briarwood hall, vienda
afternoon on the 22nd of roalis, 2706
S he just stood there, looking at him. Desiderio reminded himself that he hated children, but he couldn’t quite muster up his frown; instead he just looked back at her, feeling faintly confused. She looked behind him – at where he had left his book, he was certain – and he felt the sinking anxiety that she might ask about it.
It was always that way in school. In Bastia, he had never had to hide his drawings away, or rather there had been no one to hide them from: Mother and the nurses and even Dr. Bentivegna had all loved and encouraged his sketching, with Mother even saying that he should consider studying the masters in Tiv someday.
Somewhere, it had changed. Mother spoke more and more of late of respectable occupations, which was ridiculous, because no Morandi had ever worked. She spoke of law almost as much as she spoke of marriage, as if the Morandi name must be swallowed up completely.
And worse were the other second forms at Brunnhold. It had the first time been Benoit, the little worm – oh, how he hated Benoit Bellecourt! Benoit had snatched the book out of his hands in the dining hall and had gone through all the pages right there in front of the second-form boys, laughing at the flowers and the birds, as if a boy weren’t allowed to draw flowers. Ever since, he had pretended to stop, and had been very careful where he took it out and where he stowed it away to.
But she didn’t ask that, or say anything, at first. She said, oh! her mouth making a little ‘o’, and he pursed his lips, wanting to say, Out with it.
His brows furrowed when she went on, trying to make sense of it.
Nurse shouldn’t have been sleeping; it was nurse’s job to take care of her, not her job to take care of nurse. She was a nurse. That was rather what she was there for, tired or not. But he didn’t say anything, because he thought that might upset her.
He was sad for a moment that Henrietta was only a stuffed hingle, because he had never been allowed a hingle – or an osta, or anything like that, and not for want of asking – either. But then Aurelie looked down and began biting her nails, and he felt sad for an entirely different reason. He caught the hint of big green eyes watching him through her coppery fringe.
He was fine alone, he told himself. He was fine alone most of the time; he had been alone all his life, so why should he not be fine alone?
And most of all, he didn’t care in the least that she looked – sad.
“No,” he said, then paused. “You should not go back,” he amended, “alone, at least. I think it must not… be safe.” At least until he was positively certain, he told himself, that she had broken no bones falling off of the chair. “And I should like to have help finding my way back, myself,” he added. In case he fainted, which was very important.
He paused again, shifting on his feet.
He swallowed. “I was only – well, I…” Slowly, he turned toward the table where his book was, swallowing dryly again. Coloring, she had said. “I was going to – to draw. Would you like to, to… stay and… watch?”
It was always that way in school. In Bastia, he had never had to hide his drawings away, or rather there had been no one to hide them from: Mother and the nurses and even Dr. Bentivegna had all loved and encouraged his sketching, with Mother even saying that he should consider studying the masters in Tiv someday.
Somewhere, it had changed. Mother spoke more and more of late of respectable occupations, which was ridiculous, because no Morandi had ever worked. She spoke of law almost as much as she spoke of marriage, as if the Morandi name must be swallowed up completely.
And worse were the other second forms at Brunnhold. It had the first time been Benoit, the little worm – oh, how he hated Benoit Bellecourt! Benoit had snatched the book out of his hands in the dining hall and had gone through all the pages right there in front of the second-form boys, laughing at the flowers and the birds, as if a boy weren’t allowed to draw flowers. Ever since, he had pretended to stop, and had been very careful where he took it out and where he stowed it away to.
But she didn’t ask that, or say anything, at first. She said, oh! her mouth making a little ‘o’, and he pursed his lips, wanting to say, Out with it.
His brows furrowed when she went on, trying to make sense of it.
Nurse shouldn’t have been sleeping; it was nurse’s job to take care of her, not her job to take care of nurse. She was a nurse. That was rather what she was there for, tired or not. But he didn’t say anything, because he thought that might upset her.
He was sad for a moment that Henrietta was only a stuffed hingle, because he had never been allowed a hingle – or an osta, or anything like that, and not for want of asking – either. But then Aurelie looked down and began biting her nails, and he felt sad for an entirely different reason. He caught the hint of big green eyes watching him through her coppery fringe.
He was fine alone, he told himself. He was fine alone most of the time; he had been alone all his life, so why should he not be fine alone?
And most of all, he didn’t care in the least that she looked – sad.
“No,” he said, then paused. “You should not go back,” he amended, “alone, at least. I think it must not… be safe.” At least until he was positively certain, he told himself, that she had broken no bones falling off of the chair. “And I should like to have help finding my way back, myself,” he added. In case he fainted, which was very important.
He paused again, shifting on his feet.
He swallowed. “I was only – well, I…” Slowly, he turned toward the table where his book was, swallowing dryly again. Coloring, she had said. “I was going to – to draw. Would you like to, to… stay and… watch?”
