He finally sat at the end of the couch that Lloyd was on, choosing the end closer to his wife. He stared at Dearborne, then at his other side, at Lloyd. His voice attained the quality of a seer. "The days pass too quickly, for one to hold-onto the precious moments in life, however trifle and few!" he stated with the strength of compassion, understanding and love, and in his ultimate wisdom, he imparted to those close to him a morbid idea. "We must all one day die -- and may it be in peace, and with God!" When he finished, he saw a shiny tear trickle down Dearborne's flushed cheek. She sipped at her wine once more, put it on the table in front of her and pushed it away. Brooks and Lloyd watched as she set the drink down, and for a while, the only sounds that were heard in the parlour were that of breathing and the rustling of their clothes. He observed her and he loathed to see the torment that churned within her beautiful eyes. He finally found it within himself, to question her behaviour. "Something troubles you, my Love? Don't you like the drink?" he asked, with worry. Lloyd reckoned the Lady and her glass, drawing a feeble connection between them, that he thought was the reason behind her moody behaviour. "Why don't you drink your wine, my Lady? I know of no woman in the land that dislikes rose-wine. Some may drink it more than others, but all like it!" Lloyd requested, seeing in her eyes that his observation his its mark. She stared at her glass, her eyes burned with contempt therein, and she shrugged in utter abomination, as she, in a nauseated tone, answered her guest. "I am quickly acquiring a distaste for it." she said, then carried on, as she met Lloyd's eyes, "I am acquiring a distaste for the rest of Phoride!" Brook raised an eyebrow in surprise when he heard his lovely Dearborne speak so. He leaned forward and put his gentle hand, lovingly on her forearm until she set her own hand overtop of it and leered into his eyes. "What is wrong, my love? charged Brook, growing hot with worry. Their eyes became one entity, emanating from both their minds and so joining. Lloyd got to his feet. Still at the window, he aimlessly gaped out through its portal and added to the earlier tracings of thought regarding his intuitive lore. And, as if in riddle, he recited to Dearborne, who understood his conjecture. "There may be certain disillusions that are regarded as factual, by some people?" he said, and she agreed. Dearborne put her ball of yarn to one side and issued from her chair. She peered at her Brook, for a long time, apprehensive at whether or not to tell him the heavy burden that she carried within herself. She still clutched his hand. He felt her tremble like a cold little kitten, and his eyes pleased to her, to reveal her thoughts to him and gain strength from his willingness to be receptive. She told him everything.