15 march, 1920
hallways
seven thirty am
She was sitting on one of the stone benches, a sketchbook resting on her lap.
Beside her, there was a stemming hot cup of green tea she had brought from the Great Hall—and, everyone now and then, she would take a small sip.
With her head slightly hanging down, a curtain of straight black hair fell around her face, covering most of her features, to avoid attracting attention from anyone who might’ve passed by her as she drew.
She was turning invisible, her mother would’ve said.
That morning, she woke up sick. She had known it the moment she opened her eyes, and she had slid out of her bed before Rosalie could wake up and ask what was wrong. She could feel her face run hot in fever, as cold sweat stuck strands of dark hair onto the back of her neck.
In any other circumstances, she would’ve stayed in bed. But there was no reason to worry her best—and maybe only—friend in the castle.
So there she was, back slightly hunched as she drew a picture of herself, only the upper half of her face showing, as if she was swimming. Her dark hair floated around in the drawing, surrounded by lotus flowers—the same that floated on the numerous fountains of her house back in Tokyo.
In the picture, she looked healthy. Her eyes glimmered.
In reality—she was almost shivering from the fever.
Kaede took it with dignity, without complaining. She didn’t look up for help when someone passed, she didn’t ask anyone to bring her a glass of water. She just drew, and silently bared the pain in her sick limbs.
She didn’t even notice someone stopping in front of her.
Evander Whistler felt the need to climb those stairs that morning.
He seldom had. It was an area of the castle he rarely ran by unless he was looking to disappear and not by himself. Most of his ventures near the clock tower had him dragged by the wrist and him feigning indifference, masking his smirk behind an unbothered, bored gaze, thinly lined lips, and brows that stretched an undercurrent of annoyance. It was all performance art for the sake of his faux intrigue, an absence in spirit that had, in practice, been perfected to get under the skin of all sorts of girls.
But he had woken up that morning with a sense of urgency, a sixth sense kicking in. It had to be considering the hour, and Evan was known to sleep in through most of herbology. He'd put on his robes, smacked a housemate against his sleeping head to wake them up before leaving, and then let himself get lost within the castle, his feet moving for him without a sense of direction. That was the best way to act when his spirit was flying, and his smile stretched from cheek to cheek wondering just what the day had in store.
He'd hardly noticed the girl sitting on the steps. In his defense, even though they shared a house and likely a few classes, she had gone completely unnoticed the entire time he'd been at the castle. She looked a bit older, even though age could seem fluid depending on genetics. (Evan was sure he'd retain his babyface until he would start to wrinkle with age.) All of her attention was focused on whatever was in front of her and none of it looked interesting enough to be what he was searching for, whatever it was.
Evan only offered her a quick glance, as she seemed to sink into the very walls, as he stopped with her directly in his path. And, without another thought lost on this no-name girl, he stepped aside, hungry to continue forth and brave whatever this magical universe had put in front of him. Sadly, for both their sakes, it wouldn't work out that way. It was a tragedy of comedy that circumstance would anchor him.
As he accidentally kicked the steaming mug filled with hot tea beside her when he tried to walk past.
She didn’t even notice the quick glance directed at her, too sunk in her art to pay attention to anything other than the drawing she had in front of her.
Her face felt hot, and so did her head, her sickness moving around her like a fog that swallowed everything as it moved further. She bit her lip, cleaning a drop of sweat out of her forehead, just before Evander kicked her mug of hot tea.
The sound alerted her, making her jump in her place, then look up. By the time her eyes reached the boy’s face, all surprise had been cleaned from her gaze. She just blinked at him.
“I’m sorry,” she said faintly, noticing just then her throat felt dry, her lips chapped.
With a slow movement, she reached for the cup, putting it back in its place. She didn’t really mind—she could just get another tea cup.
Moving as if she had all the time in the world, she took her wand out of her pocket, pointing at the spilled liquid.
“Scourgify,” she muttered, blinking once more as the filth disappeared from the stone floors.
Only then, she looked again at Evander.
He might’ve not known her, but she did know him. She knew his name, his year—even the classes he took, since they shared almost all of them. It wasn’t out of an special interest taken on him—Kaede never took interest in boys, her curiosities laid in the spiritism of the things that surrounded her—but because she just was like that.
She noticed, even when people didn’t want to be noticed.
“I’m sorry."
He kicked over her cup of hot tea and she was the one apologizing to him? His eyes narrowed in disappointment, followed by the small dropping of his jaw. Evan couldn't honestly believe it, words escaping him, as she went about picking up after him. It might have been the meekest thing he had ever witnessed.
Still, he remained somewhat composed. His arms crossed over defensively, the sleeves of his coat pulled back to his elbows. He watched, or gawked, at the slow procession of her setting the cup right back up, pulling out her wand, casting her spell, and then staring at him as if to tell him that he didn't have to stress, he didn't have to worry, and that he could leave. The entirety of it made his skin crawl and he couldn't explain why.
And it was in times like these that he lashed out for the fuck of it.
She continued to stare as his lips thinned. He looked down at the cup and, without any prompting, kicked it down the stairs. It made one tumble before hitting the stone and breaking into a dozen small pieces. They scattered, exploding like shrapnel a safe distance down, creating several dozen other pieces.
His gaze returned to her. He didn't look pleased with himself, although he felt it. His face was stone, etched and held together by disdain. Evan wanted her to say something, anything. He needed a reaction.
He doubted that she would give it to him.
|
