54 & Counting

[d_square]

 

Source- Family Photo

The stone walls of the castle had seen fifty-four winters, but inside the Duke’s private solar, the air smelled of linseed oil and aged parchment. The Duke, Earl, sat by the hearth, his heavy furs draped over shoulders that had once led charges at Agincourt. Across from him sat Ebrada, her fingers stained with the lapis lazuli blue of a half-finished illumination. "The music is changing again, Earl," she murmured, her voice like soft velvet over gravel. Earl smiled, watching the firelight dance in her silver hair. To him, their marriage had never been a static thing—not a vow carved in cold stone, but a Basse Danse. It was the stately, gliding dance of their youth, where they moved with measured grace, feet barely leaving the floor, learning the geometry of each other's souls.

The First Movement: The Basse Danse

In those early years, the steps were formal. He was the sword, she was the vision. They moved in a line, parallel but careful, navigating the politics of the court. The approach was learning when to bow to his duty and when to yield to her creative fire. Their cadence was the birth of their sons, rhythmic and grounding.

Source- Family Photo

The Second Movement: The Saltarello

Then came the middle years—the Saltarello. It was faster, more precarious, full of the leaps and bounds of raising two headstrong boys. Lee, the eldest, was built of his own free will. He could be an erratic beat of the drum, but sometimes practiced his tilt in the courtyard. Reid, the younger, inherited his mother’s wandering eye, sketching gargoyles in the margins of his Latin primers. During those decades, Earl and Ebrada had to catch each other mid-air. When the harvests failed or the King called for men, the dance became a frantic whirl. They didn't always land in unison, but they never let go of the hand that steadied them.

The birth of Lee set their dance in a different motion which allowed for easier and slower movement with Reid. Lee’s arrival had been a crash of cymbals in a quiet hall. As the firstborn, his birth turned their private duet into a public spectacle. The dance suddenly required armor, heavy robes of state, and the rigid choreography of lineage.

For Earl and Ebrada, Lee was the "Grand Square"—the foundational movement that demanded their full strength. They spent years holding the formation steady for him, ensuring the borders were secure and the castle accounts were full so that the boy could seek his path. It was a high-energy, breathless stretch of time where Earl was often away at camp and Ebrada managed the estate with a quill in one hand and a ledger in the other.

But as Lee grew, something unexpected happened to the rhythm of the household. The heavy burden of the "First Movement" had been settled. There was a shift in tempo by the time Reid was born, the frantic pace of establishing a dynasty had peaked. The "Basics" were mastered, allowing the couple to find a more fluid, lyrical style of movement. While Lee was trained in the cold geometry of the sword, Reid was raised in the warm glow of Ebrada’s studio. The dance became slower because they finally had the luxury of time to notice the details.

Lee was practicing his footwork with a wooden dussack, his movements sharp and with free will.  Watching him, Earl felt the pride of a father, but also the exhaustion of the responsibility Lee represented. Then there was Reid, sitting at Ebrada’s feet, learning how to grind malachite into pigment.

 

The Final Measure

In their fifty-fourth year, the tempo had slowed to a Pavane. It was a processional—dignified, solemn, and deeply intimate. "Lee sends word from the northern border," Earl said, tapping a scroll against his knee. "He commands his garrison with your stubbornness, Ebrada." "And Reid?" she asked, not looking up from her vellum. "He is in Florence," Earl chuckled. "Studying the frescoes. He has your hands, but he uses them to build worlds instead of painting them."

Ebrada set down her brush and walked toward him. Her joints ached, a mirror to the stiffness in his scarred hip. She reached out, and she took his hand. They didn't need a minstrel; the wind through the arrow-slits provided the melody. They moved together in a slow, circular step—the "Turn" of the old dance. It was the movement of two people who knew exactly where the other would lean before they even shifted their weight.