She did not care.

Michael, his face and hand.

These were the only realities.

In another moment she should see him, feel him, hold him, never, never let him go again.
In the intense stillness a whisper came up through the orange blossom below her balcony: "Fay." She was on the balcony in a moment.

The scent of the orange blossom had become alive and confused everything.
"Come up," she said almost inaudibly.
"I cannot." "You must.