“The
coast is clear, hurry up. The porridge
is getting cold, and it’s delightful; you’re missing out,” Willow said,
lowering her voice slightly. “Winter?
Wed? You there? Hurry and get your behinds out here, I don’t
have all day, and this is...mmmm.”
Winter peeked out
first. She was kneeling, instinctively,
out of nerves, and her mostly unpinned hair dripped in silky coils on the
carpet. “Willow?”
“Come on.”
Winter scampered out,
leaving Wednesday thinking in the shade.
What was that funny noise, and why had it set Castil off so
suddenly? None of it made sense,
unless…unless Willow had done something weird and inappropriate, like kiss—
No, Wednesday told herself firmly.
This was no time to think of such things.
Still. It bugged her.
“Let me try some,” Winter’s
voice said.
“Get a bowl first,
you.”
There was a clink of
porcelain, and a long pause.
“Mmm, this is so good. I never knew that regular men could cook so
well,” Winter said.
Finally, Wednesday couldn’t
take being left out of the rain, and she scuttled over into the kitchen. She’d forgotten to wear shoes, and the cold
stone tiles of the floor burned icily against her bare feet, yet somehow hot at
the same time. Willow and Winter were
leaning against the counter, eating out of bowls with spoons, a large metal
porridge pot next to them. The pot still
had steam drifting out of the top. There was a delicious smell in the air,
something like cinnamon and nutmeg and rosemary, honey and pumpkin. Wednesday inhaled, and felt the scents soothe
her nervous senses.
“Oh, so now you’re coming,”
Willow said, swallowing. “Well, grab
some if you like, but at least leave enough for me to have a few more
bowls. I wouldn’t want all this nice
porridge to go to waste.”
Wednesday reasoned that
scientifically, if she ate it, it wouldn’t be going to waste, but she
understood what Willow meant.
Using the big wooden spoon
in the pot, Wednesday located a bowl and spooned some up. The porridge was a light golden-ish color,
sprinkled with tiny shredded bits of something that she supposed were the
spices. Its heat wafted upward and
warmed her cheeks. For a moment
Wednesday just stood there, enjoying the honey-drenched fragrance of it.
“Wednesday, now, you better
not be stealing it all,” Willow warned her.
“’M not, Willow,” Wednesday
said offhandedly. She was still puzzled
about what Willow had done to unseat Castil like that. Castil. What was she…
Oh, so you yourself are on first-name terms with Lord Seigfried now?
she mentally berated herself. It was
improper to be using his first name without permission, but…the fact that
Willow was doing such a thing so casually already had her teeth on edge.
Apparently, Winter was thinking
along the same lines as well; sucking her spoon until it shined, she turned to
Willow and said, “Well? What could you possibly do to make a poor young man
flee like that? I do hope you didn’t
do anything brazen. Father really does
care about how you act, Willow.”
Willow shrugged
nonchalantly. “I’m not telling. It’s none of your business, anyway. Surely you wouldn’t be thinking of what I
did?”
“I should think,” Wednesday
said, uncharacteristically bravely, though her voice was still soft, “that you
would act a tad more respectful if I were you, Willow; Cast—Lord Seigfried is
here as a guest, and we wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea of how father’s
little girls act, hm?”
Willow cheeks flared
pink. “You have no right to tell me what
to do.”
“Simple suggestion, Willow,
that’s all,” Wednesday said with a light shrug.
Her heart was in her throat, pounding incessantly, but she wouldn’t let
it show. Trying to steady her shaking
hand, she spooned up some of her porridge and swallowed. The warmth traveled down her throat, leaving
a soothing, smooth feeling behind. It
calmed her instantly. “Why—why don’t you tell us what you were doing to scare
off Cast—I mean, Lord Seigfried?”
“Well,” said Willow, a sly
smile twisting her rose-red lips, “if you must know, I can tell you on one
condition.”
“Name it,” both Winter and
Wednesday said sharply.
“You two,” Willow simpered,
fluttering her eyelashes and studying her fingernails idly and delicately,
“have to somehow find a way to get Cassius to marry me.”
Wednesday’s hand smacked
the counter so hard it stung. “What kind
of proposal is that?” she almost yelled at Willow. “One look at you, Willow, and I know that
you’re up to something—what are you doing, messing around with two men at once?
They’re almost as young as we are. How
old can they be? Fifteen? Sixteen? And you, Willow—what are you playing at?
This is no game.”
“Do not assume what I am
doing,” Willow said calmly, turning her spoon in her porridge. “You have no idea what I am doing, for you
have no business in my mind. I can marry
who I want to marry.”
“And for whom are you
marrying?” Wednesday demanded. “Surely it isn’t for Father. You can imagine how he’ll feel when he
realizes that you are directly
disobeying the given laws of a young woman—do you want that?”
“I actually agree with
Wednesday for once,” Winter snapped peevishly, though she threw Wednesday a
dirty glance. “Why, Willow, must you act
so brash for a young lady ready to marry? Your naiveté is shockingly plain. And you dare to go forth and prance around
highly as if you are not sporting some ugly blotches on your conscience—how can
you stand the shame? You should be mortified of your behavior, Willow. You’re Father’s precious beauty, but even
that cannot earn you a gentleman’s true love if you treat others inferiorly.”
True love. The two words
rang in Wednesday’s ears, causing her chest to tingle. Winter was right, she thought, there was no
room for love if a heart was already full to the brim with connivance. But you never knew with Willow; her true
motives were always well hidden beyond a person’s reach.
Willow was wearing a scowl
now. “Well listen here, Winter, I don’t
care what you think, but like I said the evening before the New Year’s
Festival—we are princesses, we have
free reign, and we should very well be able to use it at will. As you’re eldest, I can’t tell you off, but
there will be a day when I get you
back…of course, we might as well be all together reunited by then.” She turned her spoon over again in a rolling
motion. “However, that is beside the
point. Do you agree to my terms or
not?”
Winter crossed her arms
grudgingly. “As long as you aren’t going
after Castil, I swear to your terms. But
only if you aren’t playing two young men at once.”
“And?”
Willow was looking
pointedly at Wednesday.
Wednesday couldn’t help
it. She ground her teeth in frustration,
staring daggers at the tabletop. She did
want to know what happened, but the fact that Cassius would be Willow’s in this
agreement was enough to make her hesitate.
She did know that Cassius was someone she hardly knew, and that she had
no idea if he was who she wanted, but something in her heart told her that
Cassius was the right type of gentleman for her. He was young, nice, dashing, and simply
amazing. Then again, her heart also told
her that Castil wouldn’t be a bad choice either…
The seconds ticked by.
“Well,” Willow said
loftily, “if Wednesday doesn’t agree then Winter doesn’t get the secret
either. So I guess if you’re not going
to agree, Wednesday, you’re going to be letting your eldest sister down.” There was a note of venom in her voice that
let Wednesday know that what Willow was thinking was far beyond letting Winter
down.
“Wednesday?” Winter said
softly.
Wednesday didn’t respond,
her fist aching from the clench of her fingers.
“Wednesday, look at me,”
Winter said again.
Wednesday tipped her chin
up, looking Winter straight in the eye.
“What is it, Winter? I’m not
going to give up my conscience and agree to Willow…”
“Wednesday,” Winter
repeated for the third time, still looking at Wednesday steadily, “you will agree to what Willow wants, won’t
you?”
That’s when Wednesday felt
it. In the suddenly echoing quality of
Winter’s voice. Magic.
Winter’s magic ability.
It was like a vacuum. Wednesday fought
against it. She wasn’t exactly sure what
was going on, but Winter was using her magic—the kind that a person could use
only when of age. In the back of
Wednesday’s mind, away from the pressing suffocation of the magic, she realized
dimly what Winter’s of-age magic was.
Persuasion.
The way it affected her was
devastating. Pressing in on her from all
sides, getting dizzy, Wednesday tried to draw in a breath to clear her head and
clear away Winter’s magic, but as if she was breathing in a pillow, it brought
searing pain. She couldn’t even
scream. Clutching the nearest object for
balance—the countertop—Wednesday tried to fight against it, but the magic
swallowed her up in a great burst, succumbing her. The pain dissolved suddenly, leaving a blank
but yet aware feeling.
“Wednesday, you will agree to what Willow wants, won’t
you?” Winter said again, her voice still echoing as if from far away.
And though Wednesday’s
mouth was dry as sandpaper, and she didn’t want to say a word, she heard
herself saying, “Of course I will.”
Willow, still twirling the
spoon in her porridge as if she had no idea what was going on, grinned. “So both of you promise that I will marry
Cassius as I wish, and that you two will not steal him away? Me.
Cassius. Correct?”
“Yes,”
Winter agreed sweetly.
“Yes,” Wednesday heard
herself say.
Willow smiled. “Splendid.
All right, I will tell you what I did…”
As Willow calmly lay her
spoon on the cold countertop, taking her time and wiping a bit of porridge from
the edge of her mouth, Wednesday felt the magic lift off of her, meaning that
Winter knew that there was no turning back now.
With a sudden gasp as she realized exactly what had happened, the sequence
played through her mind on full speed—magic suffocating her, Winter making her
agree, knowing now that the only person Cassius could ever be with
was…Willow.
“Are you okay?” Willow said
lazily, noticing Wednesday’s gasp.
“I—I—” Wednesday saw Winter giving her a pointed and
meaningful look, and Wednesday knew that she couldn’t back out of this. The swearing contract was fulfilled, and
there was nothing she could do about it.
And Willow had no clue that Wednesday hadn’t been acting of her own free
will.
If she had been alone, and
if one of her sisters wasn’t a persuasion-controlling evil, Wednesday would’ve
screamed. She would’ve cried. She would’ve tracked Winter down and yelled
at her, demanding justice, shrieking that how dare she use such a cruel magic
on her, promising revenge. But now, in
the presence of her sisters, she knew well enough that she couldn’t do
that. And so she forced the internal
pain down, and steadied her voice.
“No, Willow, there’s
nothing” was her faint response.
In her conscience, she knew
that there was no true reason for her to act this way over Cassius. A near stranger. Someone she’d only really realized existed
this year, hardly a day ago. But still,
something told her that Cassius wasn’t just a regular person. He wasn’t just passerby. She would see him
again.
“Well,” Willow said,
sounding maddeningly superior, “what I did was…I licked the spoon.”
Everything about Cassius
was suddenly wiped from Wednesday’s mind.
She dropped the rim of her bowl, which she had been holding up a bit,
letting it slump. Winter’s own spoon fell from her hand as her gaze flew to the
gently steaming pot by Wednesday’s elbow, where the handle of the wooden spoon
was poking out the top. The shallow
metal ladle of Winter’s spoon clattered against the worn stone floor, ringing
at a high pitch as it vibrated.
“You w—” Wednesday hadn’t gotten
any farther than the first word of her vehement exclamation before Winter had
sprung from her chair, across Wednesday, and seized the wooden spoon; holding
it up by the stick, globs of honey-seasoned porridge slowly starting to slide
down the handle, she stared piercingly into Willow’s green eyes; misty green
against bright green.
“Shame to the family!” Winter spat, stepping even closer to Willow
so that they were almost nose to nose. “Disgraceful—completely misunderstanding the
rule of a woman—there was always something different about you, Father always
thought that you were an exception to the rule—oh, I should have known as soon
as you fell for that fool Cassius—”
But now Willow was fighting
back; “Don’t you dare insult Cassius! You have no idea what he’s like—he’s a
completely different person than you would think! He’s perfect for me; oh, you
wouldn’t have a clue, because you aren’t in love with him, you think that
you’re too high and mighty for any gentleman because you’re the eldest, you’re
the lady-like one, the one who always
acts like a lady, but I don’t care!
As a princess I should do whatever I please—”
“EXCEPT FOR NOT FOLLOWING
THE RULES OF A LADY! That is basic etiquette, Willow, and one thing every
sensible girl knows from birth is that you don’t
lick anything in front of a gentleman! Especially
not a spoon that everyone is using! So
undignified—this, Willow, is what I
think of you-!”
Wednesday gasped, jumping
to her feet; there was a harsh sound as Winter drew her hand back and slapped
Willow across the face as hard as she could.
Willow screamed at the impact, staggering back. She had tears streaking her face now, and she
ran off, skirts tangling around her legs, yelling something unintelligible back
at them, her screams echoing through the whole palace. Winter held her hand; the sting from slapping
Willow was quite strong. She was
glowering venomously after Willow.
“Winter—I don’t think
that’s—that’s exactly what—” Wednesday clutched at her sister’s arm, eyes
pleading. Her voice came out trembling
and concerned, and for a moment she wondered why she was doing this for
Willow—harsh, judgmental, haughty Willow, who had mercilessly taunted and poked
fun at Wednesday her whole life—but then Wednesday knew why. They were sisters, after all. It was only natural for them to protect each other,
no matter how separated they seemed, no matter how wide the gap was from the
outside. “Don't be so hard on
Willow. You—you know how she is...she's
more...more lenient about the rules than...than you are—”
Winter,
without even a glance at Wednesday's expression, shook her off.
“Wednesday,” Winter said in
a voice so soft and deadly that Wednesday took a step back, her eyes
frightened. Winter’s own steel gaze
softened a bit, and saddened into a cloudy jade color, darkening slightly, as
she looked at Wednesday. “I'm
sorry. But I have no use for a sister
who won’t follow the rules.”
Willow’s throat was dry and aching,
and her voice hurt from screaming. She
ran down the hall as fast as she could, and once her legs had tired and she
could run no more, she curled up in a ball at the base of the stairs leading to
their room, on the polished ballroom floor, and sobbed hysterically. Her cheek throbbed and burned from where
Winter had smacked her, but that physical pain couldn’t compete with the ache
of her heart. That slap meant that
Winter didn’t think of her anymore as a dignified girl, as part of their
family. Winter was always the strict
one, the maidenly one, the one who always acted like a perfect lady, and looked
like one, too. It felt sorely unfair to
Willow, who had the looks of a lady but not the soul. She pulled her hair out of its arrangement of
pins, and the long, wavy wisps of her red-blonde hair cascaded to the floor in
a glossy curtain, like willow leaves in the breeze. Her sobs subsiding, Willow took a lock of the
hair in her fingers and hated it, cursed it for being so beautiful. If she were built more strongly, and was
faster and not as doll-looking, she was sure she could get by without being a
lady. But with her slender frame and her
fine features, it was easy for anyone to assume for her to be a quiet,
well-mannered girl. The fact was that
Willow wasn’t elegant. She wasn’t ladylike, she wasn’t quiet, and
she definitely was not well-mannered.
Willow thought about the evening before, when she had seized Cassius’s
arm so possessively at the festival, and her face burned with shame.
Who knew beauty could be a
curse, she reflected irritably. She
thought of Jewel, the Goddess of beauty, and mentally screamed at her,
too. Even though she’d already been
warned by Daelynn that they could hear her, she didn’t care. If Jewel appeared right in front of her right
now and changed her appearance to that of a wrinkled old woman, Willow wouldn’t
mind. Well, perhaps not that extreme, she
decided.
As if reflecting her
unruly, upset mood, she spotted the clouds outside the ballroom windows drawing
together, closing over the sun entirely and casting the entire ballroom in deep
shadow. Even though no light came
through, it was still high enough visibility for Willow to see the ballroom
door opening hesitantly, and the form—though not very distinct—slipping in as
quietly as a shadow.
It must be Father, Willow thought, mortified that Father might’ve
heard her weeping. But it wasn’t Father,
and as the figure drew closer in the near darkness she realized who it was with
a great familiar rush of joy and nervousness and relief.
“Cassius!”
He knelt down beside her,
face worried. “Something not well with
you, Princess?”
Instinctively, Willow
corrected him, as like at the festival, though it was not exactly a maidenly
thing to do. Well, who cared? She wasn’t ladylike, and Cassius still liked her. The thought cheered her up. “It’s not Princess. It’s—”
“—Just Willow.” He gave her a half-crooked smile. “Yes, I remember. My apologies.
Anyhow, what is bothering you
at this time, Willow? The morning should
be a time of peace.”
“Oh,
Cassius,” she drew in a breath, wiping dried tears off her face. “It's...it's nothing.”
“Surely it's not nothing, since I heard you
screaming running down the hall.”
Cassius studied her face, and his eyes alighted on her cheek. Willow wasn't sure what it looked like, but
she had a feeling it wasn't very pretty.
Sure enough, Cassius leaned in and brushed a finger over her cheekbone,
his forest green eyes filled with touching concern. “Willow,” he started slowly, “what happened
to your cheek?”
“N-nothing,” Willow
hiccupped.
“Now, don't be telling me
it's nothing.”
Willow threw her hands up
in surrender. “All right. It...that's because Winter...Winter smacked me.”
She gingerly touched the mark on her face.
“Oh, my. The skin's all tight and
shiny. It's like when I accidentally rub
my arm too hard on the carpet, and it...it burns me.” She let her hands fall to her lap. “Don't worry, Cassius. It looks much worse than it feels right now.” She tugged on his arm, and he sat down next
to her, the two of them silhouetted in the bare light, shadow against
shadow. Willow's dress was pooling
around her in clouds and lumps, and she patted them down. “Why are you here, anyhow? I thought you had to leave, after...after the
festival, you know.”
“Well, I...um...happened to
still be around,” Cassius said uncomfortably.
“I did see that your family is harboring another guest, no?”
“Oh, that's Castil
Seigfried,” Willow said, thinking of the almost delicate-looking dark-haired
young man. “Really, Cassius, he's only
about as old as you are. Or me. Wednesday accidentally fell on him.” She giggled.
“Oh, she's such a clumsy wretch.”
“Now don't be so mean,”
Cassius protested. “Your sister seems
nice enough—though I have experienced
her falling on a person firsthand.” He
changed the subject. “Anyhow, why would
Winter slap you? Did you do something
insensible?”
“No,” Willow
protested. “I don't know why. I just told her something over a bowl of
porridge and she suddenly had a screaming fit.
Then she slapped me, and it hurt.
She doesn't trust me anymore.”
More tears filled her eyes, and she tried to brush them away, but they
became caught on her eyelashes so whenever she had her eyes open she saw tiny
beads framing her vision. Willow blinked
several times, but one tear escaped down her cheek. As it rolled over the spot where Winter had hit
her, it stung, the salt reacting with the irritated skin.
“Ah, so you're saying she was the insensible one,” Cassius
clarified.
“Yes,” Willow
murmured. She curled up next to Cassius,
and he sat there soothing her, stroking her hair, comforting her, for as long
as she wanted.
It felt good.
Father didn’t show up until noon, an
extremely unlikely thing to happen with him.
Wednesday could almost believe it was a blue moon. Tired and with shadowy half-circles under his
eyes, he trudged into the kitchen with the speed of a sloth as Winter and
Wednesday watched him while they did lessons by themselves. Wednesday guessed that he had been completely
oblivious to the entire Winter and Willow episode, though Willow’s screams
should’ve woken up the entire palace. But strangely, almost everyone was still
asleep—the maids, the servants, all of them out cold from last night’s
drama.
Thinking of Willow made
Wednesday’s eyebrows knit slightly, and she put down her lesson papers and set
her quill in the bottle of ink quietly, eyes watching it darkly as it gently
swung back and forth due to the curved tubular shape of the rachis. Winter didn’t put her quill down, but her
hand paused, poised over the sheet. A
drop of ink dripped off the tip and flecked her paper.
“’Morning, Father,” Winter
said breezily. Father pulled himself up a
chair and frowned as he noticed the steaming pot of porridge, the aroma no
doubt pervading his senses. Winter had
put the spoon Willow had licked in the sink and fetched a new one. Every time Wednesday glanced at the sink, she
flinched involuntarily. The inhumanity
of Winter’s act had been shocking. Maybe
Willow wasn’t the worst one in the family after all, Wednesday reflected
glumly. She’d never seen Winter so
agitated. But Winter was the one who was always demanding
about following the rules, dancing correctly, even sitting correctly. Wednesday experienced frequent pains in her
abdomen, which usually caused her to hunch over slightly. Over the years, she had developed a bit of a
bad posture, and she always made an effort to keep her back straight whenever
Winter or Father was around. With
Willow, it didn’t matter. Willow didn’t
care one bit.
“Did one of you two make
this?” Father inquired, poking the spoon into the pot and pronouncing himself
satisfied before ladling up a bowl.
“No,” Winter said briskly,
apparently hoping to avoid the question of who had made it. Neither Winter nor Wednesday wanted to admit
to a guest making breakfast. “Anyhow,
Father…everything is going smoothly
with you, is it not? It’s quite late in
the morn already; perhaps you should hurry and tend to your work business, no?”
“Always organized and
precise, aren’t you, Winter?” Father said affectionately. He frowned and glanced around. “Where is Willow? Shouldn't she be doing lessons with you two?
Or is she skiving off once again?”
Wednesday blanked. Neither
of them knew where Willow was.
“Oh, she said she couldn't concentrate and was going for a quick walk in the gardens,” Winter said,
apparently thinking quickly. “You know
how she is. She just left; you just
missed her. But no matter, I’m sure
she’ll be right along. It’s quite stormy-looking
outside, and I think she’ll be right in.
It was a little walk just to clear her head. She just loves the gardens.”
“She went for a walk with
her lesson book?” Father asked. He must
have observed that Willow’s things weren’t spread out on the table.
“Actually,” Wednesday
finally spoke up, “I think she did.” It
was an odd thing to say, but Wednesday decided wholeheartedly that it was
better to make little sense than to hesitate for a long time and give one’s
self away. “She’s probably up on that
bridge of her studying that lesson.”
Father looked at Wednesday
as if he were just noticing her presence.
“Did she?” he mused, swallowing some porridge. “Well, we all know that Willow despises
grammar. Have either of you seen Lord
Seigfried today?”
“Um, no,” Winter lied,
obviously uncomfortably.
“No matter,” Father said,
shaking his head and scooping up the last bit of his porridge and standing
up. “All right, girls. I have official business to do, so just skip
any questions you don’t know and we can go over them later. I shall see you at tea. Do not be late, all right?” He swiftly exited the room without an answer,
obviously feeling more awake.
As soon as Father was out
of eyeshot, Winter sighed so hard that she threw her quill down and made a
medal-sized blot of ink right in the middle of her paper. Wednesday picked up her quill and continued
her lessons. She didn’t want to look at
Winter.
Winter sighed again, a low
growl in her throat. Her eyes were fiery
and her cheeks had two bright rose red splotches on them. The remaining ink in her quill was seeping
out, making a tributary on her topmost paper.
If the ink continued oozing, it would bleed through the rest of her
papers, and Father would not be pleased.
Wednesday commented on this, but there was a tremor in her voice when
Winter flicked her quill off the pages. Ink
spattered across the table.
“Don’t protest any more,
Wednesday,” Winter warned, having one of her rarer temper flares. Willow had dubbed them ‘insult storms’
because during her rage, Winter would rant, tirelessly and remorselessly,
hurling insult and abuse with no end at whoever was in front of her. “You should just keep quiet and do what
you’re told. Now, you didn’t used to be
so talkative, did you? I liked your old self better. Oh, but what am I saying? You’ve always been
far too useless to Father, to Mother, to me.
You were born in Bliss’s birthmonth of patience, Wednesday, but these
days you’re just overly irritating because you’ve forgotten how to bide your
time. We can’t have that, can we?” She twirled her quill between slender, pale
fingers, a smirk crossing her usually kinder and mature face. “Run along, now. I know you’re about to cry and I don’t want
your tears all over me, not at this hour.”
Winter was right; Wednesday
had barely enough time to struggle to her feet before the flood of tears
spilled down her cheeks—fleeing like the wind, she ran as fast as she could out
of the kitchen, her sobs almost inaudible but choking up in her throat,
building up. Her feet carried her faster
than she had thought they would and she almost ran smack into a door but
righted herself, pinwheeling her arms as she, momentum from her almost-fall
still carrying her fast, burst out the door and finally fell in a heap at the
entrance to the gardens when she could run no farther with the short ragged
breaths not sufficient for her poor lungs and the burning in her legs, for she
was not used to running at such speeds.
Hair in long tendrils over her face and splayed out in a fan over the
dirt, usually white face splotchy pink with streaked tears, dress tangled in
her legs, she let herself cry herself out, until there wasn’t a single tear
left in her. As she cried, her tears
followed the contours of her cheekbones, curved around her jaw, and dripped to
the ground. Birds were unaware of her
situation, a few stragglers fluttering overhead as they headed south. They
greeted her with echoing cries, but their voices were so much more joyful. And they should have been; they were on a
trip to someplace warm, without anything to stop them—they were free in the
sky. Wednesday wished she could fly away
with them; to fly away from all the rages warring in her home, the abuse she
faced from her sisters every day.
She was always crying. She must have cried at least three times in
the past two days. Wednesday hated
crying; it snatched away what little she had of a complexion and made her eyes
wildly vivid, to the point of being reminiscent of a cornered animal’s. Willow had always helpfully commented that
after Wednesday cried, she looked a bit like a raccoon because it always left
shadows around the set of her eyes.
“Stop crying so often,” she would admonish. “I don’t want a raccoon for a sister.”
Normally, Wednesday felt
upset and sad at the thought of being a raccoon, but now she hardened her
resolve and sat up, flinging hair out of her face. Her hair was a tangled nest, her skirts were
torn and frayed at the edges from tripped and falling, and there were still
damp spots on the ground from when she’d cried herself out. Now it was almost noon, and Wednesday was
amazed at how quickly time could pass when one was thinking of her woes. The ground was cold, and, putting a hand tentatively
to her cheek, she realized that she was cold, too. She wondered if her lips were blue yet, or if
they were only purple. Whatever the case,
she needed to get up.
Wednesday picked herself
up, feeling cold and empty and a bit hungry from crying. She didn’t see how crying could be as
exhausting as when Willow dragged her onto a horse and forced her to do
equestrian racing with her, but it was.
Some daffodils were early
bloomers, already opening up their trumpet-shaped sunny blossoms. Wednesday bent down, wiping the last remnants
of her weeping off her tear-sticky face, and let the gentle natural perfume
pervade her senses, leaving her feeling somewhat fresher than she had
before. She moved over to a rose arbor
to see if they had started to bloom, but was disappointed—but not surprised—to
find that the roses were hardly more than tight buds.
The sky was a roiling, soupy,
hazy blue, dotted here and there with a grayish-black dash of and angry dry
brush, the exact reflection of Wednesday’s heart. Still, it didn’t stop her from moving from
trellis to trellis, admiring the few kinds of flowers that had decided to open
early and sighing gently in regret at the ones that hadn’t. The gardens were always the most beautiful
and glorious in the spring, but Wednesday hardly ever went out in that season
because of all the sneezing the pollination caused.
She stumbled upon a rose
arbor with one rose, a fluorescent pink, already in bloom, and laughed with
such delight that she felt her cheeks warm a little. She reached to stroke its petals, and pricked
herself in the process like she did with every rose, but she squeezed the tip
of her finger firmly and after a minute or so the blood had stopped
oozing. The rose’s petals were soft, and
she stroked it lovingly before wistfully moving on. The bright sunlight not hidden by the
threatening clouds did nothing to make the air warmer, and her breath created
tiny steamy clouds in the air before they faded; but it was all right with
Wednesday. She didn’t want to go back
into that castle, where Winter surely was, calmly and innocently doing her
lessons; where Willow probably was, huddled away and full of anger at Winter for
launching such a dark rage at her. It
must have been a bad day for Winter, Wednesday thought. Two insult storms in
one morning! Winter wasn’t usually so
fiery. She was quiet and gentle, much
like her name…though she also was regal and cold and rather ignorant of anyone
she did not see fit as a partner in marriage.
As she rested herself on a
bench with iron railings in curlicue designs, Wednesday gazed up at the
swooping rope bridge, outlined in silver against the foreboding sky. It swung, even though there was no wind,
strung loosely enough that the ropes could buck like bulls in a storm. Wednesday wondered if Willow was on one of
the four bridges right now, or perhaps the central pyramid. It seemed like a place that Willow would go
if she was sad. Wednesday recalled the
elation in Willow’s face when they had come out at late dawn, and couldn’t
understand why she would want to be on that bridge. But that was Willow; daredevil and
proud. There wasn’t much else to
describe Willow with. Winter, on the
other hand, was rather mysterious and clouded.
A shadow fell over
her. Wednesday jumped, startled, looking
up. Behind her, leaning forward on the
bench rail, was Cast—Lord
Seigfried. His dark hair was so
shiny. Wednesday just wanted to stare at
it. He smiled down at her, his
aquamarine blue eyes a little clouded with the violet corners a tad troubled,
his smile just a little sadder. It was
as if he was thinking of a memory, one he didn’t exceptionally want to recall. Wednesday could relate.
“You—um, startled me,”
Wednesday said.
“Sorry,” Castil said. Wednesday couldn’t help but use his first
name. ‘Lord’ just seemed to formal a
title for such a young and sweet person.
“I didn’t mean to, Miss—um, sorry, I forgot your name.”
“Wednesday.”
“Ah, so like the day.”
“Yes.”
Wednesday focused on his
arm, sling off but still wrapped loosely in bandage. “I really am sorry about your arm, C—” She stopped.
“I’m sorry. I keep trying to call you by your first name.”
“No, it’s quite all
right.” Castil said that often,
Wednesday thought. He was always saying
things were all right, even when they were rather dismal. His polite personality made Wednesday feel
rude in comparison. “You can use my first name if you like.”
Wednesday almost blushed,
but she was determined to hold it in this time.
She patted the bench next to her.
“Why don’t you sit down?” He sat
down next to her, and she continued, “I really am sorry about your arm,
Castil.”
He shrugged. “Things happen, Miss Wednesday. I’m simply fortunate enough to have someone
so nice as you to fall on me instead of—instead of an old stubborn hag, for
instance.”
A giggle of surprised
laughter escaped Wednesday before she could draw it back in. Castil grinned sheepishly, as if he wasn’t
used to making such comments. “Well,
it’s true,” he protested. “It would be
much harder to talk around you if you weren’t a sweet young lady like
yourself.”
“Oh, but I’m really not,”
Wednesday protested back. “Take a closer
look at Winter or Willow. They’re the
ones who get all the admiration—because, well—because they’re the pretty ones,
the ones with flair, the ones that aren’t always falling over banisters onto
guests.”
Castil raised his
eyebrows. “You imply that this has
happened before.” He said it as a
question.
“It has,” Wednesday
admitted. “I wish it weren’t true, but
last year, on the same day, I toppled over the banister onto a poor fellow by
the name of Cassius Wickerworth.”
Castil smiled,
humorlessly. “I do hope you two are
friends?” There was something tighter
about his voice now. Wednesday wasn’t sure if she’d done something wrong, but
she decided to respect his privacy and not dig deeper.
“Kind of,” she replied with
a little anxious laugh. “I mean, we
hardly know each other. But he was at
the ball also. I suppose he left before you
were there, but…well, he knows Willow better than I do.” She had a flashback to Willow grabbing his
arm, and nearly scowled. Quickly
changing the subject, she added, “Anyhow, why are you here, Castil? You could get lost. Our gardens have a maze, you know.”
“At the center, I noticed,”
Castil answered with a little smile. “I
also noticed some rope bridges and traced them to a pyramid. Are they ever used? They look awfully
precarious.”
“That’s what I always say,”
Wednesday agreed. “They’re
Willow’s. She runs along them all the
time. I’m not sure why she would like to
be so high up—I’m afraid of heights,” she added shyly. “But—um—well, she uses them. Nobody else
does.”
“Is that so?” Castil looked amused at the thought of Willow
running around alone on top of the pitching rope bridges. Though right now it was rather serene by its
usual standards. “Well. Anyhow, I’m setting off, so I thought I might
take off alone. I’d hate to rally all of
you up for a good bye. Just thought I’d
make it simple and cut out all the unnecessary farewells. But of course, I stumbled upon you and just
had to say hello. It doesn’t feel very
gentlemanly of me to sneak off without thanking at least one of my hosts,” he
added bashfully, with a hint of flush.
Wednesday sat up. “You were going to leave?” she cried. “Alone?
You’re arm’s still hurt.” Because of me, she reminded herself
guiltily. “Anyhow, how can you be
thinking of gentlemanliness? You’re hardly more than a boy, about my age. How old can you be?”
“Erm, fifteen.”
“See?” Wednesday said
triumphantly. “You’re only two years
older than I am.”
“By now Elizabeth II would
have been married for years.”
“Was it Elizabeth II?”
“I’m not sure. My history is not very good.”
It was so easy to talk with
Castil, Wednesday thought to herself, and inwardly smiled. “Mine isn’t either,” she confessed. “I prefer
literature. Shakespeare was a genius.”
“I think he was not quite
right in the head.”
“Well, then he was a
not-quite-right-in-the-head genius,” Wednesday said firmly.
Castil laughed. “Which is your favorite play?”
“Hamlet,” Wednesday
said. “Though I feel that Hamlet was a
big strange. And why Denmark, I wonder? At any rate, I feel that he’s quite the
interesting character. Though I also
like Othello…”
“Is that not a game?”
Castil asked.
Wednesday laughed. “It’s not only that,” she corrected him
gently, “though I do believe it is a game…”
She tapped her chin with one tapered finger. “Othello…it’s a strange one as well. And then of course there’s Romeo and Juliet,
which is also one of his most fantastic.
And yet I also frequently favor A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which is one
of his most absurd works.”
“Aah, they’re all absurd,”
Castil said with the frustrated air of one comparing rocks to dirt in terms of
beauty. Wednesday laughed, surprised
that she could find such humor in so simple a sentence, and she couldn’t help
but let a smile spread across her face, so wide it pushed her cheeks up into the
first real smile she’d had in days.
“You know,” Castil said, “I
actually enjoy nonfiction literature more.”
“Really?” Wednesday said,
wondering who could not enjoy a good piece of Charles Dickens over a
textbook.
“Just statistical things,
actually,” Castil said, thoughtful. “I
enjoy politics. And reading about
history, and human development, and generational decline. In fact, I enjoy reading about generational
decline very much.”
“Generational
decline?” Wednesday tried to imagine her
grandfather, who had died before she was born, being the height of a
skyscraper, then her father only a building’s height, then her as perhaps a
fence post, and her children (who she placed a blank on) the height of a coffee
table.
“The habits and
disciplinary decline through the family line,” Castil explained, seeming to
notice her confusion. “From the
immigrant generation to the first generation, and then from the second
generation on—they have different habits that tend to decline through the
generations. It’s really quite
fascinating, especially since the immigrant and first generation tend to be the
sharpest, the most bright. And from then
on the qualities tend to go down and down and down.”
Wednesday paused, feeling a
little hurt. “I’m seventeenth generation,”
she said, trying not to sound offended.
This seemed to dawn on
Castil, because he said quickly, “Please don’t take that as an insult. I didn’t mean that to be offensive—I mean, I
just….”
“Don’t mind,” Wednesday
said, shrugging it off. At least Castil
was finely attuned to her feelings, and she felt a little glow inside. “Honestly, it’s not always that way, is
it? If that were true, then maybe my
grandfather would’ve had a little more sense!”
Castil smiled
tentatively. “I suppose you don’t hold
such a high opinion of his intelligence?”
“Oh, his common sense was
terrible, just terrible,” Wednesday told him earnestly. “Father told me that—Grandfather died before
I was born. Father said that Grandfather
was as clumsy as a horse, and that he was rash and always did things without
thinking. Whether it be working or just
having fun, Grandfather always chose the least sensible way of doing it. Father told me one time that Grandfather was
trying to fit more books in his trunk one day when he was preparing to go away
on a trip, and so he put all the little ones in first and then got angry when
he couldn’t fit the large ones in.” She
smiled.
“That actually reminds me
of my own mother,” Castil said with a little laugh. “She would wash the dishes and then stack
them on the table, which hadn’t been washed yet; or she would be washing the
clothes, get all the dirt off in one tub, and then use the same dirty water to
wash out extra soap.”
“I’m sure that’s a very
efficient way to do such things,” Wednesday said solemnly. They both laughed, and she went on, “But my
Lord, Grandfather. Mother used to say
that Grandfather was an interesting specimen—since he was far too strange to be
human! Father would recall memories of
when he was a young boy and Grandfather would be doing the strangest
things. He said maybe Grandfather wanted
to be an inventor, since he had so many weird contraptions that probably were
household objects that had been melted, frozen, baked, boiled, burned, or all
of the above. Sometimes I wish that
Grandfather was still alive when I was b-b—” She sneezed, and looked down at
herself in surprise, realizing goose pimples were all over her bare arms. “Oh, I—”
She sneezed again, and the effort wracked her chest, and she let out a
sharp gasp.
In a single motion, Castil
swept his long swallowtail jacket off his shoulders and onto hers, covering
her. His own shoulders were so slender
that it fit almost perfectly on her own.
The jacket was velvety, and while it was thin, it blocked out the cold
like a wall. She looked up into Castil’s face in surprise. He smiled, even
though under his jacket, he was only wearing a thin turtleneck.
“Aren’t you cold, like
that?” Wednesday asked.
“Not as cold as you were,
in that dress,” Castil said. “You needed
it more than I did. I should’ve given it
to you earlier, but…well…I guess I haven’t mastered that level of forethought
yet,” he admitted.
“I think you’re perfectly
fine,” Wednesday said as he wrapped it more closely around her. “Goodness, I didn’t realize just how cold I
was. Thank you; this is like
heaven.”
Castil shrugged. “It’s a duty. A real gentleman wouldn’t let a
girl freeze to death, would he?”
Wednesday shrugged back at
him. “But you don’t qualify. You’re not old enough to be really considered
a man at this point.” She was feeling
a little bit light-headed from the force of her sneezing, and she gripped the
arm of the bench for support.
“I’m not just a boy
anymore,” Castil said, oblivious to her discomfort. “I suppose I’m somewhere in the middle.”
“Mmm.” Hairline cracks were fracturing her
vision. She decided she really wasn’t
feeling well; pressure was building up in her chest like steam trapped in a
teakettle, and it was making her heartbeat race. And it wasn’t because Castil was there. She
should tell Castil that she needed to get back in… “Castil,” she began, “I…”
Her vision wavered and
careened sideways. Hm? I…I feel weak.
She was only semi-aware of
hands catching her, Castil’s face, framed with his beautifully shiny dark hair,
looking down at her, some noise—a voice?—and then being scooped up into
someone’s arms and being carried. She
was caught in a half-daze, with Castil’s head the only thing she could really
see. The edges of her vision were
sparkly, with starbursts of blue. Castil…she
thought, a little delirious. He was so pretty.
Just like a girl. With that
gorgeous dark hair swept over his brow, with jagged edges of ice-white shine,
in soft swoops around his face that framed his pointed, elegant jawline and
that fine-bridged nose…the most beautiful eyes, that exotic blue-green-grey
with the violet rings at the far edge, close to the whites.
She closed her eyes and let
him just carry her. Where are we going? she wondered.
He must be taking me somewhere
far, far away…and she conjured up an image in her mind’s eye, of her
perception of what Castil’s home must look like; a large, homey kind of
charming farmhouse with a soft-hill sprawling meadow. She imagined sinking into this meadow, such a
pretty meadow, and falling into a rich sleep…
Wednesday opened her eyes.
She was no longer in
Castil’s arms. She was lying supine, and
from here she could see the familiar ceiling of her room, and if she glanced
sideways to her left she could see the antique bureau with her medicine bottle,
and underneath her she could feel her large, firm pillow. Over her were her
sheets. She was back in her room, back
in bed.
Only
one thing was different. She could still
feel Castil’s jacket under her back, surrounding her in a warm, ruffled cocoon.
She sat up, and Castil’s
jacket fell off her shoulders. No
dizziness attacked her. Not a single bit
of wooziness was left in her. A glance at the window, on which the curtains had
been pulled back, revealed that it was almost noon.
Wednesday pulled herself
out of bed, still clutching the jacket.
She felt mortified, as usual, of her sickliness, and that she had almost
fainted in the middle of a perfectly normal conversation, all because of two sneezes. She went into the bathroom.
Looking into the mirror,
she saw a dreadfully pale face with prominent lashes that sloped downwards and
then up as if they were weighed down, lips that seemed unnaturally red in her
white face, eyes that stood out, visible dark shadows under her eyes like
someone had pasted a film underneath them, her hair like a rat’s nest, all
shoved to one side and tangled up in snarls.
“You look like a ghost,”
she said to herself. “Lighten up,
Wednesday, and get yourself cleaned up.”
Splashing water recklessly
on her face, she rubbed a towel over it, and ran her fingers through her loose
hair. It was coming unpinned, the pins
sticking out in strange places, making her head look prickly as a hedgehog. She
made a sour face at herself. Of course,
neither of her sisters (or her father or mother, for that matter) had bothered
to take out her pins or comb her hair before laying her down on the bed. Oh, well.
She didn’t need them to look after her.
Wednesday grabbed a brush
and scraped it against her scalp, pulling out any tangled hairs with a
wince. She combed out several pins as
well, letting them clink to the floor along with coiled strands of auburn. Soon the floor was littered with pins and
hair. She pushed them all into a pile
with her toes, and stared at herself in the mirror again.
“Oh, now I look like I’ve
just gotten out of bed,” she murmured.
Her hair trailed to the small of her back, brushed and completely
undone. Her face was still pale, but
Wednesday didn’t care. She took, with one hand, Castil’s jacket from where she’d
hung it on a hook, and with the other hand plucked another rose from the vase
sitting on the sinktop. She’d pricked
herself once again. How had she done
something like that? Frowning, she wiped her hand carelessly on a towel,
leaving a thin smear of pink-red, and walked downstairs without bothering to
re-pin her hair or put on some stockings and slippers.
Winter was at the central
room’s table, calmly working a needle. A
froth of yellow silk was coiled on her lap.
Willow wasn’t present, and neither was Father—though he would probably
be along soon, as it was drawing close to noon and they would quickly be eating
some lunch.
Winter looked up when
Wednesday came in. “Oh, there you are,”
she said, returning to her work, “I was wondering if you were ever going to
wake up.”
“It wasn’t that long,”
Wednesday said mildly.
“It was plenty long,
considering that it was induced by a simple sneeze,” Winter said casually, not
even sparing Wednesday a glance.
Deciding to ignore this
pointed statement, Wednesday sat down at the table. “Where’s Willow?” she asked, changing the
subject.
“I honestly have no idea,”
Winter said in an offhand voice, concentrating on the silk she was sewing
up. “She returned a bit before you came
back in Castil’s arms, but left almost as soon as she came. Then Castil came back. He seemed a little bit flustered that you’d
fainted for no apparent reason, and he seemed to think it was his fault. Something about being too cold out there and
something about his coat? Then he asked
me to fetch Father, which of course I did, and asked him to take you up to our
room. And then he apologized again, bid
us a quick good-bye, and left.”
“He’s left?” Wednesday demanded, completely forgetting that she was
surprised about Winter also using Castil’s first name.
“Yes, he’s left, didn’t you
hear what I just said?” Winter didn’t
sound happy.
“But I still have—he left
his jacket!” Wednesday exclaimed, holding it up, dropping her rose on the
floor. “He’s already gone and he didn’t
take it back!”
At this, Winter practically
flung her silk on the table and rushed over, gathering up the jacket. “Wait—this is his jacket? He forgot it?”
“No, I don’t think he
forgot it; I think he left it on purpose.
The poor fellow seems to think it’s his duty to be a gentleman even
though he’s only fifteen. Now what should I do, Winter?”
“Well, he’s got to come
back,” Winter said, very self-confidently.
“Don’t worry, Wednesday, he’s going to come back if I have to make him
and then we’ll give him his jacket.
Goodness, this is fine material! And yet he still left it, on purpose,
too. He must have a very high opinion of
you.” Winter scrutinized Wednesday
carefully. “At least, that I would think.”
At that moment, Willow came
bursting it, breath in a huff, looking completely in shambles with her hair
coming down and her face flushed and the flounces of her dress askew. She stopped in the doorway, exhilarated. “Come quick! Oh, you have to come. Mother’s
back!”
“What?” Winter’s skirts billowed as she jumped up and
ran for the doors. Wednesday hurried
after her as fast as she dared. Mother
was back? She hadn’t even been aware
that Mother had left. Then again, Mother
was so busy she didn’t ever have time to have tea with her daughters, or even
come to supper. It wasn’t unusual that
Mother had left and come back without notice, but still….
Well, at least she was
back. The three of them ran out front,
Willow all messy—no doubt she’d been running about in the gardens again—and
Winter pristine and aloof, and Wednesday feeling like she had still just gotten
out of bed with her undone hair and bare feet.
A covered carriage pulled
by two bridled Lippizans had pulled up on the front walk. The carriage was a fairly grand thing, a dark
scarlet with gold tasseled bordering, and Wednesday knew that the inside was
just as fancy. She and her sisters had
once ridden in it to a party hosted by the McConnermans. The window facing them
was covered by a golden drape so they couldn’t see Mother’s face.
“Mother!” Winter and Willlow went sprinting down to the
front walk, their faces like sunshine, pulling up their skirts so they wouldn’t
trip over the hems. Wednesday quickly
followed behind as Winter reached the carriage doors and flung them open.
Mother sat inside, calmly
holding her seashell-shaped bag on her lap while the carriageman, who was
leaning in the other side’s open doorway, gathered up her belongings to take
back up to the mansion. Despite her incessant
travels, she was as gorgeous as ever, looking posh in her rich green dress with
its matching stylish hat. She looked
like a woman playing as Scarlett O’Hara-in-her-curtains-dress with the green
and the gold trim, which made her seem all the grander.
“Girls!” she said, holding
out her arms, and Winter and Willow tumbled into them. They loved Mother like a cat with cheese,
mostly because Mother favored them (of course) and that she usually brought
back expensive gifts for all of them.
Mother laughed; a sweet, bright laugh that always made heads in the
vicinity turn—especially men’s heads. “Oh,
I’ve missed you, my precious gems. All
of you doing all right? Willow, darling,
you’re looking a little peachy. And
Winter—well, elegant as ever, I must say.
Wednesday, are you hiding back there?”
She craned her head and spied Wednesday hovering on the outskirts behind
the heaps of skirts. “Ah, there you are.
Well, my girls—oh, my Willow, you really are looking paler than
usual. I’m concerned! Has anything
happened?”
“No,” Willow said, casting
a sideways glare at Winter so Mother wouldn’t see.
“Mmm, well just give me a
holler if anything’s bothering you, honey,” Mother said, stroking Willow’s
hair. She turned her attention to
Winter. “Ah, Winter. You’re growing as fast as ever, more and more
beautiful each day—you look like a goddess.
Of course, you already did, but if it’s possible for someone like you
get even prettier, it’s happened in the time I was away.”
Winter beamed. “Oh, Mother.
I could never be as pretty as you.”
“I don’t know about that,
now,” Mother chided, touching a hand to her face. “I’m getting old, and I won’t be the person I
once was. All this business is getting
to me.”
“You still look as young as
ever.”
“Ah, my dove.” Mother planted a large kiss on Winter’s
forehead, leaving a lipstick mark. She
quickly rubbed it off. “Well, get off
me, now, both of you! How am I supposed
to get home with you two clinging to me?”
Winter and Willow quickly
scrambled off Mother as she smoothed her skirts down and ducked out of the
carriage with the sound of swishing silk. “Come to the back with me,
girls.” She led them all to the trunk
(with which the carriagehand was still struggling) and picked up a stack of
wrapped gifts with bows, handing a large, cylindrical one to Willow, a
rectangular one to Winter, and a heavy but relatively small roundish one to
Wednesday. Holding it curiously,
Wednesday ran her hand over it. The wrapping paper was full of wrinkles, as if
the object inside wasn’t smooth.
With
the carriageman lugging Mother’s belongings behind, they all started up back to
the castle, with Mother chattering the entire way.
“Goodness me, it seems
you’ve gotten thinner, Willow. That
isn’t a good thing anymore! You’re as
skinny as a stick! I’m starting to
really become worried about you. Oh, and
Winter dear, I hope that you’ve excelled in your lessons with the new course I
proposed to your father about? Yes? Ah, I was confident in you, my
beautiful. Such a gifted mind! I just
realized you’ve changed your hairstyle, Winter.
It looks gorgeous like that, separating the gold and the red and the
blonde and all the other colors that make up your hair. I love those strands that just drape
over. And Willow, your hair is as famous
as ever. They’re still talking about you
in Yorkshire. Though I notice that you
have a bit more curl in it now, and it looks like rolling sea waves, like this
one painting I saw on my last travels—just lovely, even if you are a bit
disheveled today, but no matter. Now, where’s
your father? I need a few words with
him! He doesn’t seem to have paid enough
attention to you all—and you need attention, growing girls like you. I suppose
a man like him wouldn’t understand. He’s
so unsocial—no appreciation of artistry, or music, or parties, or drinking, or
anything that has to do with all these festive things. The man is so unpredictable! Well, anyhow, at least you’ll have me to talk
to. I’m staying a while, my girls, and
because of difficulties that are going on in the business world right now, I
don’t have much work to do, so I won’t be cooped up all day long,
thankfully. Maybe now I’ll be able to
spend time with my precious gems, perhaps take a little stroll in the gardens
every day, hm? No more being isolated from my favorite beauties! And I’ll be
able to have tea with you, and go to parties with you, and have our meals
together. Everything’s going to be so much more enjoyable and less lonely with
me back. Maybe I’m a little
self-absorbed, but, well, a girl can’t survive in life without a little pride,
don’t you think? That’s my view on life, at any rate. Now, once we get inside, then we can sit at
the main table and you can open up your gifts.
Have none of the house decorations have been changed? Ah, good, they
have! The way your father redecorated last time was absolutely awful—no sense
of style. Did you redecorate this
time? Oh, thank goodness. If I see the floral-pattern chair in the
parlor one more time, I really do think I am going to explode. Honestly, who would do something like that? I
trust you’ve had the artistic sense to put things into the right places. Well,
now I’m off-track. But the main table is
still in the main room, is it not? Ah, good, that was what I was wondering. As
long as that’s there, our house will still feel like our house, no matter if
the floral chair is in the parlor. At
least none of our family is nonsensical enough to put honest-to-goodness chairs
in the ballroom—now that would be a true tragedy. Oh, I’ve missed the gardens. Hopefully no guests have gotten lost in the
central maze. And I see that your
bridges are still intact, Willow, though perhaps not for much longer. Some of these blooms are early blossoms;
though I must say, I’ve never seen so many of our daffodils so close to already
withering in such early a January. The
arbors need some trimming. Honestly,
who’s been doing the work around this place?
You’d think they were dancing a mazurka instead of cutting with
shears. Maybe I can get the work running
a bit faster around here; time seems to have slowed down, the efficiency is so
low. Don’t you worry; I won’t be working
any of you around the clock, my little jewels!
All is well now that your mother is back and ready to hustle until
everything is perfectly set. Though I
may have to leave in April, but even if I do, it will be a very short trip,
only a few days instead of a long one like this one. I cannot believe I’ve been gone for three
months. All of you have grown so much,
fine young ladies instead of older girls now.
Almost marrying age, aren’t you, Willow?
And hopefully you’ll find someone who suits your fancy soon,
Winter. I know how it feels, so
agonizing for the choice! You must be
dizzy with worry to find a man quickly, but take your time. It’s quality of a husband that counts!”
They reached the door, and
Winter pulled it open graciously, as Willow ran ahead to call Father down, with
Mother smiling pleasantly as she sailed into the foyer.
“My, my,” she said. “It hasn’t changed that much. Perhaps that’s a good thing. If it was completely changed, well, I suppose
it wouldn’t feel like home.
Nevertheless, still a nice place, I say.”
“Yes, it’s a nice place,”
Wednesday said politely.
Mother started to undo the
satin ribbon of her hat under her chin.
“Of course it is. Where’s that
father of yours, Wednesday?”
“Willow’s gone to get him,”
Wednesday said, still using her politest voice.
“I’m sure he’ll be right along.
Do you need help with your hat?”
“I’m not that old,” Mother
laughed, finally tugging the bow apart and lifting the hat off, then smoothing
down her hair. Her shiny coffee curls
bounced into place around her face, perfectly formed, and she shook her head to
let them settle. “Ah, that’s much
better. I could hardly turn my head
without my hair tickling my neck in that monstrosity.”
“I think your hair’s quite
fine,” Wednesday commented. “Really,
Mother, I think you should be proud.
You’re the only one in our immediate family that doesn’t have red in his
or her hair. It’s such a pretty color,
too.”
“You’re as fickle as ever,”
said Mother, tossing her hat to Wednesday.
She caught it in surprise and hung it on the hatstand as Mother
continued striding towards the main room.
“Trust you to focus on my hair color, my girl, and not my face!”
“Sorry,” Wednesday said
quickly, trying to keep up with Mother’s quick pace. Mother was always like Willow—a bit on the
different side, easy to take offense, perhaps not what one would call a traditional lady. Mother’s skirts swished around her as she
turned into the main room and almost trod on the rose that Wednesday had
dropped earlier. Just in time, she
stopped short, and Wednesday backed up as Mother’s skirts curled forward and
then billowed back.
“Say, what’s that?” Mother
said, bending at the knees to pick the rose up.
“I dropped it earlier,”
Wednesday said apologetically as Mother studied the rose, which was slightly
crushed on one side.
“What a pretty color,”
Mother said, stroking the petals. “Like
spun glass—ah, delicate. Much like
you. You like roses, don’t you, Wednesday?”
“Um, yes.” Wednesday placed the gift Mother had given
her on the table.
“Well, here you are.” Smiling, Mother pulled a pin from her own
hair and clipped the rose behind Wednesday’s ear. Wednesday barely had time to enjoy the
feeling of Mother’s silken skin brushing against her ear when Mother turned
away, exclaiming, “Oh, George!”
Father, with Willow
trailing behind, came striding purposefully into the hall. His face seemed to light up slightly when he
saw Mother—a little less worn, a little less tired. “Esthetique, my darling.” He took one of Mother’s dainty hands in his,
and kissed it.
“Oh, you formal old goat,”
Mother said, and Willow stifled a snort.
“Who said I was an old
goat?” Father said, affronted. Winter, who arrived in the main room at this
time, looked taken aback, at this strange statement.
Mother kissed him.
Father kissed her back.
“A pair of love doves,
aren’t you two?” Willow said teasingly, hugging her package to her chest, and
Mother winked at her over Father’s shoulder.
Finally they broke apart,
the girls hanging awkwardly at the edges of the main room, unsure of what to
say at this exchange. Mother sighed and
took a seat at the main table, smoothing down her skirts again as they poofed
up.
“It’s amazing to be back,”
she said as Winter industriously started to clear the table. Father sat down next to Mother, and she
leaned her head on his shoulder. “Both
my girls have grown up so much in the three months I was away.”
“Your three girls,” Father corrected, looking apologetically at Wednesday. She pushed down the irritation of being
“forgotten” by her own mother. Whether
Mother had done it on purpose or on accident, she didn’t know, but either way,
it displeased her.
“Oh, yes. Terribly sorry about that slip of tongue,
Wednesday darling.” Mother held out her
free arm to Wednesday, and Wednesday took a seat on Mother’s other side. Mother gave her a little squeeze. “Really, my girl, don’t think I’ve forgotten
about you! Now, where’s Winter?”
“She went to go clear some
of the clutter on the table,” Willow reported, also taking a seat on the other
side of the circular table and primly smoothing down her dress as it billowed
up. “You know how she is—she’ll take
everything out of this room and dump it somewhere else if we don’t stop her.”
“There’s my favorite
unladylike girl,” Mother said affectionately, leaning even more on Father. Willow grinned, still hugging her
present. “I know you’re anxious to open
that, Willow,” she added. “When Winter
returns we can open them. Just like the Christmas
celebrations we would have, don’t you remember?
The last time I was actually here for Christmas was—oh—goodness, that
was some years ago, wasn’t it?—well, I think it was back when you were still a
wee chit. Pretty as a painting even back then when you were only as tall as my
waist!”
Willow blushed.
Winter came hurrying into
the large room, still clutching her thin box.
In the few minutes she’d been gone, she not only had successfully
cleared the table, but had changed into a better, more respectful dress to show
her submissiveness to her mother. She
was in stark contrast to both Willow and Wednesday, both of whom were
disheveled and rather untidy. Taking a seat a few feet away from Willow, she
quickly smoothed her skirts down and placed her package on the table. “Sorry, I’m a little late,” she said sweetly.
“What matters is that
you’re here now, dove,” said Mother indifferently. At that moment, the carriage hand came
struggling in, dragging all of Mother’s belongings behind him. He dropped them off beside the hatstand and
ran off, looking clearly unhappy.
“Ah!” said Mother. “I brought some more gifts back, too. Most of them are in this suitcase.” She hauled a large brown suitcase over. “Still…perhaps you should open those three
first, hm?”
“Can we now?” Willow said,
wriggling with excitement.
“Of course, my darling,”
Mother said.
Without waiting to solicit
Father’s opinion, Willow ripped the paper off her cylindrical tin, revealing…a
silver tin with a cover. She took that
off, too, and peeped inside. Winter was busily taking off her paper, very
neatly, so none of the wrapping tore.
Wednesday started to unravel the tissue papers off her spherical one.
“Oh, this is so sweet!”
exclaimed Willow, tipping the tin upside-down.
To the girls’ excitement, out fell a waterfall of colorful wrapped
ribbon candies, the twisted kind in bright hues. The plastic wraps crackled as they spilled
onto the table.
“Such expensive candy,”
Father said, raising an eyebrow at his wife.
Mother pecked him on the
nose. “Yes, they were, but it’s worth it
for my darlings, is it not? They are for the girls to share.”
“Twenty-six…twenty-seven…twenty-eight.” Willow had counted them, poking her finger
and making little piles; equal amounts for her, Winter, and Wednesday. She looked up in dismay. “There are twenty-eight of them. That’s not divisible by three.”
Winter pushed her
half-unwrapped box aside and re-counted the candies. “Well, if there are twenty-eight, then we
each get nine and there’s one left over.
We can give that one to Mother.”
“What about Father?” Willow
said, still puzzling over the numbers, trying to find an equal division.
“Someone would have to give up one. Then
two people would get nine and one person would have eight.”
“Wednesday, hand one of
yours over,” Mother clucked impatiently.
“It’s a simple candy, girls. And
Wednesday can’t have too much sugar anyhow, or she’ll—”
“Suffer from high blood
pressure. We know, Mother,” Willow said,
rolling her eyes. She plucked a candy
from Wednesday’s small pile and pushed the two extra candies across the table
to Mother and Father. “We witnessed it
firsthand. On Thanksgiving of last
year—you weren’t here, Mother—well, we had so much food between us and the
McConnermans. And after a bit of casual
dancing, then we passed around all the sweets, and each of us had a bowl of
that delicious tapioca pudding with a dollop of clotted cream. And then Wednesday had a sort of seizure kind
of malady—”
“Yes, thank you for
reminding me of that,” said Wednesday, annoyed with Willow for bringing it
up. She pushed around her ribbon candies
with one finger.
“Well,” Willow said,
bashful. “Well, thank you for the
candies, Mother.”
Mother extended her arm
over the table, and Willow kissed her fingertips since they were on opposite
sides of the table.
Winter finished neatly
taking off the paper on her box, and she opened it to find a dress
inside—nothing like the somewhat behind fashions in _______, but a modern,
stylish thing that was all the rage in [somewhere else]. Winter lifted it up in wonder, letting the
sky-blue creation swath the table with its silvery, light half-sleeves that
succumbed into folds at the elbows, dripping off in an airy waterfall. Colors,
various shades of the same family of blue, swept from the dress’s hip towards
the floor, curling in seashell waves and tumbling to rest, undulated, at the
floor.
“It—it’s gorgeous,” Winter
stammered.
“A sweet little thing,
isn’t it?” Mother said as Winter fingered the lace trimming of the soft corset.
“I thought it’d be just you—pale and perfect and cool as the season you were
named after.”
“It is perfect, Mother,” Winter said in a hushed voice. She set the dress down on the table, and it
poofed up for a moment, showing the heavy silk crinolines before settling down
and pooling silkily on the polished wood.
Winter hurried around the side of the table, squeezed between Wednesday
and Mother, and gave Mother a tight hug.
“I love it,” she whispered.
“And I love you,” Mother
whispered back, smiling as Winter stood up and went back to her side of the
table, still fascinated as she picked it back up and the wispy flounces
fluttered to life like ghostly snowflakes.
Wednesday averted her eyes
from the beautiful dress and tugged off the crinkly tissue papers on her own
gift, and they fell apart, leaving a more-or-less round object on tiny stilts
not even an inch tall. The object was
frosted glass, with a wind-up handle.
Hesitantly, Wednesday turned it a few times before letting go. The handle was surprisingly stiff and needed
a good bit of force to do a full 360 degree turn.
The gift tinkled to life,
filling the air with a crystalline song in a minor key. It was a song Wednesday recognized—Moonlight
Sonata.
“It’s a music box,” she
whispered, looking at it in rapture. It
was so beautiful, singing in a clear voice.
“It’s a music globe,” Mother corrected gently. “It is a sphere, after all.”
They all watched as the
music started to wind down—for Wednesday had only turned the handle twice—and finally
clicked to a stop. What a haunting melody, Wednesday thought. The gift was perfect for someone like her.
A loud crackling noise
broke the sacred silence after the music globe had finished, and everyone
turned. Willow was calmly opening one of
her ribbon candies.
“Oh, honestly, Willow,”
Winter said, rolling her eyes, but she didn’t really seem upset. Everyone
laughed as Willow indifferently popped the candy in her mouth.
“Thanks, Mother,” Wednesday
said quietly, giving her a hug as a touch of ceremony ensued, with the girls
laughing at one another and Father watching them, bemused.
“You’re welcome, my plucky
darling,” Mother said brightly. After a
moment, she turned back to Father, taking a small box of chocolates out of her
pocket and offering it to him. “Would
you like a chocolate, George?”
“I’d lie a chocwut,” Willow
said, speaking through her candy, which was mangling her words.
It was as if they were
seven years old again, which was the year before Mother had started becoming
extremely busy and had no time for them.
The girls were all laughing and bright, Mother had her pleasant motherly
smile on her face, and Father seemed happier than he had that morning. The entire castle seemed cheerful and
ceremonious, and Wednesday preferred it over the gloomy silence that usually
dominated it these days, broken only by Willow’s antics.
Mother passed around the
chocolates, laughing, and the girls seized them, shrieking with joy.
“Raspberries!” Willow
cried, grabbing one from the box.
“Oh, don’t stuff it in your
mouth, Willow—you’re going to choke; oh, come on, how old are you, five?
Ah, cream and chocolate—that’s my absolute favorite!”
“Give me the box, Winter!”
“Can I have one? Honestly,
you two are—”
“Yes, yes, we’re children,
I know, Wednesday, it’s just plain fun.
I’d rather be as childish as I want now before Mother boffs off to
another long trip.”
“I wish you could stay forever, Mother!”
The girls tumbled onto the
carpet of the adjacent library, laughing their heads off and tangling their
hair around themselves, tossing the empty chocolate box around. Wednesday felt exhilarated, laughing with her
sisters, feeling as though nothing had ever happened between them and that
their life would be serene always, since their family was all together. Even Father was more at ease, the tightness
around his jaw and controlled temper gone, leaving, an easy, relaxed posture.
Their days had been terse and fitful with Mother missing, and now, now that everything
was back in place and would be for a few months, Wednesday was glad. She wanted time to freeze, to enjoy the
playful, not spiteful, romping with her sisters, with no worries about her
health and no teasing from Willow, no glares from Winter. The festive season was at its peak, and this
was how it should be.
If only this would last, she thought. Because, of course, it
wouldn’t.
