[Memory] Applied Chemistry (Chrysanthe)

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 24, 2710

The Grand Library, evening.

When Chrysanthe forced herself to look up at him and said she was fine, Baz couldn’t help but narrow his eyes slightly once she looked away. She certainly didn’t look fine. She was still acting differently, too. She was stubborn. Normally, Baz might have admired that, but in this instance, with her flushed and looking like she was about to faint not five minutes ago, he was mostly just concerned. Stubbornness was all well and good, but it wouldn’t do anybody any good at all if she fainted in the middle of the library or made herself sicker than she was, if she indeed still fending off something or other. The older of his two younger sisters, Georgianna, was the same way. She’d often insist on doing something for herself, or seeing something through, only to end up regretting it later.

He watched as she drew his notebook closer and began copying his diagrams. She asked if there were other reasons for the experiment, or if it was just to show the difference between combustion and decomposition.

“There were a few others,” Baz replied. "We talked at length about various other kind of chemical reactions and there were examples given of each"

He reached out and pulled his notebook back, closing it. “But that can wait. I think that it’d be nice to take a break.”

He knew she would protest again if he made it about her, so he got to his feet. “These chairs are terrible and my arse is falling asleep. Come on, let’s step outside. Just for five minutes.”

He stuck the notebook into his school bag. He was banking on Chrysanthe not being the type to go rummaging through someone else’s things to get it back out herself. “Everything will be here when we get back.”

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 24 Bethas, 2710
Grand Library

Chrysanthe was rather relieved when Baz picked the subject up once more, and did not linger on how she was or wasn’t feeling, and whether she did or didn’t need a break. She bent her head back to the notes, carefully; she thought perhaps a table would be a good way to keep track of such a discussion. Naturally the book had had one opinion on the main types of chemical reactions, but the professor might have had another.

Chrysanthe lifted her gaze back up to Baz’s notebook, just in time to watch him draw it back and shut it. Her face set, lips pressing lightly together; she watched him as he put it away in his bag and stood up.

They’d scarcely sat, Chrysanthe wanted to protest; he was only just getting to the interesting part of it all. Color rose in her cheeks again; she felt dreadfully embarrassed. Had she really looked so awful as that? She didn’t believe for even a moment that the chair was hurting Baz’s – his – Chrysanthe’s imagination failed to supply a suitable alternate to arse, which was really a rather rude word. Buttocks, perhaps, or hindquarters, she thought, although she still wasn’t sure she wished to hear him refer to that region of his anatomy with any sort of terminology. Boys were so strange about such things.

She didn’t have much of a choice, Chrysanthe thought, feeling oddly bitter, neither with what he said nor with what he wished to do. She could protest and insist on remaining here; she nearly did.

“Fine,” Chrysanthe said instead, after a moment, more sulkily than she might have liked. She pressed her lips firmly together once more, her cheeks still red and warm enough she could feel it glowing from her face. She closed her notebook as well, and tucked her things away, and rose as well. Chrysanthe took a deep breath, and followed Baz outside, not quite willing to look at him.

It was cold outside; whatever little of the day’s warmth there had been as she ran over had thoroughly gone. Perhaps it had been cold earlier as well, and Chrysanthe too busy to notice. Either way, she felt it rather dreadfully in her uniform, even with her coat. They came out the front door, and shifted a little away from it, far enough that they wouldn’t be in the way of anyone going in or coming out.

Chrysanthe turned away, slightly, from Baz; she’d taken just an extra half-step away from him, so there was a bit more space than there needed to be between them. She wasn’t so far that he couldn’t feel her field, well-ordered enough, if a little rigid. Chrysanthe crossed her arms over her chest, holding on, and gazed steadily over the distant phosphor-lit paths of campus. It was not quite raining, and they were anyway beneath an overhang, but she could see drifts of moisture whisking steadily through the pools of light.

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 24, 2710

The Grand Library, evening.

He could tell how annoyed Chrysanthe was with him for insisting they go outside instead of just continuing to work. It was hard not to tell, really, with how she walked two steps ahead of him and stood apart from him once they had made their way out into the chilly mid-Bethas night. It was definitely colder now than it had been earlier, but that was normal for this time of year. They were lucky it hadn’t started snowing again. Instead it was just cold and damp, a light drizzle hanging stubbornly in the air. Not enough to need an umbrella, but enough to make a body cold and miserable should they have to trek anywhere more than a few yards away. They were under the overhang that shielded the front doors of the library hall, and so they were fortunate enough to stay dry. Baz watched Chrysanthe cross her arms across her chest and stare moodily out into the phosphor-lit concourse. He, himself, leaned against a pillar, his freckled hands tucked in his coat pockets against the evening chill.

He was quiet for a bit, letting her be angry at him. She had a bit of a right to be, as he had all but dragged her outside, but at least she didn’t look like she was going to fall over or faint. Colour had come back to her, and being annoyed with him was a better reason to not look at him than whatever reason she’d had before.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “You really did look like you were going to fall over earlier. I was worried.”

He shifted slightly. “One of my younger sisters is a bit like you. Georgianna. She never lets anyone tell her she can’t do something. It gets her into trouble sometimes.”

He looked out, past Chrysanthe, toward one of the other buildings half-hidden in the mist. “She was sick, once, with a terrible cold. But she insisted that she would go with us to — something, I can’t even really remember what. The point is, it was a long trip, and she pushed herself too hard. She ended up bedridden for days.”

“I’m not saying I know what’s best for you,” he continued, “no one knows that except for you. What I’m trying to say is… if you’re sure you’re ready to be back at school, that’s fine. I’m willing to help you as long as you want me to. But you should take it easy, too. No one expects you to get a running start."

He took a chance with what he said next: "Except, maybe, you."

It was a jab, but a friendly one. Whether it would go over well remained to be seen.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 24 Bethas, 2710
Grand Library

Chrysanthe refused to look at Baz. She was very cold. Of course, she was used to it; it was very cold in Reedlyn this time of year and she had had to stand outside for ages at the funeral – her and Amaryllis both, to greet everyone. Amaryllis had been awfully cold by the end of it; her nose had been all red, and her hands too. Chrysanthe had felt fine, absolutely fine, except for how very tired she had been of people she had never met before telling her how fond they had been of her parents, and treating her in every way like some sort of idiotic child too young to understand what was happening.

Chrysanthe’s shoulders tightened; her arms were taut over her chest. It did not matter, she thought, whether she’d been cold then or not. She was cold now, and it was entirely Baz’s fault.

She couldn’t tell whether Baz was looking at her or out onto campus like she was, or somewhere else entirely. Probably, Chrysanthe thought, picking his nose or something. She wasn’t sure how boys amused themselves.

When he spoke, it was to apologize.

Chrysanthe shifted, slightly; she glanced back over one shoulder without quite meaning to, and maintained what she hoped was a pointed sort of silence. She felt pointed; she felt sharp.

Baz went on about his younger sister Georgianna. Chrysanthe listened, although she looked away again as he kept on. Of course, she thought, Baz had younger sisters who he felt entirely superior to. Of course, she was sure he had told Georgianna to stay home and rest but Georgianna was too stubborn to listen to him. The story didn’t come out like that but Chrysanthe could hear between the lines just fine.

“You are,” Chrysanthe said, sharply. She turned, looking back at Baz, chin lifted. She didn’t like having to look up at him; she hoped she’d keep growing, taller, so that she’d never have to look up at a man ever again. Mother was – had been tall, taller than Amaryllis.

“You are saying you know better than me,” Chrysanthe pointed out, stubbornly. Her cheeks were pink with cold still; her breath clouded the air between them. “Your whole story was meant to make that point, that your sister learned some lesson about not pushing herself, and you think that I ought to learn it too. I told you I didn’t want to come outside, and you decided you did know better and that I needed some fresh air.”

Chrysanthe’s nostrils flared, slightly; she turned away again, arms still crossed tight over her chest. “Anyway, I’m not sick, and it isn’t any of your business even if I were.” Her throat was awfully tight; her shoulders hunched up a little more.

She was absolutely not going to cry again, Chrysanthe thought, fiercely. She would rather die a thousand deaths than cry anymore tonight. She would rather be expelled from Brunnhold than cry anymore. It was rather awful how thinking about how much you did not wish to cry seemed not to help in the least. It was much better to think about chemistry; chemistry had a way of taking you out of yourself, like a good novel. Why couldn’t anyone understand that she just wanted to think about proper things, like chemistry and math and literature and static conversation?

Chrysanthe was fairly sure she knew what was coming. Such things came all the time with classmates like Baz. Sometimes they were nice at first, but it didn't last; some of the girls were all right, but it never went well with the boys. She was sure he would be dipping her hair in something awful at the next opportunity.

“If you don’t want to be my tutor anymore, that’s fine,” Chrysanthe said, her voice very tight now. “I shall ask Professor Madrigan to find someone else, or else I’ll just learn it on my own.” There were tears in her eyes now; Chrysanthe sniffled. She was not going to cry. “It’s fine.” She repeated, very insistently.

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 24, 2710

The Grand Library, evening.

Baz flinched slightly as she snapped at him. He hadn’t meant the bit about Georgie to sound condescending, but it seemed that it had come off that way. In truth, he was only trying to relate his sister to Chrysanthe. He had said he thought they were alike, it had made sense to illustrate why. He regretted it now, though. He looked away from her, focusing on his shoes and the stone step beneath them as she chastised him. His hands were still in his pockets, though they’d balled in the fabric slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, when she gave him an opening to, his gaze still firmly fixed on the stone. “You’re right, it isn’t any of my business. I didn’t mean to— to make you angry. I just— I thought—”

He trailed off. He didn’t need to place his foot any more firmly in his mouth, he supposed. He had already offended her without meaning to. No sense doing it more by trying to explain himself. She continued speaking, telling him that it was fine if he didn’t want to tutor her any more. She’d find someone else. Her voice sounded almost like something in it was going to snap. He looked up at her, finally, and his stomach dropped as he saw her eyes were shining with tears. If he hadn’t felt awful before, he certainly did now. Of all the things he’d meant to come of this, making her cry was absolutely not one of them. His face fell, and he looked away again. He heard her sniffle, as she insisted she was fine. He rummaged in his pockets and produced a folded handkerchief. He hesitated for a moment, before holding it out towards her without looking up again. He didn’t know if she would take it, but it was offered all the same.

“I didn’t say that,” he said. His voice was soft, and a bit tighter than it had been, as though he was upset as well. “Actually, I… I was hoping we could be friends, but it seems I've fouled that up. I didn’t mean to upset you. The bit with my sister, I only meant it to point out why I thought you two were similar. It came across as more than that, and I’m sorry."

It was the third time he'd apologized this evening. Things certainly weren't going well. He continued. "If… if you feel that way, though, if you don’t want me to tutor you, I understand. I'll go.”

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 24 Bethas, 2710
Grand Library

Chrsyanthe stared out into the distance, turned half away from Baz. The lights were rapidly beginning to smear. She tightened the grasp of her hands on her arms.

I didn’t mean to make you angry was not, Chrysanthe thought sourly, a very good apology. It was right up there with I’m sorry you got upset. It put the blame squarely on her for being angry, as if it was entirely her fault and not in the least his. She sniffled again, but it was because of the cold, clearly, that her nose was running.

There was a bunched up white shape in the corner of her eye. Chrysanthe glanced back and felt a rather odd - Baz was staring down at his shoes as if they were the only thing he could bear to look at, one freckled hand extended tentatively towards her.

“Thank you,” Chrysanthe mumbled. She didn’t think she had any handkerchiefs in her uniform; she hadn’t thought of it. One of their great aunts had given the two of them more than a dozen, all flimsy black lace-edged things. Chrsyanthe had said that Amaryllis could have all of hers.

Chrysanthe wiped at her face rather tentatively. She didn’t really need one because she wasn’t crying, but it felt all right. She supposed.

Baz said he’d thought they could be friends, then rather confusingly went straight into I didn’t mean to upset you, then sort of backed out of it and apologized for how what he’d said had come out. Chrysanthe sniffled into the handkerchief. She was not crying; it didn’t count as long as the tears didn’t escape your eyes, Chrsyanthe decided, trying to sort of dab at them. She didn’t blow her nose; that seemed awfully rude at the best of times, and especially into someone else’s handkerchief.

It had been very satisfying to tell Baz she would find someone else because he didn’t want her. It was less satisfying to say she didn’t want him, especially with that awful sad sort of look on his face.

“No...” Chrysanthe said slowly, feeling it out. She wiped at her eyes again and lowered the handkerchief, holding it in a crumpled ball in one hand.

“That is,” she glanced at him, and then away. “You’ve rather good notes, and - I mean - before we stopped to come out here you were explaining quite well, so I’d just as soon...” Chrysanthe shrugged her shoulders.

She shifted slightly, standing on the little area outside the library. Her eyes were properly dry now at least, although she still felt a rather awful desire to keep sniffling. Baz’s voice had been all high and tight, too, as if she had upset him.

Chrysanthe shifted again. She didn’t regret what she had said; he had been condescending, whether he’d meant to be or not. She wouldn’t apologize, and she didn’t want to explain away her behavior. That wasn’t any of his business either, and it had rather awfully the feeling of letting him off the hook.

“If you didn’t mean it that way,” Chrsyanthe tried, carefully, “then I suppose it’s all right, or at least - I shan’t be upset anymore.” That was very good, she hoped. She didn’t like how often all her female classmates seemed to be apologizing for how they felt; she liked it even less when she fell into the trap of doing it.

Good lady, but it was hard to avoid saying she was sorry he was upset. Chrsyanthe ran her tongue over dry lips, biting her lower lip between her teeth as she thought it over. “Can we move past it?” She asked instead, a bit hopefully.

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 24, 2710

The Grand Library, evening.

Baz’s lips drew into a tight little line. It seemed it was his turn, now, to try not to sound or look as upset as he was. She spoke so coldly. He took good notes, and gave good explanations. Except, it seemed, where it mattered. There was a tightness in his chest, and he felt like such a fool. His face felt hot, and he was sure it showed. When he got upset or flustered, the redness that came to his cheeks extended all the way up to the tips of his ears. It was hard to hide. He was still leaning on the pillar, though a bit more heavily than he had been before. She sort of half accepted the apology. He wondered if it hadn’t been enough, and then she asked if they could move past it. She sounded almost hopeful, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was only asking out of politeness.

“I wouldn’t…” oh, that wouldn’t do. His voice almost cracked. He cleared his throat, and tried again. He still couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “I wouldn’t want to say something stupid again and…” he stopped, and chose his next words carefully. “And cause you any more grief than I already have. I really am sorry. I'm not... sure how else to say it to make things any better.”

He didn’t know what to do with his hands. His instinct was to bring them to his face and rub at his eyes, pricking as they were. But he was trying not to seem upset, so that wouldn’t do. He ended up shoving them into the pockets of his coat again, balling them up into fists in the lining.

“If you want my notes, you can have them,” he said, trying his best to keep his voice as even as possible. “I’ll leave you my notebook. You can just… give it back to me when you’re done. Or leave it with Professor Madrigan. It doesn’t matter. Either way, I wouldn’t want to force you to put up with me just because I take good notes. It’s unfair to you.”

This was all rather unfair to him, too, he thought. He felt like she had made her mind up about him before he’d even opened his mouth. The tightness in his chest squeezed a little harder, and he still couldn’t bring himself to look up from the stone at his feet. He felt like he was at a disadvantage no matter what. He brought one of his hands up to try and subtly wipe at his face before returning it to his pocket once more.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 24 Bethas, 2710
Grand Library

No, Baz said, basically. He said it much longer than that; but that was what it came down to, wasn’t it? Chrysanthe glanced over again. He was still staring down at the ground; in the dim light of the library porch she could see his face was flushed all red, his ears nearly the same color as his hair. His voice practically cracked, and he still didn’t look at her.

Chrysanthe looked at him now. She shifted, uncomfortable, still holding his handkerchief crumpled in one hand. She felt an odd sort of prickling. She wasn’t entirely sure what Amaryllis would have said about her conduct here, tonight. It didn’t matter, did it? Amaryllis liked to make people happy; Chrysanthe had already decided she didn’t care in the least if she made other people happy.

Living your life to make other people happy, Chrysanthe thought, led to awful things. It led to unhappy marriages, as an example; she was thinking only of the books she had read, of course, and the silly women in them utterly incapable of ever criticizing a man or protesting the decisions their fathers made. That the men turned out to be splendid in the end didn’t matter in the least; Chrysanthe was quite sure it would never work out that way in real life.

She was, Chrysanthe decided, thinking only of novels and not in the least of real life. Particularly, she was not thinking of Amaryllis in that way.

She shifted again, arms coming up to cross over her chest once more. She didn’t care, Chrysanthe reminded herself. Baz offered to give her the notes, and Chrysanthe found she was squirming, slightly - really for absolutely no reason - and she looked down as well, studying the slightly scuffed toes of her boots very intently. His voice was strained and tight and he rubbed his face with his hand as if it itched behind his eyes.

He had waited, Chrysanthe thought, rather a long time. And she supposed - he had meant well. He looked very unhappy now, too, rather different from how he had seemed earlier. Chrysanthe could not quite escape the realization that it was her fault, though she somewhat wished she could have.

“You remind me a bit of my sister too,” Chrysanthe said, squarely in the direction of her feet. “In that, I mean, she’s rather nice.” She glanced up at Baz, and then back down. Not, of course, in any other way, except for how the look on Baz’s face reminded Chrysanthe of Amaryllis at her most disappointed.

“Sometimes,” Chrysanthe went on, “I suppose I take a view of people as if they are not being nice.” She shifted slightly; her arms uncrossed. “That is to say - I am sorry that I was not more charitable, as regards your remarks.”

There; Chrysanthe had apologized. She took a deep breath. It was rather painful; she went on. “I would like you as well as the notes.” Oh, that sounded awful; Chrysanthe’s cheeks began to heat up and she went on, rather quickly. ”I should like you to explain them, I mean - and - if you don’t mind, of course.”

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 24, 2710

The Grand Library, evening.

She actually admitted she had been wrong, which surprised him. The admission that she often assumed people were being unkind without giving them a chance stung like she had rubbed salt in a wound. He had thought that maybe she had judged him unfairly from the start had crossed his mind, but her words all but confirmed it. A brief flash of pain crossed his face, along with the sadness that had been there already.

"You know, you almost make it sound like you came into this expecting the worst of me," he said. "I would like to think I’m wrong, or that maybe I'm the one misunderstanding things now, but can’t shake the feeling that you did, and it hurts."

He shifted, straightening up a bit. He let his words hang in the damp, frigid air between them for a moment: it hurt. It was unfair, really, and cruel, but he didn't say that. He was well within his rights to be angry with her, and to refuse her his help. Some not insignificant part of him wanted to. She had treated him so poorly, and he owed her nothing. He was sorely tempted to just leave, and abandon her to her own devices, or to whomever else the professor found willing to help her, if indeed there were any others.

But she had been willing to admit that she was wrong, and had, eventually, apologized. He finally looked up at her, his hazel eyes red-rimmed and watery.

"I never intended to be anything other than nice to you, nor to do anything but help you. Not once through this entire evening," he said, "and all it has gotten me is shouted at. After all of that, I certainly don't owe you anything. Least of all my help."

The friendly warmth that had been in his expression and his voice earlier in the evening was gone, and he sounded sort of brittle and worn. For a moment, it seemed like he would leave it at that, but he spoke again. "But I appreciate the fact that you were willing to admit that you were wrong. It's a start."

He looked away from her once more, out into the dimly lit Bethas night. If she could skirt around his many apologies, he could skirt around her single one. He sighed. It was shaky, and heavy, his eyes closing as he exhaled it. He just stood there like that for a bit, gathering himself back up. After a minute or two, he opened his eyes again, but didn’t look at her.

“I should just leave,” he said, running his hand through his hair. He pushed off the pillar he’d been leaning on and stuck his hands back in his pockets again. “Give you the notes and go. But I told the professor I would help you, so I’ll stay. For tonight, at least. I can at least give you another chance.”

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 24 Bethas, 2710
Grand Library

No,” Chrysanthe said. Her face was tight again, and her eyes were glistening; her arms were crossed over her chest. “No, thank you. I think I shall sort it out on my own.”

Chrysanthe stepped around Baz, then, and went back inside. She couldn’t possibly imagine sitting opposite him at the table after that. She had tried; she had told him something rather personal, which she did not think she had told many people before, and evidently it had made things worse rather than better. He had been condescending; she did not think he had meant to be, at this stage, but that didn’t change the fact that he had.

She had not, Chrysanthe thought, owed him a charitable view of his actions; that he thought she had, and that he was so very hurt by not being viewed as kindly as possible, made her upset in a way she could not quite sort out. If she did not fill her head with other thoughts, all she could seem to hear was him saying “willing to admit you were wrong” exactly as he had.

She wasn’t wrong, Chrysanthe thought, her chest hurting in some place she could not name. She didn’t want his pity or his obligation or his help; she didn’t want his notes. She had tried, Chrysanthe told herself rather fiercely. It wasn’t her fault anymore. She had apologized, and it only seemed to have made things worse; she ought to have just left it.

Chrysanthe didn’t wait; she went to the table where their things were, and began to pack up, evenly. She closed her notebook and tucked it back into her bag. She didn’t bother to organize her pens; she dumped them all into her case and put that, too, in her bag. She left his handkerchief in a crumpled ball next to his things; she didn’t want it either. She refused to cry at all while she was in the library; once, as surreptitiously as she could manage, she had to wipe her eyes on her sleeve, but otherwise she did quite well. Even if he offered again, Chrysanthe decided, she would refuse his notes; she didn't want them.

It didn’t matter, Chrysanthe thought, something sour burning in her throat. She didn’t need him or anything from him. She would catch up on her own; she would get another textbook or something like that. Books were always there for you, and you never had to apologize to them, and it certainly wouldn't make things worse if you did. She took a deep, steadying sort of breath, scooped her bag up, and marched out of the library without looking back.

She could not, Chrysanthe decided, go cry to Amaryllis; she thought she knew what her sister would say, and some sort of offer to keep her out of classes longer was the very last thing Chrysanthe wished to hear. Anyway, Amaryllis had enough to worry about; she didn’t need this too.

Her chest really hurt; there was an awful weight in the middle of it, like something lodged there.

Chrysanthe turned off the main path; she didn’t know what she was looking for, but she knew when she found it. She sank down onto a bench there, buried her face in her hands, and sobbed; she sobbed until she was rather breathless, and couldn’t quite go on. She was cold all over; her hands hurt, and her face too, and the wind sort of stung all the tears against her face, and it was thoroughly awful.

Chrysanthe sniffled; it was just as awful as the whole rest of the night had been. She fetched a piece of paper from the back of her notebook and blew her nose into it; she wadded it up, and threw it off into the underbrush, where it bounced and settled. She took a deep breath; she would go and wash her face, Chrysanthe thought steadily, and if Amaryllis asked she would absolutely deny that she had been crying again.

And she would never, ever, ever talk to Baz Morgenstern again. She was pretty sure she wouldn't, anyway.