Wisteria
The sky over Ibis Street is deep hyacinth purple, flawed only by a sliver of white moon like a chip in amethyst. Lina sits in the rooftop garden, breathing the scent of jasmine as she looks out over the city. Eleven years ago she danced, about this time of day, with a dark-eyed boy (she did not know he was thirty) who swept her around till her blue silken skirts swirled out like wind and kissed her under the heavy veil of lady Lucilla's wisteria.
Another garden, another kiss. And Lina's father swore and left a splintered crack in her door, and Lina herself beat the tattling elven maid till the blood came; but none of that altered her condition. The only sensible reaction came from the dark-eyed boy (she had not known who his father was, either), who, challenged in Lina's father's study, apologized beautifully and arranged for the house on Ibis Street. Which was the only civilized solution, in Nibis in this day and age, in such a situation.
Lina went meekly to the place he had made for her, knowing, belatedly, that it was all she could do. Gaudy daydreams she laid away with lavender and rosemary, in the closet with the blue silk dress. She went to no more balls, she kissed no more young men, and when the baby was born she named him Brendan in defiant accordance with tradition, and swore she would raise him to be his father's son.
His father visits, twice or three times in a year, still dark-eyed and dark-haired and charming enough to stop her heart. She entertains him courteously, and with all due ceremony, bringing out the good glassware and the fine linens with their line of violet embroidery. He is gravely affectionate with Brendan, flatters the maid, and sleeps in Lina's bed, under the soft hangings the color of wisteria. She has never met the woman he married.