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Marianne has a tendency to freeze up when things get too overwhelming. That is: when the attention is ever on her. Hilda’s taken notice of it (she’s taken notice of just about everything that has to do with Marianne at this point), but she has never been a girl to wait around for too long. Yet, she has also never been one for chores, which changed inexplicably when Marianne had shown off her other tendency to be… well, clumsy. Hilda supposes that, around Marianne, a lot of things start changing.
Her heart rate holds just one spot on that list, but it’s probably one of the more shocking ones even if you take into account how her work ethic alters. Hilda’s not dumb, she knows a cute face when she sees one. And she knows how to use hers to its full effect. But Marianne’s got more than just a cute face. It’s her eyes that soften whenever she finds a moment to breathe. It’s how her voice flits like a bird’s when she starts talking to one. She’s just cute. Through and through.
There are plenty of cute girls at the monastery, but Marianne’s the one that Hilda wants to support the most. She can’t help but wonder what it would be like, to see her smile more often. To see those eyes light up once Marianne finally got more sleep, smoothing over the dark shadows that haunt her face. To hold her hand and see just how invincible it could make her feel.
There’s far more to her than Hilda knows, but it’s enough for Hilda to want to know, to want to hear everything she can.
The winter ball should be the perfect place to make her move. It’s out of a damn fairytale, with the lights and the music and the white herons everywhere. The food, the drinks…! And the crowd, yes, but Hilda could just as easily sweep Marianne off her feet outside of the public eye, in the gardens and framed by hedges (which would add to the fairytale aesthetic even more, might she add).
Marianne deserves the very best. She deserves a romance out of fables, because with her affinity with animals and soft, melodic voice— well, she walked right out of one. This seems to be a worthy cause for Hilda to put her work towards.
And yet.
And yet.
She groans loudly, head thumping against one of the library tables. She gets the whisper of a page turning in response.
“Sounds like you’ve gotten yourself into a mess,” Claude says, smile evident in his voice.
Hilda groans again into her arms. Her pink hair spills out across the tabletop, and she feels some of it shift as Claude brushes it away from his notes to avoid any inky accidents. “A beautiful mess,” she agrees, glum.
“What are your plans so far, Miss Goneril?”
They’ve been at this for weeks now, with Hilda trying to figure out how in the world to make a move with someone as anxious as Marianne, and Claude being her lone advisor. It makes sense, in a way, considering he’s the best of the Deer when it comes to schemes. (That, and she thinks he likes seeing her actually put her mind to something.)
“The ball has to be the right place, right?” she asks, propping her chin on crossed arms.
Claude meets her rosy eyes with his own sea green. “Maybe,” he says, tilting his head this way and that, “but is it the right time?”
It’s late. That’s the only reason Hilda can get away with the bloodcurdling sound of exasperation that escapes her. Everyone else has turned in for the night; Claude studies later than most of them with all of his history books and whatnot, and he’s the only one whom Hilda has actually told about her frankly humongous crush.
“Claude,” she says, burying her face back into her arms. “Claude, I can’t wait! Have you seen her?”
A hum. “No, care to describe her?”
“Ass,” Hilda mutters, and Claude huffs with laughter when she continues anyway: “She has the prettiest hair I’ve ever seen.”
“Do you want to tuck it—”
“Of course I want to tuck it behind her ear!”
“What about her nose?”
“Oh Goddess, Claude, her nose. It’s the cutest button nose in the world, I wanna kiss it.”
“I see. And her sm—”
“I would do anything to see her smile! It’s so soft and gentle, just like her, and her voice…” She’s said all this before. Almost word for word. To Claude himself.
Claude’s laughing openly now, and when Hilda perks her head back up to glare at him, he grins. “Sounds like you’ve got it bad.”
He’s said this before, too. Word for word.
“Then why are you asking if it’s the right time?!”
“The same reason you’re still asking me if the ball is the right place to do it.”
Because it’s not. The right place is wherever Marianne is most comfortable, whenever she can meet Hilda’s eyes and not stutter out some apology or another for whatever she klutzes her way into. Hilda has to wait, if she wants to do this right. And, Goddess, she has to do it right!
“I hate you,” she says quietly, finally lifting herself up. She tucks her chin in her palms, squishing her cheeks with her fingers. “I hate you so much.”
“Love you too, Hilda.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“You’ve done well so far.”
“I’ve gotten nowhere!”
“Not so.” Claude smiles at her, softer now. Something less teasing and more genuine. “I say you’ve made great progress. Convincing the professor to give you two stable duty was genius.”
“Thanks,” she grumbles.
“You’re building a bridge,” Claude says, and Hilda’s about to tell him not to turn this into some sort of metaphor but he cuts her off smoothly. “Marianne has put herself on an island, and you’re building a bridge out to get to her. It’ll take time, and work, to get her comfortable enough to leave that island. Two things I know you adore.”
Hilda snorts.
“But we’re all here to help you. We want her to join us just as much as you do. When this bridge is done, and she’s comfortable enough to cross it and let herself be seen, then will be the right time.”
“How’s the bridge looking?”
Claude pauses, swirling ink in its well as he thinks. “Good,” he decides. “She’s less skittish around us, at least. I just wish she could open up more…”
“Maybe if you didn’t pry her with questions, she’d open up herself.”
Claude winces. “Yeah, not my best strategy. It’s a learning process, alright? Just like she has to learn to… be out there.”
Hilda sighs out her nose, stirring the hair that’s fallen into her face. She doesn’t want to think too hard about what made Marianne retreat so far inside herself in the first place. Not tonight, when she’s about to go to bed, because that’s the kind of stuff that will keep her up for at least an hour.
Instead, she says, “I can’t wait.”
“But you’re going to.”
“For her.”
Claude smiles and starts closing the texts he has open before him. “Yeah. For her.”