Love and Other Rituals

HAHAHAHA my job is torture. At least right now. Supposedly things will calm down after New Year's.

11/12 Update: 1622 words (total 16346)
And she forgets that in a hold like this, he can sense everything. Lord Massey immediately backtracks, his turns growing wilder, like he can’t control it.

“You don’t have to!” he says. “If that makes you uncomfortable. Light reading does not an expert make. As I’m sure you know.”

What makes her uncomfortable is how much she wants to give him an opinion. It wouldn’t truly be a second opinion, since Eustasia has cottoned on that she wrote him the first one, but writing to someone isn’t the same as sitting in a room engaged in lively back-and-forth. She wants his immediate feedback. She wants to see him light up when she has a good idea. She wants him to try out her theory and have it succeed and then wrap her up in his equally-perfect six-foot wingspan, in a hug as tight as her sisters’ once were.

All of… that spills out of her like sunshine. Eustasia presses in closer, filling Lord Massey’s dance frame, knees brushing knees, thighs sometimes brushing thighs. She’s sure she’s making an absolutely stupid, giddy face. “No, no. I’m not uncomfortable. I’m sure it will be helpful to have any second opinion at all. Just someone to bounce ideas off of.”

Lord Massey straightens, his relief clear through every point of contact Eustasia has with him. One corner of his mouth quirks up in a tired smile, and he twirls her out as the song ends, then offers his arm to lead her off the floor. “Join me for some refreshments, then?”

Obviously, Eustasia accepts.

---

Ms. Roche vibrates on Gil’s arm. She stands ramrod straight, her face twitching like she can’t keep whatever she’s feeling off of it, and energy pulses out of her in a constant thrum. As Gil flags down a member of the ballroom staff to bring them something to drink, he takes her in again.

Somehow, she doesn’t seem as plain as she had the first time they met. Her dress today is a charming light-to-medium blue ombre, with fine white embroidery down the entire length. He probably shouldn’t be looking at that part of her for so long, but he swears he sees the northern zodiac constellations above her waistline, and the southern constellations below… and are those planetary orbits around her neckline? More than her clothes, though, is the eagerness flushed across her cheeks. Her face is pink, her eyes wide, her lips red as she keeps trying to stop herself from biting them.

Lady Lyall had graced him with the same pleasant, welcoming smile every time they spoke. She had welcomed his attentions, but never seemed to seek him out or really want to talk to him. For all that this discussion is academic in nature, Ms. Roche clearly wants to be here with him. She wants to chat about magecraft. Wentworth had said she had stared at him from across the room the first time they met. There is no doubt, or wondering if she actually likes him or is just aiming for the best possible match.

Two glasses of something bubbly find their way into Gil’s hands, and he passes one off to Eustasia, watching as she swirls it and sniffs it before taking a sip. He’s pretty sure she does actually drink it, too, though not much. Her tongue darts out to taste her lips after she swallows, and Gil can’t help but track the movement.

She whips her head up to face him, eyes bright. “You wanted a second opinion on something.”

“Erm. Yes.” Gil checks for any potential eavesdroppers before ducking his head down, though it does little to get his mouth closer to Eustasia’s ear. “Promise you won’t spread this around?” Gil hasn’t been invited to any of the events he’d been at last year. The goings on at his hunting party are well known across the echelons of society he’d tried to make himself part of, and he’s sure they’ll trickle their way down here as well. But to the knighted and the untitled gentry, a baron is a baron, no matter how poor.

“Of course I won’t.”

And Gil knows this is true, if what Wentworth said about her sisters is any indication. The fact that Eustasia still turns up at balls and parties, holds her tongue, and holds her head high, is testament to her ability to keep mum, even if she seems given to passion under other circumstances. So Gil tells her. “Ah. I might have magically flooded my estate.”
Her eyes grow as large as dinner plates.

“Then I turned it into a desert. Then I blew up my house.”

She blinks and takes another sip of her drink. “That’s significant. Did you mean to cause intense weather?”

“No!” Gil says, then lowers his voice when he notices a mother and daughter pair look their way. “No. I only meant to hold off some rain for an evening, and then I tried to call a drizzle to counter the original spell gone wrong. Then, when we tried to see how my output compared to Wentworth’s… well.”

Ms. Roche considers this information. “Where exactly is your estate?”

“It’s in Shropshire.”

“What time of day did you cast each spell? As exact a time as you can remember, please.”

Gil wasn’t really thinking about time when he did magecraft. “Noon-ish, maybe? And then around sunset. And then… I’m not sure. Mid-morning?”

Ms. Roche mutters something about a demonstration and measuring implements, and her voice warps and wavers into her glass, which she still holds up so that she can sniff the tart, fizzing aroma of the punch. They stand together for an uncomfortable length of time, and Gil is about to poke her somewhere so that she’ll look engaged with him, because he sees a father and daughter starting on the approach, and he can’t let them interrupt this.

“There’s a fault line near Shropshire,” Ms. Roche states, looking alert and attentive again. “The ley lines are not very stable, so it’s entirely possible one shifted to be under your house. Did Mr. Wentworth or Sir Thorton seem any more powerful there?”

“Not as far as I could tell?”

This answer does not satisfy her. Ms. Roche’s chin wrinkles, and her eyebrows furrow the slightest bit, and she shifts her weight from side to side. She adjusts her grip on her glass, as if to move and cross her arms, but stops herself. A lady does not cross her arms in public, after all. “Hmm. Have you attempted magic outside of your estate since then?”

Gil blanches, and that’s answer enough. Ms. Roche waves away the question and answers it herself.

“Of course you haven’t. You’re too afraid of blowing up someone else’s property. It’s not commonly done, since few people ever reach the scale of power you’re talking about without concerted effort, but I read an article once by an Italian archeologist, and the Romans had some chant language about order of magnitude power reduction. Maybe incorporating something to that effect will help you control things until you know what you’re working with.”

Gil hardly knows where he would start with that, but Sir Thorton surely knows someone who can help. Or, if Gil continues talking to Ms. Roche, she may explain her way through it unprompted.

“Any thoughts on what order of magnitude I should start with?”

Maybe it’s just the candlelight, but Gil swears Ms. Roche gets this wistful look in her eyes. She looks out at the dancers–currently skipping their way through a jolly reel–and it’s like there are numbers dancing across her irises. “In your case, I suppose conservative is best. Perhaps you start at a million?”

A million? Gil fights to keep his jaw from plonking on the floor. “That’s… quite a big number.”

Ms. Roche lets out a silver-bell laugh. “I agree, but think about it this way: how large a flame did you intend to summon?”

“Fist-sized?”

“And how large did your companions say it was?”

Gil had closed his eyes the moment the fire grew beyond his control, but judging from how much of his house caught fire… well, he can estimate a size. He’ll confirm with them later. “Maybe… a fifteen foot radius sphere?”

A line of dancers spins by them, shoes loud against the wooden floor. In the mere seconds it takes for them to whoosh by, Ms. Roche is already done calculating things. She turns to him, no longer contemplative or trying to hide herself, but bursting with confidence. “Say your fist forms a six-inch diameter sphere. Fifteen feet is thirty times that. When you consider that you must cube that difference, well. You’re looking at a spell twenty-seven thousand times more powerful than the original.”

Oh. Wow. Gil hadn’t even thought that was in the realm of possibility.

“Given that we’re estimating here off of size, and not a more reliable measure for fire, and you want to be conservative to prevent harm or property damage, I think scaling back to a millionth is perfectly reasonable. If that produces nothing, scale to a hundred-thousandth, and then a ten-thousandth, and so on.” Ms. Roche waits a few moments for the sheer scale of Gil’s problem to sink in. He looks back at her, not really seeing, just trying to process what she’s said. The ballroom around them melts into a wash of golden candlelight and beatless music.

She breaks into a nervous smile. “Uh. Lord Massey? Everything alright?”

Gil can’t keep the wonder out of his voice. “Why don’t you write for National Mage?”

Like flicking a switch, Ms. Roche’s eyes dim. She averts her gaze, and her charming, concerned smile transforms into a flat, wooden thing–still there, but painted on. She breathes out something that might be a laugh and might be a cry for help. “What a funny thing to say.”

But she isn’t laughing, and Gil isn’t laughing. Rather, he feels as if he has said exactly the wrong thing.

11/13 Update: 699 words (total 17135)
“You’re catastrophizing,” Zenia says, again sitting in the Roche’s brightly-lit parlor, poking at a mangled piece of embroidery with fruitless stitches that mostly just make her piece look worse.

“I’m not catastrophizing!” Eustasia’s embroidery is going much better. Her nautilus shell has a perfect spiral built off of a series of golden ratios, and the shell’s little brown tiger stripes are somehow both dainty and fierce.

“Please. It isn’t a secret that your older sister ran off with a brewer and your younger sister ran off to… who knows where. And you said yourself he’s friends with Mr. Wentworth. He definitely knows, and he’s talking to you anyway. You’ve basically already won.”

This, unfortunately, is not the secret Eustasia had meant when she wailed to Zenia about Lord Massey having figured out something terrible about her. Not that Eustasia can correct her. Zenia would be scandalized by the knowledge that Eustasia is regularly corresponding with men–in an academic context or otherwise. And then she would probably make fun of Eustasia’s writing style.

Of course, Lord Massey hadn’t exactly said he knew she was Eustace Orland. But that question he’d asked? She can see his pursed lips and furrowed brows in her head, all lit by candles and merriment. He definitely knew.

“You know, I thought you weren’t going to aim for titled gentlemen,” Zenia says. She takes a long, hard look at her embroidery, then a longer, harder look at Eustasia. “Not that I fault you. If a titled gentleman had paid me any attention when I was looking, I would have gone for that too.”

“I didn’t aim!” Not in the way Zenia is thinking, at least. “I’m not aiming. Besides, he’s not interested like that.” Eustasia also is not interested like that. Lord Massey, in financial ruin or not, is too far above her station. Besides, he’s probably looking for a girl with money. Eustasia isn’t poor, but she’s not rich enough for his problems.

Finally, Zenia gives up on her embroidery. She tosses the hoop, needle still stuck in it, onto the floor, flings off her shoes, and tucks her feet up onto the sofa. Then she leans conspiratorially over the armrest, eyes glittering. “Don’t be shy. You raced over as soon as he entered the ballroom! Any man would take that as interest and respond accordingly. He keeps talking to you when you’re clearly interested? Then he’s interested back.”

This conversation is clearly going nowhere. Eustasia knots her final thread and bites the tail off, then reaches down to pick up Zenia’s botched handkerchief.

It’s… well. It’s bad. Eustasia had known it was bad, even seeing it angled and distorted and from ten feet away, but it’s worse straight-on. She thinks Zenia meant to depict a bird, which is a departure from her usual subject matter, and its head is too large for its body. Its wings look broken. The stitch Zenia tried to use to convey the texture of the feathers is entirely the wrong size and makes the whole creature look spiky.

Eustasia turns the hoop so the bird is upside down, then again to put it on its side. Lord Massey has given her quite the puzzle to think about. After spending her whole life researching ways to optimize a person’s magical output, she’s unprepared for the problem of reducing it.

Zenia snatches the hoop out of her hands. “Will you stop looking at it? I’m embarrassed enough as it is.”

“Sorry. I was thinking about something.” Namely, she was thinking about how to counter ritually significant things. Using the inverse of the golden ratio would likely prove useless (after all, the golden ratio would not be golden if its inverse were not also special). Perhaps she should explore randomness and chance, or mundanity instead. But this raises a question of what a “mundane” number might be. Every large number that can’t be divided into ritually significant smaller numbers is prime, which is a kind of special unto itself.

“Well, let me know when you come back to earth.” Zenia plucks a book up off the end table and settles in, archly and carelessly flipping through the pages as she skims through.

OMG thank youuuuuu Mint! Awkward-but-charming is definitely the goal here haha.

11/14 Update: 1309 words (total 18444)
Eustasia knows that the most obvious counter to ritual is acting thoughtlessly. She thinks back to Lord Massey’s wording, his tentative language, the way Sir Thorton’s letter had implied that, when Lord Massey cast his spells, he had done them just as always, ignoring the fact that Lord Massey is not the same man he was in university. He’s Baron Massey now. He’s grieved the loss of a beloved father. He’s settling down to get married.

Meditation is most commonly a practice used to help fledgling mages grow their power. No one has done thorough experiments with it, but Eustasia coached her sisters through it as they all grew up. She knows that a mage’s connection to their own power and intent is important. So what if Lord Massey has suddenly grown much more powerful than he’s used to? He still ought to be able to control it by intent alone, without the need for any archaic Roman power reductors.

He has adjusted so many things about his life in the past year-and-a-half. He can adjust his approach to magecraft as well–relearn it from the ground up with the understanding that there is now magic swelling under his skin, boiling through his blood, ready to explode out the moment he taps in.

If only Eustasia could be there for it.

---

Gil is being a bad friend.

Wentworth paces across the floor of his office, rattling off the presentation he plans to give at Sir Elmer Roche’s soiree tomorrow, and Gil should be listening attentively so that he can give feedback. He should be watching his friend to check that he’s making good eye contact, using gestures effectively, and not doing anything distracting. Like the pacing.

From his place on Wentworth’s couch, Sir Thorton gives a sharp clap. “Less pacing, if you please!”

Wentworth stops short, sighs, and drags a hand across his face. “That’s the fourth time. How do I keep doing that?”

Instead of being a good friend and offering advice or teasing him, Gil just stares down at the letter in his lap. After all the work he and Emory had done to gather up documents and send them over to Mr. Orland, the man had done a total one-eighty and suggested meditation.

“Perhaps there is some explanation in here of why you are suddenly overflowing with magic,” Orland had written, in his perfectly even script. “Regardless, unless you wish to throw away the habits, traditions, values, and circumstances that likely led you to this outcome–and it does not sound like you do!–that power is here to stay. You must learn it anew. Practice magecraft with all the intention and focus of a beginner, and I am certain you will see results.”

It’s not the answer Gil was looking for. How is he supposed to practice anything when he’s risking health and home every time he does it? He’s afraid to even call a bauble of light, for fear it might blind someone.

Suddenly, Sir Roche’s soiree cannot come soon enough. He wants to speak to Ms. Roche, to have her put Orland’s words into perspective for him. He wants to watch as thoughts race behind her eyes and see what fascinating subject matter she has embroidered on her dress du jour. And maybe he wants to sit next to her at dinner and learn about her instead of just talking about him and his problems.

“Honestly, Massey! Will you stop daydreaming?”

Wentworth snaps him out of his thoughts and back into the room, where he finds his friend and mentor both leaned forward, staring at him. Sir Thorton’s bushy, grey eyebrows dance over his eyes, all amusement. Wentworth just sniffs in annoyance.

“Good god. You’re hopeless.” Throwing his hands up, Wentworth stalks back to his massive wooden desk and shuffles through the mess of papers stacked on top. He isn’t as organized as Gil. His office is filled to the brim with knicknacks and figurines from every part of the empire, and his shelves are a madhouse of financial reports, patent filings, and reference books, with papers sticking out at odd angles and stacks of journals threatening to spill to the floor. “I know metal alloys and the properties of magical fire aren’t your thing, but you could at least pretend you aren’t lost in thought about the two ‘Eu’s.”

“Ewes?” What is Wentworth talking about? Gil’s estate is not known for sheep.

“Eustace and Eustasia, obviously.”

The use of Ms. Roche’s given name strikes Gil like lightning. He knows Wentworth had introduced her with it, but since his friend had said she wasn’t the sort of girl Gil would marry, he’d immediately forgotten it, remembering only that he should call her Ms. Roche. He looks back down at the letter, and the image of her in the public ballroom, laughing without humor at his comment about writing for the National Mage, flashes in his mind’s eye.

“Are they actually two people?” he asks, before he can stop to think about it.

“Oh, thank god. You haven’t gone stupid running your estate.”

“Wait.” Gil peers at Wentworth in shock. “You already knew?”

“Sir Thorton figured it out in seconds,” Wentworth says, gesturing to a beaming Sir Thorton. “And of course I knew. I work with Sir Roche all the time. Their mother’s maiden name is Orland, and subtlety has never come naturally to Eustasia. Besides, you never saw her interact with her sisters.”

Ah, the mysterious, missing sisters. Gil vaguely remembers someone mentioning them as well.

Looking haunted, Wentworth plops down into his chair and stares at the ceiling. “I spent an entire year suffering through the most absurdly long tea ceremony every time I visited the house. I had my suspicions already, but then I read a Eustace Orland article on the effect of dietary rituals, and it was plain as day. And it does work. Her sisters used me as a test subject.”

This explains Wentworth’s insistence upon drinking a cup of coffee that he brews himself, precisely at seven in the morning each day. And why he swears up and down that he’s a better mage for it.

“One might guess, with both sisters no longer in the house,” Sir Thorton says, wizened fingers coming up to stroke his chin, “that she might be looking for a new partner to test her theories.”

Immediately, Wentworth hauls himself halfway over his desk, jabbing a finger in Sir Thorton’s direction. “Don’t you start. He’s already wandered his way into one almost-engagement. He doesn’t need anyone to lead him into another.”

Gil blinks. Is that how Wentworth saw his pursuit of Lady Lyall? As something he just wandered into? He tries to digest this, but can’t quite wrap his head around the idea. He had chosen her, not wandered into the affair. He had real reasons: her viscount father would boost his standing amongst his peers, she came from a similar financial background, and… well. That was sort of it. But those were the things that mattered.

“I’m not leading him into anything,” Sir Thorton says, hands raised in placation, “merely suggesting that continuing the acquaintance might prove useful as Young Massey works through his magical problems.”

Yes. Exactly. There’s nothing more to it. Ms. Roche will help Gil get his life back on track, and perhaps be a longtime academic friend afterward. Then Gil will make a valiant return to the social scene of his titled peers and find a new politically useful potential spouse. “I hope her father continues hosting soirees,” Gil says, before realizing he’s falling into the same kind of non sequitur conversation habits as Ms. Roche herself. “It won’t be proper to continue corresponding by letter.”

Wentworth groans and collapses down across his desk, sending papers floating to the floor. “I can’t believe that’s the thing you focus on here.”

I worked very hard today. Also, since we're at the halfway point, I'm taking a leaf out of Snoink's book:



Not doing quite as well, but my goal is just to write every day, and the 50k is secondary. I'm technically only 1096 words behind though! If I'm very good I can catch up tomorrow.

11/15 Update: 5455 words (total 23909)
Sir Thorton does not give a presentation at Eustasia’s soiree, but he does stop by, Mr. Wentworth and Lord Massey trailing behind him as he graciously shakes hands with Eustasia’s father and then again with her. Eustasia can feel the stares of a handful of other women, but it’s less than she would face were Sir Thorton to do this at a public ball. It’s nice. Maybe after today she will have a friend other than Zenia.

The Roche house has been transformed for the occasion. Eustasia rearranged the parlor, bringing down one of the couches in the upstairs sitting room and changing out some of the family’s older decor for a few items with more ritual significance: sea shells, a scale model of the Roman Pantheon, and a few of the more lively six-petal flowers that survived Theodora’s departure. She rotated through the household’s painting collection, finding portraits with pleasing ratios in their composition and landscapes of magically powerful places. She switched out the parlor’s usual gauzy white curtains for a more stately green and had the rug freshly cleaned.

Even with her adjustments, though, the house feels cramped. The Roches’ home isn’t built for hosting so many people, and Eustasia bites her lips as she watches her guests begin to sit and finds they have to be butt-to-butt and elbow-to-elbow on the couches.

Fifteen minutes after the event is supposed to begin, which everyone knows is when things are actually supposed to start, people begin to settle down. Their greetings have been given, old acquaintances renewed. Those people who are sticklers for schedule hush up any ongoing magecraft debates as Eustasia collects her father from the entry hall and ushers him into the room.

It strikes Eustasia, as she offers her father an encouraging smile and leaves him in the corner of the room she’s left empty for speakers, that she has rarely seen her father in his academic capacity. For most of her life, he has been a quiet, magically-minded businessman. He is not flashy, or given to show off his inventions. He rarely even helped Eustasia and her sisters with their own magecraft endeavors. He’d mostly just read to them when they were young, and quietly listened to them discuss their plans and results at dinner when they grew older.

After a brief cough, he straightens up, looks out at the gathered crowd, and takes it all in. He isn’t a different man on stage, but Eustasia can see by the angle of his neck and slight lift of his chin that this was once his realm of expertise. He is comfortable and confident here in a way he was not while raising three girls.

“Welcome, everyone,” he says, as full, attentive silence washes over the room. “I know it has been a very long time since I was involved in the cutting edge of magecraft, so it is an honor and priviledge to have so many of you here to share your latest discoveries and ideas.”

Biting her lip, Eustasia scans the guests. Do they still respect and admire her father? She can tell by the blank stares of some guests that not all of them care to be here, but Sir Thorton at least smiles through her father’s opening words. Mr. Wentworth looks a bit green behind him, closing his eyes for long moments and rocking back and forth on his heels. Lord Massey, perfectly six-feet as always, listens intently, eyes bright and open, though he hasn’t broken into a smile yet. When Eustasia’s eyes track to Zenia, she finds her friend is already bored.

“Of course, none of this would be possible without my daughter, Eustasia,” her father continues. “She is the one who gave me the push to return to my roots and host you all here. As many of you know, this past year has been eventful for us, and I would not have found the courage or energy to stand before you if not for her help organizing and preparing for this affair.” Her father beams at her, and like everything he does now, it is tinged with exhaustion, but it melts something in Eustasia all the same. She has to be social today. She has to be perfect. This event may be her best chance at pinning down the kind of life her father wants for her, and she can’t mess it up.

“Now then.” Eustasia’s father gestures to their first presenter of the day, a young mage freshly out of his university research program. “We have a wonderful list of mages and scientists here today. It would not do to keep any of them waiting. Mr. Walter Ostrin, the floor is yours.”

Mr. Ostrin stutters his way through the first half of his presentation on how animals sense magical forces before finding his footing. An older gentleman, Mr. Cossey, brings his wife up with him, and they demonstrate their most recent invention: heated blankets, where the quilt pattern helps channel magic passively to warm the user through the coldest winter nights, with no risk of fire. Then there’s Sir Everlue, whose discussion of how to trap and contain magical energy has Lord Massey perking up in interest. And to round out the first half before refreshments they have Mr. Wentworth.

He strides out, radiating energy, and immediately launches into an anecdote about a Japanese sword a merchant friend of his had brought. He’s a pacer. Eustasia notices on more than one occasion he paces here and there before locking eyes with Sir Thorton and freezing in his tracks.

“I realized that we have spent so long focusing on power in magecraft,” Mr. Wentworth says, “that we have forgotten it may have other uses. The right equation, utterance, and intent, can produce a flame that is not necessarily large, but a perfectly precise temperature. We do not have the technology to make coal and wood burn so consistently, but we can do it with magecraft. There is a whole world of material science that can be unlocked by a mage’s ability to create consistency. My work with Sir Roche has focused on steel and iron plants. Perhaps someone else’s will focus on creating home ovens that turn baking from an impossible art into a rigorous science.” He glances knowingly at the Cosseys, and when Eustasia follows suit, she sees Mrs. Cossey already fired up while her husband takes her hand with an adoring gaze.

It clicks, then. Eustasia wants that. She has told herself every year that she has been out in society that she just needs someone who will marry her and then leave her alone to do her own thing. But then she never really put herself out there enough to be the girl who gets married just to get married. She has been looking for a friend and companion, someone like her sisters but somehow more interested, more present, and more committed.

Tragedy upon tragedy, the person who has so far been most ready to talk to her about magecraft is Lord Massey–a man she certainly will not be able to catch. Shaking her head, Eustasia tunes back in to Mr. Wentworth’s speech, watching as he conjures two flames. In his right, he holds a flickering, orange-yellow wisp. In his left burns a steady torch of blue fire. Then, with a wink and a dramatic raise of his hands, he slowly manipulates them both so the blue flame cools to orange, and the orange flame heats to blue.

A-ha! That’s it. That’s the thing she can suggest to Lord Massey next. As a specialist in evocation, he has spent his life calling energy and matter to him. He never had to control how much–that was part of whatever spell he’d already designed. And by now, his habits in evocation magecraft are so built up, it might be hard for him to break them. If she convinces him to attempt transformative magic instead, changing the form of things already in front of him, it will give him more license to use the vast well of power living inside him without risking a fireball or rainstorm.

Mr. Wentworth finishes out his presentation with a masterful demonstration of the creation of his strongest steel alloy yet, using a pocketful of ash, a misshapen lump of iron, and a dazzling level of control over his telekinetic and flame-evocation skills. Then, after passing the metal bar around, he closes with a bow to loud but polite applause.

The Roche family’s staff haven’t even entered with refreshments before Eustasia bustles straight toward Lord Massey. She should probably greet the other speakers first, or check in on her father to make sure he isn’t too tired, but the idea is in her head, and she has to get it out.

“Ms. Roche,” he says in greeting as she barrels toward him. She thinks she might see a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

She manages a quick “You as well” at the very last second before beckoning him to bend down so she can speak more softly. “You should try transmutation magic!” she whispers.

He stares. Eustasia is so far into her head that she doesn’t notice him or anyone else staring. “It’s not your area of expertise,” she continues, “so you’d have to be more intentional about it, which should help. And then also since you wouldn’t be calling fire or water or anything, there’s no risk of real damage. You know, telekinesis might be a very effective way of measuring how much”-

She’s cut off by Zenia bumping into her side and tugging them apart. “Not aiming, my butt!” she hisses, so low no one else can hear.

Eustasia surreptitiously peers around and finds that, unfortunately, a great many people have just watched her beeline for Lord Massey and then whisper at him, which does not make her seem very ladylike at all. She titters nervously, the weight of everyone’s stares like lead on her pounding heart. Lord Massey, when she dares to look at him, is similarly frozen.

The parlor’s pocket doors slide open to let in a few staff members with trays of goodies and drinks, and only then does the uncomfortable moment end. Even so, Eustasia feels the uncomfortable tingle along her spine that says someone is watching.

“My apologies,” she says.

“No, no,” Lord Massey replies. “I know it was only your academic excitement. Nothing to worry about.”

They spend a long few seconds just waiting for conversation to pick up around them so that no one will hear what they say next. Then, before it’s really loud eough, Eustasia whips her head back up and says, “I do really mean it. You should try transmutation. I think if you attempt telekinesis on water, you could quickly get a sense of how much magic you’re working with now, as compared to when you were in university.” It’s more measurable, too, she thinks, though if Lord Massey is working with power twenty-seven thousand times that of his university days, measuring the water he can move might be an unwieldy task.

She could probably get a good estimate, though, just by looking. That’s if she gets the chance to watch him, which seems unlikely.

“There’s a park near Wentworth’s townhouse with a pretty, well-sectioned off lake,” Lord Massey murmurs. He fingers at the buttons on his jacket cuffs, looking more like a schoolboy than a full-grown baron. His well-formed cheekbones tinge a becoming shade of pink, and then all at once he straightens, throwing his shoulders back and raising his chin. He takes a bolstering inhale and reaches for both of Eustasia’s hands, clasping them in his. “Perhaps you and Mrs. Gordon can find a few friends to invite along to a picnic? I’ll bring Wentworth and a few of his set.”

Eustasia’s heart stutters. She feels Zenia’s arms close around one of hers in a vice-grip. For a few seconds, the world is only her and Lord Massey–no redecorated parlor, no staring guests, no hubbub of magecraft chatter.

“Ms. Roche?” Lord Massey says. “Are you alright? If you don’t want”-

The illusion shatters. “Of course I want!” Eustasia blurts, far too loud. Ugh, she’s never going to get married at this rate. “I mean, we would love to join you.” Love? She’d love to join him? How did she let that one slip out?

Hope blooms in Lord Massey’s eyes, sparking like his fifteen-foot diameter fireball, blossoming like the sweetest rose. His fingers, which Eustasia notes are fifteen thirty-secondths of an inch longer than hers on average, tighten around her palms in a pleased squeeze that does things to her. She wants him to keep holding her hand. Maybe he’ll lace his fingers through hers the way Mr. Cossey did to his wife. Maybe he’ll look at her like Mr. Cossey did at his wife.

“Excellent,” Lord Massey says, letting a small grin transform the lower half of his face. “Does this Thursday work for you?”

Thursday, unlike Wednesday and Sunday, is not a magically significant day. Not in Europe, at least.

“Thursday is perfect.”

---

“You know what this looks like, right?” Wentworth says, crossing his arms as he glares at Gil from across the carriage. “Inviting Ms. Roche out like this?”

“It’s not”-

“Yes! It is!” Wentworth leans forward, his glare ice-cold, until an inopportune bump sends him flying back into the seat. “I don’t like this. If you’re not planning to actually pursue her, it isn’t fair to treat her like you are. She’s pariah enough as it is without you eagerly responding to her academic interest in you. From the outside, it looks like she’s throwing herself at you, and you’re encouraging it.”

Gil turns away to watch out the window as tidy townhouses pass by outside. “Why is she such a pariah?”

“Ugh! You’re hopeless.” Wentworth flings one leg over the other and rolls his eyes before launching into the story. “Her older sister eloped with a brewer, if you must know. It shocked everyone, since so many people thought Theodora would end up with someone titled, until their father fell ill and couldn’t keep a close eye on them when they went out. The mother of the man Theodora had been closest to marrying had all three Roche sisters truck from half the major public ballroom guest lists, and they aren’t exactly welcomed with open arms at the rest.”

“Being sister-in-law to a tradesman isn’t necessarily life-altering,” Gil says.

“It wouldn’t be, if the younger sister hadn’t then disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“Oh?”

Wentworth groans, clutching his face in his hands. “I knew Pat was trouble,” he mutters, before shaking it off and slumping into the seat cushion. “Anyway, since the family can’t confirm that Patricia is legally married to anyone, people think Eustasia is going to follow her sisters into a fully non-traditional life as well, which does not make her a fantastic marriage candidate.”

“You call the youngest by a nickname?”

Wentworth startles, face beet-red. “What? I- Everyone calls her that. Whatever. I know she’s fine and dandy where she is, but it’s not like I can stop society from assuming things about Eustasia just because I also happen to know where Pat is.”

“Where is the youngest Ms. Roche?”

Instead of continuing in his honesty, Wentworth waves the inquiry away and re-crosses his arms, scooting up the seat so that his back is straight again. “I’ve already said too much. But she’s fine where she is. I’m the one who got her there, so I try to keep a close ear.”

Gil has the distinct feeling he should dig for as much as he can, and then relate it all to Ms. Eustasia Roche, which is odd because he’s never felt a strong need to learn something for someone else’s sake before. Not in this very personal way. “Does Ms. Eustasia Roche know that you’re involved in her younger sister’s disappearance?”

“No,” Wentworth says, before narrowing his eyes. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep it that way.”

Gil is fairly certain he could send Wentworth sky-high in a fight now, but he isn’t interested in losing Wentworth’s friendship. “I think if you can assuage Ms. Eustasia’s worries, she would appreciate it.” Then he scoots closer to the door as the carriage rattles to a stop.

It’s honestly a bit cold for a picnic. March is still somewhere between lion and lamb in weather, and today is some kind of bizarre lion-lamb chimera. The sun is high, the sky is blue, and a cold wind blows through the air like it’s fleeing something. If Gil could trust his magic right now, he might have tried to influence things to be more comfortable, but as he is, he’d probably just cause a late snowstorm. As the two men step out, Wentworth shivers, then mutters an incantation under his breath, waves a hand, and covers them both in a thin layer of warm air.

Gil supposes he can keep a secret if his friend will compensate for his own magical problems.

The Gordon family’s carriage rolls up behind Wentworth’s, louder and more uncomfortable-sounding than Wentworth’s carriage. When it stops, out come Mr. and Mrs. Gordon, and then Ms. Roche, and then a gaggle of Gordon children, who all immediately race out into the lawn next to the lake, getting their shoes and clothes all muddy in seconds.

Wentworth’s staff begin unloading picnic supplies from the back of the carriage, and Gil, unable to help himself, wanders over to Ms. Roche. She graces him with a smile so wide and bright it might be more effective at warming him than Wentworth’s magecraft.

“Ms. Roche,” he says, offering a hand so that he might kiss the air over hers in greeting. “Thank you for agreeing to come out today.”

She shakes his hand instead, still beaming. “Of course! I’m so excited. My sisters are prodigious mages, but their specialties are very different from yours, so I’ll get to see something new today.”

This may be the most information Ms. Roche has ever offered about her sisters. “Oh? And what are their specialties?” And now that he thinks about it, what is Ms. Roche’s? She hadn’t given a presentation at her father’s soiree, but Gil is certain she could, if she wasn’t so worried about her reputation.

“Well, when we were growing up, Theodora mostly did things related to horticulture in front of us, but truth be told, she’s a master at anything related to plants: soil transmutations, the creation of fertilizer, some overlap with your weather magecraft, and even a dip into time manipulation.”

“That’s… remarkably powerful.” Would it be rude to ask how to get in touch with Ms. Roche’s sister and brother-in-law? Gil will need help getting his estate back into farming shape. He offers Ms. Roche his arm, and again is struck by the warmth of her resting her hand in the crook of his elbow, the heat of her walking at his side. They meander toward the lake, where the Gordon children are already trying to remove shoes to wade into the water.

“Pat is also experienced with biological magecraft,” Ms. Roche says, “but her expertise lies with bodies. She’s a gifted healer. I actually think she might be the best there is, and that’s before she”-

Ms. Roche cuts herself off, cheeks heating, and then looks away. Oh? This information, in tandem with what Wentworth revealed in the carriage, tells quite a story about the youngest Roche sister.

Gil makes a decision before he can really think about it. “No one is close enough to hear,” he murmurs, dipping his head to put his lips closer to Ms. Roche’s ear. He has the lightning-flash thought that he could actually touch his lips to the soft shell of skin there, which nearly stops him from saying the most important part. “And I’m well aware you and your sisters do not always act in line with the standards of the day. I won’t change my opinion of you because of something your sister has done.”

When Ms. Roche looks at him, her brown eyes doe-wide and delicate, her mouth parted in hopeful surprise, Gil feels a rush in his heart. He both never wants to see her look like that again, and have her only look that way at him.

It strikes him, suddenly. This is what he wants. His vision of a quiet, easy life with Lady Lyall had been built on what he thought were his peers’ expectations. A life of curiosity with Ms. Roche at his side, where he can share in her discovery, and she can share in his, is far more tantalizing. She may not be rich enough for him to quickly rebuild the life he had before he messed everything up, but she is intelligent and straightforward, and he thinks she would be willing to muddle through with him where a more politically-minded woman like Lady Lyall would run away.

“My sister is at medical college,” Ms. Roche says, quiet, “disguised as a distant relative of ours. I don’t know how she managed it, but”-

“Try Wentworth,” Gil says, despite his friend’s earlier warning.

Ms. Roche lets out a disgruntled noise. “Ah. I did wonder how she managed to pull off the paperwork and transportation. I suppose he’s as good an ally to have as any.”

“But as a family friend, it would have been nice of him to clue you in,” Gil adds.

“Exactly!” After taking a brief moment to glare over her shoulder at Wentworth–still managing his staff as they set up the picnic blankets and food–she steps in closer to Gil and pulls them both faster toward the lake. “Now, I hope you studied up on your telekinesis, because we have a lot to try.”

---

If anything is going to scare Lord Massey out of their acquaintance, this is it. The Gordon children gather around them as he chants under his breath and stretches his hands out over the water, eyes closed in focus. His fingers tremble, and his arm shakes, and then a spot of water swells up, bending the surface of the lake in a massive convex curve. It pulls up, up, up, stretching a line of water down to the surface, until it pops off, forming a lumpy bubble of water.

Lord Massey opens his eyes, takes a look at the bubble, and drops his jaw.

“If you could get it to be more spherical or more cubical, that would be helpful,” Eustasia says. She has an idea of the volume there, but a lumpy ellipsoid is a harder thing to measure than a nice, even sphere. As Lord Massey focuses, she pulls a notepad and stick of graphite from a pocket hidden in the folds of her skirts and prepares to take notes.

After a minute or so, during which time the younger Gordon children have already peeled away to return to being little hellions, Lord Massey manages something closer to a sphere. Eustasia eyes it critically. It’s about forty feet in diameter, which puts the volume at two-hundred, sixty-eight thousand cubic feet, or very close to ten-thousand cubic yards.

“Do I have to hold this much longer?” Lord Massey says.

Curious as Eustasia is about his endurance, that isn’t the point of today’s exercise. “No, I have my record of it. I might recommend a gentle touch when you”-

Lord Massey releases the bubble all at once. It hovers in the air for a horrible split second, then plummets back into the lake. The sound is thunderous. The splash is… significant. Before she can think to close her eyes, a wall of water crashes over the lakeshore, drenching the Gordon children, then Lord Massey, then Eustasia. All of a sudden she’s shivering, fingers turning numb in the cool, March air. By some miracle, none of the children seem to be drowning, only shrieking in delight.

“Ye gods!” Wentworth shouts. “Massey! What are you doing?”

“I am so sorry,” Lord Massey says to Eustasia. His dripping wet hands dart to and fro, as if he can’t decide what to do with them. He wants to cast something. It’s obvious from the whir of thought behind his eyes, but he keeps stopping himself.

“I s-said to be gentle,” Eustasia stutters out. Her teeth keep clattering against each other. Her felted wool coat, which usually does a good job fending off the winter drizzle, is completely soaked through. It feels like a thousand pounds all suddenly settled on her shoulders.

Lord Massey finally decides what to do with his hands, clamping them against Eustasia’s upper arms. “You’re absolutely right. I should have been gentle.” Then his brow furrows, and he looks down, toward his own chest, like he’s found something there. He bites his lip and offers a terrified laugh. “Promise you won’t be even more angry if this also goes poorly?”

“What”-

His hands heat. Even through her soggy coat, Eustasia feels it radiate out in pulses of warmth, a little fast, but slowing down, almost like a heartbeat. Then she realizes that it is his heartbeat. In no time at all, she’s dry, from the ends of her hair to the tips of her boots. Her clothes have suffered–wool and leather are not meant to be soaked and heated like this–but she’s no longer shivering. When it’s clear his spell has been successful, Lord Massey’s hands cool, and he rubs up and down Eustasia’s arms, a blinding smile cutting across his chin.

“There. I did it.” He breaks into a laugh. “I did it!” For a moment, he keeps smiling, keeps looking at Eustasia like he couldn’t be happier, keeps rubbing his hands up and down, making her own heart do silly things. Then he seems to remember where he is and rips his hands away, moving to tuck a stray lock of hair back behind his ear. His pommade is ruined, and the sudden drying has him looking a little poofy. “Ah, let me take care of the children, and then I’ll report right back to you for your notes.” He races off, a hop in his step, and wrestles the very damp children away from the lake shore to get dry.

He’s nice to children, Eustasia thinks. He’s nice to children, and she felt his heartbeat.
She watches him, totally entranced, until she feels a sharp poke in her side and finds Zenia making a very arched I-told-you-so expression.

“Not aiming, you said?”

“I wasn’t!” Eustasia hisses. “He just! Did that!”

“Then you’re both stupid.” Zenia drags Eustasia up to the picnic blankets, which are looking much more put together than they had a few minutes ago, and sets her down near a basket full of goodies. “Sit. Mr. Wentworth’s staff are heating a kettle for us.”

A few minutes later, there is hot tea in Eustasia’s hands, the steam and aroma filling her nose as she continues to watch Lord Massey tussle with the children. Zenia eyes him like a hawk, like he’s about to do something that will accidentally harm them, but one by one the children are dried and sent up for sweets and tea, and at long last, Lord Massy himself trudges up from the lakeshore, looking flushed, tired, and a little bedraggled.

He plops himself next to Eustasia on the picnic blanket, looking a bit sheepish. “You’re alright?”

“I’m fine, yes.” Eustasia tilts her head and glances at his hands. “How did you make the second spell go correctly?”

“Honestly? You had me hold the telekinesis long enough that I was able to feel the magic pouring out of me. I was fairly certain when I tried the warming spell that I wouldn’t have enough power to make it go horribly wrong.”

He’d only been fairly certain. Eustasia could have been set on fire today. Bristling, she takes a sip of her tea.

“You were totally correct, though. Evocation is always a single burst of power, so I’d never really been in touch with my own reserves. I think a bit of daily practice with more sustained kinds of magecraft will put me back on track.”

It’s hard not to feel proud when Lord Massey says words like that. He’s attributing some part of his success to her! If only Eustasia could write about this in her next article as Eustace Orland. As she puzzles out a way to reframe the situation from her secret identity’s more wordy, esoteric, purely theoretical lens, she tunes out the goings on around her: Lord Massey scooting to sit closer, the children returning from their tea and treats to go be rambunctious again, Wentworth pacing back and forth across the grass.

A set of carriage wheels crunches against the gravel path nearby, and Eustasia is still thinking about how sustained magecraft can theoretically be likened to meditation when she senses Lord Massey stiffen behind her. She notices the hitch of his breath and sudden tension of his shoulders, and then he pulls away entirely, as if only now noticing how close he’s gotten. He blushes at her, and then immediately looks to the carriage, his face twisting in confusion.

Mr. Wentworth’s boots appear in Eustasia’s periphery. “What on earth are they doing here?”

“Surely it’s a coincidence,” Lord Massey says.

It’s a beautiful carriage, painted a charming shade of blue, with delicate carvings and filigree at each joint. Eustasia can see the looping bands of wood and leather that make up its very new, very sophisticated suspension system. The ratio of the windows in the carriage doors forms a near-perfect golden ratio.

“I didn’t say anything before,” Mr. Wentworth bites out, “but nothing the Lyalls do is coincidence.”

A man who must be five to ten years younger than Eustasia’s father steps down first, followed by a woman who takes Eustasia’s breath away. She’s gorgeous. Her honey blonde hair frames a soft, dewey face, and her slim, tidy figure is perfect for the slender, high waistlines popular in current fashion. Her lips are small on the horizontal axis and plush on the vertical, and Eustasia can see her eyelashes from twenty paces.

Lord Massey gulps and stands as the woman and man walk towards their party, steps slow and stately. She gets prettier the closer she comes. Eustasia tries not to bite her lip, unsure what this beautiful woman wants, or why she seems to go straight for Lord Massey.

“Lord Lyall,” he says, when the pair are in hand-shaking distance. “Lady Lyall. What a surprise.” Lord Massey is turned away from Eustasia. She can’t see his face, or Mr. Wentworth’s. What kind of expression is he making as he looks at that stunning woman? Eustasia can see Lady Lyall’s face. The other woman beams like a madonna, perfectly unbothered, her eyes trained on Lord Massey, and stretches a hand out, palm down.

Lord Massey takes it, bends his head down, and kisses the air above her perfect, gloved, very dainty hand.

“We’re just as surprised!” says Lord Lyall, booming. “After everything at your estate, we thought you’d want to spend time there getting everything ready, not gallivanting through town.”

“Repairs are certainly ongoing,” Lord Massey replies, “but with things where they are now, I’d only be underfoot.” All the warmth and energy Eustasia had felt earlier is gone. He’s stiff. She feels… she’s not sure what she feels. But Eustasia can tell that this Lord and Lady Lyall know Lord Massey. They know him well. Eustasia never had a chance, not against a girl like her.

“Well.” Lord Lyall wraps a hand around Lord Massey’s shoulders and pulls him away, a jolly grin on his face. “I know we had to leave in a hurry with the bad weather, but if you were coming back to town, you should have called! Persephone and I have been waiting for you to contact us.”

“Oh.”

“Come, come. We must catch up. Tell me how the repairs are going. Do you need anything? I can recommend the finest builders in the country.”

“I’m afraid I don’t”-

Lord Lyall keeps tugging. Lady Lyall keeps smiling. Eustasia watches it all play out in front of her, the lion wind of March freezing her to the bone.

“Nonsense!” bellows Lord Lyall. “You’ll have our resources at your disposal. We should talk business. The sooner the better.” He drags Lord Massey into their carriage, and a footman slams the door shut behind them. The carriage rattles away, down the gravel path, and around a bend where Eustasia can no longer see it.

I thought to myself: today I shall reach the actual 50k wordcount goal. And then I spent 10 hours drawing icons for my dnd group's new campaign.

11/16 Update: 2143 words (total 26052)
The inside of the Lyall’s carriage is rich, luxurious velvet. It’s warm and plush, even now, and not at all crowded. Gil’s feet don’t even come close to touching the hem of Lady Lyall’s skirt. When he looks up at the two of them, he finds Lord and Lady Lyall smiling the same pleasant, implacable smiles that they always do. Having now seen the way Ms. Roche’s smiles can go from wooden to wide and everything in between, he knows now, what the Lyall smiles mean. They cover everything. They’re meant to.

“Er,” Gil says, not sure what he’s supposed to do now. “I was sort of in the middle of something.”

“Surely you can spare a bit of time for us,” Lord Lyall replies. “After all, you and Persephone”-

It’s terribly rude, but Gil can’t stop himself interrupting. “We’re not, though. Yes, I meant to ask, but that was before my estate came falling down around me. Surely you don’t want to marry your daughter off to a poor baron.”

Lord Lyall waves his words away. “Oh, you won’t be poor for long. Not with our investment into redeveloping the place.”

This doesn’t make sense. If the Lyalls were really invested in Gil, they would have offered much sooner, before he drained away the family savings to pay for new housing and equipment for his tenants. It has been close to two months, now, with no word. Gil had thought they were done with him.

“The work is already well underway, and the builders are paid,” Gil says, “and pardon me for saying so, but you never reached out. I was under the impression that our association was over.”

“Nonsense! We merely needed time to work through the best option.”

Gil had nearly proposed to Lady Lyall. Even if they had needed two months to decide on something, surely they could have sent a note that they still wanted to speak with him, that they were considering options that included him. Or had they been waiting for him to prostrate himself at their feet and beg for assistance? Still, they are a viscount family, and Gil is in their moving carriage. He can’t just excuse himself. He buys himself time by clearing his throat, then picks at a button on his sleeve. “So… what is that option?”

“I’d like to lease a bit of land from you.”

Gil lets out a single, harsh bark of a laugh. “Lease land from me? You saw what it looks like now. What could you possibly want to do with it?”

“Think of it as an investment in my future son-in-law.”

As the carriage suspension bends and warps beneath them, cushioning everyone from the worst of the bumps, Gil slides his gaze to Lady Lyall, hoping to see some kind of change in expression that will tell him how genuine this offer is. She’s still smiling, eyes crinkling into what might be a real, pleased expression, except that it’s the same look she’s had the entire time.

“I’m honored that you would offer,” Gil says, “but I really must know what you plan to do with it. We’d have to work through terms, and I’d need to run the idea by a few associates. Would it be a lease in name-only, where I continue to have my tenants try to restore it, or”-

“We have development plans.”

“Which are?”

Lord Lyall clasps his hands and leans forward. His signet ring gleams in the single beam of light that filters in through the carriage’s curtains. “Please understand, Massey, that there are a lot of moving parts here. It’s difficult to say exactly what the development is until the agreement is closer to being signed.”

“Lord Lyall, you must know how that sounds”-

“You’ll have twenty-five thousand a year.”

Gil’s heart stops. His estate has, on average, made fifteen thousand a year, though he barely expects several hundred this year, since he isn’t asking his tenants for rent, what with all the upheaval he put them through. For him, twenty-five thousand is a heart-stopping amount of money. He didn’t even think the Lyall’s estate could make that much. How are they planning to pay him? What are they planning to do with his land?

“We’re looking at the north arm of your lands. You’d still have the rest of it to restore and farm and do as you please. Think how much you could make! And it would be a twenty-year lease, so you and Persephone would have guaranteed income for two decades. Think, no wondering how to pay for your childrens’ time at school, or any bad habits they may develop.”

Massey men are not known for developing bad habits. Gil, apparently, is the most destructive Massey in generations. He rather thinks that some adversity at home might continue the line of decent Massey heirs. Still, the idea of having twenty-five thousand to hep reinvest in his tenants is hard to ignore. He could waive rents for a decade, give them plenty of time to get back up to full capacity, and then take his time slowly putting everything back to normal by the time the lease ends.

Despite knowing that this is probably the smarter idea, it’s still not as appealing as the life he can imagine with Ms. Roche. If he offers for her, and she accepts, they will have years ahead of them to spend researching magical means of improving his estate’s output. She’ll use her uncanny ability to measure the things she sees to document all kinds of information Gil would never have thought to track. He’ll ride through the country with her snuggled into his chest, listening to her every observation, and share delightful afternoons full of magecraft and wonder.

Lady Lyall has her own strengths. He can tell she’ll make a politically-minded husband incredibly happy, with her perfect manners and unmoveable smile. She just isn’t for him.

“I really must know what you plan to do with the land before I can agree to anything,” Gil says. “It’s a very tempting offer, but after having my own mistakes create such a situation, I’m weary of what kinds of things someone else might do to the lands.”

At this, Lady Lyall finally breaks. Her placid gazes snaps to his, sharp and searching. “Your mistakes?”

Gil brings a hand up to scratch, sheepishly, at the back of his neck. “Ah, yes. I came into some magical power when I inherited the Massey title. I hadn’t cast anything in a while, and it caught me off guard when I was trying to ensure good weather for the hunting trip.” Now that he knows what to do, and how to control his own power again, he finds it’s easier to admit to his own shortcomings.

“How fascinating.” Then Lady Lyall licks her painted lips and melts back into the same perfect, pleasant smile as always.

---

Mr. Wentworth sits on the parlor couch, his two secretaries at attention behind him, looking peeved. Everything is back to normal in the Roche house. The extra couch has been stashed away. The curtains are again white. Eustasia has put her father’s preferred paintings back up instead of the ones she likes for their proportions and magically interesting subject matter. And, like before the soiree, the air in the house hangs heavy with her despair.

“Are you really back to doing that heinous tea ceremony?” Mr. Wentworth snaps.
Eustasia sniffs. “It’s not heinous. And I know you brew your own coffee every morning to get the same effect.”

“Right. I already get the effect. And, seeing as neither of your sisters are home, there is no point in brewing tea in this absurdly time-consuming manner.”

Eustasia dumps out the hot water she’d used to heat the tea cups and frowns at him as she picks up the pot to actually pour in tea. “Lord Massey says you know something about Pat being at medical college?”

With a slouch, and a slap of his hand over his eyes, Mr. Wentworth groans. “Of course he mentioned it. Right after I asked him not to.” He peels himself off the back of the couch and reaches for the tea cup.

“You have to smell it first!”

He grimaces, takes a single, long sniff of the tea’s flowery aroma, and downs it in one go. “Refreshing as always,” he says, though he doesn’t act refreshed at all. “Now. Yes, I helped Pat with medical college. I discovered your third cousin Patrick had run off to America, and I knew Pat would jump on the opportunity. It took some finagling, since your cousin really doesn’t have the grades, but of course Pat passed the entry exam with flying colors. Anything else you want to know, or can we call in your father?”

Eustasia looks into her own tea, then slides a nervous gaze back up to Mr. Wentworth. He looks so annoyed.

“Um. What was going on between Lord Massey and, ah. The Lyalls?”

At this question, some of the tension leaves Mr. Wentworth’s shoulders, and he falls forward, elbow-to-knee, face-to-hand, looking more tired than Eustasia has ever seen him. She notes the dark circles under his eyes, and the slightly frayed ends of his swept-back hair.

“Before he wrecked his estate and blew up his house, Massey was on course to propose to Lady Lyall.”

Oh. Of course. Obviously, Lord Massey should be with a woman like that. Mr. Wentworth must see the way Eustasia sags at that information, because he also signs and reaches across the table to remove the teacup from her hands and clasp her fingers in his large, calloused palms.

“I’m sorry. I know you liked him. If I weren’t set on Pat, I’d have offered for you. I know you’ve always wanted marriage.”

Horrifyingly, a tear slips out of Eustasia’s left eye. She sniffles–like, really sniffles, all loud and snotty–and her shoulders start shaking like there’s an earthquake in the house. Mr. Wentworth lets out a pained grunt, then heaves himself off the couch to sit next to her instead. Porcelain clatters as he picks up her teacup and tries to put it back in her hands.

“Come on, don’t cry. Massey’s stupid. You’ll find someone else.”

“I won’t though!” Eustasia wails. “I’m twenty-five! I’m already considered old. I’m not rich, I’m not titled, and my sisters are scandalous. The men Zenia and I picked out at the start of the season won’t even look at me. And… and… I really did like him.” She peers down into the clear, green-brown tea and sees her teary, snotty face staring back at her, and it just makes her cry harder. She had never imagined liking anyone before Lord Massey came in, awkward and serious, and just silly enough to make horrific magical errors that put him in her orbit. He’d barely blinked at her interest in math and how it could relate to magecraft, had asked her for advice even, and encouraged her conversation. And now he would forever be out of reach.

The pocket doors slide open, and Mr. Wentworth leaps from the seat next to Eustasia. “Oh, Sir Roche, thank goodness you’re here. Please take your weeping daughter and do something about her.”

“Eustasia?” Her father’s footsteps are quiet on the carpet, but soon enough she feels his wizened hand rest gently on her shoulder. “Eustasia, what’s the matter?”

Ugh. She shouldn’t be doing this in front of Mr. Wentworth and his secretaries, and she shouldn’t make her father worried. He has enough to worry about as it is. Aware she still looks like a blotchy, awful mess, Eustasia pops up from the couch and takes a big, shuddering breath. She swipes at the tear tracks on her cheeks. “I’m fine, Father. Just. Being hysterical. You know how it is.”

Her father darts a confused glance at Mr. Wentworth.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Eustasia says. She hiccups, and the sobs start up again. Oh, she’s causing such a scene. “Just circumstances. I’ll just head up to my room. It’s fine. You two can take care of business.”

Mr. Wentworth rolls his eyes and shoves her around the end of the couch, right into her father. “For god’s sake, Eustasia, just let your father comfort you. Of all three of you, you’re the only one who’s ever let him.”

“Erm,” says Eustasia’s father. “There, there.”

Eustasia is afraid to lean on him these days, but she finds her fingers have dug into his sleeves, and she can’t seem to unstick them as her father slowly makes his way back out of the parlor. His trembling arm comes up around her shoulders, and she tucks her face into his chest. The pocket doors slide shut behind them, and they keep going until she sees the green-and-gold carpet of his office.

Work today was a real trial. Here's hoping for tomorrow!

11/17 Update: 1570 words (total 27622)
Then her father guides her down into one of the extra chairs he keeps near his desk and kneels next to her, legs trembling with effort.

“You really shouldn’t do that,” Eustasia says through a wet sniffle. “It’s not good for your knees.”

“I think it will be okay just this once.” He pats her arm slowly as she composes herself, waiting through several long minutes of hiccups and shuddering and emotional distress until Eustasia has mostly gotten it all out of her system. Then he lets out a quiet, rattling breath, and his hand stills. “Is this more about feeling like you won’t be able to get married, or about the young man?”

Eustasia is so startled she forgets about the sticky tracks of salt on her face. “What?”
“What’s more upsetting? That you won’t fulfill your dream of getting married, or that you won’t fulfill my dream for you? Or it could be the young man, I suppose, though I’ll know less what to say to you if that’s the issue.”

“What are you talking about? Your dream for me? Father, isn’t marrying off your daughters sort of the expectation?”

Eustasia’s father looks away, lips curling in a tired grimace. “Perhaps. I was ten years younger and ten years stupider when I told you I expected you all to marry well and live comfortable lives, and you were ten years younger and ten years more impressionable when you heard it.” His throat works in an uncomfortable swallow. “The world is not the same as it was ten years ago, Eustasia. And I am wise enough to understand that the only part of what I said that mattered was my desire for you all to live without worry.”

“But I have to marry to be able to do that.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

On the far wall of the office, Eustasia’s father keeps a family portrait of the three Roche sisters, painted three years ago when Pat was finally old enough to be out in society. They sat her in the middle, because she was their special baby sister, and also because she grew tallest and proudest and would make for a nice, triangular composition. Theodora sits to Pat’s right, sweet and wickedly cunning, her smile masking the imperiousness and underhandedness she wielded as eldest sister. Then there’s Eustasia, short and small, on Pat’s left. They all match in their white gowns and curled, brown hairstyles.

“Maybe,” says her father, “without worry means being able to take a leap of faith, like Theodora, or to be reckless and stubborn like Pat. For you, perhaps it means you must learn to be more sure of your own worth.”

Eustasia laughs wetly. “Worth what? I’m nearly a spinster, and I don’t bring much to a marriage.”

“Take marriage out of the idea for a moment.” Her father stands, pulling her hands up into his. Old and ailing he may be, but his hands still eclipse hers. And while her father will never again have the strong, calloused hands he did when she was little, he has wiser, more well-lived ones now, which offer a different kind of reassurance. “I am given to understand that you are one of the foremost minds of the day when it comes to theoretical magecraft.”

“What? Wait. How did you”-

Eustasia’s father snorts. “I’ve seen the letters from Eustace Orland in my outgoing mail, Eustasia. And you’ve never been subtle.” He shakes his head, still chuckling. “Regardless. You’re intelligent, and you’re earnest. You find ways to accomplish what you want, even when rules of society dictate that you shouldn’t.”
“I’m not a rule-breaker.”

“Eustasia, until Pat disguised herself as a man and ran off to medical college, you were the most prolific rule-breaker in the house!”

There’s no way that’s true. Tears forgotten, Eustasia scoffs and looks up at her father with a dubious stare. “But Theo and Pat were always… scheming.”

“Your sisters planned and plotted and were very, very vocal about everything they wanted to do and didn’t want to do and how they were going to do it.” Her father shivers at the memory. “You, my dear, simply did. No questions, no accomplices.”
“No one ever said anything.”

Eustasia’s father lets go of her hands to ruffle her hair, which does not work as well now that she’s a grown woman who always wears it up, compared to when she was little and could leave it down or in braids. “What would we have said? You submitted your first article at sixteen and had it published before any of us had cottoned on, and as long as the secret stayed in the house, it hardly mattered what any of us thought. Honestly, even if the secret gets out of the house, I suspect you’ll be fine. The National Mage pays good money, and you’re a regular contributor in good standing, with a handful of friends who would likely come to your defense. It might be frugal compared to now, but you could certainly live off your articles and inheritance.”

This is news. Eustasia supposes she’s never paid much attention to finance–those aren’t the sorts of numbers that interest her–but for her father to tell her, straight out, that she has made it, that she earns a comfortable amount of money and could be self-sufficient if she had to be, is a boost of confidence she didn’t know she needed.

Eustasia’s eyelashes are still sticky. She still has splotches in her sleeves where she rubbed her eyes. But it’s as if she had been wearing weights in her corset and is suddenly free of them. Her chest expands more easily. She holds her chin higher. She is in no danger of disappointing her father, or not living up to his one hope that she will be able to live without worry. She is already there. She has been there for years now.

Eustasia swipes all the salt and ick off her face and offers her father a watery smile. “It still stings a little, but knowing that I’ve met all your expectations helps a lot.”

Her wraps her up in as fierce a hug as he can manage, and just like holding her father’s hand, it isn’t the same as when she was a little girl and her father was an infallible pillar, but it’s just as warm, and just as comforting. She squeezes him back.

“My dear, even if you couldn’t meet my expectations, as long as you tried your hardest, you would be no less worthy. Now then.” He steps away, a hand on each of Eustasia’s shoulders, and levels her with a half-stern, half-joking look. “If you’re still torn up about your young man after that, I suppose you might actually like him. In which case, the best thing you can do is simply be your usual self and ask him straight out if he’s been having you on, or if something else is happening to lead him away from you.”

“I thought you said you wouldn’t have advice about young men.”

He tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow and starts to lead her out of the office. Now that she isn’t a weepy mess, it’s probably time to get back to Mr. Wentworth for their business. “I can’t say I give perfect advice, but I was a young man once. He’s acting the way he does for a reason. The only question is if it’s a good reason or not. If it’s a good reason, there may be another solution. If it’s a bad reason, he isn’t worth your time.”

“Very sage advice.”

Eustasia hasn’t rearranged any furniture or changed any curtains, but when she walks out into the hallway on her father’s arm, she find the house is brighter and lighter than it has been in years.

---

Gil paces up and down the entry hall of his manor, feeling a bit like Wentworth and a bit like a caged tiger. He has brought in three different surveyors of various different industrial purposes over the last week and set them all to examining every last inch of the north arm of his estate. There must be something there that the Lyalls want, and he is determined to find out what it is.

Today is the last day of the survey. If they come back with nothing, Gil isn’t sure what he’ll do. The kind of surveying he’s bought out is expensive. He might have to borrow money in the coming years if he’s unlucky at all with what little crops his tenants will grow while his lands recover.

He should probably be doing something more productive than pace. He could be practicing his sustained magecraft on the slowly growing wood pile his tenants have stacked while they clear out the dead trees. He could be digging through the family archives to see if there is some secret history in their acquisition of that stretch of land. But his mind is too full with what-if’s: what if there’s some kind of mine waiting to be dug up? What if that land sits on a good railroad route? What if the spring of eternal youth is hidden in the Massey estate?

That’s just silly. But still, there has to be something. Something worth twenty-five thousand per year.

The side door swings open with a bang, and the surveyors rush in.

It's been a day, friends.

11/18 Update: 244 words (total 27866)
The trio who are actually taking measurements burst through first, sights and theodolites strapped to their backs. Then the prospectors race in, hot on their heels, faces flushed in excitement.

“Lord Massey!” one of them shouts. “Lord Massey, you have to come look!”

This is… a much happier scene than Gil was expecting. He should have expected something exciting, considering Lord Lyall was willing to pay him an astronomical amount to lease it, but Gil does not feel excited. Caught a little unprepared, he stumbles through pulling on his boots and stepping into his coat, hopping a bit to stomp his feet all the way into the toes of the shoe. The surveyors are jumpy, already halfway out the door, like horses chomping at the bit, and the moment Gil steps toward them, they’re outside.

He trails them through the familiar path toward the north arm of his estate, the dry leaves leftover from the previous autumn crunching under his feet. The only thing keeping their group from flat out running is the weight of the equipment on the surveyor’s backs. In twenty minutes, they’re gathered up maybe halfway down the bit of land that juts out from his primary grounds, where the wind has blown away the crest of a bone-dry hill. To Gil’s untrained eye, it doesn’t look like anything is here. He doesn’t even have fields in this part; it’s just grazing land for whatever animals his tenants happen to acquire.

I have not been able to write while at work this week and it shows. I also have not gotten home until late this week. RIP me.

11/19 Update: 500 words (total 28366)
“Not sure how your estate went through such a massive drought when everywhere else looks fine,” says one of the prospectors, “but it’s probably the only reason this is visible.” He leans in, putting his shoulder under Gil’s line of sight so he can point Gil right toward the blackish veins between all the dry, cracked earth. “See how there isn’t just shadow causing the black color? There’s black dust and rocks coming out from the cracks.”

Gil had definitely thought he was just looking at the shadows in the cracks. But now that an expert is directing him, he can see the fuzzy trails of black that tumble from the cracks on the hill.

“That’s a coal vein you have there,” says the second prospector. “And the part of it we’re seeing is large enough you could turn an enormous profit on it within the month. And that’s nothing to say of how deep it might run.”

Gil’s breath catches in his throat. If it can be seen from the surface, then no doubt this is what the Lyalls are after. Anyone with a reasonable understanding of coal mining could have wandered through Gil’s lands, spotted it, and reported it to someone else. And he’s been away often, with his tenants living in his house instead of strewn around the estate, so someone more official could have trespassed and poked around without anyone noticing.

The question now is: what should he do with it? He glances at the five men who found this for him. The anticipation in their eyes is obvious; they keep glancing between Gil and the hill, licking lips and shifting weight from foot to foot, crossing and uncrossing their arms. They expect him to immediately jump into action. They probably expect some kind of finder’s fee, or a percentage of profits. These men expect to get rich.

Suddenly, Gil regrets ever looking into this. He could have just told the Lyalls “no” and struggled through, ignorant of the possibility of striking it rich. Now, he has to consider every option, and every impact.

He gulps. “I… have a lot to think about,” he says to the surveyors. They keep staring at him. “Obviously, there are a lot of logistics involved,” he adds, and then, when they still don’t break, he feels compelled to add, “and I wouldn’t want to flood the market. That might not be good for profits.”

Finally, the men stop staring. Their faces melt into smiles as they clap Gil on the back and rough each other up, scruffing hair and jostling elbows. Gil can taste the money here. These men’s hunger for it is palpable, hanging like coal dust in the air. Gil himself wants it. The Lyalls had offered him twenty-five thousand per annum. If he skips them over and rakes in the profits himself, how much could Gil earn on his own? It must be three or four times what he was offered, at the very least.

This user was SUPPOSED to have a day off today.

11/20 Update: 496 words (total 28862)
As they all march back to the manor, Gil stews. He has three options, as far as he can tell: he can bypass the Lyalls and figure out how to mine the area himself, or continue working with them and try to negotiate a different kind of deal, or ignore it.

What will his estate look like if he allows any kind of mining? Gil can picture a railroad steamrolling through the hills–not necessarily a bad thing, since if there was passenger rail it could give his tenants the ability to travel to places they otherwise could not. He can also see tenaments springing up all around his estate. He can see mining camps full of underpaid, suffocating miners, and air full of smoke and dust. Generations of families have lived and farmed on the Massey lands, and the presence of a coal mine in close proximity would unavoidably change things.

But say he ignores this thing sitting under his estate forever. The rest of the world will move on. Some other person will unearth another vein, and all the things Gil imagines–good and bad–will affect someone else.

They will probably affect someone else regardless of what Gil does, but then they’ll have a railroad and Gil won’t.

The dry dirt kicks up little poofs of dust as everyone tromps back, and Gil sighs. Even if he works with the Lyalls, he can’t let a massive mining operation come dig up his estate while it’s this dry. He has to practice his magic when he gets back to the house so he can start willing the sky to grant the estate small, manageable drizzles that will carefully restore the soil.

His imaginings take him all the way back to the manor, and Gil sends the surveyors off to Emory to gather the payment he’d originally promised them. And that’s another thing to add to his growing list of considerations. If he ignores the coal vein, does he need to do something about those men? Gil can’t afford the kind of fee it would take to keep them all quiet about a find that had them so excited. They’re going to tell someone. The only easy way to deal with them is to make oodles of money and share some piece of it with them.

Gil longs to hide away in his magecraft workroom, but the scaffolding has only just gone up on the outside of his house, and stonemasons swarm through that wing of the building, so instead he locks himself away in his bedroom.

Despite having held the title Baron Massey for a year and a half, he still has not taken over the master bedroom. He steps into the dark quiet of his ever-evolving adolescent bedroom, which had once borne all the trademarks of a young man’s room, but is now draped in stately dark blue, with a proper, sturdy office chair and all the relics of his childhood locked away into the attic.

I had to work late today y'all. Like I didn't even have extracurriculars I was just working.

11/21 Update: 570 words (total 29432)
The moment he sinks into his desk chair, Gil collapses in on himself. His elbows thunk against the wooden tabletop, and his head hangs down so far he can feel the tendons in his neck stretch in protest.

Sir Thorton and Wentworth are both still back in the city. Gil’s only real support here right now is Emory, who is already busy handling the day-to-day logistics of moving tenants into their newly refurbished homes and keeping his eagle eye on the builders. Gil tries to think of what his father might have done in his position, but the astronomical value of this coal vein would have been unthinkable twenty years ago. Mining was different twenty years ago.

He lets his hands drop, and his pinky finger brushes against a stray sheet of paper left on his desk. His eyes follow the sheet up to a stack of folded papers, with Eustace Orland’s wax seal still wobbling from when Gil thumped the table.

This is, of course, a moral question and not a magical one, but Gil wishes Eustasia were here to help him. That dream of riding through the countryside with her flashes through his mind yet again, and before he knows it, he is reaching for a fresh sheet of paper to draft a letter to Eustace Orland.

---

With her father fully in the loop, Eustasia no longer has to try at stealth to check for letters to her alter ego. Still, though, it takes her off guard when, while picking listlessly at her luncheon plate, her father’s secretary deposits a letter to Eustace Orland at her elbow. She picks it up and slides a glance to her father to see if he has thoughts about her academic correspondence, but he’s too busy with his own letters to pay attention to her.

Eustasia hasn’t really been hungry since the picnic, so she sets down her utensils across her plate, signalling for someone to take it when the staff cycle back through, and picks up the letter. She recognizes it even before she sees the wax seal. By now, she is familiar with the crisp, silky smooth paper Lord Massey prefers. She knows his slightly off-kilter three-part fold. Feeling a little guilty that he’s still corresponding with her without knowing, she pops open the seal and shakes out the letter.

It starts with a quick recap of his progress. Eustasia was there for it, of course, but Lord Massey diligently recounts his efforts with the water telekinesis, and then his practice moving logs around his manor, which is new. And then he muses briefly about moving his magecraft room, and then about having the local ley lines re-surveyed. Eustasia is expecting a page of additional questions after that, but then he pivots entirely.

“I recently have come upon a discovery about my estate that has the potential to radically change the financial position I put myself in when I flooded and then desertified my holdings,” he writes. “It feels rather convenient–too inconvenient. I’m reasonably certain I am supposed to overcome my own mistakes through my own effort.”

Eustasia frowns. He’s going to have money again? Just like that? Well, she’s definitely not going to hold a candle to Lady Lyall now.

“You’ve been such a great help with my magical problems,” Lord Massey continues, “that I suppose I am hoping you can offer some ideas about a more managerial one.”

Maybe I'm just losing steam.

11/22 Update: 327 words (total 29759)
Eustasia’s face tightens as she continues to read. It doesn’t make sense. Why would Lord Massey ask these kinds of questions to a man he has only ever corresponded with, who’s opinion he disliked enough that he asked Eustasia for a second one the moment she expressed any kind of magical expertise? After a week with no contact after his maybe-suggestive question about her writing for National Mage, she had begun to think he hadn’t figured her out, but…

If Lord Massey wanted her opinion on something, he wouldn’t be allowed to write to her without it seeming improper. Maybe he had figured it out. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe a letter to Eustace Orland was just his way of asking her what she thought when she couldn’t be right in front of him.

Or maybe this is all just terrible, awful, no-good wishful thinking.

There is one clear choice, as Eustasia sees it. Lord Massey may think he has the option of bypassing the Lyalls to develop his coal mine on his own, but chances are good that if the Lyalls have offered him money to lease that land, they have already put all the gears in motion for logistics and a buyer. He doesn’t necessarily have to take the exact deal they offered, but the fastest way to make money on this will absolutely be to work with them, which is just another point in Lady Lyall’s favor.

But–and this gets so wishful it makes Eustasia ill–there is a world where Lord Massey holds off on immediately taking advantage of this coal vein and takes his time to develop the safest mining methods. There is a world where every tenant or new resident who chooses to work that mine takes home a generous portion of the mine’s profits, and they can have all the benefits of a thriving new industry and the amenities is brings, along with the comforts of raising their quality of life.

Today I tried out for a hockey team.

11/23 Update: 387 words (total 30146)
“Something wrong?” her father asks, shaking Eustasia out of her thoughts.

“No! No. I just… have to think.”

It isn’t the first time Eustasia has wished her sisters were still in easy reach, but it hits her now like a pile of stone blocks. Her only girl friend is Zenia, who doesn’t really know the entire situation. With a sign, she sets the letter down and eyes her father. Why wouldn’t Lord Massey ask Mr. Wentworth for advice? Wentworth is a businessman; if anyone in Lord Massey’s immediate circles knows something about business, it’s Wentworth.

“Do you have any meetings with Mr. Wentworth coming up?” she blurts out.

“Young Wentworth?” Her father has also forgone breakfast to pick through his own correspondence, and he peers at her over the edge of a dense page of nigh-unreadable handwriting. “He was just by a few days ago. Unless you feel a need to put him through more tea ceremonies?”

“I just had a question for him.” And it isn’t a question she wants to convey through her father’s letters. She just knows that asking Wentworth about Lord Massey will look nosey and jealous and all kinds of silly. “Do you ever think about going to see Theodora?”

Eustasia’s father tenses, and she can see the paper tremble in his hands before he also sets it down. Eustasia and her father have been getting on a little better since he advised her while she was bawling her eyes out in his office, but the mention of actually going to see Theodora seems to put him back in the same stilted, awkward place they’d been before. He looks tired again, and guilty, his shoulders drooping and chin dipping.

“We should have gone to see her months ago,” he says, his gaze faraway, totally ignorant of their staff bustling in to collect their plates in a clatter of metal and porcelain. “It wouldn’t actually be that difficult, even. Her young man is entering business talks with me and Mr. Wentworth, even. Wants to make brewing more like all the other kinds of manufacturing that’s been starting up.” He huffs out a sad, wet chuckle. “He hasn’t got past all the hoops the lower managers put people through before they can enter serious talks, but I’ve seen his name climb up the reports.”

I am so far past even the idea of catching up to the 50k pace... but I have not missed a day!

11/24 Updates: 489 words (total 30635)
“So… we could go see her soon?”

Eustasia’s father frowns at the stack of letters on his desk. “I have a bit too much to attend to today, but if you take someone along, you could certainly stop in. I’m sure even unannounced, Theodora would be happy to have you.”

Feeling a bit like the world has righted itself, Eustasia gapes. Then she pops up from the table like she’s been spring-loaded, darting towards the door, and then remembering herself and rushing back to wrap her father in a hug. His bones creak as she crushes his shoulders and then presses a hard kiss to his temple. “Excellent. I shall be out this afternoon then.”

The staff are still clearing dishes, and she’s sure they heard the entire conversation, so Eustasia is sure they are already planning who will go with her as chaperone. She races out of the dining room and flies up the stairs, suddenly lighter than air. In her room, she flings her wardrobe open so quickly the doors bang against the wooden frame. She rummages through for her most everyday going-out dress and shimmies herself into it as fast as she can. And then, because she can’t possibly wait for someone to do her hair, she braids it, pins it, and decides she’s respectable enough.

One of the kitchen girls is waiting for her by the delivery door when Eustasia patters back downstairs. Then they set off from the back side of the house, where Eustasia can’t draw attention by leaving through the front and immediately walking or hailing a cab to a neighborhood the peers would frown on. She walks too fast for the poor kitchen girl, and then can’t sit still all the way through the ensuing hackney ride. The city streets–usually a treat for her to stare at through the window–pass in a blur today. She only barely notices that the hackney chassis is a near-perfect square.

And then, before Eustasia has even thought of what she’s going to say, they are deposited outside of a nondescript, very small townhouse.

The front facade is not even a quarter of the size of the townhouse her father owns. Eustasia knows that lots are generally deeper than they appear from the front, but still. She and her sisters grew up in a house large enough to require staff. This one won’t even have a decent number of bedrooms for all the children she imagines Theodora and the dashing husband she ran off with will have. And then, as she and the kitchen girl tip toe up the front steps, Eustasia notes the two different doors: one up the front steps, and one tucked away in a little stairwell down from street level.

She recites the street address her father handed her on her way out. There was a B in that address. Her sister is living in a basement! Not even an entire house!

WHEN WILL THE WORK STRUGGLES END. Fingers crossed I can get something done over Thanksgiving weekend.

11/25 Update: 551 words (total 31186)
Guiltily, she sneaks a glance at the kitchen girl who has accompanied her. Many people do not live in entire houses and turn out just fine. Eustasia is just lucky.

She backpedals down the stairs and darts to the basement door, then uses the small, brass knocker to signal her presence at the door. The knocker has an inside radius of two-and-a-half inches, except for at the top, where it has been slightly squashed and wrapped in an elegant, leaf-shaped holder. Given that the upstairs apartment had not had such a nice piece of decor, Eustasia wonders if this is something her sister had installed.

The apartment has small windows and thick walls, so Eustasia can’t hear footfalls or voices ahead of the door squeaking open. But it does, loudly and suddenly, and a young woman she doesn’t recognize stands in the doorway, a dirty apron covering her front, her hair in all kinds of disarray. Eustasia stares. The woman stares back.

She is nothing like Theodora. She’s tall, for one; she must have six inches on Pat, the tallest of the Roche sisters. And she’s far broader, her loose shirt hiding what Eustasia can only imagine are likely strapping shoulders, while her rolled up sleeves reveal forearms that flex with impressive sinew. This all, plus the woman has deep, black hair and well-tanned skin.

Eustasia looks again at the number and letter by the door. “Um. I think I might have gotten the wrong”-

“You must be one of Theo’s sisters!” The woman beams, stepping back from the threshold to welcome Eustasia in. “Come, come. I admit we weren’t expecting any of you any time soon, but you’re always welcome. I had sort of hoped we’d all be moved and settled somewhere a bit nicer before you came around, so you’ll have to pardon the mess.”

The house is messy only by aristocratic standards for interior finish materials. Eustasia notes the walls are plumb and true, and the floors recently scrubbed. Like Theodora’s room at home, every piece of decor and every practical item has its use, tucked into in-built shelving or prominently placed on sideboard tables. Despite being led around by a stranger, it is clear after only a few moments that Theodora must live here. Then, once they make it past the tight entry way and emerge into what can only be the sitting, room, it’s doubly obvious this is Theodora’s domain.

Everything in the sitting room is green. The couch is green. The wallpaper is green. The wooden bits of all the furniture are brown, but every horizontal surface–and some verticals as well–is covered in plants.

Eustasia had found her sister’s hobby excessive in their gentry-appropriate mansion. Here, with less space and more plants, it is more like an obsession. She spots at least seven varieties of fern, obvious by the sprouts of new fiddleheads curling in their over-full pots. A corner of the room is dedicated to cacti, and another to sprawling, thick-leaved tropical specimens. Pulsing magic lights pour sunlight into every corner, hitting all the hard-to-reach spots the tiny basement clerestory windows can’t reach.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” The woman, despite clearly living here, gazes around the room with practiced awe. “I swear it gets denser every time I walk in here.”

“Very Theo,” Eustasia says.