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Usually Poppy’s choice of reprieve would have been in the somber embrace of the music room, only the sound of piano music and her own thoughts for company, but today she found herself without the ability to actually play the piano. Granted she’d tried to put her hands to the keys, to focus on the sheet music, but every time she'd catch a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the dark finish and pause. Or maybe flinch would be a more fitting word. And then the song wouldn’t be the right one, or her posture would need adjusting, it was too cold, too hot— and then there she was in the ebony of a minor key, and she’d have to turn away again. Rinse, repeat. Finally she’d drawn herself up and away from the music room, in such a rush to end the suffocating cycle she hadn’t even bothered to put her mother’s music booklet away, bench askew, door ajar as her footsteps echoed up the stairwell.
And now here she was, overlooking the lake from the moonlight garden in her nightgown. Her mind was still a thunderous cacophony and her fingers itched, idly drumming against the carved stone of the rooftop railing, bereft of the satisfying give the ivories always afforded.
The mystery may have been solved, but Poppy’s life had never looked so uncertain as it did now.
Freya would have known what to say. She’d have seen Poppy focused on the piano in her room and have dragged her somewhere— the greenhouse, the library, her own room even, and pulled her out of her head with a single question. Somehow she’d always known exactly what Poppy needed to hear at any given moment in order for her to solve a problem, or overcome a challenge. But the only noise she could make out in the quiet of the night were the small, hushed staccato of the breeze whispering through leaves, the occasional low hum of some nocturnal bird, and the trickling of water from the small pond nearby. Soon enough, however, a new instrument picked up; the soft clicking of a door and familiar heavy footsteps.
When Poppy turned, there was Fitz, his unsure expression diminishing the affects of his imposing physical stature. He had a coat with him, held open with both hands at the sleeves, and his sudden pause made it seem as though he’d been caught in the middle of some salacious act.
“…you looked cold.”
And, in truth, Poppy was cold, so she turned back towards the lake, allowing Fitz to place the too-large coat over her shoulders.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
The lapse back into silence had always been easy between them, content to spend hours listening to music or tending to plants in the quiet company of one another. Tonight, however, the silence felt heavy, the usual hushed duet weighed down by recent events, and Poppy found herself looking for something to talk about, to continue the noise she so desperately craved but couldn’t coax from the piano earlier.
“It’s… quiet. Without them.” She could see Fitz turn to her from where he’d leaned heavy against the railing in her periphery. “It’s easy to imagine they’re still there, just… in another room, out of sight, right? It doesn’t feel real.”
No matter how naive a dream it had been, Poppy had still held onto the wish of seeing her mother again someday. It had found a kindred spirit in her hopes to move out, away from the tower, with Freya and Fifi. In a way, Penelope has butchered those, too, as soon as they’d been ready to spread their wings.
Two birds, one stone and all that.
“It is.” The tone of Fitz’s voice surprised her. Sorrow and anger; an unmistakably haunting melody. “Quiet— and real.”
“You sound like Fifi.”
Poppy glanced over towards Fitz then. His expression was one of subtle grief. No tears, just a more defined indent above his brow, a steeper angle to his frown, his eyes unfocused as he looked out across the iridescent lake.
“…I never actually asked,” Poppy started, calling Fitz’s attention back to her. The full weight of his gaze made the next words catch in her throat, albeit briefly. “Did you actually, like, love her?”
The answer was immediately apparent in the way his expression crumpled.
“I thought I did, but… I didn’t even know her. Not really.” The idea was enough to make him hang his head, his hands clasped together tight on the banister. Without a second thought, Poppy reached a hand out from under the coat to place atop his. “And to make it worse, the only thing I feel now is… relieved. It’s terrible. I’m—”
“Don’t finish that thought. It’s poisonous.” An old saying her mother would chide her with as a small child, but one that always came in handy.
“But it’s true. My fiancée murders my cousin, almost kills two detectives, escapes into the night, and all I can think is ‘at least I know the wedding’s off.’” It must have sounded worse out loud, because Fitz lowered his head even further, enough that his forehead bumped her middle knuckle. “... I should have just let that flower die off when I realized she wasn’t going to take care of it.”
Poppy noted something extremely bitter in Fitz’s words— maybe his head was nothing but poisons at the moment.
“But you didn’t, and you wouldn’t. And I bet you’ve already moved it into your bedroom to keep a closer eye on it.”
Fitz very carefully lifted his head, just enough to turn an inquisitive look in her direction. “…how did you…?”
“It’s just how you are, Fitz.” There was little separation between exasperation and affection in her tone. “You wanted to care for Penny- Penelope, so you wanted to care for that plant.”
“But then why would I still—”
“Grief. The frustrations of knowing someone left you behind and took all the answers to what could have been with them. The fleeting sense of control when you know you’ve been robbed of the agency of finishing something yourself.”
“…oh.”
But that applied to both of them, and Poppy knew it. She’d never be able to leave the tower with Freya and Fifi, she’d never be able to find her mother and play her the song she’d worked so diligently to create, she’d never know if either of them would be proud of who she’d grow up to be. The questions left hanging would hollow out a place in her heart. Forever, maybe, since the only people able to fill them were already gone. The understanding of it didn’t make those holes any smaller though, and Poppy found herself pulling Fitz’s jacket tighter around her shoulders.
Again. Two birds.
A click from Poppy’s bedroom door startled them both out of their bleak epiphany. Poppy retracted her hand and Fitz turned around to see a single round spectacle peering out at them from the doorway.
“Is it okay if I join you?” Fifi’s voice was uncharacteristically uncertain.
“Of course.” Fitz's reply was immediate, and Poppy only had to nod in confirmation before Fifi allowed herself to fully emerge into the garden, shuffling up to the two of them with something clutched in one hand.
“…is that from your father’s collection?” Fitz raised a single brow at the bottle of chardonnay in Fifi’s grip.
The young heiress nodded. “Recognized as a drink reserved for special occasions, often paired with seafood or dishes with fragrant butter sauces.” A bottle opener slid out of Fifi’s other sleeve, and she set to work trying to open the bottle. “I have neither of those things, however, and am also lacking the ideal glassware, but I hypothesize our pallets aren’t sophisticated enough for that to matter much.”
Poppy was more than a little surprised by the implication of Fifi’s statement, watching with some amusement as the shorter girl struggled to get the screw into the cork. “So, what’s the special occasion?”
“Well, the funeral was very abrupt, and everyone was crying. I wanted— ah.” Fifi’s grip slipped from the bottle opener again, and Fitz finally reached out a hand.
“Let me.”
She gave up the bottle without fuss. “As I was saying, I wanted to host my own memorial service, and seeing as neither of us could sleep tonight, I thought now might be a good time.” Fifi held up a hand before anyone could say anything. “This is not an exclusive event, necessarily, I only assumed that Poppy would be the only other person awake at this hour. You’re welcome to join us, Fitz.”
“…I’d like that.” With a practiced motion, Fitz worked the screw into the cork and then pulled up. The wine opened with a satisfying pop.
Fifi made a move for the bottle, and Fitz handed it back to her.
“A toast.” She said, adjusting her spectacles with her free hand and lifting the chardonnay with the other. “To a friend whose creative and extroverted personality allowed her to not only coexist with us, but brought us all closer. I’ll… I miss her. A lot.”
Fifi looked to the side, clearly trying to determine what else needed to be said— her toast was utilitarian, only including what she felt needed to be there, and Poppy could see she wasn’t holding anything in reserve. Her honesty had always been clean cut, sometimes to the detriment of her relationships, but there would always be something to admire about it.
“That was too brief. Could you add something, Poppy?”
“Uh, sure….” She cleared her throat. “I think… it’s impossible to capture the essence of who Freya was in words— as futile an endeavor as attempting to describe the physical properties of color to someone. But, as red is often attached to ideas of anger, blue to sorrow, and yellow with happiness, allow me to draw a similar comparison; Freya was the first blossoms of spring after a long winters’ sleep, a radiant warmth that could thaw through any frost… the halls of this home were made warmer and brighter by her light, and the days we spent basking in her presence felt much longer and too short all at once. But with the abrupt ending of this summer season, an autumnal chill draws close; a harold of longer nights to come. Yet her light remains— in us, in the paths we choose, in the places we stay, and in the people we love.”
She wasn’t sure exactly when during her speech she’d closed her eyes, but when Poppy opened them again, she could feel the tears that had been pooling behind her lids weighing heavy against her bottom lashes. Still, she turned to Fitz and managed to ask if he had anything he wanted to add without her voice breaking, though he only shook his head.
“You two knew her best. I wouldn’t be able to follow that up, anyways.”
So Fifi took the first dainty sip before passing the wine to Poppy, who knocked back as much of it as she could handle in one go. It was mildly fizzy, with a dry sour-apple front note and an acrid aftertaste— it wasn’t the worst she’d had, but her sample pool was also very small. Fitz looked almost impressed when he finally got the bottle, and Poppy at least had the tact to act bashful about it. Still, it was humorous that Fitz had agreed to be in on this small act of rebellion Fifi had decided to partake in, in his own way.
“You know…” Poppy spoke quietly, her voice soft. “We should go somewhere.”
“Are you worried we’ll be seen?” Fifi asked around the lip of the bottle. “We could always move into the library. Or go to the greenhouse again.”
Poppy ignored the look Fitz shot in her direction. “No, not here. We should travel abroad. Go… anywhere besides the town beyond the lake.”
“Why?” Fifi’s question wasn’t pointed, just curious.
“Just to see what’s out there. Freya always wanted to go, always planned on leaving. It doesn’t have to be a permanent thing.” She quickly added, watching Fifi’s eyes narrow behind her magnified lenses. “More like a vacation.”
But there was more to it than that, and Poppy knew it, and these two deserved to know her more selfish reasoning anyways.
“... I just… I don’t want to be here right now. Not in the music room, not in the garden… but I don’t want to be with my father, either, and I can’t exactly go wandering off on my own.”
“Why don’t you want to travel with Mr. Pointer?” Again, not a pointed question. “He isn’t at fault for what happened.”
“Maybe not directly, Fifi, but… I can’t help it. If my father just hadn’t been so…”
“Poison.” Fitz interjected, and Poppy looked up at him from under her hair. “... the thought. You shouldn’t finish it.”
“Yeah.” She tugged at his jacket again. “You’re right.”
“I still don’t understand the rationale behind that turn of phrase, but I agree with Fitz. We cannot change what has transpired.” Fifi took another sip of wine. “...still. I would also like to… get away from the tower. I’ve found myself unable to focus on my research, and my father did suggest that a change of scenery would benefit me in some way.”
“Really?” It was almost too much to hope for. All the other attempts to drag Fifi out of her library when Freya had still been around had all been met with data sets and logic, excuses that everything Fifi would ever need could be found within Tangle Tower. She’d never budged on that fact, and some small, heartbroken part of Poppy wanted to be upset that it took Freya’s passing for Fifi to finally come around to the idea, but that undertone of hurt was easily drowned out by the chorus of relief that her suggestion hadn’t been immediately shot down.
“I’ve… also been finding it difficult to focus on gardening.” Fitz admitted, sheepishly, another voice for the choir of unfettered success in Poppy’s heart. “I’m unsure how my plants would fare if I were away for too long, though.”
“I could probably get my father to look after them.” Poppy shrugged, trying not to sound too elated. “He owes me.”
Fitz put a finger to his chin, clearly uncertain about the prospect, but Poppy couldn’t blame him; it wasn’t as if her father was the most reliable sort. Still, the greenhouse would probably fare better with him than, say, Felix; the guy could hardly remember what his own daughter preferred to eat for breakfast. Who’s to say what would happen if Fitz asked him to try and juggle the needs of over thirty different kinds of plants. No, Percival’s eye for detail and meticulous nature had him beat on that front at least.
“What about a cruise?” Fifi piped up again. “My father received a brochure about them once. The trip would be scheduled for us, we’d be able to see a variety of coastal cities, and we’d always have access to a private room if any of us needed a break.”
“And you’d be able to bring your travel lab.” Poppy couldn’t help the smirk that pushed at the corner of her mouth.
“And I’d be able to bring my travel lab.” Fifi hung her head slightly with the admission.
“Sounds good to me. Fitz?”
There was a pause as he seemed to mull the idea over in his head, his brows furrowed. “I… I’ll have to see which plants would need the most care. But.. I’d like to go, too. If it’s okay.”
“Oh, don’t worry. Poppy would never turn down your company.” Fifi stated, and Poppy snatched the wine out of her hand to take a swig. “I don’t mind either. Traveling in a group of three would make more logistical sense anyways.” It almost felt like there was more to the thought, but there was no follow-up, only a curious look in Fitz’s direction.
It wasn’t the most ideal situation and they didn’t immediately strike the most harmonious chord, but that wasn’t uncommon for a sudden start to an unfamiliar song. Maybe it was only made discordant by their unsteady hands and, maybe with practice, the three of them would be able to find a more unified tempo. They deserved that much, at least.
“Well.” Poppy raised the now half-empty bottle. “To the start of something new.”