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Library, Sunday

Face was studiously reading in his spot behind the desk today. Taking notes even.

Was he feeling all right?

Busy, busy he is.

"Are you ill?" Cassandra inquired from the door. "Or are you reading filth again?"

"It's classic literature of this planet," Face protested. "Taught in the normal schools here classic even. Though there is some amazingly dirty wordplay, if I'm reading some of these footnotes right."

"Oh, good," Cassandra said. "For a moment there I feared you were possessed."

She walked into the library, and went right up to the desk. "What is it?"

"The play we're doing in drama class," Face said. "I skimmed it before auditions, but this version's annotated, helps with context."

"So you already did the audition?" Cassandra asked. She peered over towards the book. "Do you know what role you will be playing?"

"Last week and not yet," Face told her. "It's a comedy, which means according to the standards of when it was written it ends with half the cast getting married."

Cassandra let out a soft snort, but it wasn't hard to tell she was secretly delighted. "It will be something different for you, then."

Face chuckled. "You mean I'll have a decent script?"

"The entire play's also written in verse," he added, the picture of innocence.

"I meant you would not be dealing with an audience surrogate as your love interest," Cassandra sighed.

And she might have perked up a little more at the verse thing. Shut up.

"Oh, definitely not." Especially if he got the role he'd actually auditioned for. "But I meant it about the script actually being decent, this guy's got a way with words."

"How do you mean?" Cassandra asked, eyeing the pages thoughtfully.

Face flipped through the book until he found the passage he wanted. "This isn't from the play, so I don't spoil it for you," he said, before clearing his throat.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Perhaps predictably, Cassandra sighed.

It was most emphatically not the disappointed, eyerolly kind of sigh.

Face was truly the only person who had ever thought of using that particular sonnet to woo. Clearly he was a genius, yes.

Look, at least he hadn't gone for Sonnet 130.

It was debatable whether Cassandra would have truly minded if she'd been aware of the sonnet's usage, really.

"And this is the playwright whose work you will be performing?" she said. "That is... something."

Face nodded. "Though the play's a bit lighter in subject matter."

"Because it is a comedy," Cassandra guessed. "... Oh, I will have to see this, Garik. It sounds--" Wonderful. "--Engaging."

Face smiled at her. "I'll have to put extra effort into my performance then."

"You will let me know when the performance is?" she asked.

She was not usually much for the theater, but this sounded good.

"As soon as I know," Face promised.

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Library, Sunday

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