Nama : Dina Anggraini

Npm : 18010410454

M.K : Reading 4

The Goddess of Small Things

The clock had long ago struck twelve, and Captain Damien Rathbourne, Earl of Coulter,
had developed a ferocious itch in his left leg. As that leg had been amputated over a year ago, he
had no choice but to suffer in discomfort. The itch, of course, was the least of his pains. Tonight,
the small things festered: women fastidiously avoided his eyes; conversations politely fixed on
the weather rather than his health.

Half-foxed and wholeheartedly tired, he longed to leave. And yet at this late hour, guests
still arrived. The latest announcement—Countess Something-or-Other—was a disaster. Her
orange hair was twisted into a careless bun from which strands were already escaping. Her gown
was outmoded, and her figure leaned towards chubby. As she walked down the stairs into the
ballroom, she slipped on a step, and crashed into a gentleman. A ghastly silence swept the ball; a
woman tittered.

“Unbelievable,” Damien muttered to himself.

Lord Darby, who stood near him, cast him a shocked look. “Countess Fraser? She’s a goddess.”

Damien’s gaze flicked back to the Countess. She had picked herself off the floor and
appeared to be apologizing, her hands gesturing animatedly. She didn’t seem to be a beauty. “If
you think so, you shouldn’t have much competition for her.”

“Are you mad? Countess Fraser could have her pick of any man.”

“She’s an Incomparable?” Damien was dubious.

““Course not,” Darby remonstrated. “I can compare her to loads of girls. She just comes out on
top, is all.”

“She’s an Original, then.”

Darby waved his hand in denial. “No. Originals are all alike—snooty girls who think that wit and
insult are synonymous.”

“Well-dowered?”

“Penniless, if rumor holds true.”

“Blue-blooded?”

“Before she married the now-departed Count Fraser, her people were nobodies.”

“Connected to the grand dames of London society?”

“So far as I can see, the women all hate her.”

“She’s a goddess?” Damien frowned dubiously.

“A goddess.” Darby affirmed. “Not Aphrodite, of course. But a goddess of little things gone
right. You can’t understand unless you meet her.”

Damien shifted his weight from one crutch to the other. After Vitoria, it was as if his
human interactions had been amputated along with his leg. His cohort stopped speaking to him
of sport and war, and gradually withdrew from him altogether. Damien was suddenly furious
with the purported goddess. He had everything but his leg, and yet could find no one. This
mysterious woman had nothing and yet charmed everyone. He suddenly wanted to prove that she
was like every other girl at the ball. She would be wretched. Conniving. And above all, she
would be unable to meet his eyes.

“Well,” he said, striving to hide his anger. “Why don’t you introduce me then?”

Damien felt every eye in the ballroom carefully choose to look in another direction as he
crutched his way across the ballroom. He could move at a reasonable clip; Darby barely had to
slow his pace. The little things, however, irritated. Young maidens magically waved to friends
across the room as they registered his direction; they dashed away lest he should corner them.
Men fixed their gaze on some far away point. Damien gritted his teeth and clumped along.

Darby had not been lying; the Countess held court over a veritable bevy of men, ranging
from pups down from Cambridge to sixty-year-old widowers. “Countess!” cried Darby, edging
inside her circle. She smiled and gave Darby her hand. He bowed over it, and turned. “Allow me
to introduce Captain Rathbourne. Earl of Coulter.”

The Countess extended her hand to Damien as well, and then stopped. Her gaze traveled
down, and caught his single leg. Up close, he could see something more of beauty in her
features. Her complexion was clear, and while her coiffure was less than perfectly arranged, her
vivid hair sparked about her face like orange flames. Damien could see her animated blue eyes
realize that he could hardly take her hand without dropping his crutches. She raised her face and
met his gaze directly.

“Captain,” she said, dropping her hand. “I think that I should bow to you.” And she did. Her bow
was inelegant and choppy, but her voice seemed sincere.
 Sincerity. Eye contact. He would weep if he thought she were real. But it would take so
little effort to expose her for a fraud. She, too, could see no farther than the surface. He was sure
of it. The opening bars of a waltz played.

“Countess,” he said, before he could think. “May I have this dance?” The members of her throng
opened mouths to object, but shut them one by one. They had spent a year pointedly ignoring his
lack of a leg; they could hardly talk about it now.

But the Countess smiled sweetly. “I’d be delighted,” she said, and walked towards him.
Calling his bluff, was she? Oh no; he wouldn’t back down now. He could not take her arm, and
so she placed her hand on his elbow, as he limped out onto the ballroom floor. She turned
towards him and smiled.

“Now, how do we do this?” she mused.

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“You’ve never danced—?”

“Not since Vitoria.”

“Well,” she said, undaunted. “We’ll have to figure out how to make do. Now let’s see.” She
stepped closer to him. “I’ll have to put one hand there.” One hand lightly touched his shoulder.
“As for the other one . . . .” She paused and laid it atop his right hand where it gripped the crutch.
“Here.”

He had to lead. How, he thought, could he lead when he barely had room to place his
crutches? Desperately, he heaved one crutch forward and shifted his bodyweight. Unfortunately,
she stepped to the left. Her foot caught his crutch, and she tripped, sending his support flying.
She fell; he followed, the wood floor of the ballroom bruising his wrist as he landed. He heard
something that sounded like the ripping of cloth.

It was really only a few bars of music before he leveraged himself into a sitting position.
She was kneeling next to him, a look of concern on her face. The lace hem of her dress had torn.

“Go.” He whispered. She had called his bluff; he had paid the price. He fumbled behind him,
blindly seeking his other crutch. “Go!”

But she shook her head. “If you leave this dance floor now, you will never return.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t believe you.” The Countess stood up, grabbing his other crutch. He glared at her
balefully. She reached down, took his hand, and hauled him erect. He leaned against her,
helpless, until she handed him the other brace.
“I’ve always wanted to sweep a man off his feet,” she said, dimpling into his eyes. “But I had
never intended to do so literally.”

It took him a few moments to understand. She had not tripped him on purpose. She was
not making fun. She was treating him with care and reason, but not pity. He hadn’t realized what
a weight there was in his chest until it lifted.

He gave her a tentative smile. “Foot,” he replied.

“Pardon?”

“You swept me off my foot,” he explained. She laughed. It wasn’t a genteel titter, or a giggle,
but a real laugh from the belly.

“Let’s start again,” he said, and she moved against him, once again resting her hand against his
chest. “I don’t believe I can waltz the normal way.”

“No,” she murmured, looking up at him. “But think,” she said, “how well-designed you are for
the waltz.” He blinked at her. “One-two-three,” she counted.

He shook his head, confused all over again. “One,” she explained, patting his right crutch.
“Two.” She motioned to the left crutch. “And three.” Her hand gently patted his thigh. He lived.
Oh gods, he lived.

“One, two, three.” He counted, in tune to the music. “One,” he said, shifting a crutch. “Two,” he
said twitching the second crutch into place. “Three.” And he pulled his leg into place. “Brilliant.
Now you just need to dance along with me.”

Laughing together, they hopped along. It was not an elegant dance, nor a sensual one.

“I feel like a frog,” he complained.

At first she didn’t respond. Then—“Ribbit,” she croaked. And he laughed. She gleamed up at
him like sunlight.

When the music ended, he grinned at her. “Thank you, Countess.” Had he really thought
her plump? Suddenly, the other women seemed skinny and without substance. She was not
graceful, like the pinched swans that glided around the ballroom. But grace also meant salvation.

He would never have her, he thought. Not when he was a cripple, and every man in
London wanted her. But perhaps he would share her company again, and bask in the pleasure of
small things gone right.
Identify of development paragrafh :

1. Narration :

in this from story, it has a clear story because the story finally hasn't continued, it's still curious.
it's not clear how it ends.

2. Description :
a. On the paragrafh first
b. On the paragrafh second
c. On the paragrafh fourth
d. On paragrafh sixth
e. And on paragrafh seventh

3. Process :

in this story tells about a captain who was paralyzed due to his itchy, itchy legs and had to be
amputated attending a dance party, almost all the girls avoided him, and in the party he met a
woman called a goddess. but he did not really believe because the woman was not too beautiful,
as time went on the captain began to see beauty that no one else had in him. The woman also
fulfills little things that make him happy.

4. Classification :

1st – 2nd paragrafh about introduction

3rd – 4th paragraph about dance party, palace

5th ,6th , etc paragrafh about life, and begin to feel happiness

Nama : Dina Anggraini

Npm : 18010410454

MK : Reading 4

15 SIGN AND SYMBOL