"She is..." Francesca is pacing the library at Aubrey Hall, looking frazzled. "She is infuriating! She is non-committal and...and too...just too too!"
"Too too?" Benedict asks, confused as he watches her pace from his spot on the sofa, sketchbook and charcoal forgotten. "Sister, do you not find it strange that Michaela infuriates you so?"
"she is infuriating!" Francesca cries.
Benedict tries not to laugh.
"Why do you find this amusing?" she asks, pouting just a little and plopping down next to him, leaning on him.
"Because," Benedict chuckles, hugging her gently. "Because I remember a certain older brother of ours using those words to describe the woman who would one day become his wife."
Francesca freezes, glancing at him.
Benedict shrugs. "I think you...maybe you like her more than you might let on?"
Francesca scoots away. "She is...kind. And...and...quite...beautiful," she says quietly.
He nods. "Yes." He sits up a little and takes her hand. "You know. I have felt that way. About...people. Who are not women."
She blinks and looks at him, a little confused, but also a little hopeful.
Benedict grins sheepishly. "There is no shame in those feelings, sister. They just...are. And they are part of you. Whatever it is you feel for Michaela, you are allowed to feel that way. Whether it is rage, or love. If it is rage, then so be it. But if it is love...it is something you can be proud of."
Francesca stares at him still, her expression turning emotional as she leans in and throws her arms around him tightly.
He grunt and hugs her back. "Ooh. That's my ribs."
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