[Closed] To find everything I need in me

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 33 Bethas, 2710
Grand Library

Chrysanthe paid careful attention to the things Baz pointed out; where she could, she found space for the additions in her notes. Another time, she flipped to the back of the notebook, neatly tore a piece of paper out, and copied down the notes onto it, tucking it into the notebook where it should have been chronologically. She pressed it firmly into place along the spine; she would sew the thick paper in later, Chrysanthe decided, at the top and the bottom of the inside corner, so that it would stay in place. With some careful folding back and forth to loosen it, she thought it would work almost as well as if she had known to leave the space.

Chrysanthe let Baz take the notebook. It meant there was really no avoiding looking at his hand, but she kept her gaze firmly on it, and didn’t let her gaze stray up to his face.

There was a pause, a moment; throughout it, Chrysanthe kept expecting Baz to continue, to say – she wasn’t sure what. There was a strange tingling all over her skin, rather awful, and she kept her gaze fixed quite solidly on the table, in the absence of a notebook to look at.

Baz slid his notes over. Chrysanthe settled her hand on the edge of the page, and began to read, intently. Her gaze flicked over to the doodles, the gears, and lingered for a moment on the bird. She didn’t draw – she was rather awful at it, frankly – but she rather liked the bird.

Chrysanthe nodded slightly. Her scone sat next to her hand, half-eaten, a few crumbs scattered at the edge of it onto the napkin.

“This makes sense, I think,” Chrysanthe said, rather slowly. She dared a glance up at Baz, and then looked back down at the notebook.

The compliment to Amaryllis produced a stronger reaction; Chrysanthe looked up at him once more, her face brightening, and smiled very genuinely this time. “She is,” she said, staunchly. "I'll let her know you said so." She promised. She drew her notebook back, turning to the question; she took out one of her pens, and began to write further down on the page, glancing from Baz’s notes back to her own.

Chrysanthe shifted a little on the seat, and stilled herself. “What does this mean?” She asked, tentatively, pointing to one of the lines he’d written. “That is – I think – but in this context, I wondered what was meant by…” she went on into the question, gaining a little strength in her voice as she did. She was sitting more upright now, no longer gazing down quite so much.

Baz’s explanation made a good deal of sense; Chrysanthe nodded, firmly. “Just like in the second unit,” she said, thoughtful. “I see.” She took a deep breath, and went back to her notes.

Over the quiet scratch of her pen, Chrysanthe glanced up once more. “Do you like birds?” She asked, tentatively. Her gaze held on Baz’s face for a moment, curious, and then she went back to writing, carefully and neatly forming each word.

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 33, 2710

The Grand Library, evening.

It was easy to guide Chrysanthe through the bits she didn’t quite get. Baz was thankful that this session seemed to be going a fair bit better than the last one. There was a bit of an awkward feeling in the air between them, but it was easy to ignore for now in favour of the coursework. Baz explained what he had written, and on some occasions actually reached over to change his notes slightly in places where they were unclear, revising as they went. He had briefly gotten distracted again by one thing or another, and was honestly surprised when Chrysanthe asked him about something other than the work at hand. Birds? Why had she asked about birds— he looked down at his notebook, and realized that the page they were on was the one he’d been doodling on. His cheeks coloured slightly, and he nodded.

“I do like birds, yes,” he said, “birdwatching is… it’s a hobby of mine. There isn’t much to see around here right now, but I’m looking forward to learning how to identify more species as they start to migrate back when the weather gets warmer. Georgie got me a birding guide for our birthday last month.”

He pointed to the drawing in his book. “That’s a, um… well. They’re called blue tits,” he explained, “They’re non-migratory, and there’s a group of them that have been wintering in the woods near the science halls. I see them out the windows sometimes, foraging. I’ve been meaning to see if I can find some birdseed to go and feed them, but I keep forgetting until I see them again.”

He folded his hands in front of him. “I should get Georgie to remind me tomorrow,” he said, more to himself than to Chrysanthe.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 33 Bethas, 2710
Grand Library

Baz looked surprised, at first, then she had asked.

Never mind, Chrysanthe almost said. Her cheeks went faintly pink, and she doubled down on the work before her. He was just staring - she could see it even though she wasn’t looking up - and it was really dreadful. It was only a question, she wanted to say. I only asked because you drew one, really. Never mind.

When she looked up, she saw his cheeks were pink too; he was starting to smile.

Chrystanthe looked back at the little Blue Tit. It was a good drawing, she felt; she thought she would know the bird if she saw one of them on a branch or something. She looked at it, then back at Baz and his sort of happy smile.

There had been a lot of birds in the woods by her family’s house, when Chrysanthe was small. She had spent a lot of time in those woods, especially going for walks with Amaryllis. Left to her own devices she supposed she should mostly have read. Sometimes she had read in the woods or the fields near them; that was always rather nice. She wasn’t sure she knew the names of any of the birds she had seen, but she thought sort of fondly of them in the abstract.

Baz hasn’t asked, though, and she wasn’t sure if she ought to say anything. Probably, Chrysanthe thought, he would just like to get back to work; they had quite a bit of reviewing left, and she was sure he had his own studying to take care off. It didn’t really matter, anyway; it wasn’t like they were friends or something.

So Chrysanthe nodded, instead. “It’s a nice drawing,” she offered, and changed the subject. “This bit here,” she shifted the notebook and offered it to Baz, “what does that mean? I’m not sure what this word is.”

She was mostly sure, but not totally. His handwriting really wasn’t so bad. It was better to be very clear, anyway. Chrysanthe swallowed through a somewhat dry throat. She picked at the scone a bit more; she had eaten most of it, but there were a few mouthfuls left, and several still on the table half-wrapped up in front of them.

After a moment, Chrysanthe finished the last of her scone, and then took a second. She was not still terribly hungry - the scone had taken the edge off it - but she didn’t think she would have dinner, seeing as it was rather late now, and she didn’t want to wake up starving in the middle of the night in her dorm, as happened sometimes when she didn’t eat.

She broke off another piece and ate it, checking her notes in accordance with Baz’s explanations, and setting about adding the rest to them.

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 33, 2710

The Grand Library, evening.

It had been nice to chat about something else for a bit. Birds were something no one else in his family really cared about as much as he did. Georgie was indulgent and encouraging, and had been the one to suggest to him that he should start sketching the birds he saw. She would come out with him sometimes, but he knew that she didn’t enjoy it as much as he did. It was likely she did so as a way to pay him back for all the times he agreed to sit for her to draw when she needed practice. He was about to ask Chrysanthe a question, before she changed gears and went right back into the work they were doing.

“Oh, um,” he said, looking down at what she had gotten stuck on. “Er… ‘immiscible’,” he explained. He read the line. “‘An emulsion is a blend of two or more liquids that are normally immiscible.’ It means unmixable. Like oil and water.”

He watched her write, fidgeting with his eraser. The awkward air between them now was almost palpable. Perhaps it had been the question she’d asked, about the birds, or how quickly she changed the subject, but there was no ignoring it anymore, at least for him. He considered remaining quiet and just continuing on tutoring Chrysanthe and barely letting their conversation stray from the subject matter, but something in him felt that wasn’t the best thing to do.

Alioe, he was nervous, though. The last time he had tried to talk to her about something, it backfired spectacularly. His brow furrowed when he saw that his fiddling and bending had caused cracks to form in the surface of the eraser, and set it to the side a little out of his reach. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and chose his next words very, very carefully.

“I was a bit unfair to you last time,” he said, quietly so the conversation couldn’t be heard by any prying ears. “I think that, maybe, we both might have been a little unfair, and we got off on the wrong foot. But I would like to try again. I’d like to think we can still be friends. At the very least, maybe we could be friendly.”

He didn’t look up at her, instead focusing his attention on his notebook. The word she had asked about — immiscible — it seemed an oddly fitting word for the two of them to be discussing. Unmixable, like oil and water. An emulsion holding only as long as something was stirring them together, in this case Prof. Madrigan's insistence on their tutoring arrangement. Some part of him hoped that wasn’t the case, but he was also prepared for it, and the likelihood that Chrysanthe would take what he said in entirely the wrong way. He decided that if that happened, he would let her be and go find Georgianna in the art section. He felt a bit better, having a plan.

He shrugged slightly, and then added, “It’s up to you, though. If you want, we can just talk about chemistry and then go our separate ways.”

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 33 Bethas, 2710
Grand Library

I know what immiscible means, Chrysanthe wanted to say. She bent her head over her notes instead, one braid slipping down around her shoulder to tap lightly against the table. Immiscible, she wrote, carefully, in the space she had left at the end of the line. She knew the concept of emulsion, but the definition differed slightly from how it had been framed in the book; that was, she supposed, the point of all this.

Chrysanthe held, quiet, looking down at her notes. She set her pen down and pushed her braid back over her shoulder, so it thumped against the chair instead. She turned the page back, reading carefully over the last few things she had written, checking her understanding. It was a bit different to look through someone’s notes, even explained, than to hear a lecture or something, and she did not want to have missed anything. She picked her pen up once more and made a small correction, then added a note at the bottom of the next page.

Baz leaned forward. Chrysanthe glanced up, pen in hand and waited, expecting something else about the page of notes perhaps, some other clarification.

That was not what she got. Chrysanthe held very still a long few moments, listening; her face was set and quiet, and she watched Baz rather intently across the table, listening for any hint of mockery or cruelness or teasing.

Chrysanthe shifted; she glanced down at her notes. I was trying to be friendly, she wanted to say, stung. I did - I did try. It was childish, she thought, thinking that he could just - just ask, and anyone would be his friend. The only problem was it seemed even more childish to refuse.

What does it mean to you? She wanted to ask that too. Being friends. We’re not children anymore, she thought to say, to be friends just because we’re in the same class or studying together. We have to actually like one another, or to have things in common.

All of it seemed really mean. Chrysanthe looked down at her pages again. She supposed it was a sort of apology; she thought he meant well anyway. She glanced up at him again. He was still looking at her, his freckled face very sort of anxious looking. He looked every bit like he did, rather, care about the answer. Chrysanthe wasn’t sure she understood entirely why.

“All right,” Chrysanthe said, a bit slowly. She shifted slightly in her chair; she set her pencil down. “I mean - sure, I shouldn’t mind... being friendly.” She glanced down at her notes again, and then back up; she tried a bit of a smile towards him.

“I think I like birds too,” Chrysanthe volunteered after a moment. “I don’t really know much of bird watching, but I liked seeing them in the woods as a girl. I guess I never really thought about it.” She wasn’t quite smiling anymore, but she was looking at him across the table, and waiting.

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 33, 2710

The Grand Library, evening.

Baz looked relieved as Chrysanthe admitted she still might like to give this whole ‘friends’ thing a second chance. He relaxed and leaned back in his chair. It was another opportunity to get to know her, which had been what he’d wanted to do to begin with before everything went entirely off the rails. He wasn’t so naive as to think that everyone would want to be his friend. He knew there were people in the world that would — and perhaps already did — dislike him on principle. There had been a time when he was smaller when some of the boys in his dorm would pick on him for being ‘soft’, and missing his sister. At least, until he grew a few inches taller than all of them and they found other outlets and other people to bother.

With Chrysanthe, he hadn’t really been given a chance to know her or decide whether he liked her as a person. Their last encounter had been a wash, but Baz didn’t hold it against her, especially considering what he knew now about her family and what she had been through. He didn’t mention that his knowing about her parents and the fire now was the main reason he wanted to give her a second chance. He didn’t figure that would go over very well. He had a feeling that she would mistake his understanding for pity, and that would only lead to disaster once more.

Baz smiled warmly as Chrysanthe mentioned she might also like birds. “I was going to ask,” he said, “but you changed the subject so quickly, I didn’t get the chance.”

He scratched his neck absently, considering something, before offering, “You could come with me sometime. I could show you how to identify some of the birds we get around here.”

He shrugged. “I mean, if you want to. There’s a lot of standing around and waiting, but if the weather is nice it can be a good excuse to wander through the woods.”

He looked at her, considering her for a moment, before asking, “What else do you like?”

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 33 Bethas, 2710
Grand Library

The last of Chrysanthe’s smile faded at Baz’s initial words; she glanced down. Sure, she thought, of course; it was her fault. She’d volunteered the information anyway, thinking to be friendly – she thought there had been plenty of time to ask. She didn’t understand why he had to put the lack on her; it stung, more than a bit. She’d been the one to ask about the drawing in the first place; she’d been the one to try.

I was going to ask, he said; you didn’t let me. Of course, Chrysanthe wanted to snap, it’s all my fault. Of course. Why had he even said it? She’d told him, hadn’t she? It made her feel awfully, terribly defensive, to be talked to so. Even if it was her fault, she didn’t understand why he’d felt the need to point it out; it felt cruel, after she’d just agreed to try and be his friend.

Chrysanthe stared down at the notes between her hands. Baz offered to take her bird-watching; Chrysanthe glanced back up at him, not sure what to make of it. It seemed like an awful lot of time to spend together. She wondered what he’d do if she refused; she wondered if he’d still be willing to tutor her.

He was smiling at her, friendly and open looking, and Chrysanthe didn’t know what to make of it.

“Sure,” she said, slowly, after a long moment. It was coming towards the end of Bethas, and it wasn’t so cold as it had been a few weeks ago, although there were still the occasional cold rainy days. She looked back down. It would be Loshis soon, though, and there were always a sprinkling of dry days, then; sometimes there wasn’t even so much mud. “Maybe when the weather warms up a bit,” Chrysanthe suggested, not quite looking up.

It did sound rather nice, actually, wandering in the woods looking for birds. It made her think of being a girl, but in a good sort of way; those were some of her favorite memories of the estate. She tried to imagine going back there, now, with the charred heap at the center of it; she couldn’t quite manage it. She didn’t think she’d ever go back there again, not unless Amaryllis asked her to or something.

Baz asked what else she liked. Chrysanthe took a deep breath in. Studying, she wanted to say, but that, too, seemed mean. They had an exam, and very soon, and…

“Reading,” Chrysanthe said, instead, making an effort. She glanced back up at Baz. “Novels, I mean, not the sort of stuff we read for class,” she settled upright once more. “What about you?” She asked, looking at him. Her gaze was, perhaps, a bit watchful – a bit tentative – but if she wasn’t smiling, she wasn’t frowning, either, and there was something which had edged towards friendliness in her tone.

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 33, 2710

The Grand Library, evening.

Baz smiled again as she agreed to potentially go birding with him at some point. He nodded, agreeing with her as she proposed they go sometime when the weather is a bit warmer. Warmer weather meant migratory birds would be returning, giving them more to see, and it gave the ground time to dry out after all the snow and wetness of the last few months.

“Yes,” he replied, “maybe sometime next month, when it’s a bit drier, too. I’ll let you know when I’m thinking of going, and we can figure out a day that works for both of us.”

“I enjoy reading as well,” Baz answered, when Chrysanthe asked what he liked, “mostly mysteries and detective stories. I’m good at puzzles, and I like trying to figure out the plot before the characters do. My favourite ones are the ones that keep you guessing until the very end, though. Other than that, and birds, I like taking things apart and learning how they work, and then putting them back together. More puzzles, really.”

He thought to tell her more, but they had been talking for a while, and there was an exam coming. He wouldn’t be a very good tutor if he didn’t actually cover the material. He shifted, turning his attention back to the books before them.

“We should get back to work,” he suggested, “There’s still a fair bit to cover for the exam, even though I’m certain you’d do fine on your own. You’re very thorough, and organized. It’s admirable.”

Something in his tone made it clear that he meant what he said. It wasn’t a rib, there was no hint of teasing. He pulled his notebook closer, finding where he thought they had left off and turning it to Chrysanthe. “We were just about here, weren’t we?” he asked, trusting her recollection more than his own.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 33 Bethas, 2710
Grand Library

Chrysanthe nodded a little; next month sounded good to her for bird-watching, anyway. Maybe by then she would be caught up in her classes; she didn’t feel as if it made sense to spend time on frivolities like bird-watching before then. Novels, of course, weren’t frivolous – they were essential – but even so Chrysanthe had been trying to limit herself to reading only before bed, once she’d gotten the rest of her work done. A few nights she’d fallen asleep before that point, but largely she’d fallen asleep reading in bed with the light on, which she was quite happy with.

It was lovely not to have a roommate anymore; not that she had minded, really, these last few years, although Jovanna in second year had been rather awful. But since she’d been gone so long so early in the semester, they’d moved someone else in to her room, and she’d ended up with a spare single; she was sort of grateful for it, really, at least because it meant she could read undisturbed at night.

“I like mysteries also,” Chrysanthe agreed; her smile in Baz’s direction brightened, slowly, and warmed. “Maybe we can swap some suggestions – if you haven’t read the Ro Hill mysteries, you really ought to.”

It wasn’t much longer before Baz suggested they get back to studying; Chrysanthe nodded, a bit relieved, glancing back down at her notes. He went on, and she glanced back up at him, wide-eyed in surprise.

“Thanks,” Chrysanthe said, quietly, looking at Baz for a moment, then back down at her notes. “That’s nice of you to say. You’ve been a very good tutor; I’m really grateful.” Her cheeks were slightly pink; she adjusted her pens and pencils too, and glanced up once more, smiling a little wider.

“Yes, here,” Chrysanthe took a deep breath, pleased to move on and get back to the work. She studied Baz’s notes, intently. “Here – I think this bit wasn’t in the book, was it?” Chrysanthe glanced up at Baz, and then back down at the notes; she settled the tip of her pen against the page, and started to write. “It looks a different definition of homogenous solutions than before, unless there’s something else to it?”

They went on, through the notes; there was, really, quite a lot to get through. Chrysanthe was very happy to dig in – she really did like chemistry, and Professor Madrigan had been so helpful. Bit by bit, they filled the gaps; Chrysanthe nibbled her way through her second scone, deeply absorbed in the notes and conversation. She didn’t smile throughout – it wasn’t quite like that – but the ghost of her smile lingered all the same, about her eyes and the corners of her mouth, and she found it rather easy, in the end, to listen.