TMIAP Chapter 5

"Monica, dear—it seems we're making introductions rather sooner than expected. This is Martinael."

"How do you do, Monica?"

The small boy nestled in Madame Mollette's skirts bore a striking resemblance to his mother. The soft brown hair, the gleaming dark eyes.

And those eyes—curved gently, as though they held every good thing in the world; as though anything dirty, anything sad, were simply things those eyes had never been introduced to.

"Martinael—it's Miss Monica. You should call her Teacher."

"Yes, Madame. How do you do, Teacher!"

"And do please stop that peculiar honorific. 'Madame,' of all things!"

Madame Mollette smiled and gently scolded her son. Martinael grumbled something or other and tugged at her skirts.

Under ordinary circumstances Monica would have found the boy's pettishness endearing and smiled at him warmly. But Monica had not, at any point, managed to take her eyes off the young woman standing behind him.

"And this is—"

"Liella Mollette."

Just as Madame Mollette opened her mouth, the young woman who had been watching Monica with equal intensity supplied the name herself. Fast—a line delivered before anyone else could frame it. Madame Mollette's eyes widened briefly, then settled back into a smile.

"Quite right. My pride and joy. Did I mention that she and Monica are the same age?"

"Yes..."

Monica managed the syllable.

"Liella, dear—this is Miss Monica, who will be looking after Martinael. She's the same age as you; you may well become good friends. She's from the capital, she tells me."

"Is that so. Pleased to meet you, Monica."

Liella answered in a voice that was flat and clipped, reading each word as though from a bill of lading. Madame Mollette tilted her head slightly but did not appear particularly troubled by it.

"Since it's come to this—won't you two take Monica to her room?"

"Me?"

"Yes, Martinael. You'll be sharing a wall, you know."

"Gladly, if Madame asks!"

The boy sprang free of the skirts that had been holding him. Liella showed every sign of not wanting to cooperate—but when her eyes met Madame Mollette's, she smiled. Madame Mollette excused herself with a mention of an errand and vanished.

Martinael took the lead.

"Teacher, are you really going to be next door?"

"It seems I am, very kindly."

Monica managed a smile.

Martinael, quite unconcerned with the awkward air behind him, caught her skirt and began pulling her along. He was dressed carefully for early summer—thin silk stockings gleaming on his calves. He caught Monica's glance and grumbled preemptively.

"Madame says I'll catch cold without them. But don't they look exactly seven years old?"

"Not at all. Boys in the capital wear stockings all the way through summer."

"Really?—Oh, Teacher! You can speak plainly, you know!"

He delivered this with considerable dignity, chest out. Monica smiled with some ambiguity and fell in behind him down the corridor.

The corridor was laid with thick blue carpet; their footsteps made almost no sound. Liella followed some distance behind them, stopping occasionally in a manner that made her reluctance entirely plain.

"Sister! What are you doing back there?"

Martinael's eye was not easily evaded. Only after he stopped twice and waved her forward did Liella close the gap to within a couple of paces.

He was a genuinely charming boy.

He bounced along, informing Monica that his birthday was approaching, that at eleven he would be properly grown-up and would no longer be wearing these short trousers. He had a cousin, he explained—magnificent frock coat, excellent woolen trousers. He had already requested a frock coat as his eleventh birthday present, only—

"Wouldn't a frock coat be rather hot in midsummer?"

Monica offered this as she walked, though her attention kept drifting behind her and her footsteps kept slowing. Even so, eventually all three of them arrived.

What Monica noticed first was a large white door dressed with beautiful lace curtains, standing open. Martinael's ostentatious expression of grievance—"I really do hate that curtain"—clarified which room was his.

Which meant the small white door beside it was hers? Monica moved toward it.

Someone laughed—just barely.

Pfft.

"That's the storeroom."

Monica turned.

Liella Mollette. Arms folded. She stepped slightly to one side, out of Monica's line of sight, and indicated what lay beyond.

A door as large as Martinael's. Beautiful molding applied to its frame. No great ornament—and nonetheless elegant.

But Monica's gaze rested on Liella's hand doing the indicating.

Chemical lace gloves. Extraordinarily fine.

Machine-made lace—every noble girl in the country wanted a pair, for the simple reason that even in high summer one was expected to wear gloves. The price was extortionate to begin with. The war had then requisitioned every machine for military production, which meant obtaining a pair had become very nearly impossible.

The moment she saw those gloves, something hollow moved through her.

The heat the iced tea had briefly chased away came flooding back.

"This is that person's room."

The address put no name to Monica, no title, not so much as the minimal courtesy of directing a remark at a person. Strange. And guarded.

"Why are you speaking so meanly to her, Sister?"

Martinael was looking up at Liella with dark eyes slightly narrowed.

"...Hm?"

Liella looked down at him, caught off-balance.

"Speak nicely. Are you still angry?"

"...No, Marti. Why on earth would I be angry?"

"A lie. You haven't gotten over me breaking your clock the other day."

Martinael stamped his foot, wheedling. Liella denied it hastily, and Monica learned, incidentally, that Martinael had accidentally broken a clock Liella treasured a few days ago.

What that had to do with any of this she was not quite sure—but in any case, Liella waved a hand.

"I'm sorry, Marti. I think I was just—she's a stranger, and I was awkward."

And Liella lifted her gaze back to Monica.

"...I'm sorry. Your surname is—"

Monica's expression, which had gone rather stiff, found its way back up.

"...Miss Orphen."

Liella mumbled it, as though rolling the name about in her mouth.

Martinael then suddenly lunged toward his room. "Anvie!"

Both of them turned, startled. The maid called Anvie was emerging from Martinael's room with an armful of things—and was immediately pushed straight back in by a charging Martinael.

"Why are you putting away my blocks! I told you not to touch them!"

"But, Young Master, these blocks—"

"No! Do you have any idea how long I worked on them!"

"Madam said to clear them away—you can't even walk through the room anymore!"

From inside came the sound of every last block the maid had been carrying tipped out onto the floor.

Clatter-clatter-clatter...

Monica, who had been watching it all in something of a daze, turned her head.

Before her stood Liella Mollette, who had half-opened the door to Monica's room.

On her way back to her own rooms, Madame Mollette remembered, quite suddenly, that she had never collected Monica's letter of introduction.

She could ask the butler to fetch it—but the butler had been sent on an errand to the Solivén townhouse, which was rather more pressing.

'Well—it's only a letter. I'll fetch it myself.'

The doctor had been nagging her to walk more, in any case. In the house would do.

Madame Mollette turned back.

"The wardrobe is probably that one. And the thing in front of it is—"

Liella had resumed her dry inventory.

The room Monica had been given was extraordinary.

Autumn-grass silk wallpaper. Wainscoting placed at intervals along the stone walls to hold back the cold. Together they made the room feel thoroughly cozy, and thoroughly expensive.

And above the fireplace on one wall: a large black mirror.

An obsidian mirror.

Not the glass-with-black-ink variety. Genuine obsidian. And enormous.

But Monica, for all the rarity of the mirror, was not quite looking at it. She was still half-lost in looking at Liella.

Liella's beautifully teased brown hair—no one could have doubted the effort; at least an hour with a maid and a curling iron.

"Excuse me. Excuse me?"

Liella called to her with an edge of irritation.

"...Yes, Miss Mollette."

"Oh—I'm sorry. I've already forgotten your surname."

The smile did not match the tone at all. It was perfectly sweet.

Monica blinked—and caught her own reflection in the obsidian mirror.

Liella was standing directly in front of the fireplace. The pink-striped dress against the autumn-grass wallpaper was beautiful. Light summer fabric, exactly right for the season. Bare arms below the short sleeves—smooth skin, a slight pleasant roundness to them. And below the wrist: the chemical lace gloves.

Then Monica's own reflection.

Flushed from the heat. Not the kind of flush that came from rouge—Liella's cheeks bore a careful peachy-crimson, applied with tin powder. Monica's was just heat. Just effort. Just graceless.

The taffeta dress. Wrist-length sleeves. Second day in it.

Her hands below the cuffs. Rough. Thick at the knuckles.

The obsidian mirror was very, very clear. Every strand that had slipped from her pins—every one she had tried and failed to smooth down without hair oil—was precisely visible.

Monica's mouth opened.

"You couldn't possibly not know me."

At first, she had not been certain.

The mistakes with Sol—and then with Luis—had held her back. She had been completely convinced, twice, and completely wrong. That was enough to give anyone pause.

But she had not missed the black roots at the base of Liella's carefully dressed brown hair.

And the guardedness.

This was Lizzie. It couldn't be otherwise.

Lizzie's lips twisted at the corner.

"Lizzie. Isn't it."

The gray eyes showed no surprise. Only silence. Watching.

"It's been a long time, Lizzie. Have you been well?—Well, you're clearly doing very well. You look wonderful. I didn't expect to find you here."

Monica's smile reached her eyes.

What was she supposed to say? A delighted exclamation for an old orphanage acquaintance? Congratulations on the lovely house? Pleased to meet you as your new employee? Or—

Lizzie's lips parted.

"Why did you come?"