Post by rosalyne on Mar 25, 2007 15:03:41 GMT -5
I smiled softly at the sound of my sister’s full throated laugh. That powerful, unabashed sound from seemingly temperate, subdued little Marguerite never fails to draw an answering response from me, no matter how foul my mood. And my mood that day was already fairly sunny. Our eldest sister, Helene, was heavily pregnant with her first child and this luncheon would likely be the last time I saw my sister before she became a mother.
Helene’s condition was why we had met at Camellia rather than somewhere in Night’s Doorstep, as was our usual custom. She was the very picture of health, but the nearness of her time had made her reluctant to venture far from home, and we were more than willing to accommodate her. But, of course, the very reason I normally avoided my childhood home would have to intrude upon us.
Marguerite was still talking at great, and inappropriately detailed, length about her over-eager patron when Helene’s gaze strayed over my shoulder. I knew immediately, from the slight tightening of her brow and her hastily darted glance my way, who it was approaching from behind me. I closed my eyes and sighed in resignation. Helene looked pointedly at Marguerite who didn’t quite get the message until he’d reached our table, then understanding suddenly filled her eyes and stilled her tongue.
Helene smiled a little awkwardly, “Hello, father.” She said a little too brightly as kissed her brow.
“How are you feeling today, sweetheart?” he asked as her crouched down beside her chair.
“Better.” She said, not looking at me. He didn’t know who I was yet, I realised. He hadn’t recognized me. I supposed it was unsurprising, he hadn’t seen me since I was ten, and before that only when he couldn’t avoid it, when I was with my sisters; like I was right then.
He turned to me smiling, assuming, I suppose, that he was about to meet a friend of his daughters, but I looked him in the eye and his smile stuttered and disappeared. “You remember Rosalyne don’t you, father?” Marguerite asked sweetly, without a hint of a smile. Trust Marguerite to push buttons, I thought with a quiet sigh.
Looking at him right then, standing between Helene and myself I couldn’t help but think he was a fool to deny me. There was no mistaking Helene and myself for anything but sisters. Except for the fact that she had our mother’s sapphire blue eyes, we were the next thing to identical. And looking at our father for the first time as a grown woman, fit to judge such things, I knew where most of our features came from. And even Marguerite, who favoured our mother in every other way, had the same red hair that we did.
His brief smile looked more like a tick, I thought, clenching my teeth shut and forcing my own smile to look at ease. “Of course.” He said, clearing his throat after a slightly too long pause. His eyes kept darting away from mine, and it angered me that I had no way to know if it was embarrassment or that he didn’t like what he had to look at there.
He cleared his throat again and gave a better semblance of a smile, largely to Marguerite and Helene, as he stood. “I’m glad you feel better.” He said, laying a hand on Helene’s shoulder, “I’ll see you tonight.” He gave me another awkward tick of a smile before he turned and left.
There was a long silence after that, as I starred at the table, and my sisters starred at me. Taking a deep breath I forced the man who had spent my entire life pretending I didn’t exist out of my thoughts so I could give my sisters a genuine smile as I rose from my chair. Their smiles were consoling and a little sad. I stooped to give them each a peck on the cheek and said, “Send me word,” as I laid my hand on Helene’s belly and she laid her hand on mine. I smiled warmly and gave her another peck on the cheek before I bid them farewell and left.
By rights I should have stopped in to see my mother. I would have liked to see my mother. But knowing he was in the House somewhere, I did not want to press my luck, certainly not without my sisters, his daughters, as buffers. The walk back to Dahlia seemed shorter than it ought to have been, and when I got there I realised that for the first time in my life I didn’t want to walk its austere halls. I didn’t feel ready to be there.
So I kept walking, I took the longest road I knew that wound through the outlying farmlands that supported Night’s Doorstep and Mont Nuit itself, hoping to ease the sick little knot in the pit of my stomach. After a time, when all else failed to purge my mind of unworthy thoughts, I began reciting etiquette lessons in my head. Wrapping those oh-so familiar phrases around me in a litany that afforded me calm and, along with the walking, numbed my body and mind to their own pent up tension.
I was exhausted by the time I’d circled back around to Dahlia’s front steps. Which was a small blessing, because it meant I could fall right to sleep, without any time for tossing and turning, or thinking about things that really shouldn’t matter. They didn’t matter, I told myself firmly. I had more family than most any child abandoned to the Night Court did, what right did I have to be hurt? It was self indulgent and petty and I wouldn’t submit to it.
Helene’s condition was why we had met at Camellia rather than somewhere in Night’s Doorstep, as was our usual custom. She was the very picture of health, but the nearness of her time had made her reluctant to venture far from home, and we were more than willing to accommodate her. But, of course, the very reason I normally avoided my childhood home would have to intrude upon us.
Marguerite was still talking at great, and inappropriately detailed, length about her over-eager patron when Helene’s gaze strayed over my shoulder. I knew immediately, from the slight tightening of her brow and her hastily darted glance my way, who it was approaching from behind me. I closed my eyes and sighed in resignation. Helene looked pointedly at Marguerite who didn’t quite get the message until he’d reached our table, then understanding suddenly filled her eyes and stilled her tongue.
Helene smiled a little awkwardly, “Hello, father.” She said a little too brightly as kissed her brow.
“How are you feeling today, sweetheart?” he asked as her crouched down beside her chair.
“Better.” She said, not looking at me. He didn’t know who I was yet, I realised. He hadn’t recognized me. I supposed it was unsurprising, he hadn’t seen me since I was ten, and before that only when he couldn’t avoid it, when I was with my sisters; like I was right then.
He turned to me smiling, assuming, I suppose, that he was about to meet a friend of his daughters, but I looked him in the eye and his smile stuttered and disappeared. “You remember Rosalyne don’t you, father?” Marguerite asked sweetly, without a hint of a smile. Trust Marguerite to push buttons, I thought with a quiet sigh.
Looking at him right then, standing between Helene and myself I couldn’t help but think he was a fool to deny me. There was no mistaking Helene and myself for anything but sisters. Except for the fact that she had our mother’s sapphire blue eyes, we were the next thing to identical. And looking at our father for the first time as a grown woman, fit to judge such things, I knew where most of our features came from. And even Marguerite, who favoured our mother in every other way, had the same red hair that we did.
His brief smile looked more like a tick, I thought, clenching my teeth shut and forcing my own smile to look at ease. “Of course.” He said, clearing his throat after a slightly too long pause. His eyes kept darting away from mine, and it angered me that I had no way to know if it was embarrassment or that he didn’t like what he had to look at there.
He cleared his throat again and gave a better semblance of a smile, largely to Marguerite and Helene, as he stood. “I’m glad you feel better.” He said, laying a hand on Helene’s shoulder, “I’ll see you tonight.” He gave me another awkward tick of a smile before he turned and left.
There was a long silence after that, as I starred at the table, and my sisters starred at me. Taking a deep breath I forced the man who had spent my entire life pretending I didn’t exist out of my thoughts so I could give my sisters a genuine smile as I rose from my chair. Their smiles were consoling and a little sad. I stooped to give them each a peck on the cheek and said, “Send me word,” as I laid my hand on Helene’s belly and she laid her hand on mine. I smiled warmly and gave her another peck on the cheek before I bid them farewell and left.
By rights I should have stopped in to see my mother. I would have liked to see my mother. But knowing he was in the House somewhere, I did not want to press my luck, certainly not without my sisters, his daughters, as buffers. The walk back to Dahlia seemed shorter than it ought to have been, and when I got there I realised that for the first time in my life I didn’t want to walk its austere halls. I didn’t feel ready to be there.
So I kept walking, I took the longest road I knew that wound through the outlying farmlands that supported Night’s Doorstep and Mont Nuit itself, hoping to ease the sick little knot in the pit of my stomach. After a time, when all else failed to purge my mind of unworthy thoughts, I began reciting etiquette lessons in my head. Wrapping those oh-so familiar phrases around me in a litany that afforded me calm and, along with the walking, numbed my body and mind to their own pent up tension.
I was exhausted by the time I’d circled back around to Dahlia’s front steps. Which was a small blessing, because it meant I could fall right to sleep, without any time for tossing and turning, or thinking about things that really shouldn’t matter. They didn’t matter, I told myself firmly. I had more family than most any child abandoned to the Night Court did, what right did I have to be hurt? It was self indulgent and petty and I wouldn’t submit to it.