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Beneath all the bravado and the glamour of the perfect English detective, there is another, much softer, side to Daisy Wells. She is very careful about who she shows this side to – I know I am the only one in our dorm allowed access to this most private part of her. In fact, I think Bertie may be the only other person who Daisy would let her walls down in front of enough for him to see her like this.
Daisy is my very best friend, and I am hers – she has seen the very worst of me and hasn’t flinched. It is the least I can do to return the favour when she crawls into my bed at one o’clock in the morning. The other members of the detective society have long since fallen asleep, and the only light other than the moon is my torch. In truth, I though Daisy was asleep too; it’s only when the floorboards creek and my mattress dips that I realise I was wrong.
“Hullo, Watson,” she whispers. I close my book and put down my torch, quietly surprised.
“Hullo, Daisy,” I whisper back, “Are you alright?”
“Right as rain, Watson, don’t be a chump,” she says, and I don’t believe her for a second. People who are right as rain don’t tend to stay awake until one o’clock on a school night, and they also don’t tend to have the expression of a man on his way to the gallows. (And yes, I am well aware that I am also awake at one o’clock on a school night, but that isn’t the point. The point is that Daisy shouldn’t be.)
But I also know that Daisy Wells is about as likely to admit to not being okay as a tree is to get up and go for a walk, so I don’t push it. I know she’ll tell me when she’s ready. Instead, I pat the small space next to me, and Daisy’s shoulders slump marginally. She crawls up the bed to lie at my side and rest her head on my collarbone. I pick up my book and open it again, rifling through to find my place.
“What are you reading?” asks Daisy. I flip the book round to show her the cover of Agatha Christie’s Murder On The Orient Express, and she hums approvingly.
“A true classic.”
“Do you want to hear some?” I ask, and when Daisy nods against my collarbone I pick up where I left off. I know she’s read it before, so she ought to understand the plot from any point.
“’You’ve a pretty good nerve,’ said Ratchett.’Will twenty thousand dollars tempt you?’ …”
As I read, one hand comes up to card through her golden curls. I feel her relax incrementally with each stroke, until her entire weight is resting against me. After around fifteen minutes or so, she quietly interrupts.
“It’s my birthday soon.”
“It is,” I say, confused. It’s clear from the tone of her voice that this is what’s upsetting her, but I don’t know why.
“My birthday means the anniversary of the Fallingford scandal.”
I close the book with a gentle thud. Of course, I should have known.
Daisy’s birthday always brings unpleasant memories to the surface of both our minds, but I know it must be far worse for Daisy. She can pretend to be entirely unbothered by the scandal surrounding her family for the rest of the year, but this time of year makes it considerably harder to ignore - especially when it seems all of Deepdean either whispers as we pass by, or outright snickers at the mention of Lady Fallingford. A ferocious glare from Lavinia and a dismissive scoff from Kitty can usually dispel the worst of the gossipers, but it’s still hard.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, knowing that it doesn't make up for any of it. Daisy sighs, and her breath tickles the bare skin of my neck.
“I know,” she whispers back, “Thank you, Hazel.”
“You ought to go to sleep. You know Kitty will be an absolute beast about it if we’re both visibly tired tomorrow.”
I feel rather than see her smile, and I know my own expression is somewhere between ‘fond’ and ‘hopelessly smitten’.
“Oh, I don’t doubt it. One more chapter?”
I know I ought to say no. It’s late, and we both need to sleep, and I’ve no doubt we’ll sorely regret staying up this late when we’re nodding off into our breakfast tomorrow morning.
But I also know that Daisy shows me this quiet, sad side of her because she trusts me, and she knows that I’ll never condemn or tease her for it. And if my reading to her helps, I really don’t want to say no.
I press a kiss to the top of her hair, still carding one hand through it, and pick up the book.
“Alright. One more chapter.”