(*All in a thick Italian accent, despite...

(All in a thick Italian accent, despite what he confesses)

Honey, honey.*

(Say the first “Honey” as a name and the second as an endearment)

I will... I must tell you my long-hidden secret after all. The sacred truth! I dared not reveal it until I found the right, sturdy oak in which I could safely store it. Honey, you are that sturdy oak.

You see, I’m not really British. My accent’s roots—like my own—are Austrian. In fact, I am of Austrian royalty. Yet I had to flee the country—for my life. You see, my wife and my son and I had no choice. Oh my poor sweet, late wife. She was a saint. Also a nun—who gave up her profession for me. Sadly, she died of exhaustion—making the trip from Austria. We had to climb mountains, ford streams...hike for miles to reach our destination—our dream which she never lived to see.

(Reacting to HONEY’s disbelief)

Please don’t cry. Just let me explain all that is burning in my heart like a munitions factory aflame! For years, I missed my wife frightfully...until you came along. I was like a comet without an orbit, a unicorn without...a horn. My first wife, Sister Bettina, was the kindest, gentlest votary I have ever known. She taught me to horseback ride and dance again. She knew acrobatics (fondly) and was always coaxing me to yodel hymns with her on the trampoline. To climb trees and run wild. She brought serenity to my life. And she was a devoted, devoted mother, especially to our child. Only the Alps we climbed proved too much for her. But forget my first wife. All that matters is that I have made a new life for myself and my son here... The North Atantic is so unlike Austria, where we were harassed because of the Jewish issue. No, my wife, the ex-nun, wasn’t Jewish. It was I. In addition to being Austrian and a Duke of royalty, I am 45% Jewish. But what does it matter? I mean, racial distinctions are like the wings of butterflies. They should be seen for their beauty, not flapped in people’s faces. Here, things are different. The Eskimos around us know that. They welcomed me and my son with open mittens. ... When will intolerant people learn how intolerable it is to tolerate intolerance? What could be clearer than that?

(He smiles, lovingly)

Honey. Here in this silver, winter fortress, I have built a crystalline castle, where I am royalty again. Be my Cinderella and—I promise you—every iceberg, every icicle, every ice cube will be your glass slipper. Please, Honey, won’t you be my….Cinderella?

Michael Colby - North Atlantic