t realized how much of him had seeped into her skin when at once, he stepped back, taking all the heat with him and leaving a resounding void in her chest)

“May I walk you home?”

And just like that, the conversation was dropped.

Anne, who was more confused leaving this exchange than she was when she entered it, acquiesced to this simple request for lack of a better reaction.

The true gentleman that he is, Gilbert indeed accompanied her the entire trek to Green Gables. Bubbles of conversation drifted between them before fizzling out due to the vapidity of their topics. It was only when they reached her porch did he speak to her with a solemnity that matched their earlier situation.

They stood facing each other, the space between them so corpulent it was its own presence. The camaraderie they had built (and sincerely enjoyed) in those final years at school seemed to have evaporated till their very atmosphere felt too hostile to breathe—they were that edgy. Still, he must have wanted to reclaim a bit of ease with a manoeuvre reminiscent of their first meeting.

He tugged on one of her braids.

But the stark difference between then and now was the intent for there was nothing teasing about his touch. There was no mistaking the feeling in his caress when it was so careful.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

It was devotion.

She licked her lips and again, the muscle in his jaw strained as he clenched it.

“Um,” she stuttered. Answer? Answer? She wasn’t ready to answer. Nor did she think she ever would be ready to answer!

“Relax,” He laughed, no doubt reading the panic that pulled her face taut. He smirked.

“We are friends,” he said, a bit of anxiety leaking into his tone. “Right?”

She blew a relieved breath though she shouldn’t have been, the uncertainty in his voice consoled her all the same. In this, she could unfailingly put her faith. She nodded with the eagerness of a pupil first in her class.

“Always.”

At her affirmation, he gave her hair one last, fond tug and replied quietly, “Good,” before arranging it away from her face and tucking it behind her ear.

“Anyway…”

She felt her breath catch in her throat.

“Anyway,” she returned in an equally hushed voice.

His parting smile was a shot of radiance in the gloom. She returned it with a crooked one of her own, praying it concealed the jumble of her emotions. His smile… it—did things, to her insides. Strange things. Things that made her sick at the image of him walking away from her.

Things that made her want to stop him leaving.

“Gilbert!”

He whirled at the sound of her voice, hope a living flame on his countenance. She floundered.

“I… you…” her hand clenched around the jacket engulfing her frame, and she remembered. “Your coat!”

She moved to take it off but Gilbert stopped her.

“Keep it.”

“But won’t you be cold?”

He shook his head. “I’ll be fine.” he said. “Take care of yourself, Carrots.”

She pursed her lips. Where once the nickname would have incensed her, now it filled her with a breathless sort of glee, like a language only the two of them shared because they were the only ones in the world who understood it.

“I guess… I’ll be seeing you around?”

Why was she stalling?

“So much, it’ll be impossible to miss me,” he teased with a roguish smile.

She chuckled.

He was approaching the gate when she called to him once more, “Goodnight!”

He turned, walking backwards as he tipped his newsboy hat towards her and bowed. “And to you, Miss Shirley-Cuthbert!”

And though he couldn’t see, she bit her lip, trying with all her might to hide her grin.

Watching him leave, she found her ebullience ebbing. Something felt different within her... had her soul shifted somehow? She did not feel like she had been halved nor did she feel any less of herself. If anything, she felt bigger. She felt more. Like her essence had expanded, only to carve a mold shaped suspiciously to Gilbert’s silhouette. She felt forever changed, it was incomprehensible to her that he didn’t feel the same way. And yet—

How could it be so easy for him to walk away?

His frame was swallowed by the darkness before he disappeared altogether, the echoes of their confabulation fading with him until she was all alone.

And it was as if it never happened at all.

Sun chased moon and dusk gave way to dawn. Recounting the occurrence to Diana and Cole (who was visiting from Charlottetown for the weekend to celebrate the start of summer with his childhood chums) betwixt the orange orchard that bordered the Barrys’ property, the sun warm and effulgent on their skin, she deemed her revelation from the night before as ridiculous.

“Right?” she questioned the two, expecting their full agreement. “I was being ridiculous!”

“I suppose that’s one word for it,” Diana muttered.

“I’m sorry,” exclaimed Cole, not sounding apologetic at all, “But I’m still hung up on the part where Gilbert proposed to you.”

Anne was certain she blushed to the roots of her flaming hair.

“He did not!”

“You’re right,” he acceded and she felt it safe for her mind to enter a state of palliation when he followed with a biting, “you are an idiot.”

“Technically, Gilbert said that.” Diana smirked as she spoke. Anne turned to her with a glare.

“And what is your opinion on this, oh bosom friend o’mine?”

She demurred but Anne persisted with a whinge in her voice.

Diana was perfectly aware what Anne wanted her to say, which is why it hurt her to divulge her true opinion. It seemed her friend was in dire need of a wake up call—not that she would be the one to give it.

So she skirted for an answer.

“Well, ‘as long as I live’ seems an awful long commitment…”

Apparently she hadn’t skirted well enough for Anne bellowed with a disparaging, “Diana!”

She cringed. “But—”

Anne groaned. “No! I think I’ve had enough of this conversation.”

Diana bit her lip, looking rather miserable. “I’m sorry, Anne.”

“Don’t be!” Cole reproached her. “Tell her.”

“Whatever it is, I won’t hear it!”

Anne, in a fit of childish tantrum, put her hands over her ears. It prompted Cole to roll his eyes and march over to where she was seated, buried amongst the roots of a tree so that he could unhand her. He locked eyes with Diana and raised his eyebrows. He tipped his chin towards Anne, who was glaring viciously at him.

“She needs to hear it.”

Anne turned her head away, but it didn’t stop her from hearing what Diana made known.

“I saw you leave last night,” she started. “I was going to follow you, but then Gilbert punched Billy! And apparently, it wasn’t the first time for no one stopped him. Personally, I think Billy has the kind of face that’s just asking to be punched so truly, who could blame Gilbert?”

“Diana,” Cole chided, though his mouth twitched in barely suppressed laughter.

“Well, Gilbert didn’t wait for Billy to get up, he just dashed for the door and that’s where he bumped into me. He asked me if I saw you come out that way and I said yes. I told him I was just about to run after you but, he stopped me.

“‘I’ll go after her,’ he said. ‘There are… words I must say and I can no longer conceal myself.’”

Diana and Cole expected Anne to react in an explosive manner, or, at the very least, say something. When she did nothing but give them both a blank stare, Cole gave Diana an encouraging nod.

“There’s something else, Anne.”

“Oh, what is it now?” she wailed.

Diana shook her head. “It’s not about you. It’s… I’m—”

Her troubles forgotten, Anne jumped to her feet and was at Diana’s side in a blink.

“Are you all right?”

Tears sprung into her eyes and Anne’s alarm grew. “Diana?”

She shook her head.

“I couldn’t be better. I’m, well,” she took a deep breath.

“I’m engaged!”

Anne stared.

Diana deflated. “Oh, don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what,” she said, crossing her arms in defense.

“Like I’m a different person. Like everything's about to change.”

“Everything is about to change!”

Diana looked away.

“When was this?”

She paused, as if unsure whether she should answer.

“Last week.”

“Last week,” Anne repeated, rolling the words around her brain till it clicked. “Last week!”

Diana nodded haplessly. Anne turned to Cole and pointed at him an accusing finger. “You knew!”

“To be fair, she only told me today, as we both made our way here.”

Anne furrowed her brows and rubbed at her forehead. An ache was forming at her right temple.

“But… but we’re only sixteen.”

“Prissy was sixteen when she first walked down the aisle.”

“Look how well that turned out,” she rebutted in a tone heavy with sarcasm. “And what have your parents to say about this? I don’t need a wide ‘scope of imagination’ to figure that Jerry is hardly their first choice for you!”

Diana flinched.

“They… don’t know. I haven’t exactly told them.”

“Oh Lord,” Anne muttered. She was beginning to sound a lot like Marilla, and was just now understanding the spectrum of emotions she herself put the female Cuthbert through on a daily basis.

“When will you tell them?” Cole asked in a more gentle manner.

“If you tell them!” she called out. "Diana, this is Jerry. He’s a dear friend but—"

“Stop it, Anne!” Cole bursted before he shot her a glare. “For someone who prides herself on her tolerance, you sure have a narrow perspective on this. If you would listen to her, you would see that she’s in love.”

“What do you know about love? What do any of us know of love?” she shot back.

Cole sighed in frustration. “You and I may be limited in experience but you would have to be blind not to see it in Diana. And perhaps you are, if you go on in this fashion! Are you so lost in your flight of fancies that you’ve turned your head around on what it means to love? Just look at her, Anne.”

She frowned but for once, Anne forced the words that piled itself into her mouth, down her throat. She turned still wary eyes to her oldest friend and observed her with the kind of open mind she beseeched upon the world, and saw her, truly saw her, anew.

Despite her pallor, she stood straight, her shoulders back in a way that would make her mother proud save for her chin, jutted out in defiance. She had never looked taller. Her eyes held a certain shine—as though nothing, not even the threat of her parents or the prospect of leaving Jerry behind to go to finishing school in Paris, could ever banish their light.

“I know he’s not the Ideal Man we promised ourselves we would find in our youth, nor is his proposal the grand advent that we dreamed of nor is our love the epic we longed to command, but Anne, I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like a silly, lovestruck fool. He’s so much better, he’s so much more…”

(She felt more. Was this not a thought she conjured to herself last night?)

Diana trailed off, evidently lost in her thoughts. In that moment, Anne had never felt so far away from her friend. But this wasn’t about her feelings. Diana had a smile on her face and it was awash in excitement but more than anything, it was serene. As though she had found her rightful place in the world, and it was by Jerry’s side, her arm slightly outstretched and her body angled in a way like she was merely waiting to fit herself to him.

Chagrined, the pit of her gut flooded with the shame of her actions. That she drove Diana to have to explain herself! How could she have done this and ever called herself a bosom friend?

In the end, she only had one other question to ask.

“Are you happy?”

Both Cole and Diana turned surprise eyes, at her and her tone, soft and apologetic. Diana though, her lovely jet-black hair a blazing amber in the noon sunshine, looked perfectly brilliant and Anne had her answer.

“If you’re happy, then so am I.”

She went to her, a mist transforming her gaze into pools as she hugged the girl who had grown into a woman, seemingly before her very eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “you can’t know how much,”

“It’s all ready forgotten.”

Cole shortly joined their embrace and the three friends were laughing even as they wiped rivulets of tears from each other’s cheeks.

“Well,” Cole prompted. They were spread on the grass, their heads together in a triangle while they mooned onto the blue sky and painted pictures out of clouds. “How did he propose?”

Anne’s mouth twisted as she deduced that it must have been unromantical—though this sentiment, she kept to herself lest she again upset the comradeship that was so newly established amongst them.

But Diana’s tenor was sweet and dreamy as she recalled, “He wrote me a letter—a full-fledged letter! He gave it to me personally, of course, for fear of my parents finding it first but oh, it was in an envelope and stamped and everything, as if he had sent it to me through courier.”

She was all too relieved that she kept her opinions to herself, for though he hadn’t gone down on one knee, Anne supposed that an epistolary proposal sounded absolutely beauteous—especially once she considered just how far Jerry had come from, being illiterate as a child. He prided himself on his abilities now.

“If anything, I have you to thank Anne, for you began his tutelage.” Diana sighed. “I’d show you the letter, but I’d like to keep it to myself if you don’t mind.” She blushed as she said this and they all giggled, for they did not mind at all. “But truly, it was divine, it was himself in words. All his emotions on a page, and yet all he wrote of was me...”

Nestled within the grass, Diana was a rose in bloom with the way she blushed as she spoke of her betrothed. It was then Anne had an epiphany.

Perhaps love did not always come in the form of impassioned speeches or grandiose adventures. Perhaps it wasn’t always a princess who was locked up in a tower guarded by a fire-breathing dragon, her prince ready to brave the flames.

Maybe it was a low-burning ember, less hot than the blaze of a fire sure, but just as passionate. She thought of Diana and Jerry and wondered if it might be letters written in longhand, if the prince’s sword was actually a pen, the ink his weapon that illustrated his ardor—if the dragon wasn’t a dragon but the politics of society that told young lovers they must not marry below their station or, and she looked at Cole, their same sex.

Maybe love didn’t always mean the adventure was in far off places, but was found within the four walls of her classroom; where a rival, in actuality, was not the villain but a prince in disguise?

Maybe love wasn’t always the stuff of legends. What if it was the quiet things? The constance? Love was steady, she realized. It was study sessions and long walks, an ashen gaze and an encouraging smile in a sea of faces that expected her to fail.

It was standing up for what and who you believed in, going after them when they walked away and promising to want them for all time.

“Anne?”

Diana touched her shoulder but all she could say was, “I am a fool.”

Cole smiled knowingly.

But, fool that she was, it took her till twilight to empower herself to take any sort of action. With word to Marilla on where she would be, and Marilla raising an astute eyebrow at the very young male coat she left behind when she departed (honestly, was she the only one oblivious to her own feelings?), she went where her heart led.

And her heart led her at the boundary of the Blythe farm, where she paced back and forth, back and forth and back and forth until—

“Anne?”

She startled. “Gilbert!”

“Hello…?”

He looked bewildered at her being there, and rightfully so. Dusk was falling, and here they were again. She chuckled, though it was riddled with tension.

“You’re always catching me unawares,” she jested. “I wonder when I’ll ever return the favor.”

“Impossible,” he muttered.

Disconcerted, she inquired, “why?”

He gave her a modest smile, though he didn’t look away.

“I’m always aware of you.”

She was tempted to look away—so heated was his gaze. But her determination was even more ignited and so she compelled herself to hold his stare.

“Not that I’m displeased,” he continued, before the silence could prolong. “But what are you doing here? It’s nightfall. Is something wrong in Green Gables?”

“No, no,” she assured in quick tones. “The very opposite. I just—I need to tell you something.”

His brows furrowed as he tilted his head for her to go on. “Yeah?”

“It is rather important,” she began. “Could we… could we talk somewhere more privately? Preferably, not out in the cold.”

“Oh!” Gilbert laughed in abashment. “Of course, let’s go inside.”

“Where are Bash and Mary?” She asked when they entered the dark and empty house. Gilbert led her to the parlor where he offered her a seat and he lit candles as he spoke.

“They’re in Charlottetown, I just came from the train station where I dropped them off actually. They’re going to attend to Mary’s son. He’s fallen ill.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I offered to go with them, but it doesn’t sound so serious. Overfatigue, probably stress from work, and a fever. Mary wants to be with him, just to be sure and Bash, well,” he rolled his eyes though when he spoke, it was full of fondness. “He never wants to be far from Mary.”

Again, they shared a weighted look. Anne cleared her throat, but nothing came out. Should she make more small talk? Ease into it? Or should she just dive right in?

“So,” Gilbert smoothly urged. “You had something important to tell me?”

Right, she thought, diving into it, then.

“I needed to see you,” she started.

“In the middle of the night?”

He sounded amused. Was he mocking her? Here she was, laying her heart bare and he was ribbing her?

“Hardly!” she burst out, her temper rising. “The sun hasn’t even fully set!”

“Hasn’t it?”

He gestured towards the window where, surely enough, darkness had conquered the sky with a swiftness Anne had forgotten it was capable of. She frowned and when she looked back at him, that insufferable smirk was affixed to his lips.

Oh he means to rile me, she conjectured. He thinks he’s so clever!

His goading gave her an inexplicable boost of confidence so, abruptly, she declared, “I have objections.”

“Objections?” befuddled, he scratched at the side of his head—a habit of his, she knew. “To what?”

“To ‘as long as I live’.”

“As long as I—”

He broke himself off as all humor was swept from him and the light of realization settled upon his eyes.

“‘Forever’ sounds ever more romantical, don’t you agree?”

“Anne,” he whispered, hope lighting his face and forging her heart and soul anew. She hid a smile. How unfair it was that he should look so glorious under the candlelight, the shadows sharpening his all ready chiseled jaw and the strong slant of his nose.

How he glowed.

“I think I ought to school you on the proper techniques to proposing. I am, after all, to be a teacher.”

“Oh,” he queried, his voice wobbly and a suspiciously wet gleam in his cinereal look. “What exactly would you have me do differently, teacher?”

“Well, for one, I would have you down on your knee like… so.”

Gilbert’s eyes widened in genuine shock. In truth, Anne too was surprised at herself. She never thought she would be so happy, lowering herself to the ground. But she was, as she bent on one knee.

“And then?” he said, low and susurrous.

“Then, I would have you take my hand,” Anne’s fingers touched his, resting open on his lap like he was just waiting, waiting.

They entwined.

“We would look deeply into… each other’s… eyes…”

Her breathing began to quicken. From the rapid rise and fall of his chest, so had his. She was drowning, captured by the depth of his wonder—nothing could have made her look away from him.

“Then?”

“The most important part, of course.” she breathed. “A vow.”

She gulped.

“I love you.”

Gilbert exhaled shakily, his grip tightening on her hand.

“Would you have me, Gilbert? Would you do me the honor of being my partner… forever?”

Her breath hitched. For one horrid second, she was of the mind he would deny her.

He let go of her hand. He shoved the chair away and was leveled in front of her in a heartbeat. He cupped her face in his hands, his touch light and cool as a doctor’s should be. Anne closed her eyes.

Was there ever any doubt?

Gilbert kissed her.

In this, she could trust. This, she thought, is true.

She was happy to stay that way, ecstatic to be linked in the most universal language of devotion. But air was a necessity, and when they pulled but a hairsbreadth away she asked, “Is that a yes?”

Gilbert laughed, jubilant and boisterous, and oh how it outshined even the shadows.

“What now?” she breathed, her hands cupping his own around her face.

“I love you, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, more than anything. I’ll love you in this life and the next, you can be sure. Forever isn’t nearly long enough.”

“Now that’s a vow.”

He laughed again. She joined him. "Shut up and kiss me, Carrots."

"You shut up and kiss m—"

He did, and she didn't even mind that he cut her off.

For Diana was right. They were no Elaine and Lancelot, but how could she ever give this up? Give him up? A lifetime of his kisses, a lifetime of his touch, forever in his arms?

No... this was better.

This was more.

No—he buys them because he can, and because the peddler’s heart radiates a kindness and a benevolence that resonates to Gilbert’s own soul and so he knows, with indisputable certainty, he deserves not to be separated from those he loves most.

There are, what seems like, hundreds of stalls littered all over Trinidad. The docks alone boasts of a market filled with a ragtag combination of goods, of differing shapes and sizes, catering to all sorts of distinctive ailments and demands. Not that Gilbert needs anything… which is why he doesn’t know what draws him to the ramshackle pile arrayed into a sorry excuse for a booth.

Or maybe he does.

He doesn’t have an eye for jewelry, at least he doesn’t think so, for his mother’s own baubles had been sold off—to provide for his father’s health care and sustain the farm—save for a few key pieces and heirlooms, but there is no denying the pulchritude of this merchant's wares. He and Bash were headed for the ship when a glint from his peripheral caught his eye, so bright was its glare. Like a moth to a flame, he gravitates towards its light, bypassing the droves of attractive vendibles for the multitudes of spherical orbs strung together in artful strands.

“You have.”

A weathered hand enters his line of vision as it presents the precious goods with a proud flourish and he follows the length of the muscled arm to the person attached to it. His olive skin gleams gold, telling of many a days spent working under the sun. His eyes are angular, his nose flat and his lips full and wide, as if always poised to smile. It prompts Gilbert to twist his own mouth into a grin, and the two smirk in delighted conspiracy though they have never seen the other before this very moment.

“You have,” the jeweler remarks again, this time tugging at his sleeve lightly. Gilbert laughs, not because what he says is particularly funny but because of how he says it, not so much phrased as a question or suggestion yet not a command or a rude edict either. Instead he hears a statement, a finality within those two words, spoken as they are in knowing yet gentle tones. As if Gilbert was always meant to land in this deserted and decrepit corner of the port—his eyes destined to feast upon the rows and rows of effulgent pearls laid before him like a banquet to feed his starving gaze.

“I didn’t know we harvested pearls in Trinidad,” Bash remarks, a wonderment to his inflection that informs Gilbert his friend is just as captivated as he. The jeweler shakes his head.

“No—no Trinidad,” he pauses, the two men leaning forward in anticipation. The jeweler smiles, a flair for dramatics evident in his every gesture as he tilts his head, takes a deep breath and reveals, “Las islas Filipinas.”

“Las islas Filipinas,” Gilbert repeats, as though harkening the words back to him would stunt his ever growing curiosity. “Where is that?” he asks, almost aggressively, that same curiosity puppeteering his movements. The jeweler’s grin only widens as he delights in Gilbert’s inquisitiveness.

“East,” the jeweler says and in his own vigorous eagerness, Bash adds, “East? Asia?”

He nods, a whole new light entering his eyes at the recognition of his homeland. “Sí, sí! My home—Perlas,” he points at the rows and rows of pearls, “ng Silanganan.”

Gilbert shakes his head as dejection weighs heavy on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I don’t speak…”

“Tagalog,” provides the jeweler. “It is all right,” he reassures, “I speak, little English. Little Spanish. We understand each other, sí?”

The smile never once wavers from his lips and Gilbert feels something in him lift. He cannot pinpoint what that something is exactly, only that he senses a bond between him and this jeweler that he finds difficulty putting into words. Still, it isn’t an unwelcome sensation. If anything, it puts him at ease.

“I’m Gilbert,” he says and with a nod to his companion, he introduces him. “This is Bash. What’s your name?” He holds out his hand.

The jeweler tilts his head at the proffered limb as though seeing it for the first time, confusion clouding his gaze. “My name?”

All of a sudden, the cloud in his eyes transforms into a mist, overflowing till they line his face. Gilbert blanches, panic seizing him as apologies spill from his lips. The jeweler stops him by grasping his outstretched palm between his own. “No. No sorry. It has been long, long time since I have told another my name.”

“You were a slave.” There is no question to Sebastian’s hard tone, only harrowing familiarity and resignation as he eyes the jeweler with a newfound affinity. The jeweler’s shoulders sag.

“Still slave.”

“What?”

“That is why I sell perlas. Save enough money to join boat. Go home to my country and fight. Find my beloved. My sinta.”

His name is Alon, he tells them. In his native language, it means waves—“I was born in sea, I work in sea, and I will die in sea.” He hails from one of over 7,000 islands in Filipinas where generations of his family gathered pearls, going out to the ocean where they lived at the first hint of dawn and returning just when the remaining trace of sun was a line of orange ray along the horizon. But the reach of the Colonizers throughout the country grew till their island and eventually, their village, could no longer escape them any more than the rise of the tide. His master took him from his family—a wife and one child, for they had been married only a short time and they could not bear to bring more into a life of servitude—to sell the jewels in Acapulco, Mexico. They arrived but he managed to escape, with the pearls fortunately, and had been trying to make his way back home by selling them bit by bit since.

“For you,” Alon points to Gilbert before handing him a hoop of gleaming, white pearls.

“Oh, I—I don’t,” he stutters. I don’t have anyone waiting for me back home, not like you, is what he means to say though for an inexplicable reason, he cannot bring himself to speak the words out loud—his fingers closing over the necklace even as he thrusts it back to Alon’s direction. He shakes his head.

“For you,” he repeats, his eyes fixed and his tone firm through the elated smile that unendingly shapes his lips. “For your sinta,” he affirms with a hand to his heart. With his free hand, Gilbert slips into his bag to dole out his payment when Alon stops him. It is Gilbert’s turn to insist. He pays double the asking amount.

“I hope you find your way home. I hope you save your country, and you be with your wife.”

Bash, who till then has remained tense and stoic, brings out more than a couple notes himself.

“You deserve to have your life be your own,” Sebastian says as he passes the money to Alon, whose eyes have filled with insurmountable tears once more. “May this bring you closer to freedom, friend.”

Alon leaves his place behind the rickety stall to hug them both.

“Maraming salamat,” he murmurs, droplets coursing down his cheeks to land onto the cloth of their shoulders. “Thank you.”

They pull away, but only at arm’s length from each other.

“I have greeting in my home, mabuhay. It means live, but we say it both hello and goodbye so… mabuhay, good friends.” He kisses both their hands. “Mabuhay.”

Gilbert closes his eyes, his entire being awash in peace even as he stands in the middle of one of the busiest places of Trinidad. They may have just met, but it is with stunning clarity that Gilbert finally understands what Anne means when she speaks of meeting a kindred spirit. For what other name could there be for the emotions welling inside him? For the way his soul had reached out to Alon’s from across the market, hidden as his booth was? For the immediate, albeit brief, friendship that sprung between them?

This is what he murmurs onto Anne’s skin, after all these years, once he clasps the circlet of white pearls around her neck.

“What?” she says, turning with a flourish as she tilts her head back with pride, so that he may admire her better.

(And admire he does, planting another kiss onto the hollow of her throat, falling enraptured by the way her breath hitches and their hearts beat in perfect unison—booming, racing, delicious staccatos against their pressed chests)

“Mabuhay,” he reiterates, though no louder than a whisper as he pulls her even closer, this divine enchantress who holds his heart. “I bought this necklace during my travels and the man who sold it to me, it was his parting words. I never forgot them. It means ‘live’.”

“You’ve had this all that time?”

Anne gasps as astonishment brightens her blue eyes at the revelation. It brings forth a chuckle from him.

“It’s funny. I told myself that these pearls weren’t for you. I fancied myself merely helping a friend out. But to see them now… how could I be so foolish?” He traces the line of gems, his fingers brushing against her collarbone in lambent strokes. Anne purrs, her eyes fluttering, and Gilbert—unable to help himself—captures her bottom lip between his, sucking at the luscious curve of her mouth before uttering, “they were never meant for anyone but you.”

She blushes, the blooming red staining first her cheeks then her neck. He kisses her there again, harder this time, till he leaves a mark. Anne moans and he feels it to his bones, a shiver pulsing down his spine.

“You make me feel alive, Anne.”

“I think… I think I was drowning, before I met you,” she tells him when his kisses have made their way from the curve of her shoulder to the curve of her cheek. “I think you saved me.”

“Impossible,” he avers, sincerity coating his inflection and burning through his molten, silver gaze. “As much as I want to, you’ve never needed anyone to save you. You’ve always been strong enough to be your own prince.”

She kisses him, for how could she not? Anne has often thought she needed other people to save her. It isn’t till Gilbert that she figures, it was within her to save herself.

“Maybe so,” she concedes. “But I was lost,” she tucks a stray curl behind his ear, her thumb caressing his cheek as she goes. “I was lost until you.”

For three years they will be engaged albeit living in separate places, Anne to her principalship in Summerside and Gilbert to medicine school in Kingsport. But on the long and lonely nights he is away from her, when the din of the boarding house becomes too loud, the presence of the men too suffocating, he will think about those pearls. He will think of Alon, and what he had to endure having even been further away from his sinta than Gilbert ever will be and he will sigh, mabuhay, because he is here and he lives in a world where Anne too is alive and he will hope. He will hope and hope and hope, that his friend and his family are too.

(And even more years later, he will smile and triumph when news arrives on the island, of the independence of Las islas Filipinas from a 300-year tyranny)

He will think about how he was on the other side of the globe and still, upon seeing the jewels, try as he did with all his might to deny it, his first thought was of Anne. He will think about the sheen of it against her delicate neck and how it illuminates her skin. He will think about how it isn’t so much the pearls that shine but Anne herself, her very essence and spirit infusing the air around her with a glow that draws you in.

But for now… now he avows—

“You are the sun, Anne. You are the sun, the moon and the North Star. Should a tempting peregrination strike me in my darkest hours away from you, I will look to the sky and know.”

He cups her face between her hands.

“All the roads lead back to you.”

AN: This one is really close to my heart. I hope you enjoyed it!

“Anne Shirley-Cuthbert!” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing out here in the middle of the rain?”

Anne’s arms flailed as she gestured wildly towards the dome teeming with people. “It’s full!”

Upon observation of their surroundings, he jerked his chin at the nearest pine tree. “It will have to do!”

Indeed, for the rainfall poured in earnest now, making far-sighted visibility downright nonexistent. And so they made for the trees with haste but not before Gilbert cloaked her head with his jacket. Were it another time, Anne would have been incensed by the action. As it was, she was too upset with the state of her book, and her clothes, to pay it any mind.

She was bemoaning at their drenched condition when they reached the cover of the canopy.

“I was so close to the end too!” she wailed. “Are unknown endings or unfinished chronicles forever to be my fate?”

Gilbert chuckled. “I’ll buy you a new book.”

“You most certainly will not!” Anne looked at him askew. “I can pay for my own books, thank you very much and—and, oh, why are you laughing? ”

Anne stomped her foot. He laughed that much harder.

“You—you look ridiculous!”

“Says the one who looks like a drowned rat!”

(In the interest of fair storytelling, they both looked ridiculous, pale and doused as they were)

Gilbert could not stop laughing and eventually, Anne softened, marveling at the absurdity of the situation till she too, joined at his chortles.

Eventually, their giggles faded, but not before Gilbert arranged his jacket carefully about her person, removing it from her head and settling it about her shoulders. Then, he took a hand to her braids, arraying them gently away from her face.

Anne felt herself hold her breath when his knuckles brushed her cheek.

And stayed there.

“You’re so cold,” he whispered. Never mind that so was he, bereft of a coat and his breath an icy whisper of air with every sigh he exhaled. His knuckles lingered there, and when she did not pull away, he grew bold—sliding them to the sharp angle of her jaw, down to the soft skin of her neck in a caress so tender, so excruciating in its slowness, that she found herself tilting her neck to receive more of his attention.

Anne felt her skin heat, Gilbert’s eyes ashen, molten pools of longing that traced the path of her flush. For once, she wasn’t of the mind to look away.

She dropped her book, paying no heed to the mud that spattered the edge of her skirt on impact. She forgot it, and the rain, for the world had narrowed to him, her and the point in which they touched.

Her blood felt like gunpowder in her veins, ready to ignite at any moment—at any contact.

But he remained unhurried, his motions precise with the intent to leave her wanting, she was sure. After all.

He always knew how to drive her mad.

He withdrew then and she made a mewling noise that would have been louder, had she not bit her lip to restrain herself. Gilbert gulped. His gaze felt like a living touch on her body, grazing her lips, her neck, and her chest—rising and falling with every hitch and gasp she emitted—before reclaiming her unflinching stare.

“May I?”

May I what, she wondered for a curt instant before casting that thought aside in quick succession. He could have asked her to bring the sun back, impossible it may have been, and still she would have agreed. She would do anything he asked, so long as he continued to place his hands on her.

So she nodded, and was rewarded when he took both her hands and cupped them in his.

“Let me warm you up,” he murmured against the skin of her open palms, his voice silken with igneous desire. The rainfall grew stronger and louder, an ornery backdrop to this strange yet ethereal abeyance. He stepped closer till her back hit the trunk of the tree, then closer still, so that he would be heard and there was no mistaking his request. “Won’t you let me warm you up, sweet, sweet, Anne?”

“Yes,” she answered with a childish, excitable eagerness. “Yes.”

She watched with baited breath as he rubbed gently at her hands before he brought them close to his mouth. Then…

He blew on them.

His breath was light... gentle and cool. Except the rain was even cooler and so it barely grazed her skin. But she felt it, she felt him , and he was everywhere . He felt embedded into her blood, her bones. He was seared into her skin and sunken into her sinew. He became the voice in her head and the very beat of her heart. He was ingrained into her soul.

“Anne,” he sighed. How did he do that? No one ever said her name the way Gilbert had, imbued with so much meaning—like it was both a question and an answer, a sin and a prayer.

“Yes,” she languished, her hands waking from a stupor and creeping up his arms before settling onto his chest. His were on her waist now, beneath his jacket, hot in a way that had nothing to do with the cloth and everything to do with the lack of distance between them. She had no recollection how they wound their way there, but found she didn’t mind at all.

For she could feel the throb of his heart, strong and oh, so, swift—an exact echo of her own. Gilbert’s body was atop hers, every hard line pressed against her downy curves till they were a rippling extension of one other, pulled by an inexplicable gravity that demanded he sink into her embrace. He felt divine.

He felt right.

Yet... though his touch was a most rapturous experience, she craved more.

She wanted to taste.

“Anne, Anne…” he hummed, his hand gliding up her spine. How she wanted to melt into him. His hooded eyes bore into hers, and she had never felt more connected to him. He tilted his head and she followed, her lips touching at the hollow of his throat just as his found their way into the crown of her head. He breathed her in, and how she smelled of flowers and sunshine and all the goodness the world had to offer.

“Yes,” she murmured against his skin, a smile branding itself onto her mouth.

Anne’s hands were in his hair. How strange, she wondered, how had they gotten there? It was as if Gilbert was familiar to her as her own body, that they seemed to know their way around and she knew exactly where to stroke or kiss, so that she may illicit in him the most delicious sounds.

He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the bridge of her nose. Her face was a map and her lips the destination. She felt like a powder keg, was there ever such a thing as cold? For no one was trembling now, at least not from the frigid wind. He traced a path to her mouth, leaving a trail of fire in his wake and she felt ready to explode by the time he reached her jaw… the corner of her mouth.

Except it wasn’t her that was alight.

There was a flash of lightning, followed closely by a clap of thunder, and whatever bubble that encased them, or spell that bewitched them, it had broken.

“I’m with Roy,” she blurted, unsure  of who she was reminding, him or her. Shame filled her that she needed reminding at all and with more conviction, she repeated, “I’m with Roy.”

With heavy hands and an even heavier heart, she untangled herself from his embrace, though not far enough that Gilbert completely loosened his hold on her waist.

“You have to let me go,” she uttered though her eyes were wide with misery.

His hold on her grew that much tighter and for a moment, her heart soared. But he did as she bid him, and stepped back.

Guilt weighed heavy on her chest.

He said nothing in return, merely asked that he see her safely home. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, for once. She knew that if she did, her words would unravel her, her thoughts unwinding like a fallen spool of thread, every emotion bare, every insecurity to be picked apart.

(Not that Gilbert would do that to her. She was terribly confused but in her heart of hearts, she knew that much)

But Gilbert was her friend, and she was promised to another. Royal Gardner was the Ideal Man of her childhood, the one of her dreams. He checked every item off her list. He was everything a prince ought to be—he was her knight in shining armor.

(So why was Gilbert always the one to save her?)

No matter. They would reach Patty’s Place, she would say her goodbyes and it would be as if it never happened at all.

So she did, almost mechanical in her actions even, and she was home free.

That was, until Gilbert stopped her, a hand to her wrist. It slid down to her hand. He raised them to his lips and though they were nowhere near as close as they were beneath the pine trees, she felt it once more—that unflinching, indecipherable line that connected them and fused their souls.

He kissed her knuckles, each one, and held her gaze the entire time. Not even the storm could dim their silver brightness, nor extinguish their hungering fire.

“I understand that you are with another, but you must know. There is no other one for me. There never will be another. It’s you, Anne.”

He stole her breath.

“It’s you.”

Upon entering Patty’s Place, she was stopped by Philippa, who cried at her appearance.

“Anne!” she scolded, as she fetched a towel from the kitchen and patted her friend down, who shivered but remained otherwise unmoved. “You’re going to catch your death in those clothes, you’re drenched! And—whose coat is this?”

She looked to Anne for answers, Phil’s face a picture in confusion when she saw her own stunned expression.

“Anne?” she prompted. “What’s the matter? Why, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“Oh Phil,” Anne whispered, for it wasn’t a ghost Anne saw but something very, very real. “I think I’ve made a terrible mistake... a most grievous error!”

“What do you mean?” Phil urged in desperate tones for she genuinely worried now.

Anne, however, did not hear her. For she saw that she had made a horrible mistake—but which?

Was it in being with Roy?

Or not being with Gilbert?

Outside, the rain stopped.

She ran out the door, the sun blinding and effulgent, though Anne didn't stop to think about that.

After all, she had a coat to return... a wrong to right.

Fate could wait, she was determined. Anne had her own story, and it was hardly unfinished.

It had only begun.