[Memory] Applied Chemistry (Chrysanthe)

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 24, 2710

The Grand Library, evening.

Sebastian had been surprised when he had been called in to speak to his chemistry professor on one unremarkable day in Bethas. As far as he had known, he didn’t owe any assignments and had managed good marks on the recent test. The reason for the request was made clear when he arrived. The professor informed him that he had been assigned to tutor another student. The other student, he was told her name was Chrysanthe Palmifer, had missed the first several weeks of the year due to some events concerning her family. The professor didn’t elaborate, and Baz didn’t ask. It wasn’t any of his business, he figured. He was asked to help her learn what she had missed, and catch her up to the rest of the class. He had agreed. He had the time, and had always been good at explaining things. He was told to meet her in the library the next evening.

The library was quiet, as it usually was. There were a few other students scattered around the place, reading or studying amongst themselves. Baz was familiar enough with Chrysanthe Palmifer to remember what she looked like. Tall-ish, skinny blonde, with hair that was usually in long braids. He didn’t see her seated anywhere else, so he sat at a table that offered him a clear view of the door, and waited. And waited. He had begun to think that, perhaps, he had gotten the time wrong, and shown up early. He had managed to keep himself busy for the first little while, finishing some coursework, but once that had run out, he set to looking for other distractions. He didn’t want to get up and go looking for a book to read, afraid that if he did, he would miss her. Instead, he organized his notes. He made sure he had everything he would need to walk Chrysanthe through what she had missed. Laid out things on the table. Fiddled with his pocket watch. Had it been half an hour? He had definitely gotten the time wrong. He should have brought a book that wasn’t school work.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment. He heard the door open and sat up straight again, but the person who walked in was not tall-ish, or blonde, nor did he have braids. Not Chrysanthe. He looked down at the table, at all the things he had laid out, and then picked up his pencil. He leaned back once more and decided to amuse himself by balancing said pencil on his upper lip. It wasn’t exactly challenging, but it was something to do that wasn’t just sitting there. It was silly, but it was keeping him occupied, at least for now.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 24 Bethas, 2710
Grand Library

Amaryllis drew the brush through her hair. Chrysanthe sat, still and patient, feeling her sister’s soft hand gather up all the long strands and shift them, gently.

”If it’s too much,” Amaryllis said, quietly, ”you don’t need to go back to classes tomorrow. I’ll talk to Professor Farrelton.”

”I want to,” Chrysanthe said. I’m not a child, she had almost snapped. when Amaryllis picked up the brush. I can brush my own hair. She felt the light press of it as Amaryllis drew the brush through; more gently, Chrysanthe thought, than she usually managed. Her brushing was all sharp rough tugs; she wasn’t sure how Amaryllis got the snarls out without doing so.

There was an awful lump in her throat then, and Chrysanthe did not want to cry. She hadn’t; Amaryllis had, and she’d held her sister. They were the same height, now; Chrysanthe knew she’d grown from that and from how all her skirts had needed to be let down. Secretly, she was quite pleased; she hoped she would grow a bit more.

”I have a tutoring session tonight,” Chrysanthe said.

She felt the stillness of the brush. After a moment, though, Amaryllis kept going. ”Would you come and sleep here, after?” Amaryllis asked.

”I can sleep in my own room,” Chrysanthe said, jerking away; there was a sharp tug on the back of her head. She turned, holding on to the back of the desk chair, and glared at her sister. ”I’m fourteen, Amy, I’m practically a grown woman now. They never loved us anyway, and I don’t see the point in being sad, except maybe for the house.”

Amaryllis was staring at her, wide-eyed. ”They loved us, in their way,” she said, quietly. She lowered the brush and set it aside; her hands came together in her lap. Chrysanthe refused to look down at them and the engagement ring on her sister’s finger. Take it off, she had wanted to shout, the moment they had the news. Take it off - they’re not here anymore to force you - take it off!

Amaryllis was trembling, and Chrysanthe felt a wicked stab of guilt.

”I‘m not ready to be alone,” Amaryllis said. ”That’s why I asked you to come.” She smiled; that was much worse, Chrysanthe thought. Every tear on her sister’s cheeks was like a little stab wound, and there were a good number of them now. To her horror, Chrysanthe felt a heat behind her own eyes, and a wetness on her cheeks, and then she was crying too.

Amaryllis reached out, and Chrysanthe folded into her arms and sobbed. ”I’m sorry,” she cried, and she felt Amaryllis’s field wash love over them both, and she returned it with all the strength she had.

Chrysanthe knew she was late. The uniform was a relief after so many weeks of itchy, ill-fitting mourning clothes. Her hair was brushed out and braided now, one long plait on either side of her head; Amaryllis had put a cool towel on her face and promised her eyes didn’t look nearly so swollen anymore.

She had practically rushed through campus; the strangest part was how very much the same it looked. Of course it looked the same, Chrysanthe thought. Nothing had happened for anyone else; Brunnhold, she supposed, always looked the same. It was an enormous relief to have returned.

Chrysanthe had brought her textbook, her notebooks, and her colored pencils, of course; she had worked out her color coding system in the first weeks of the year and she fully intended to stick with it. She had not had to alter her system midway through the term for several years now, and she did not expect to do so now. It was a matter of listening carefully on the first day to make an initial plan, and revising it through the first unit so that one was not left with any extraneous colors nor any important topics of types of notes which could not be indicated. Not every class had exactly the same scheme, although having a general base off which to work and the experience of a number of semesters made it all easier.

Chrysanthe hurried up the steps into the library, and came to a stop inside, glancing around. She was supposed to meet Sebastian Morgenstern for tutoring, according to the letter which had been waiting. She didn’t really know him, other than that he was taller than she was, quite freckled, and had never once attempted to dip her hair in ink or any other undesirable substance. Chrysanthe knew the name of every boy who had since first term; she had a list.

Chrysanthe had thought she would recognize him, but - standing in the midst of the floor, she did not see him straight away. She shifted, adjusting the strap of her school bag, and glanced around once more. Chrysanthe sighed. Perhaps he had gone already. It would be very like a boy; she was sure a girl would have waited.

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 24, 2710

The Grand Library, evening.

Sebastian heard the door open once again and glanced over at it, expecting it to be another stranger. He was surprised, then, to see precisely who he was looking for. Tall-ish, thin, blonde braids. He jerked forward, realizing only then that he was still making some sort of stupid duck face as he attempted to keep his pencil balanced. Said pencil was sent reeling across the table, thankfully stopped by a book before it rolled across the floor of the quiet library and drew any more attention to Baz than he had drawn to himself already. He certainly recognized her, now. He had been in one of her classes the preceding year, and remembered quite vividly one of the other boys in the class dunking the end of one of her pigtails in something unpleasant. He wasn’t sure why she was the target of such an act, but he hardly knew her except for what she looked like and as such didn’t want to make any sort of guesses.

It was clear that she didn’t recognize him, as she stood near the door scanning the room. He quickly got to his feet, hoping maybe that would catch her attention. He, himself, stuck out among their peers. Taller than most, having had an unfortunate growth spurt over the holidays, reddish-brown hair that barely ever stayed out of his eyes for very long, and freckles to outnumber the stars in the sky. When she didn’t see him stand, he made his way over to her.

“Excuse me,” he said, “You’re Chrysanthe Palmifer, right?”

He sent out a polite caprise, accompanied by a small bow. It was a little awkward. He still wasn’t sure what to do with the extra length he and his appendages were sporting now.

“I’m Baz— Sebastian, er, Morgenstern. I’m supposed to help you with the chemistry coursework you’ve missed.” He turned and indicated the table where he had been sitting for the last little while. “I’ve set up just over there, but we can move somewhere else if you’d like.”

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 24 Bethas, 2710
Grand Library

Chrysanthe had not seen him at the tables, so she had set to scanning the balconies; it would be rather unusual, she supposed. She was not sure whether it was best to go up and look around the tables there or else to wait here in the hopes he might still find her.

She remembered Amaryllis telling her when she was small that if she got lost on the estate, it was best to stay put so that she could be found. After Amaryllis had left for Brunnhold, it had occurred to Chrysanthe that staying put was a good strategy only if anyone might be looking.

Excuse me, she heard from over by the tables. Chrysanthe turned, and recognized Sebastian then, coming towards her, more freckles than skin. He was tall enough that she had to look up slightly, although only slightly.

“Yes,” Chrysanthe said, adjusting her hold on her book bag. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Morgenstern.” She bowed as well, rather more elegant than his; he caprised her and she returned it, as polite as he had been and a little curious. She had caprised more adults the last few weeks than all the rest of her life combined; she had enough of a field now that many of them had asked how she liked static conversation, or said warmly that her field was coming along nicely. It was all terribly condescending, of course.

Nonetheless, Chrysanthe had gotten a good deal better at investigating fields in her caprise. She explored Sebastian’s now, just a little; she couldn’t have quite said what she learned, other than the feeling of something like a sense of order. It was anyway more pleasant generally caprising a belike field, but a little less interesting as well, somehow.

“Thank you for agreeing to help,” Chrysanthe said. “Sorry I’m late; thanks too for waiting. This looks fine.” She reviewed what she had said mentally, and felt quite sure she had hit all the important points, and rather efficiently.

Chrysanthe followed Sebastian over to the table. Most of the boys she knew had notes which were always a mess, all sloppy writing and no organization at all. But Chrysanthe knew a system when she saw one, and even if she couldn’t quite have sorted it out herself, she was pleased to see order to the notes laid out on the table. She sat down, and opened up her bag, taking out her textbook with small bits of colored in paper carefully bookmarking the pages, and set her notebook next to it. Next she took out her pens and colored pencils, and arranged them carefully; the colors went in just the right order. Not rainbow order, or alphabetical, but a logical order determined by how they related to one another in the notekeeping.

Chrysanthe carefully opened her notebook to the right page. She sat very straight upright, knees together and feet flat, and looked at Sebastian across the table. “Whenever you are ready,” she said, pen in hand, bright blue eyes just a little solemn in her pale, lightly freckled face.

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 24, 2710

The Grand Library, evening.

So he hadn’t been early after all. It was her who was late. He would have waited all the same, at least for a little longer. After a point, he likely would have assumed she wasn’t coming and gone off to do something else with the rest of his evening. Baz smiled as she thanked him for agreeing to help her, and also for waiting. It was a little odd being referred to as ‘Mr. Morgenstern’.

“No, no need to thank me,” he said, “it’s no trouble at all. I'm happy to help. I thought I’d gotten the time wrong and shown up early, it was really no problem to wait."

He then added, "Also, you can, uh, call me Baz, if you like.”

He followed after her, returning to his chair. As he watched Chrysanthe, he began to, just maybe, get an idea as to why she was so often the target of bullies. The girl was almost comically uptight. Practiced bow, practiced walk. Even how Chrysanthe unpacked her things was stiff. He had to think she likely also practiced the exact way she took things out of her book bag and placed them on the table. He had to fight to keep an amused little smile off his face as he watched, not wanting to accidentally offend her. He respected her dedication, really.

The organizational method and panoply of colours meant nothing to Baz, but clearly every minute detail meant something to her. It certainly was pretty to look at, at least. His notes were drab by comparison. Legible, orderly, and organized, but hardly to the extent that hers were. He moved a few things out of her way, and retrieved his wayward pencil.

“Best start at the top,” he said, flipping to the beginning of his notes, and then to the corresponding section of the textbook. “It’s mostly just a review of the basics for the very first part, so we can skip that. Unless you want to write it all down and refresh your memory, I mean...”

Given what he had seen so far, he got the feeling that she would absolutely like to write it all down and refresh her memory.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 24 Bethas, 2710
Grand Library

Chrysanthe nodded, slightly, at the invitation to call her yearmate Baz. She had been raised to call a person by their last name until indicated otherwise; she wasn’t terribly fond either of the Brunnhold custom, popular in some circles, of referring to a person exclusively by their last name. Palmifer, shouted across a crowded room, always made her want to flinch.

Chrysanthe held her pen. She watched as Baz flipped through his notes, and then to the textbook. “May I?” Chrysanthe asked. She set her pen down, looking at the book. She skimmed through the first few pages, slowly, then a bit more quickly.

Carefully, Chrysanthe went back to her notebook; she wrote a neat header at the top of one page, including the chapter and page information from the textbook, let it dry, and turned the page carefully and then, after a moment of thought, again.

“Was there much discussed in class not in the textbook?” Chrysanthe asked, looking back up at Baz across the table.

She had brought her textbooks with her. They had already been at Brunnhold when the news – came. She had even attended a bit of her classes, enough that she had had a sense of the professors, had acquired her textbooks, and so on and so forth. But there hadn’t been time to do things like arrange for a lesson plan while absent; all Chrysanthe had been able to manage was to bring her textbooks with her.

There were airships, of course, from Brunnhold to Vienda and Vienda to Scarmoge. It was six hours to Vienda, and then another dozen plus to Scarmoge, depending on the wind; with transfer time, the journey generally took at least a day. Going, they had gone directly; coming back they had stopped for some in Vienda because of the solicitors and that awful Braithwaite man. From Scarmoge to Reedlyn by shared coach, it was another day, of course.

Chrysanthe had read on the airship and in the carriage both ways. She had not thought to bring novels; it had not set it until they were on the airship that all her novels at home were, now, gone. She hadn’t cried then, although she had rather wanted to. She had picked up a quart’penny novel at the station, and although it had been absolute rubbish, she’d read it cover to cover half a dozen times. Her textbooks had filled the rest of the gap, although her notes had been an absolute mess; she had resolved to start again rather than continue to use them.

“If not,” Chrysanthe went on, without quite having left time for Baz to reply, setting the textbook back down and turning it towards him once more, “I can review those chapters on my own; I should rather concentrate on the newer material.” She paused then, waiting now; she sat more upright, picking her pen up once more.

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 24, 2710

The Grand Library, evening;

He had been right, about her wanting to make notes on everything. He sat quietly, watching her as she studiously went through the textbook and wrote her headers. The use of the pen and ink made her notes look so much crisper than Baz’s. He preferred pencil. It was easier to change and fix mistakes, which he made often. It led to his notes being somewhat more messy, though his handwriting was at least properly legible.

She asked him, then, about things that were covered in the lessons that weren’t in the text book. Despite having just offered her the use of his notes, he pulled the notebook back to him and flipped through it again.

“There was,” he said, “we were talking about types of reactions. You know— decomposition, combination, et cetera.”

He found the page he was looking for, and slid the notebook back over to her. “Here,” he said, “There were a few demonstrations of certain types of reactions.”

He leaned closer, indicating the diagrams he had drawn and the notes he had written relating to the demonstrations.

“This one, here, was decomposition— hydrogen peroxide and soap mixed with activated yeast," he explained, "The yeast acts as a catalyst and accelerates the breakdown of the hydrogen peroxide into oxygen and water. It made an enormous mess, it was actually quite entertaining to watch.”

He pointed to the other one. “This one was exothermic,” he said, “you know those little soft candies, jelly elepha? The professor dropped one into a test tube of molten potassium chlorate."

He pulled a bit of a face. "It was… actually a bit off-putting, especially after being called ‘the screaming elepha’. When the candy hits the molten chlorate, the oxide from melting it makes the glucose bond in the sugars spontaneously combust, and it makes the most horrible noise. Like a death wail.”

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 24 Bethas, 2710
Grand Library

Baz flipped through his notebook, and slid it over.

His handwriting was, Chrysanthe was pleased to note, very legible; the notes were messy, here and there, in places where words had been rewritten or their direction changed, but overall it was quite easy to read. Her estimation of him went up another notch.

Chrysanthe nodded; she was bent forward as well, looking at the diagrams as she listened to him discuss the demonstrations. Decomposition:, she wrote, hydrogen peroxide and soap mixed with activated yeast, and a few more of the details he had jotted down followed below. She thought she might be able to ask the professor for the materials to repeat the experiments on her own time, although Baz’s warning that it had made rather a mess put her off of it, somewhat.

She was listening closely, and taking notes as well. Jelly elepha, Chrysanthe wrote, and molten potassium chlorate. She kept going; the glucose bond melts, and the oxide – Chrysanthe went utterly still, then.

She breathed in; she exhaled, slowly, and it shuddered through her nose. She sat back, very carefully; she had not marred her notes, at least, Chrysanthe noted. Her hand was shaking a bit, and she set her pen down and drew it into her lap. She glanced up at Baz; she felt cold and clammy, as if she had gone all white; she thought if she looked in the mirror it would be like looking at a freckled ghost.

She couldn’t think; she couldn’t think at all.

The most horrible noise, Baz had said, with a faint little grimace. Like a –

“Of course,” Chrysanthe had not been sure how her voice would emerge; it was a surprise to her that it came out even, and at nearly its usual timber, although it sounded oddly slow, to her. Her hands were still shaking; she flicked her glance up at Baz, and then back down at his notes, focused studiously on them. It was only a chemical reaction, Chrysanthe told herself, firmly. The rapid oxidization – the energy output – could very likely lead to that sort of noise.

Chrysanthe wondered if she should get up and go to wash her face, perhaps. She still felt thoroughly odd; she could not bring herself to look at Baz. Color was flooding back into her, warmth too; absurdly, she could feel herself blushing now, of all things, and the heat seemed to have spread to behind her eyes, where it was staying.

She tried to think it through. If you would excuse me, she could have said, and gotten up – her imagination failed her then. She could not quite picture walking past so many people to the washroom; she could not in the least imagine what she would do once there. Splashing water on her face did not seem in the least helpful.

Chrysanthe bit down on her lower lip, pressing her teeth into it. She flicked her gaze up at Baz, but it was rather worse to look at him, and she looked back down instead. She went for her pen, instead, settling it in her hand, although she didn’t quite dare try to write yet. Like a death wail, Chrysanthe thought, and something in her chest squeezed.

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 24, 2710

The Grand Library, evening.

Sebastian noticed the change in her demeanor as he spoke, detailing the experiment and the results it produced. He was about to say more, but trailed off as he watched all the colour drain out of Chrysanthe’s face. Her entire countenance shifted as the words “death wail” left his lips. She went white as a sheet, almost alarmingly. She was trembling too, he noted, watching as she stopped writing and set down her pen. When she spoke again, her words came out odd. His brow furrowed. His expression, had she been able to look at it, had quickly turned into one of concern.

He remembered that she had been absent from school for quite some time. Given the reaction he had just seen, began to wonder if it had been because she had been ill. It would make sense. Perhaps she was still fighting off the last of whatever had kept her away for the first month of the year. He thought she might excuse herself, but she didn’t. She had been paying rapt attention to what he had been saying up until then, and now wouldn’t meet his eyes. It was all very odd, and rather worrisome.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice tinged with worry. “You… you don’t look so well, all of a sudden.”

He watched, then, as the colour returned to her face, and grew even more concerned. She went from pale as a ghost to flushed, and still wouldn’t look at him. Well, save for a brief glance. Maybe she was ill. She picked up her pen again, and Baz reached out to place a freckled hand on her arm, attempting to direct her attention to him once more.

“It’s fine if you need to take a break,” he said, “honestly, you look like you’re about to be sick. Maybe you should go and get some fresh air? We have the whole evening. It’s really no trouble.”

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 24 Bethas, 2710
Grand Library

Chrysanthe felt the color in her cheeks heighten. She hated blushing; she hated it very much. She didn’t flush red from her neck to her forehead like some of her classmates with red hair; that was something, at least. But she could feel the heat on her cheeks and other odd places, and it was rather dreadful and even more embarrassing. She didn’t understand the point of it; blushing only made embarrassment worse, especially when someone mentioned it.

Even, Chrysanthe thought, when they were nice about it. She glanced down at Baz’s hand, and then looked back up at him, solidly, forcing herself to meet his gaze for a few moments. She shook her head. “No,” Chrysanthe said, swallowing, “I don’t need any fresh air. I’m fine.” She took a deep breath; she steadied her hand on the pen.

She reached for the other student’s notebook, and pulled it a little closer. She looked intently at his notes for the two demonstrations again, the decomposition experiment first; she copied his diagram, carefully and neatly, with smooth strokes of her pen. She thought Baz was still staring at her, but she didn’t look up to check; she didn’t quite want to meet his eyes.

Then, her breathing catching unevenly in her chest once more, Chrysanthe turned her attention back to the screaming elepha. An exothermic reaction, she thought; the energy released by the sugar as it met the heat. It was only chemistry. Just oxide and the combustion of glucose bonds. She was certain she was meant to write something; she wasn’t sure what. She didn’t think she was blushing, anymore; she wasn’t sure.

Just chemistry, Chrysanthe told herself, and started to write. She copied down the diagram with slow, careful strokes of her pen, fitting it neatly into the lines of the page; she had a ruler in her pencil case, and she took it out and lay it along some of the straight edges, so that she could get a perfectly straight line without having to press; she didn’t like it when the ink bled through onto the next page, and spoiled what was to come.

Chrysanthe glanced up from the diagram, back to his notes; she copied a few more notes. There were many, many types of chemical reactions, of course; the textbook went into that in some detail. Synthesis, decomposition, single replacement and double replacement were perhaps the main four; there was then also combustion, even redox and acid-base. There were many types of chemical reactions; fire, too, was only a type of combustion.

Evenly, Chrysanthe set her pen down once more, and looked back up at Baz. She was not at all sure what her color was like; she felt rather clammy. “Was the goal of the demonstrations just to compare decomposition and combustion?” Chrysanthe asked.