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At 16 summers, Amelia is now a woman grown and has, with her father's high position and wealth, and the blossoming of her own natural charms, become the most desired of the eligible ladies of the village. None have a chance, of course, for her father intends for her to marry some minor lord or rich merchant from the city, thereby guaranteeing her comfort and ensuring his own advancement in station.
She, for her part, has played the dutiful daughter, and has distanced herself these last few years from the common rabble (to which you also belong) and bent herself toward greater and greater refinement. If not for the grim circumstance of the funeral, you doubt she would ever say two words to you, despite your long history. And even now when she speaks to you, there seems a gulf between her new cultured accents and your common tongue. Her hands smell of sweet perfume from across the sea, purchased at a dear price. And in her breath you sense the scent of wintergreen and thyme, and suddenly you are conscious of your own fish smell, the stench of the salt and sea, and are ashamed.
Nevertheless, you cannot refuse her when she asks to walk with you outside the church. It is pleasant to be near her, to listen to her chirp on about her studies, her father, even her complaints about the isolation and tedium she must endure. It seems she has not spoken so freely to anyone in a long time, for she hardly takes a breath or lets you get in a word edgewise, until, finally, having exhausted her reserve, she inquires after your future hopes and plans.
You respond:
>With derision, mocking her assumption that you have any choice in the matter and bringing her down a peg
>With optimism, citing your intention to save enough money to buy the fishing boat from her father
>With resignation, putting your situation in a bleak light to better win her sympathy, and win a potential ally against her father
>Write-in
