Donovan Burns had been a friend of the family as long as I could remember. Our families enjoyed each other's company; mainly due to the fact my father was the town's best judge and he has power over many things. As a child I only saw Donovan as a potential playmate and treated him as thus. Looking back on the early times I spent with him, I can see that Donovan was weary of my presence. At the time, as most children at the age of six, I only thought of my own needs and believed everyone shared them.

During the summers the Burns family would visit once a week, you see they lived across town which was well over a mile away and Mrs. Burns despised the idea of traveling often. The visits were always welcome and I enjoyed the extra time I had with Donovan. I would follow Donovan in hopes he would take notice of me, a girl five years younger than himself, and decide to become a playmate. During these times my younger sister, Laurel (who is two years younger than myself), was beginning to mimic what I was doing which only heightened Donovan's annoyance with me. Still I tried to persuade him to play with me, and he would since he knew I would soon tire of him and run off to play with something else.

The winter of my tenth year is when a tragedy hit both our homes. One evening we received a letter informing us that Mr. and Mrs. Burns had recently died due to a sudden illness. Donovan was left alone in the large home without a family. Neither of his parents had siblings, leaving Donovan alone in the world. My father quickly took it upon himself, as a final deed to his dear friends, and took Donovan in to our home. My father never truly adopted him, but he was treated as if he had always been a son (something my father had always wanted).

My mother adored Donovan as much as I did and made it a point to make him comfortable while adjusted to the loss of his parents and his new living arrangements. Donovan always told my mother she was very kind and very handsome, which was true! My mother was lovely woman and dressed in the best we could afford. Her hair was the color of the sun and always pulled into the loveliest bun, her soft blue eyes offsetting her hair as did her fair skin. My sister Laurel looks more like my mother; similar hair, skin, and face. I, on the other hand, look like my father. My hair was the color of the night and as curly as could be, my skin a little darker than my mother's, but I did have my mother's blue eyes which gave me a haunting look as a I grew older.

Being a child of the Reed household meant that our education was one of the best in the town. My father hired tutors which would visit us three times a week and teach us to read, write, and to do arithmetic. Mother took it upon herself to teach us art and music, being skilled in both. Donovan took to art with incredible ease, being able to paint almost anything one could imagine. There was one image that he had painted on his twenty second birthday (something that had startled me at the time but its strange beauty overcastted the horror of it). A dark haired woman bent over a bed, weeping into her hands and all you could see of the bed's occupant was a pale, limp hand.

My sister and I were more musically inclined, much like our mother. Laurel took up playing the piano and the violin and my mother found that I had the beautiful ability to sing. She would help me with vocal lessons and soon hired a vocal teacher (this was after she decided she truly didn't know much about voice lessons). Soon Laurel and I were performing for our parents and their friends. We were soon placed like trophies during parties, performing when things were growing dull (neither my sister nor I minded but when I grew older I was annoyed with it at times).

That day I had been locked away in the bedroom I shared with Laurel. Mother had placed me in the room as punishment for misbehaving during a lesson. She had caught me drawing in my book (which was quite expensive) and quickly seized me by the ear. I yelped in pain and was quickly cuffed to silence me.

"Lenore, what have I told you about writing in your books?" my mother asked. She had taken me by the arm (letting my ear go after it grew red) and was leading me to my room. "You should be happy it was not your father that caught you. Being locked in your room and cuffed would be the least of your worries." My mother knew that everyone feared my father's anger and we tried our best to make him happy.

I was to stay in my room for fifteen minutes. In most cases this would be a dreadful punishment, because it was spring and it was a perfect day to be outside, but I truly didn't mind being in my room. I had small box of candies, toys to play with, and books I could read (mother never bothered to lock these things away while Laurel or I were punished). That day, though, I took no notice to these things but went to the window to look at the garden our room faced.

The large window was open to let the cool air into the room, which made it that much easier to see the gardens below. We had a balcony connected to the room but the doors were locked in fear we may fall to our deaths. This annoyed me to no end but my parents promised that when they believed I was old enough the balcony will be unlocked and I can do what I please. From my window, though, I could see most of the garden and the fields behind our home. The first snow fall and the first blossom was always a spectacular event from my room and I would never change the view, even if I could.

I leaned against the window frame, leaning gingerly forwards so I could feel the wind through my hair and against my face. I smiled happily and looked at the gardens below in hopes of seeing an animal. Indeed I did find animals; a few birds and the family dogs, which my father took hunting at least twice a year. Something that caught my attention more than the animals I loved to see. Donovan stood beneath a large apple tree with a canvas before him and small bottles of paint littered about his feet. I couldn't make out the image on the canvas but began to grow more interested in Donovan than the idea of what he could be painting.

Donovan always seemed to slip away from the world when he painted. We had a room set aside in the home just for him to paint (so no one would bother him), but during the warm days he would be in the gardens for hours. After a while Laurel and I understood that when Donovan was painting we weren't to bother him. Much like my father, Donovan had a terrible temper but it was very hard to invoke. While painting, though, his emotions seemed heightened and he could grow angry with incredible ease.

"It is impolite to stare." Donovan said so suddenly that it nearly frightened me (how he knew I was in my room looking at him I will never know). He turned and looked towards the window, the shadows from the tree causing his hair and eyes to seem a bit darker. He smiled at me. "What have you done this time, Lenore?"

I rested my chin upon my hands as I looked down, half lovingly, at Donovan. "What makes you think I have done something wrong?" The smile on Donovan's face seemed to grow into more of a sneer when I said this.

"I thought I heard your mother scolding a child for sketching in her books." Donovan said as he placed his paintbrush on a small piece of tattered cloth. His eyes quickly returned to me. "Now I don't know if Laurel does such things but I have seen you sketching in your school books."

For an instant I felt my cheeks grow warm as I blushed but I turned my own embarrassment into a look of anger. "How dare you suggest I would do something so childish? I am a young woman and I act as I should." I truly wished I could, but being only thirteen I was anything but a young woman. I still acted much younger when my mother or father was away and it amused me to no end.

Donovan laughed for a moment. "You, a young woman?" he snickered. "Laurel acts more like a young woman than you do."

I opened my mouth to reply but I couldn't. Donovan was right; in a way Laurel was more of a young woman than I was. She obeyed our parents without a qualm and acted as a young woman should. I hadn't grown out of my childish dreams and notions. The reason was simple; I hated the idea of growing older and, in the end, dying. I saw what Donovan had gone through (I still hear him cry at night from time to time) and I don't know how I could cope if I lost my mother and father.

"What?" Donovan said. He caught my attention again and I drew out of my thoughts. He smiled at me. "Have you nothing to say?"

Taking in a deep breath I let a smile of pride wash over my face. "That's right. I have nothing to say to you." I turned away from the window sharply and retreated to the bookcase. As I began to scan the titles of the ever familiar books I could hear Donovan calling for me. I ignored him, smiling to myself when he asked me (twice no less!) to come and speak to him. After a few moments of his calling everything was silent.

After my punishment was done I took my book and wandered out to the gardens. Donovan was still beneath the apple tree painting with a few of his finished works drying in the sun. I stayed my distance, watching him silently for a moment. Donovan looked at me as I took a seat beneath a neighboring apple tree (we had many apple trees near the house because our cook preferred fresh apples when he baked). For a while we watched each other at intervals, barely catching the other in the process.

When Donovan had finished a painting of a bird bath filled with Robins he walked towards me. I didn't move to watch or greet him in any manner, but Donovan didn't seem to notice. He took a seat beside me, leaning slightly close to me as he peered into the book I held. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye and was content with my little victory; for once he had given up in our little tiff and was being kind towards me (even though we hadn't said a word to each other).

The hour seemed to slip away as we read together in silence. After finishing half of the book we both laid in the shade of tree, watching the sunlight filter through the leaves and mixture of blood red and green apples. Donovan held me close which I found a little strange but made no attempt to move away from him. His paint stained fingers stroked my hair and touched my skin with feather like lightness. I smiled to myself and nuzzled against him and he held me close. For once I had the feeling that he may think of me as something more than an annoying child.

That thought lingered in my mind longer than I had hoped and it made me wonder about many things. Donovan was turning eighteen later that month, the perfect age to marry, but had yet to find interest in a woman. He rarely left the home and when he did it was when we left as a group. He never spoke of having a family or even the thought of marriage. My parent said it should be the first thought on a young man's mind, but for Donovan it seemed to be the last.

"Penny for your thought." Donovan whispered. His breath was warm against my skin, tickling my neck slightly. I ignored the feeling and stared blankly into the distance as my thoughts churned in my young mind.

"Why haven't you found a bride, Donovan?" I asked as soft as he did.

Donovan stirred, holding me closer yet; his fingers held the sleeve of my dress tightly and I listened to his heart beat. He was nervous, I could tell. His breath was fast and his heart beat was faster yet. I could only imagine what he could be thinking. Did he have a woman in mind? Maybe he was afraid of the thought? I couldn't tell but I knew the question struck something within him.

"In a way, dear Lenore," Donovan said forcing me to look him in the eye as his fingers nudged at my chin, "I have already found someone. Why do you ask?"

My heart fluttered for an instant as I looked into Donovan's eyes and I felt myself blush. Deep inside my heart wished that someone was me but my mind knew that it couldn't be; it didn't seem right. "Who is it?" was all I could manage to say, my eyes never leaving Donovan's face.

Donovan opened his mouth to reply, his eyes looking deep into my own but he was never able to utter a word.

"Lenore, you mother is calling for you." The sound of the maid's voice caught us both off guard. I sat up quickly and my face felt like it was on fire as I turned away from Donovan and the maid's gaze. Donovan slowly sat up; his face was rosy as well as he looked at me. He smiled and stood, walking off to his paintings without a word. I looked after him somewhat heartbroken without knowing what he was to say.

"Hurry up child." the maid called.

I turned and looked at the auburn haired woman and climbed to my feet. I muttered an apology as I moved past her, glancing over my shoulder at Donovan. Our eyes met again and all he did was smile as if nothing had been said or shared between us. I looked away without a response and hurried into the house hoping my mother would brief so I could run to my room's solitude and cry away this strange pain.