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Just barely before the cold bite of the solstice and the Winterturn holiday, I had resolved to speak to Mr. Dart. The day was of an uncharacteristic warmth. The subject matter was of a dogged persistence. A problem I had been dutifully ignoring. It had only crystallised into firm resolution in these past few weeks—made inescapable by my untimely death, and far more timely resurrection.
I had been performing to a role that I did not fit, albeit one that I had managed to do somewhat convincingly, at least to this point. I was expected to be the dutiful son, the heir to the legacies of two men—both of whom I love and respect—but never quite the heir to my mother that Sela and Lauren had an implicit permission to be. My death had awoken a long dormant part of me. Time in the Lady’s company had helped me to realise the imperative I faced was not one I could ignore. The feeling, the yearning, it was a sign.
The Lady moved in signs and small omens, but the augury of those subtle divine motions had not been a strength of mine—until I had visited her Woods. There, among everyone, I was able to take the form of my ideal self. I had been my same age, even had my same voice, but I had been a young woman. Nothing particularly stood out as being all that different, a few clothing changes, my hair in ringlets instead of a queue, but intrinsically the knowledge permeated: I was a woman.
That feeling had not fled when I had left the Lady’s country. If anything, the imperative had become more pressing, despite the creeping doubt. The more time spent in that incongruity, the worse it was. That I had lasted nearly until Winterturn was something of a miracle—though not on par with my resurrection. I dearly felt that I owed it to Mr. Dart to speak to him about this. He was my most trusted friend, and if there was anyone in this world who would not love me less for the change, it was he. My father would need to come next, but that would be all the easier with Mr. Dart by my side. We met for luncheon at Dart Hall on the day I had resolved to speak to him.
After the beetroot and winter chicory salad had been cleared away and we were left to the coffee, I worked up the resolve to have the conversation.
“Mr. Dart, I have something I’d like to speak to you about, if you don’t mind an awkwardness to our ongoing conversation,” I said, begging polite forgiveness.
“I am, as always, here for you in all regards, Mr. Greenwing. Although, if conversation is your aim, perhaps you might join me for a walk through the grounds?” he said with the sagacity of his newfound confidence as a great mage.
I paused, heart in my throat, and stomach in lurch. After a moment, I stood and made for the front of Dart Hall, Mr. Dart following suit. A peremptory immediacy overtook me before we could even reach the foyer. I began to explain myself—calm and deliberate.
“You recall my mention of the things I saw in the Lady’s country, yes? Well, I have not told you the whole of it. When I was there, something was different. I haven’t quite felt like the me who…left. Something about dying rarefies the things you’ve been afraid to admit to yourself for years. I am, I think, meant to be—that is. Hmm. Mr. Dart, this is rather more difficult than I had anticipated. I’ll say it plain because I must, I think I want to be a woman. I hope dearly that this will not make you think less of me. It all seems quite impossible and out of the ordinary, I know, but I have felt like this for quite some time,” I explained as we walked, holding the barest hint of hope.
The look he gave me spoke more than any words could. It spoke of confusion and what felt like disappointment. It was a feeling uncharacteristic of my relationship with Mr. Dart.
I replied, "Oh you're right, Mr. Dart. Perhaps it is just some flight of fancy. A dream to be pondered but not pursued."
His face was, at once, overwhelmed by the fullness of his good hand, as he shook. First just his head, then his whole body. My heart sank as his laughter peeled out. Of course he found me odd for this, it was an odd sort of feeling.
He caught his breath, and said, “No, no, surely you must remember? You were there when I told my parents! You truly don’t remember the old me?"
A memory I had long since forgotten then suddenly surfaced.
"Oh, Lady! You've been Mr. Dart for so long, that I had forgotten! Now I feel quite the fool," I said, adding quickly, "Not for forgetting, but for doubting you'd stay by my side."
"Miss Greenwing, I would never leave your confidence intentionally. I love you far too dearly for that." He noticed the tears forming at the corner of my eyes, and jumped in, "Oh—is Miss what you'd prefer or have I put my foot in it?"
“I don’t know? You’re the first to say it, and I haven’t had a chance to—er—try it on, as it were,” I confessed.
He nodded and asked, “Have you given any consideration to your name? Jemis is a rather ungendered sort of name, but I do very much understand if it carries a bit of weight to it that you’d rather not wear as a yoke.”
I hesitated, “I have been trying Iris. When we spoke in the Lady’s country, my mother suggested it was what she’d intended to name me, but I’m not sure it suits me.”
Mr. Dart looked incredulous, standing there holding the door open for me. The winter air was bracing, but a welcome freshness.
He chided, “You’re not certain? I think you’ve made a perfect decision. That name suits you like a freshly tailored coat. Tell me, how does Miss Iris Greenwing feel?”
“It feels—I don’t know. I’m sorry, I have been terribly unhelpful with this. It feels right, but it also feels as though I haven’t earned it. I don’t have the practical experience of living as a woman, so I feel undeserving of it.”
The murmurations of winter starlings played our accompaniment as Mr. Dart gave me a withering look.
“Iris Greenwing, you will not do that to yourself!” he admonished. “You know as well as I that no one needs to earn the respect of their name being used. You called me Perry when I chose that, and Peregrine, now that I have reclaimed it.”
I wavered, “It’s just, you knew as soon as you had the language for it. We’re in our twenties now, surely if this were real I’d have known sooner?”
“Miss Greenwing, must I remind you that you were quite literally affirmed by the Lady of Green and White? Doubt is natural, but I would not suggest you have much reason to mistrust her ladyship,” he assured me, extending a rather gentlemanly arm to me.
I nodded, taking the arm, “You have quite the point, Mr. Dart. I suppose I’ve lived with the doubt for so much of my life, it has become second nature.”
“Would it help you to know that there I days I still have my doubts? They are few and far between, but the occasion does occur. If it is something you discover does not fit, the magic exists to reverse it all just as readily as the magic to make the change. I suspect it will be unnecessary, but the magic will work as many times as you need it.”
“There’s some relief in that, I suppose, but there are still so many questions. How am I meant to tell my father? He’s only just gained back his son!”
“Knowing the major, that should be the least of your concerns,” he reassured. “If you were to ask me, I would say a far more pressing concern should be planning a new wardrobe. Did you not just order a few sets of winter clothes?”
I stopped in place, “Oh.”
#
Things having gone swimmingly with both my father and Mr. Dart, I felt empowered to inform the next most important person in my life: my employer. These last months, beyond her role as proprietress of Elderflower Books, she had been a kind and caring presence in my life—and quite the mystery. Her past as a revolutionary at Galderon, her seeming propensity for the habits of an adventurer, it was all quite intriguing.
Investigative tendencies aside, I did need to inform her of the impending change. I couldn’t very well just show up one day as Iris without giving her some advanced notice. This was Mrs. Etaris, my mentor, a friend of my mother, and an important figure among the town’s bourgeois women. While I myself was a Viscountess, the town’s middle class were also my family by way of my step-father. Class being an entirely false construct notwithstanding, she had given me employment, a place to live, and indispensable advice. She was important to me, and deserved to share the joy.
As the bell rang, she greeted me, “Mr. Greenwing, delightful to see you, but as I recall this is your day off.”
I said, “Indeed it is, Mrs. Etaris. Rather, I dropped in to make a more personal call, if you’re not too busy.”
She shook her head, “Mid afternoon on Tuesdays tends to be something of a lull in book sales, but I suspect you did already know as much. What may I help you with? I assume you are not looking for the latest New Salon? I did just get in a new book on cakes or perhaps something more heroic?” she suggested.
The materteral kindness evident in her voice brought a smile to my face, “I shall take your recommendation for the gift it is, but I have—hmm.”
“I did so think this would be easier the third time around,” I muttered as sotto voce aside, then continued. “It’s more a change to the terms of my employment. Before any assumptions are made, I do not wish to quit the position, but rather to affect that certain change. It—I’m in the process of finding an apothecary-mage to let myself be known to the world as a woman.”
“Miss Greenwing, congratulations! I must return your confession in kind. Some members of the knitting circle had their suspicions; you are your mother’s daughter in some rather telling respects. The circle has always been home to those of us who do not fit precisely with polite society in Ragnor Bella, so you are assuredly still welcome with us. Have you settled on a name?” she asked with a genuine gladness.
“Iris was the name my mother and father had intended to give me had I been born a girl, and I find myself growing increasingly fond of it,” I said, face brightened by gladsome smile.
“Olive would love to hear that. May I?” she said, offering a hug.
I accepted.
“Oh!” she exclaimed as if struck by an idea. “Would you mind terribly watching the shop while I run home for a moment? I have something for you.”
I nodded, and moved to hold the door for her. She cocked an eyebrow but accepted the gesture.
“You’ll want to start growing accustomed to that sort of treatment, Miss Greenwing. Doors are held for young women like yourself—often to the point of annoyance. One of the many dubious benefits to being an Alinorel woman.”
“Would that we could dispense with the notion of gender entirely, Mrs. Etaris,” I replied with due solemnity.
Moments after she left, while I worked at sorting the newly acquired books, the shop bell rang and Roald swept in with the sybaritic bravado typical of his nobleman persona.
“I say, Greenwing. Word around town is you’re a girl now.”
His brusqueness brought yet another smile to my face as I replied, “That’s not precisely how I would have put it, but yes, Roald, I am in the process of affecting a transition, as it were.”
It was odd, I think. I had smiled more in the past few days than I can recall having had occasion to in the preceding five years (barring the drug induced euphoria of wire weed). I think it was the weight I had offloaded by being honest with myself combined with the parts of the world that had started to treat me as a woman. Regardless of those feelings—which he could not know—Roald continued.
“That’s all rather sudden, but I suspect you’ve been simmering this stew for quite some time. What pushed you to commit?” he asked.
Having had this conversation upwards of four times now, I explained with a measure more confidence, “In the Lady’s country I was her. Seeing myself there, sharing the love with my mother and Mr. Buchance, it became an undeniable imperative to bring back that little bit of her Country with me. Before that, it was small things. Of everyone I know, you best understand what it’s like to live a performance. Being a man was an act, and I am retiring from the thespian life.”
“One cannot spell masculinity without mask,” he opined, in humorous error.
I laughed lightly, then asked “Did you need help finding a book? I’m all too pleased to converse, but I suspect Mrs. Etaris would want me to perform my duties as shopkeeper first.”
“Just the New Salon. Do you know how long Mrs. Etaris will be? The two of us were scheduled to meet for a bit of a chat.”
“She ran out just before you arrived. Said she had something to give me. No doubt she’ll be back in a moment.”
“Excellent. By the by, what should I call you? Its rather improper for me to traipse around calling you Greenwing as thought you’re not quite suddenly one of the two most eligible young ladies in northwest Oriole.”
“Iris or Miss Greenwing. I so vastly prefer that to Lady Greenwing. It reminds me rather much of my aunt Flora, and, well, you know that story.”
“Have you given any consideration to your prospects? You and your Lord Leaveringham make for quite the match,” he said with what I hoped was not disappointment in his voice.
I winkingly replied, “I rather think it too early in the process for me to start making those considerations, but I shall inform you when I do, so as to sate your curiosity.”
The bell rang again, as Mrs. Etaris returned with a rather prodigious valise. When she saw the Honourable Rag, she let out a small exclamation of guilt at having forgotten their appointment.
“Oh! Has Miss Greenwing seen to your needs, Roald?”
It struck me odd that she called him by his forename, but no more odd than the rest of her mystery.
“She indeed has,” he said, brandishing his copy of the New Salon.
“Well then, Miss Greenwing. I have a selection of seasonally appropriate clothing here for you to tide you over until you can gather your own wardrobe. Most of it is from my youth, but as we were of a size, it should fit you rather well. I aimed for a selection of colours in your preferred style. If anything does not fit, or is not to your liking, I will happily take it back for when my Samantha is of that age.”
“I am, for once, at a loss for words, Mrs. Etaris. Thank you,” I professed
She laughed, “Consider it recompense, I won a whitear off Henny the Post on you taking less than six months.”
I flashed red at the implication that I had been the last to find out about my own gender, but thanked her none the less.
“I will take my leave, then, to try on the clothes, and allow you your—ah—appointment with Roald.”
Up in my flat above the store, I carefully hung each article into complete outfits, emphasising the colour spectrum and pairings of various articles that might merge to create third and fourth ensembles if mixed and matched. To try on, I selected a weighty sort of cream day dress with emerald green Spencer jacket cut in the early Artorinian style. Wearing it felt odd. Even with the stay—which I struggled to apply singlehandedly—I found it didn’t quite flatter my body shape as of yet. It would once I was able to acquire the magic, but for now it felt all a little odd, if wonderfully euphoric. It was warm, and shockingly comfortable, with deep pockets sewn into the skirts. As I spun, looking at myself in the small mirror I kept in my washroom, I found tears welling up in my eyes again. I truly was not far from the woman I had been in the Lady’s country. I walked around for a while, enjoying the sensation of skirts against my legs, and took tremendous satisfaction at the feeling. After a short while, I resolved to practice a more ladylike way of sitting. I flumped down on the armchair I kept in the main room of my apartment, and I felt something crinkle. Paper? There was paper in my pocket. I read it carefully.
It was seditious, blasphemous, and poignantly beautiful, but also smudged with red editor’s ink. The language and mastery of metaphor could only be the writing of Fitzroy Angursell. No one else had that kind of command of language in modern Shaian (with respect to the various Voonran haiga artists for whom the art was far more visual).
Why did Mrs. Etaris have a drafted manuscript from Fitzroy Angursell in the pocket of her dress? Moreover, why were the red editing marks so clearly in her hand? Unless…
Pieces of the puzzle fell into place like tumblers on a lock. Her husband called her Jules (a name she and I loathed equally), she had attended Galderon during the revolution, and she had a propensity for swordplay and adventure. That all stacked up to paint a picture of sorts, but that she had clearly done line edits on a Fitzroy Angursell manuscript was a signpost so bright as to be visible in the darkest midnight sky. I, forgetting I was still wearing a day dress, rushed downstairs to the shop.
Practically breaking down the back door, I yelped, “Mrs. Etaris!”
“Miss Greenwing, is everything alright? Oh, my! You look absolutely darling in that ensemble.”
“Spiffing dress, Greenwing,” Roald chimed (in his typical unhelpful way).
The blush that coloured my cheeks rivalled the rouged cheeks of ceruse powdered ladies in old Astandalas.
“Thank you both. I wanted to ask Mrs. Etaris a brief question if you don’t mind, Roald?”
“Ask away, Iris,” he said.
I gave him a sidelong glance, rolled my eyes, then continued.
“It’s about this manuscript page I found, perhaps we may want privacy, Mrs. Etaris?” I said, handing the page to her.
“Ah, that. Roald already knows. The answer is, yes. I was once Jullanar of the Sea. These days I am just Jullanar Etaris, though I do dearly miss my friends.”
I asked with strained credulity, “When did he find out?”
#
Shortly after I had started taking the tinctures, I was struck by the realisation that I had promised to court Violet shortly before undertaking my transition. I should give her an explanation and the chance to make the decisions for herself. Her propensity for wearing men’s clothing notwithstanding, I would not assume any particular sort of preference or lack thereof when entering a courtship. Especially one where I might be expected to play a more typically masculine role.
My letter laid everything out plainly for her. I was contrite, but clear that I still held an interest in the courtship if she did. I was rather proud of the prose, in truth. I think I painted an accurate portrait of the truth of the whole matter, but it had been weeks and I still had not heard back from her. The post was not the most reliable, but it would still not take this long to arrive under normal circumstances. The disappointment that weighed on my heart was of course tempered by the euphoric feeling of seeing my body begin to change. My skin was softer, my hair more lustrous, and the barest hint of bosom had sprung under my chest (and with it a sort of itching ache). The mental changes that the physic brought on were, likewise, incredible. I was able to feel emotions more richly, more vividly. I carried myself with a more robust confidence, a more fulsome sense of self.
My father was irreplaceable during this period of change. He was proud of his daughter, and took great care to correct any mistakes others might make. It had been around three months of this when the town had gone back to the sleepy sort of normal that it always portrayed as its equilibrium. Then, the person I knew as Violet showed up.
“Miss Greenwing?” rang a voice deeper than I recalled it, but quite positively one I recognised.
It belonged to a man approximately my age, he bore the beginnings of a beard, and had Violet’s eyes.
“I—Violet?” I was dumbfounded.
“Actually, lately I’ve been going by Eoin,” he said, with a sonorous basso in his voice.
“You’re?”
“We’re,” he intoned, affirmatively.
There are some attractive men in Ragnor Bella. Mr. Dart carried himself with a robust strength and confidence that made him quite handsome. Roald meanwhile had a broad musculature that was enhanced by the soft curls of his dark blond hair. He would not be out of place on one of the more tawdry romance novels we sold at Elderflower Books. Neither of them were quite so attractive as the man who stood before me. Deep brown crinkled hair that he wore in a short tousle, and skin warmed by the spring sun into a honeyed fawn tone lent him a classic sort of pulchritude. He bore the kind of musculature that indicated a man who worked to maintain it, without working to show it off. His deep brown limpid eyes were afire with a joie-de-vivre that I recognised as something that only came from pure actualisation. If I had been smitten when we first met at Morrowlea, now I was besotted.
I grasped at anything to say that would not betray the butterflies I felt in my stomach and managed to eek out, “You look fantastic.”
“I know,” he smiled. “You do too. Not to be crass, but the breasts suit your frame quite well.”
“Thank you, I grew them myself,” I laughed, trying not to shower him with all of the myriad compliments that sprang to mind. “So, Eoin? Spelled the Alinorel way or the Shaian?”
“Alinorel. Ru helped me pick it.”
“Is he well?”
“Much improved since you last saw him. Iris, I feel I owe you an explanation on par with the one you provided me. Are we able to get a coffee and talk it over?”
“Mr. Inglesides should still be serving his afternoon pastry if you’d like to join me there?” I suggested.
Indeed he was. I selected a buttery currant filled flat cake while Eoin took a piece of cheese and onion pie. With the coffee, it all made for a wonderful little nuncheon.
“So,” he said after we had each begun to eat a bit of our food.
“How long have you known?” I blurted out before he could start his explanation.
He flashed a crooked smile that could melt pewter.
“A few years, probably around when we started at Morrowlea. I have wanted this for some time, but circumstances weren’t quite what they needed to be,” he said, making oblique reference his time as a spy. “In truth, I was reticent about the courtship when you first suggested it. It is a rather significant change to process when its one sided.”
“I should say,” I laughed. “Having had time to think on it, I’ve discovered that I may in truth be attracted to men and only men. You were the one confounding factor, but, well, it seems I was right after all.”
He beamed brightly and oh so attractively, “It’s rather funny you should say that. Until your letter arrived, I had been agonising over how to tell you that my attraction only extends to women.”
“How fortuitous for both of us,” I said, with coy intent.
“I actually came here to ask you if you want to continue the courtship. I understand if not bu…”
I cut him off, “Yes. Eoin, nothing would please me more than to be wooed and courted by you. You are an incredibly attractive man, and I would be delighted to know you better in that context.”
He inquired, “Perhaps then, you’ll do me the honour of joining me for a walk, Lady Iris.”
“Without a chaperone? You court scandal nearly as openly as you court me, Lord Eoin,” I said, in mock affront.
“Only because I am beset by your radiance, my lady.”
The laughter we shared felt like home.
As we walked, the fantasy of our lives together took shape again as it had those months ago in Orio Prison, only this time it was right for us both.