Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Asel was rather perturbed. She wanted a new book, but it would be harrowing to go to the store alone, her father was rather jittery and would insist that he too goes, even if he had work or was supposed to be somewhere else. Deciding that a friend would be better, she ran up to the rotary dial phone on her living room wall and dialled Mira's place.

After a bit, she heard the sound of someone picking up.

"Hello, am I speaking to Mira?"

"Yes, this is her, or did you actually need my sister?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I want to go to Ms Marie's bookstore near the Chacuterie store, and my dad wouldn't mind if I said that we were going together. Join me."

"I'll be there. I haven't seen Aunt Manon in a while. What time?"

"Can you be there in like half an hour? I know you're definitely ready to go out. Just grab some coins and probably anything else you can think of. We'll meet at the station."

"Alright. See you at the bookstore!"

"See ya!"

Asel grabbed her messenger bag, her wallet with a metro pass, some mints, and some light reading for the train. She ran to her father, who was making jam in the kitchen. It was her favourite jam, made from the berries they bought yesterday.

"Papa, I'm going with Mira to Ms Marie's bookstore! Do you need anything from there? Ooh, we're having pancakes tomorrow!" Asel loved it when he made breakfast. It was always the most enjoyable of mornings, and she would be too full afterwards.

"Mira's going to be there? Then it should be fine. I want to try some recipes later, so I'll need a small packet of mascarpone, a small packet of ricotta, and some honey: any is fine. They're available at the charcuterie there. Get the smallest."

"How much would that be?"

"Pass me the notepad and wallet. I'll write it down, including what I remember the prices to be." He jotted down the list with his free hand and took out some bills and coins. He had a habit of checking the prices beforehand, be it by news or flyer.

"What if the prices increased?"

"Don't worry, get your books first, they're more important than some cheese and honey. Just call the house if you don't have enough. I'll ask Mum to do it on her way home then, don't worry."

Hugging her father, and putting the money and list into her wallet, she walked towards the door, and put on her shoes. "I'm leaving!" "Have fun!"

The summer heat was lenient today. A morning drizzle had led to the skies being cloudy, breezes being aplenty, and frogs frolicking about. It seemed as if the number of automobiles on the street had decreased steadily, citing rising fuel prices, but busses and railways had been the same as ever. No news of increasing the frequency or number of routes yet, despite the demand for them.

The metros had been getting frequently delayed. No new schedules were released, and the announcers would apologise at every five-minute mark. The station near her house had not changed in decades. Wooden benches and barely covered platforms with two overpasses. Signs of disrepair had started to show, but the worst was the noticeable damage to the overhead lines. They were fraying faster than expected, and many local electricians had even offered to repair it for free due to how dangerous it was. Someone could die if these weren't taken care of as soon as possible.

Standing among disgruntled waiting passengers, Asel had been reading her book. It was her favourite, a story about girls going to a girls-only school, something she had wished would happen. She'd heard that the eighth book had finally been released here. The news was that the publishers had changed while that happened, but luckily it had been the older edition that had been translated for release, so she didn't have to ruin her shelf with mismatched covers.

"Passengers, the Oval Garden to Five Gardens express is arriving on the platform. Please stand behind the red line, and let others leave before boarding the train." The train had finally arrived with a whistle, a bit crowded at that. Perhaps other metro stations had a similar problem, which could be the reason the metro trains are delayed.

She didn't get a seat, so she stood. It would take three stops until the road where the bookstore was. She had caught an express, otherwise it would be eight stops instead. It wasn't time for anyone to go or return from work, so most passengers were children or the elderly. She couldn't read her book in this position, so it was stowed away.

She wondered if Mira had caught a metro train yet. She lived near the courthouses, so she would have to travel a bit longer and from the opposite direction. If she still lived next-door, it would have been a different story. They could have travelled together then.

It would be nice if Mira could stay overnight, but tomorrow was a busy day for Asel's family. Her uncle was returning from his tennis tournament training camp, and her older sister was preparing her dissertation for her doctorate in botany. Her uncle had to rest and her sister had to study. Mother and Father would teach her card games tonight - they promised.

Perhaps if she had a bit more, she'd buy an anatomy study guide. They were only available at the college-affiliated stores or available by order. Perhaps she could ask her older sister to get her one, or she could ask Ms Marianne for her assistance. She would like to have borrowed her father's, but they were a tradition of medical school; made by revising the older ones made by seniors, with his own notes and corrections. She didn't understand some of the terminology yet, so she was interested in a type of beginner's guide. Those were hard to find for a schoolchild, but an adult in academia or who did custom orders would not have the same restrictions. Being an adult had benefits, such as being able to buy any book they wanted. Being a child was unfair, she thought.

Perhaps after sensing Asel's desire for books, the train reached her stop. Contemplating between relief or annoyance for reaching her station and stopping her thoughts, she stepped onto the platform and searched for the regular meeting spot here, which had been decided as the large map near the stationmaster's office. That was a unanimously agreed-upon location after a disastrous day at a terrible twenty-platform terminus.

And there had been Mira, wearing a navy blue dress. Her hair was shoulder-length, but come the school year and it would return to a boyish bob. She had been fumbling with her purse clasp until she noticed Asel, waved to her, and ran up towards her.

"Asel, what's the plan, other than the bookstore?" Mira had been tracing the route on a local map.

"My dad wants me to get some cheese, so we're going to the charcuterie after books." The charcuterie was right next to the bookstore, which was convenient.

"Good idea."

"And then after that, we could just sit somewhere. Who knows."

"Sure, sounds good. I know a spot."

Chapter Text

Mira would do anything to have been outside that day. Especially when a dear friend had invited her. They were quite similar. They both read a lot, they didn't enjoy a crowd, and were seldom noticed until after they left. A bit too similar to the bass.

Without that phone call, she may have been stuck looking at pigeons from her bedroom window. Sometimes there would be crows and sparrows. Recently a group of feral keas had made their home in the courthouse. A story for later.

Her sister had fallen into a monster romance pipeline. It started with a story where a female snake woman hunted down her husband's murderers and ended with acting out chivalric stories to end with the princess rejecting the knight for the dragon played by a bear. It had become a fantasy divorce court somehow.

It was fun to say the least, but she needed an excuse today to leave. Sometimes she just needed time to herself, which was difficult with her sister and cousin around. Luckily, Asel had called. She had been lucky to be the closest to the phone that hour. The benefits of helping organise the living room books.

Asel's call had saved her today. Perhaps she could invite Asel for an outing someday too. Maybe to the courthouse garden where the Keas would attack poodles. Perhaps they could befriend some like the time a few Rose-Ringed Parrots played with Asel at the zoo. They liked Asel's hair quite a lot. Mira also liked Asel's hair a lot, it got curlier at the bottom, fit for a princess. Her own hair could never decide what it was with its strange insistence on sticking out of everything. Perhaps it wasn't straight as some people insisted.

It was the fifth of August. Asel's birthday was only ten days away. Mira was preparing a handmade bookmark, but wanted to get an experienced artist's expertise. Going to the bookstore would allow her to find references. If Auntie Manon and Uncle Cass were both there, nothing like it. Anyway, she had to brag about something. Her hair wasn't getting brushed properly, her clothes were pretty stiff, and she was sure her number had changed.

They arrived in front of the store. The building was in the art nouveau style, with intricate stone carvings around the windows, and a few stained glass windows. It used to be a house before the ground floor had been converted into a store. Surrounded by similarly stone buildings, the hand-painted sign that read "Bookstore Marne". The store's thick velvet curtains carpeted the display windows where the new releases had been arranged. This summer's display windows were decorated with blue, red, yellow, purple, and white flowers; Marie-approved. They could identify purple thistles and blue hydrangeas. The white flowers were peonies.

They pushed the door to be greeted with a little bell. Ms Marie was reading a manuscript at her elaborate walnut desk-counter. A jar of mints sat beside the crank register, right before a wall phone. Sometimes candies, sometimes marbles. Whatever Marie felt like refilling the jar with. They were free to take. "If it isn't my favourite customers. We don’t have much new stock, but I'm happy to give recommendations if you need any. How have you two been?" She was wearing a bell-sleeved blouse under a deep azure vest and trousers.

"I've been practising the piano all vacation. I've moved up a grade." Mira had a piano at home, Asel remembered that it wasn't tuned as much as it should be.

Ms Marie's face lit up with an aunt-like joy.

"Impressive. You're dilligent worker. Cashew's at the back, he'll show you the Liszt. What about you, Asel?"

Ms Marie never called Uncle Cass by the correct name. It was a sort of in-joke they shared with Asel's Uncle and some of their other friends. The children were only allowed to call him "Uncle Cass".

"Ms Marie, did book eight arrive yet?"

"Straight to business with you. We received some a few days ago. It's popular. Had to make sure I ordered enough. Lucky you, getting a first edition from the very first print run."

Ms Marie opened her desk's drawer, where a brown paper-wrapped book-shaped parcel had the words "reserved copy" on it. She normally only reserved copies for half the book's payment in advance, but she did without for her most reliable customers.

Asel had never met anyone who also read her favourite books outside school. They could be from other schools, but who knew? Ms Marie made a bill and rang the register.

Asel scanned the store for Mira, only to see her at the arts and crafts books. Uncle Cass was helping her choose. "It should be about 5.30. Need anything else?"

She gently put the payment on the desk and carefully placed the wrapped book in her bag.

"Have they released any new science books, like the ones my sister uses?"

"The only thing we got recently were some astronomy books. I can inquire if you want. Does she need anything for her dissertation? Wait, I remember. I met your mum a few days ago for lunch. Was it a biology book that you were looking for?"

"Study guides for human anatomy. Have they released any yet?"

"I'll have to check with my friends in the college publishing houses. They have strict monopolies, so I should be able to let you know by Tuesday if there are any in circulation. Don’t worry about it. So, what brought you here? You wouldn't just be here without a few errands, your parents are practical."

"I was heading here for book eight, but dad told me to buy some cheese from the charcuterie. He wrote me a list."

"Charcuterie? That's just for fancy meats. Fromageries sell cheeses. The next door store's a Charcuterie and Fromagerie. They haven't repaired that darn sign in a decade."

Quite a long time to not fix something. Long enough to end up confusing everyone.

"A decade?!" "A decade."

Luckily, Uncle Cass was headed their way. He was holding a tray with some iced tea in glasses.

"Hello Asel, I was just helping Mira with something. Want some icy peppermint tea?"

Today must be mint season. Perhaps she needed to find some catnip now.

"Cassie, it's a tisane, not a tea. There are no tea leaves in there."

Ms Marie never let anyone below fifteen drink caffeine. A personal policy of hers. Heart conditions were rare but Zappel-Philipps were everywhere.

"Thanks Uncle Cass, I'll have a glass."

Asel picked up one of the glasses, it smelled quite refreshing, a bit like an ice-cold cucumber with salt on top. Perhaps she could try making some at home. She had a peppermint plant at home in the kitchen, along with some spearmint. Nothing like cold peppermint, other than hot peppermint cacao in the winters.

"Asel, you should call me Auntie, I'm his senior by two years."

Ms Marie had been rather insistent that she be called auntie. Mira was the first to adopt calling her Auntie, but only around her.

"But I don't think it would be polite."

"But I'm the one asking?"

"I'll ask my parents for permission."

Ms Marie, defeated, let out a sigh while she sipped her iced mint tisane. The pain of being a spinster who likes being called auntie.

"Didn't know we had a bureaucracy. Mira, want some peppermint lemonade, fresh from the fridge?" Uncle Cass to the rescue.

Mira had arrived at the desk, holding some sheet music and a book on miniature painting. Ms Marie started making a bill while still looking their direction.

"Castile, there's no lemon in it nor sugar. It's not a lemonade without both, and the lemons aren't ripe until much later."

The trees weren't ready for a harvest. The country wasn't a citrus producer but a major rosehip producer. Lemons, limes, and other citruses were imported fruit.

"Ooh, I like peppermint. I'll take some. I like limes better, they're tastier."

Asel agreed. Uncle Cass agreed. Ms Auntie Marie agreed. The author agreed. The gods agreed. It was a unanimous agreement.

"True. Mira, how's your sister and cousin?" Ms Marie asked that only if one sibling was visiting the store.

"Vierra and I have been pretending to be lawyers in a divorce court, it's fun. Grandma (maternal) enjoys being our court stenographer. Nar's getting better at baking. He's also the audience or waiter, depending on the situation. Our divorce court has a waiter, we're bourgeoisie."

Ms Marie seemed a bit amused over the nature of the divorce court with a waiter. If Vierra was here, would she be suggesting to publish the court records? She would be having a chat with Uncle Cass about it later to discuss the ethics of publishing a court record. Perhaps to discuss it with the stenographer too.

"Glad to hear that it’s fun. Have you both heard anything about Lucille and Rosine?" Ms Marie inquired further.

Lucille and Rosine were their classmates and fellow city-dwellers. They would often meet up when in the city.

"Lucy's sister got the rheumatic fever. Dad was on the phone with Lucy's dad."

Asel knew what rheumatic fever was. She asked her father when she was a bit younger, especially after a strep outbreak had claimed a few students from her old school. She didn't really understand then how grave it was back then, but now she couldn't help but feel upset that her classmate was unable to enjoy her vacation.

Her father had been on a long call with Lucy's father yesterday. She remembered the phone ringing before dinner, and they were still talking when she was brushing her teeth. Her sister let her know in the morning before running off to the library. Not helpful.

"Last week she had the scarlet fever, and the week before that it was a sore throat and fever. This is news to me." Mira added.

"So it's probably a strep infection. It's infectious, so those two could be in quarantine. It should take a while until they can even go outside. They must be lonely." Ms Marie was rather concerned, in a rather melancholic reminiscence.

"They must be bored out of their minds. I hope their toys and clothes aren't burnt. I know of better methods. For one-"

Marie cut him off, "Those were for heavily beaded costumes. For tough fabrics, you just need to add antiseptic liquids to the washing water. They're sold everywhere these days. Just don't drink the liquid, it's poisonous."

Nice to hear.

"On a floral note, have you seen the flowers on the window? It took me ages to find Camellias and Marigolds. I don't like using roses for a red flower, and it's not poppy month yet. Camellias are the flowers of tea plants. Five nurseries in the city sell the bushes. The one near your dad's hospital has blossomed. The nursery owner told me."

The nursey near the hospital supplied flowers to the hospital florist for presents. Asel's father had bought a few plants from there for the kitchen and balcony on his way back.

"What about the marigolds? The children yearn to know." The children did indeed yearn to know.

"The owner of the Mexican restaurant grows his own. He makes te-tisanes out of them and sells the flowers that aren't tisane-grade."

Hearing something like tisane-grade from Uncle Cass was a bit funny. The two girls stifled their giggles.

"Oh, clever. No wonder it doesn't taste the same with the ones we buy." Impressed, Marie thought of making plans for lunch there.

The wall phone rang. Uncle Cass picked it up before Ms Marie could react. Seemed to be a customer since Uncle Cass was handling it. Auntie Marie offered some mints to the girls, but only Mira partook.

"Well girls, be on your way. Just leave the cups on the tray. I'm afraid we're holding you up. You're both welcome anytime."

Auntie Marie waved a little as they walked out, "See you soon, Auntie Manon!" "Bye Ms Marie!"

The door announced their exit with a ring and finished with the dull thud of meeting the frame.

Chapter Text

"Choban Family

  Charcuterie

Vendor for the Agricultural Workers' Union Limited."

The sign which broke a decade ago. The massive gap had been a prominent feature of the sign as long as the girls could remember.

Either it was the "fancy cheese store", "fancy meats store", "charcuterie", "Choban store", or "building 361 in downtown".

No one remembered the full name. Such was the fate of old stores. Mr Choban, the store owner and manager, hadn't fixed the sign despite it being broken for a decade.

"Never thought the sign was broken, I'd have thought it was an artistic choice."

"It's a bit obvious now that we know. There's some traces of the parts that fell out." Mira pointed out faint traces of an outline of the former letters below where the sign said "charcuterie". They blended in with the rest of the sign.

"So the sign was like 'Choban Family Charcuterie and Fromagerie'. Wait, Mira, are you all right being around cheese?"

Mira had developed a dairy allergy recently. She insisted it wasn't bad, but it could get worse. Not hospitalisation bad yet, but it could become someday.

"I'm fine around them, just can't eat them." Allergies were unpredictable. There was no telling if a previously negligible allergy could become life-threatening.

Unconvinced, Asel continued, "Let's get this list over with, and then we can probably walk around."

Unlike Marie's store, the interiors of the Charcuterie and Fromagerie were quite simple. The wooden floors had simple woollen rugs. There were simple glass displays for every type of cheese and meat sold, along with labels stating which animal they were derived from. There were posters of cheese and meats and their types. Mira pointed at a cheese wheel bigger than her head. The store had a counter in the middle and surrounded by the condiments section, and around it were separated sections for cheese and meats, each with their own attendant. They walked into the cheese section, where a college-aged guy was attending.

"Hello, here to buy some cheese? We have samplers too. "

He brought out a plate of bite-sized cubes that could be eaten with toothpicks. The girls had heard that he was studying food safety. Quite commendable, but they could never remember his name. Of course, Mira refused the cheese with the sign for "no", while Asel tried some.

"Hello…" "Hello. My dad wanted some stuff, he gave me a list. He wants the mascarpone cheese and the ricotta cheese, with exact sizes."

The cheese guy took a look at the list and went to a refrigerator where they were stored. He returned and wrapped them in paper and waxed fabric. Lanolin waxed fabric, probably cotton.

"Let's see, the cheeses would be a total of 4. Take the invoice to the counter when you're ready to pay. Daphne's at the condiments. She can recommend you some honey."

He pointed towards the condiments section where a nice lady worked.

They made their way to the condiments section, where the nice lady (Ms Daphne) was there. She was probably cheese guy's older sister. This was a family business. Asel had been here several times with her dad and Ms Daphne had always been present. Jams were present and colourful. Mira was transfixed by them.

"Hello dears, here for some honeys or jams? Perhaps some spices?"

She pointed at the shelves filled with bottles and packets with her fancy claw rings. It looked like claws, just like the ones Uncle Cass would sometimes wear. Why did it look like claws? What was the purpose of claw-like jewellery?

"I want some jams-I mean honey. My dad didn't jam-I mean specify."

Asel showed her the list. Ms Daphne amusedly glanced and then walked over to the honey bottles. The jams projected colours onto their display.

"Clover honey's the best for pairing with fruits and milk, but orange blossom goes with cheese. But since ricotta and mascarpone are what you're taking, clover should be a better choice."

Simple but explanatory. The jams protested at not being suggested.

"Oh, then I'll take clover."

Ms Daphne carefully picked up a bottle and went to her counter. The Jams overshines the honey.

"That would make the total about 0.30. Here's an invoice to show the counter when you want to pay and collect your order."

That was the second invoice of the day. The jams cried out of not being picked.

"Thanks." Asel turned around only to see the jams. Jams. Berry jams. Mint jams. Chilli jams. Capsicum jams. Rhubarb jams. All bottles of coloured fruit preserves. Jams. Jams. Lucille's favourite Jams. Rosine's favourite Jams. Jellies? Jams. Jams. Marmalades! Jams. Jams. Oh, they have pickles! Ja- "I think we saw enough of the jams. I'm ready to pay."

Asel grabbed Mira's hand and pulled her away from the hypnotic jams.

They made their way to the counter, easy now that Asel was pulling Mira. The jams were too powerful, just like a lotos tree and its fruit. Lotos fruit jam would be a nice weird fiction novel.

At the counter, Asel handed the elderly cashier the invoices. Jams cried.

"So, 4.30. The grapevine's told me your uncle is returning tomorrow. Is that why you're here alone?"

Yes, the grapevine that was definitely not Uncle -> Mother and Father -> Ms Marie or Uncle Cass -> Mr Choban.

"Yes, he's arriving in time for breakfast."

Asel wondered if he was arriving before or after breakfast, but her uncle was going to be stinky.

"Oh, perfect. There's nothing like breakfast with the family. When I was a young man, we used to take the sheep to graze in the mornings and have breakfast with us, so eating together was usually when the weather wasn't suitable. Mother would make us tea and we would gather around our table and…"

He started intensely staring into nothingness. His eyes rapidly darted at something that didn't exist while he trembled as if he were a glass on a table in a train. There was silence. The air stagnated. Asel politely awaited her change, a bit uncomfortable, Mira glanced across the room to see what he was seeing, only to be met with a painting of frolicking sheep. The college cheese guy and Ms Daphne made their way to the counter on noticing Mr Choban wasn't himself.

"Uh, sorry about that. He's not feeling well. I'll take him upstairs while Daphne helps you. Sorry about the inconvenience." he was apologetic, even though his father or uncle was unwell. It was a pitiable sight of a store worker apologising for an unwell boss. Those who are unwell must rest, and all children learnt this while at school.

"It's all right." Asel gave the workers a sympathetic look.

The college guy held Mr Choban's shoulder and they went into a door in the back.

Mira signed and spoke simultaneously, "I hope he gets better and gets lots of rest."

"He's getting better, don't worry," Ms Daphne reassured them, "I've got you your change here, and your cheese and honey. Don't eat it all at once, not a pleasant experience." She gave Asel her items, now wrapped in a brown paper bag.

"Thank you, Ms Daphne."  they waved a bye as they left the store.

"Take care."

"That's all that I needed to buy. We can do whatever now." Asel's glee was infectious.

"Wanna go to the old bridge?"

The old bridge was a pedestrian walkway that was popular with train and bus watchers. Food carts and stalls were commonplace. A place where children could be without much trouble. Cars had been successfully banned from some parts of the city.

"Why not? Let's go then."

From right outside the store, they took a left and walked on the cobbled road for five or so minutes. The then took a right and ended in a pedestrian-only street, leading to the old bridge. No need to stay on the pavement any longer, so they moved onto the street. Mira pointed at a little storefront next to a bakery just before the old bridge began.

"The store there makes fresh sodas and mixes them with whichever juice or syrup you want. I like the herbs and pine soda the most, but Vierra didn't and said it tasted like medicine."

Mira had unusual tastes sometimes, and that was natural variation. Ms Marie had unusual tastes, with her having her own little rooftop greenhouse to accommodate them. Asel didn't have unusual tastes, but she wasn't able to handle the smell of eggs. Asel's sister didn't like coriander, it tasted like soap to her. Natural variation, all of it.

"Hmm, not too sure about Pine, what other ones do you recommend?"

"Tomato, Orange, Mango, Cherry, Apricot, Tomato but spicy, several tea-based flavours."

No tea, mum and dad don't approve non-4pm tea, fruits were a bit common too.

"Tomato but spicy sounds good. How is it?"

"Tastes like thin tomato soup and has coriander."

Must be tomato juice with some spices. They once served it at school with dinner during a heatwave. All classes were cancelled for the day while the school pool was the busiest it had been in all of its existence. Sounds nice, a soda she couldn't share with her sister.

"Well, let's split it. How much is one?"

Some local joints had their own price points, but they added things like free whipped cream or ice. This joint advertised that they added more juice or syrup to the glass. Would be fun to go with the whole family once uncle was here. He'd probably drain them of soda.

"They have a buy two for 0.08, the price is normally 0.10. End of the season sale I'm guessing." Soda was indeed less popular as the months grew colder. They may be getting rid of the seasonal flavours or stock.

Asel shifted her gaze to the right, part out of calculating the price points and part out of a fleeting envy of not being able to join Mira on her first venture there. "That's quite the deal."

A cold breeze blew through the street, chilling Mira. It was a more frequent occurrence now that it was August. She'd already removed her long-sleeved clothes from storage, but it wasn't cold enough to make the switch yet. But Asel's shift in gaze was a bit unusual, which could have also chilled the air.

"So, is it a good deal? We can buy only one if you want."

Asel noticed Mira's shoulders stiffen and her gaze widen a bit, along with her ears move a bit behind, which shifted her glasses closer to her eyes. Mira was a bit worried. Asel upon realising, decided to soften her own gaze in response.

"I think that would be a stomachache for me, but I don’t mind if you're getting for yourself. I was just comparing prices to the place near my house."

Mira seemed to relax from that, but Asel wasn't convinced. Mira seemed to pick up on things a bit too easily.

"We can come here anytime later, we still have the entire of August. I brought some biscuits we can share if you get hungry, and there's always free water."

Well, that was one potential problem solved (hypoglycaemia). They skipped their way to the top of the bridge. The cobblestone was comfortable for their shoes. Smooth and soft stone.

"You think the benches will be wet?"

They passed by a group of tourists being lead by a guide with a silly hat and a long flag.

"Not wet with paint for sure."

The sound of a train whistle could be heard. Must be a train approaching or leaving, they couldn't see.

"I remember when my uniform had to be replaced because I couldn't read the sign until I got closer."

The memory made Mira's teeth hurt. A wool-cotton-blend brown dress with a white belt, collar, and cuffs. The white paint on the fabric her detested.

"Maybe you need glasses." Asel jested.

"That was two years ago." Mira adjusted her glasses from the side of the frames. The thick glass partially distorting her black(?) eyes.

"No wonder you're wearing them." Asel jested once more.

Mira wasn't amused, but confused, "I'm unsure if we're jesting or not." A justified concern.

"We are."

Mira smiled(?) a bit at Asel's reply. Just the edges of her mouth moved a bit. That was her smile.

"Thanks for clarifying."

Asel felt a bit warm and fuzzy at Mira's appreciation. Like warm honey milk during a rainy night.

"Don't worry about it. Oh, we were wrong, the bench is dry." Victorious, the two of them plopped down on the cold wood.

It was quite a height, so there was an ever-present breeze. There were buses and automobiles below, but they weren't able to ruin anyone's day from that height.

For one bus, there were about three automobiles and four taxis. It used to be one bus, seven cars and four taxis.

Mira pointed at a union's flag flying from a bus window.

A tricoloured cat appeared from behind and jumped onto the bench, then sat politely.

Mira lost her marbles.

Asel sighed at how polite the cat was, with perfect posture and not trying to bother anyone.

She did feel a bit of pity for the poor cat for having to be near the now marbleless Mira.

Oh, poor polite kitty.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

15th August, Thursday, 0800

        "Oh no, burnt pancakes." the delicious smell of pancakes filled the kitchen. Irene watched her latest failure with a slight dismay, steel fish-slice in one hand, copper-steel skillet in the other. The plate that anticipated the pancake was still cold and stood alone with an unfilled cup on a bee-themed tray.

        "They're not failures, Irene. I've made worse before." The pancakes were only slightly charred and a tad flat. There were worse made before, but these were still edible.

        There was nothing wrong with it. This was a tastier pancake, according to some people. Still not a failure. Nothing compared to the time when the flour he once bought was adulterated to the point of being purposeless.

        "But I want to make them fluffy." Did perfectionism run in the family?

        "That only comes with practice." To state the obvious.

        "Unfair. You've been making these since forever." Irene grumbled. And they seemed so effortless!

        "That's true. I started learning when I was about ten. Someone had to help around the house, and I was the oldest." such a filial son, but that wasn't reassuring.

        Grumbling away, Irene placed the tastier pancake on the plate, then attempted another. Perfectly unburnt, but still not as fluffy as father would make them. Her talents could lie in crêpes, perhaps.

        "Is this supposed to be stressful?" she wasn't taking it well. The third one, burnt, however, was fluffier. She made a mental note to probably let the batter sit for more than fifteen minutes next time. The next one was similar, a bit fluffier. And the next and next were similar. Odd. Burnt but fluffy was still a compromise she wouldn't enjoy.

        "The more you practise, the more you get better at it. Can you believe this father of yours used to be afraid of fire?" He was likely exaggerating, but he did seem a bit cautious while igniting the stove.

Disgruntled, Irene turned off the stove and began plating the pancakes—birthday pancakes for the Birthday girl.

        Asel was a jam girl. Jam between each pancake. Jam that was made with Asel's favourite fruits. Fruits on the top with fresh cream. The best for the baby.

        Satisfied, it was time to assemble the birthday breakfast. Father was now brewing tea. A certainly loud bird decided to grace them with its song, drowning out the rest. The scent of spices, tea, and milk wafted through the air. A good morning indeed, save for the failed pancakes.

        "Why are you making breakfast? Isn't it a workday?" a tall and artistically muscular woman with long curly black hair in a muskmelon-green nightgown with a custard-coloured robe with matching slippers concernedly glared at father, all while holding the morning paper in one hand, rolled up. Mother had just walked to the kitchen after picking up the morning papers from outside the front door.

        "The department head gave me a day off. What about you?" Father placed a cup of freshly brewed tea on the table.

        "You know I asked for a day off yesterday. Where's my brother?" Mother took a seat, prompting father to join her on the table with his cup. Irene made a second cup of coffee all while still being in the kitchen. Now, where could the bread be?

        "He's gone out for his morning run, and after that, there's a training session at the riverbank club."

        "He's not going to be back until lunch for sure. I hope you gave him the list of his errands."

        "I did. He's picking up the snacks and the fruit juice at the grocers later. And Irene-" the aforementioned girl jolted while trying to find the toaster, "-cake's meant to be picked up at three. Don't forget the order receipt.”

        "I have the order slip in my wallet. I'm res-pon-sible. I even made breakfast for my baby sister today." Irene showed off her green wallet with bees embroidered on it. It was a matching set with Asel that they made themselves.

        "Yes, our most responsible child is you." mother amusedly spoke while holding her cup.

        "Our most responsible child, please sit down to eat.” father amusedly requested.

        "I just found the toaster. I'll not eat unless the toast is ready." she put some butter on a slice of bread and put it in an iron bread cage that she then cooked over a flame. They didn't have an electric toaster, so the bread cage was how they made toast.

        Mother got up and turned the radio on. After a bit of tuning, the regular station was loud and clear. The newscaster's baritone voice rang through the kitchen.

        "…The National Railworkers' Union announced a general strike starting on the fifth of September and will continue until the railway and electrical infrastructure are fixed. They apologise for all future disruptions, in the meantime, the leader of the Union advises commuters to use the bus or carpool a taxi, especially with the rising cost of petrol and diesel these days…"

        Huh, that's after schools nationwide would start. Mother seemed rather proud of herself while she read the morning paper. "Anything interesting?" father asked, "Other than your face?" mother replied. Irene let out a disgusted scowl. In front of her coffee and buttered toast? This early in the morning? Have they no decency?

        Sounds of stirring caught Irene's attention. Asel was probably awake. Irene quickly got to work and warmed up the milk. Asel didn't like bread very much, it gave her indigestion.

        "Need help?" father asked

        "I'm not a baby." she scowled. He still thought of her as a tiny baby, despite her being a functional adult.

        Asel's breakfast was warm. Now it's time to wake up the sleeping baby, or not. Was Asel still a baby?

Chapter Text

15th August, Tuesday, 0900

        The dull and distant bell of a clock tower rang nine times, signalling the ninth hour of the morning, four hours before luncheon, and twelve hours before most children were to be put to bed.

        "It-is-now-nine-ae-em!" the radio announcer gleefully chimed in with the whistle of a kettle from the downstairs apartment and the gong of a lonely clock next door.

        "Irene, are you going to wake her up?" mother asked as a songbird landed on their balcony grill.

        "If she refuses, I'll just pick her up and carry her." how confident.

        "Be careful with her now," mother continued, "She will be entering a growth phase soon."

        Irene walked into Asel's room, leaving the door ajar. Light fern wallpaper complimented the buttercup-painted furniture: a little desk with unfinished letters, a little chair with a coral cushion, a chest of drawers with today's outfit, carefully altered to fit, neatly laid out, and rectangular windows that framed the bed and desk, with old mauve curtains.

        The little bedside table had a clock that barely was wound. Her new book, as pristine as it had been, was creased and fluffed by all the reading and re-reading. How much time will be left until the binding needs help?

        Engulfed by a celadon cotton-stuffed cotton-blanket, Asel was hugging a reddish-purple quilted stuffy bear that wore peach pyjamas. An elderly neighbour downstairs had tenderly crafted the original quilt for her. As soon as she was too big for it, it became a bear. Efficient and huggable!

        Irene had a similar stuffy frog in a still-vibrant green, after all, the same lovely neighbour had made it as a housewarming gift for the then ten-year-old her, and it still sat at her bed, next to an endless number of frog dolls and stuffies. There were always going to be frogs as long as she was alive. 

        Something still lingered here—remains of when this used to be Irene's room. But it wasn't time to linger on memories, today is the no-longer-tiny baby's birthday. No longer a tadpole, but not yet a frog.

        "Happy Hatchday Froglet, it's time to wake up."

        No response.

        "Froglet? You have to wake up. Breakfast will get cold."

        No response. Was she faking it? Only one way to know.

        The older sister pulled off the blanket, but the younger one only stirred a little. She was wearing mauve pyjamas, clearly altered to fit her with the numerous pintucks.

        "That's it." Froglet was getting carried, princess style.

        Irene carefully slithered one arm under Asel's back, and the other under her knees. Her spine straightened, and with a deep breath, the parcel was ready for delivery.

        "Put me back." Asel half-muttered, half-slurred as she rubbed her eyes, still holding her bear.

        "You're needed in the audience chamber." Irene carefully carried Asel through the doorframe. The audience was listening to the news—protests near city hall, partial shutdowns of public transport, more in an hour. They were chatting merrily about woollen blankets and sweaters, buying new boots, and running out of sunflower seed oil. Cake's to be picked up at three, don't forget.

        "Froglet is delivered." Asel was carefully put in her chair, but her head rested on the table with her hair covering it.

        Irene lifted her sister's shoulders and rested her on her shoulder. Shen then picked up the filled teacup and brought it close to Asel's nose. Would the smell wake her up? Only one way to know.

        "I'm not a baby." Asel protested but didn't budge. Her eyes were half-open.

        "But you are the baby," the older sister retorted, "just no longer a tadpole."

        Asel took the teacup and glugged it faster than a breath. Slow down. She then picked up her fork and cut the pancakes with the side of the work. They looked tastier than usual, with slightly burnt edges. The whipped cream had melted a little and seeped into the pancakes, along with what appeared to be butter and some of the jam. A berry fell onto the plate as the crimson jam watched her. Irene had clearly made it. No one went over-the-top with decorating like her older sister.

        She took a bite. The pancakes themselves had hints of malt, but the slightly salted butter and the tart jam combined to form a perfect balance. The whipped cream and fruits were delightful, and the slightly burnt portions were the most delicious.

        "I like this," she looked at Irene. Make this for me again." The older sister was aghast that the null hypothesis was rejected.

        "You sure about that? It's burnt."

        "But they taste better. I like how they are assembled." assembled, plated, tastes better, hmm, null rejected, the tiny baby's sincerity.

        "Well, since you asked so nicely. But you're going to be my assistant." A sweet childhood memory of them baking together flashed in Irene's mind. Making gingerbread, Irene took care of measuring and preparing ingredients while Asel mixed them. Great teamwork, and they made enough to share with the neighbours too!

        While Asel devoured the special birthday pancakes, Irene helped her parents clean up. The kitchen had to be orderly at all times, and the living room needed to be arranged before the guests arrived in the evening. Mother walked over to Asel's room while carrying a roll of mattresses and bedsheets in one arm. She left them on the floor near the bed and walked up to her older child rearranging pillows.

        "Irene, can you set this up for me? I need to get ready."

        "Oh, the market opens soon, yes?"

        "Smart girl. Asel—" the little girl replied with a muffled "yes!" "Help your sister after you're done eating." This was met with another muffled "yes," along with a "The food's not going to run away to the circus, slow down."   

Chapter Text

15th of August, 1430

        There was half an hour until Asel's cake was to be picked up. Irene was already at the bakery. She was supposed to have arrived at exactly three, but breaking the laws of physics was common for her and her friends. What to do except sit out on a wooden bench? She walked here but would be taking a bus back. The discus sun let out arrowed rays pointing at all, reflecting and piercing eyes and feet alike. Children and dogs ran around the streets. Strange puddles in corners pierced by the rays let out putrid nitrogenous stenches. Lavender and rose scents and tobacco smoke mixed with the scent of rotting food waste and the fresh scent of groceries. Irene used her M. officinalis-scented handkerchief as a makeshift mask, keeping away the stench of a city.

        What to do what to do? Checking personal possessions, wallet, order slip, handkerchief, candy, water, all present. Nothing lost. Check again. Nothing lost—nothing to do now. Waiting would be a bore, and sitting still didn't suit her. It wasn't time to eat; snack time started in an hour. There was nothing to do. Nothing to do. Absolutely nothing. There were no ponds or rivers nearby, no pet stores, no lumber yards, no nurseries, nothing but grocers and bookstores and the post office and even then they were closed. Noth-

"Irene, over here!" a lad a few junctions away was heading towards her, roadster in hand. He joined her on the bench, parking it behind it. A familiar face for a change.

        "What's it for today, Maurice? You're never on this street." He was an errand boy who would typically be working today. His bag was small for his usual work, and his roadster was accessorised with a rather large crate fitted to the carrier. That was unusual for him. He usually stored parcels in his larger bag and would stow them in the front basket. The carrier was a bonus seat unless Marianne wanted a box of spare books delivered to the library.

        "We all get an off today, so I happened to be here." He said with a smile, "The smell's awful bad, isn't it?" He worked at the bookstore with several others, but they ran errands or worked in the storeroom. Marianne was dangerously good at keeping inventory without entering the storage during work. She was everywhere and nowhere at the same time, eyes on the back of her head, the walls have eyes and ears, if there's a rumour it will reach her. Employees felt safe, which was what mattered.

        "Smells like some of the fertilisers I've had to handle. What are the rest doing then?" There were about eight employees in total. All of them except for one were around the same age as Irene, and she had gone to school with some of them. Maurice was one of the three normal employees there. The other was Sherry, who was in Irene's class and was studying theatre in college, so they still met on campus. She did not cause the disastrous study session a few days ago.

        "We're painting a wall, sans Sherry. Some of our colours ran out and the store re-opens at three." He was rather tired, by the tone of his voice. Stores have a two-hour lunch break that ends at three.

        "Coincidence. I've got to pick up a birthday cake at the same time. Is Harriet alright with the paint?" Harriet was one of Irene's former classmates and Maurice's colleague. She was a lovely lady but was like the other employees. To work for Marianne was to have "eccentric", "enjoy theatre", and "dramatic" as an essential. Only three employees broke the mould.

        "She and Jean are sitting this one out, which is good. We're using oils of course, but she's got allergies." Jean was Maurice's colleague too. He was many a reason for an odd store decor and many a headache for Marianne. Irene's ears throbbed in the memory of pain from recollecting him singing opera while shelving a month ago, when placing an order for Asel's birthday present. He was loud like a bellbird and harmonious like a myna.

        "I forget that they're married. We're all still so young." They are twenty-six for reference, your honour. They should be partying.

        "I've heard the bosses say that before," he sighed, "Mind if I tag along with you to the bakery? I might get something for the gang." considerate as always, as Irene recalled.

        "I don't mind. I suggest the buckwheat and potato pastries. They're surprisingly delicious. And don't buy the Çibörek today, it will taste like betrayal." It was like devouring laundry soap.

        "One of the lads hates coriander, too. You've saved me." Perhaps only a handful of people in the city abhorred coriander, and some of them were acquainted with each other.

        The clocks in the store opposite them pointed at two-fifty-two. Time to wait outside and do nothing. Two-fifty-two. Eight minutes to three.

        "It's almost time." They both stood up and waited outside the bakery. Maurice brought his roadster and chained it to a dedicated stand. The workers inside were buzzing like bees despite the locked doors.

        At three sharp, a worker unlocked and opened the doors. A small crowd of twenty entered with chaos. Irene made her way to the pickup table, where she handed over the order slip from her wallet to the worker on the counter. Maurice picked out some pastries and paid for them on the counter. He avoided the Çibörek, as Irene had warned him. The worker returned with a box with Asel's cake, made to accommodate dietary restrictions.

        After all was done, they both left the store, and Maurice placed his shopping in the roadster's front basket. He offered to put Asel's cake in the basket too, but Irene politely declined. They walked a bit towards the paint store, and Irene offered to guard the roadster while Maurice bought the paint.

        Maurice was done, and he had four giant cans of paint: one white, the other black, and the third and fourth blue. Three of the most used colours are emulsion-based for a wall, and castor-oil. Irene helped him secure them onto the crate with several ropes. She used hitch knots to secure cylinders onto the crate, which were further secured onto the roadster with further ropes and knots—the knot-tying practice for securing trees in the nursery paid off.

        As they walked to the bus stop, Maurice spoke, "You've been a great help today. I'll catch you later this week."

        "It wasn't a hassle. Stop by for Asel's birthday if you can. I'll save you a slice if you do. Sherry's going to be there too. " It really wasn't a hassle. Mother had sent Maurice and Sherry invitations, but only Sherry had RSPV'd a "Yes".

        "I'd rather not run into the bosses, but thanks anyway. I'll run into you later." Odd. Sherry was going to be there despite Marianne being invited and was hence the only person her age there.

        "Later."

        Cake in hand, Irene walked the road home, where Asel would be waiting for her birthday cake.

        Asel was perhaps struggling to pin her hair and would need her older sister's help with it.

"I can perfectly do my own hair without your help."

A disgruntled Asel snapped at her older sister. The rebellious phase had already started.

Chapter Text

15th of August, 1830

        "I've never seen one of these before," Sherry pointed at a coral orange, close-coupled, 4-seater berline stopped at the distant railway crossing, "Is that an imported one?" She leaned further on the balcony grille, only for Irene to call out a "Careful, you'll fall."

        Sherry was visibly shorter than Irene, and her meticulously styled brown hair had an orange tinge from dyeing it with henna. She was fashionable, clearly from the lavender drop-waist dress, and an experienced dressmaker—an essential skill for someone who studied theatre. Irene could operate the embroidery and beading machines with ease, which Sherry struggled with. Irene's mint-coloured party outfit was a creation of Sherry's, and so were the recent pile of altered clothes that Asel recently inherited from her older sister.

        "Guess some people can afford to own these," Irene replied, "Customised too; it's Lucy's ride." Few people owned imported motors, let alone British or USAmerican ones. The logo of the Morris Motor Company was barely visible from where they were. The balcony was empty save for two chairs, a tea table, windchimes, sparrows, the cold wind, and them. Asel was playing cards inside with her uncle. The feast slowly simmered on the stove, not needing much attention. It was time for guests to arrive. All was peaceful except for the motors of vehicles.

        "Even the lady boss doth not own a motor-carriage," Sherry remarked with a hint of hyperbolic outrage and the mannerisms of a 17th-century aristocrat, "Road-stealing bastard machines are they!" Irene nodded along and giggled.

        "True, our parents used to fear for-oh, isn't that an N. lutea?" Yellow water lilies were painted on the bonnet. Sherry widened her eyes in surprise.

        "You can tell from such a distance? I envy and admire your eagle eyes."

        "My favourite name for them is the spatterdock. I've had to handle them in the nursery. The wealthier clientele order them for ponds. A lovely season for them to die." Another name for them was the beer bottle, but that's not important.

        "Thought I'd hear something about animals, then I remember that you're studying botany," Sherry said, straightening her back and freezing for a moment, "Suppose we go back inside? I can feel the mercury drop." Irene noticed that her friend had begun to shiver. Blue didn't suit her as much as peach or rose pompadour did.

        "Agreed. I could go for a spot of tea. Camomille Peppermint?" Irene stretched a little before opening the door to the inside of the house, leading to the kitchen. Sherry entered, and Irene followed.

        Mother got off the phone rather worried, "From what the girls told me, there was an accident with two automobiles", she emphasised her distaste of them, "on the tracks. The station's getting the wreckage off the tracks before they can resume service. They're at Old Downtown, so I called Marianne to let her know." The phone was convenient. All the doctors got one.

        "An accident?!" Asel gasped like Marie Antoinette would, "The radio, the radio!" Father, who was the closest to it, turned it on and adjusted it until clear audio could be heard.

        "-bzzt-bzzt-accident-bzzt-on the crossings at Court Street near Courtroom Square. Two Ford Model Ts crashed into each other. Foul Play is suspected. Earlier today, there were reports of a robbery where the license plate of the getaway vehicle matched one of the vehicles involved. No one seems injured as of now, except the poor crossing. We will be going on break until more information is out.

        Lavender Blue, the latest scent of th-" "Which reminds me, we saw Lucy approach. I'm assuming she's coming with a relative or her nanny." Irene recalled as she poured Sherry and her some cups.

        "You assume?" Asel raised an eyebrow -sounds of a motor-car slowly approaching.

        "It's hard to see the backseat of hooded vehicles from across the station. Although, there was a water lily on the bonnet." Sherry added.

        "Ah, I know who it is," Uncle suddenly remembered after he had done the maths. "Lucy's aunt owns one with a yellow water lily. I've seen it before."

        The doorbell rang. Asel ran off to open it, her friend would be at the other end of the door! How enthralling!

        "Lucy! You're here!" A girl of Asel's age with neat, long hair, held a large bouquet in her hands. She wore a yellow and pink dress with mango-patterned hems.

        "You're finally as old as the rest of us!" "I know!" Asel held Lucy's gloved hand and pulled her inside the premises. Behind Lucy, her aunt followed suit. They removed their shoes and cloaks before entering the drawing room to sit upon the ample sofas.

        "Rosie couldn't be here, but she does send her wishes," Lucy put down the bouquet to give Asel a card and the parcel, "Don't open it now; it's best saved for later." Asel thanked Lucy for the present, then took it to a table meant for holding gifts. Six presents already adorned it: one from mother, one from father, Irene's gift, one from uncle, one from the nice grandma and grandpa downstairs, and one from Sherry, Maurice, and Irene's friends.

        "Our Rosie's stronger than you think, Asel," Lucy's aunt spoke as she adjusted the sleeves of her amber suit, "She's been playing outside lately. It's lonely without them around, but she's getting plenty of fresh air in the hills."

        "I've sent them all sorts of recipes and bits and bobs so they don't die from boredom. I've had more time to practice my flower arrangement, so I've made a bouquet for you." A bouquet with purple sweet iris flowers mixed with minuscule bunches of white five-petalled flowers and bee leaves was handed over to her, and Irene grabbed a lonely blue floral vase from the kitchen. The blue florals complemented the bouquet, and the now-filled vase sat upon the dining table as the centrepiece.

        "I don't see Vierra and Mira. Did something happen?"

        "Two Model Ts are delaying trains at the Courtrooms at both ends. They've been stuck at the Old Downtown for a while now." Sherry answered while twirling her hair. Now, what kind of arse would be damaging public property on this day?

        "Oh, poor them. Perhaps I could send the car." Lucy nonchalantly uttered as if it were a wave of a fan. And what about the price of fuel?

        "No need, dear, Marianne's on it." Mother assured her.

        "If you say then." Lucy was a bit disappointed.

        "Lucy, Lucy, wanna play cards?" Asel asked, waving the box in her hand.

        "Oh, sure. I've been learning the weave shuffle, so I'll shuffle the cards."

Ring-a-ring, the doorbell sings. The nondescript fifteen-minute card match came to a halt due to the author's inability to understand card games.

"Oh, could it be?"

"Seems like it is."

Chapter Text

  "Auntie Marie, you brought Mira and Vierra!" Marianne looked like an older version of Mira and VIerra, but with a slight bend to her nose that the other two lacked.

        "I would never miss your birthday, nor could these two rapscalions. They were planning on travelling alone, but I managed to intercept them midway thanks to your mother." She ruffled Mira and Vierra's hair.

        "Asel, we all made you this," Mira gave Asel a parcel, wrapped in a pretty printed cloth, "some of our cousins (on both sides) wanted to prepare a gift too. They insisted."

        "Auntie Mel," Vierra turned towards Asel's mother, "Our (alive, paternal) grandpa will be picking us up tomorrow, okay?"

        "Understood, dears." The trio removed their shoes and cloaks, except Mira, who wore a coat. Mira's hair was cut jaggedly, the nth time she had shorn it herself after being denied a proper cut in the past five years, as if she proudly did it herself with a knife. Marianne was dressed in a navy suit that had silver embroidery. Mira and Vierra wore crimson-and-mauve striped dresses, but Vierra's had a slightly more flounced skirt, and Mira's sleeves and collar were longer (and less fitted). Marianne dropped off a heavy-looking bag to the side.

        Mira and Vierra joined Asel and Lucy, and Marie joined the adults. Naturally.

        "My hair was hurting me, so I chopped it all off when my (maternal) grandma was busy with something," Mira proudly spoke, "My (paternal) grandpa will take me to the barber tomorrow. I brought boy clothes to wear so that they shear the back properly short."

        Mira made a convincing boy, which is why she was forced to grow her hair outside of the school year by her maternal grandmother, who said something about how long hair was a sign of a proper young lady, unlike the short hair of the garçonnes of the years before.

        Asel remembered Mira cutting it with a knife one year after a dorm mother refused to lend her scissors.

        "Oh, and we have some news, our (adorable) cousin Lottie-Toffee," Vierra joyfully spoke, "she's starting this year. You'll meet her at the station later this month. Did I mention that she likes toffee (which is why we call her Lottie-Toffee)?"

        "Her mum, our (alive, paternal) aunt Zara," Mira continued in a hushed manner, "works for Vogue magazine, but she stopped sending us letters five years ago."

        Over at the older crowd's side, Marianne was stating something similar, "You all know Zara and her articles about hats and textiles in Harbin and the exposés under a pseudonym."

        Vierra perked up "That pretentious French name! Aunt Zara's more of a Beaumont than a Du Bois!"

        Marie continued, ignoring Vierra, "Her older girl turns ten in October, so she will be starting at the school this year. Yes, you will meet her at the station. Wait, Mel, what was that about a-"

        "Her name's Lottie? How lovely!" Lucy asked. "Short for Charlotte", Vierra added, "Her little sister's named Lauren. She and Berry are little tyrants who will overthrow a government before naptime. Berry howls if we don't listen, but she's so cute we can't help it."

        "What's she like?" Asel asked. "She likes toffee. Her favourite colour is vermilion. She likes baking and has ringlets like Aunt Zara. And she can swear in five languages: Mandarin, French, English, Russian, and one that I do not remember the name of!" Mira bragged while scratching the side of her neck.

        "You will love her. We do." Vierra added smugly. Mira glanced at something moving outside the window, brief, but unmistakably so and much like the glide of an owl, soundless.

        "How impressive. I think the dorm mother for the younger girls loves baking," Lucy spoke. "I've also heard we're getting a new dorm mother this year. She's very young and an Orthodox Nun, but a friend of hers says that she writes odd things." Lucy knew all the gossip, even before it became gossip.

"Huh!?"

        Marie accidentally raised her voice and turned her head, as if summoned, "I think I know her name. Sister Agnes from the St. Barbara Nunnery? I proofread her stories and convert them from code regularly for the Magazine sometimes. Mel dear, don't you have a copy of this week's?"

        Mother glared (telepathically commanding) at Uncle, who got up, went to the bookshelf, and removed a book. Marianne flipped through the pages with copiously ringed fingers until she reached a page and pointed at it.

        "Mel dear, that one there with the man-eating bedsheets. That's Sister Agnes, she prefers Miss Maenad." "Some of my fellow workers gained a fear of buckets after the bucket story came out." "Someone at the club was afraid of towels for a while after the towel story came out." "An exceptional writer, regrettably, has a duty that is more important than her craft. You do not wish to know how much she refuses fair pay."

        The Weird fiction was on the highest shelf so that Asel couldn't reach it. It was unfair. Everyone other than Asel was allowed to read it. Mira patted Asel's back, for she too understood. "We can steal the magazine later, Mira whispered, "And read them later tonight."

        Sherry turned to Irene and whispered, "Those two are plotting something, I know that look."

        "Surely, a heist for the weird fiction magazines; Froglet's always wanted to read them, but Mum said that the horror was too visceral. I read them instead and told her the stories at night, but I removed the scarier parts. She thought they were funny."

        "I used to be the little sister who was told scary stories at night. We're perfect for each other."

        "Hope you don't sacrifice me to the Rabbit Duchess while I'm asleep."

        "I don't guarantee it."

        Marianne turned her head to Irene and Sherry, who were pouring cups in the kitchen, "I wrote the ones with the Evil Rabbit Nobility, glad to meet a fan.", then went, "That blight of a commissioner doesn't care the wires may kill us all while his insect of a son is seen with a new girl each day."

        Irene's jaw dropped, which was amusing to Asel "Wait, Marianne's the author?"

        Sherry choked on her tea "You're asking me as if I know. I'm just the stocker and cashier! She barely writes in anything other than shorthand and numbers, and that weird backwards nonsense script that doesn't look like anything I've ever seen, not even Arabic!"

        Marianne turned back, "Don't fret, young blood, people in the industry like me use pseudonyms often. My aunt went by several during her career, and Zara goes by Mme. Dubois in her articles for Vogue. The income tax people and policemen rarely subscribe to the magazine; I know the people who track the addresses personally."

        Vierra leaned closer to the children's group, "Asel, is Miss Sherry also staying over?"

        "Yes, she's staying over. My sister said that there's exceptionally loud construction near Sherry's, but Sherry just has the ears of a rabbit."

        "Oh. Poor her."

        "All construction is loud. Depends on proximity." Lucille corrected gently.

***

        The clock struck eight, the 20th hour of the day. Eight chimes from the central clock in the distance. A chime from the lonely and abandoned grandfather clock next door. The radio announcer from the downstairs apartment announced "It-is-eight-o-clock" with their tinny voice. Risotto (Irene's favourite) was served for dinner. Marianne handed off a letter from her handbag and left, "Don't make too much trouble, understood?" And the cake had been cut into pieces and served. It was fluffy, soft, and mild.

***

        The girls, after brushing their teeth and changing into pyjamas, went into Asel's room, where they sat on the floor of mattresses, a copy of the weird fiction magazine suspiciously bulging from Mira's sleeve, a story where someone summons a haunted pen conveniently bookmarked by a frog-shaped bookmark Asel swore she saw in her sister's botany textbooks that decorated the shelves of her room.

        "So, Asel, what's the plan?" Lucy asked. "Tonight," Asel whispered, "We make sure the dead answer." To a cheer from Vierra, a gasp from Lucy, and Mira glancing at a corner of the room, where a shadow grew slightly darker.

Chapter Text

Lucille braided Vierra's hair with practised precision, as if braiding a rope.

        "Summoning spirits," Lucille mused, "the people I meet at Mass would revolt, but they ignore 'love thy neighbour' and 'gouge out your own eyes', so they should not be listened to."

        "It's the same with people we know who charge interest," Asel added, "charging interest should be forbidden (urusy), but Irene says that there are people who lobby the government about the divine right of charging interest. It sounds like nonsense to me."

        "We have many stories about gods and goddesses killing kings in our religion, you know," Viera contributed, "but people we know ignore the gods personally revoking the mandate of heaven by appearing on Earth itself, and instead praise the Crown and the divine right of kings. Our paternal family despises the Crown."

        Mira, not paying attention, opened to a page about a story about summoning a haunted pen, where it detailed a ceremony to summon ghosts. Irene's signature frog bookmark was left on the side table, large drawn eyes innocently gazing at the ceiling, cheeks puffed to ribbit, and bright yellow with black legs drawn in cursive script.

        A glance at the dark corner next to Asel's window, the darkness forming into the silhouette of what appeared to be a trembling triangular pillow, but there had been no pillow there.

"Don't approach," Mira ordered Lucille, "That child feels safe crouching in corners."

        Step 1: Obtain a piece of paper. "Easy, I have a page right here." Asel grabbed a blank page from her desk.

        Step 2: Draw a circle with a ten-pointed star. "I practised for ages getting the Star of Ishtar correct, I can manage a 10-pointed star!" Viera borrowed a pencil to draw and drew with perfect circles and lines.

        Step 3: All participants put their right hand on the centre of the star. "I would have expected the sinister hand, not the writing hand." Lucille was dismayed while Mira rejoiced, "If my right hand is cursed, 't least I can write with the left, unlike the rest of you main droite."

        Step 4: Think of what or whom you should summon.

        Step 5: "Something mundane for sure, like lighting candles or offering drops of blood. Light a candle, it's easier to clean up."

Mira grabbed a candlestand meant for blackouts that stood on Asel's desk, brought out a lavender-scented candle wrapped in newspaper from her bag, and carefully aligned the candle in the scone, then brought out a box of safety matches and put them beside the candlestick.

"Light it up once we decide what to summon," Mira specified, "This candle is something they usually sell in the apothecaries. Beeswax and lavender, with sprigs of mint, but I added Hawthorn flowers. What they refuse to tell you is that commercial beeswax is adulterated. Mine is handmade, with wax I collected myself from our beehive. The bees are my friends, but they like Berry more."

        Step 6: Summoned.

        "Too simple. No praying? No step to dismiss it?" Lucille gawked.

        "Aye, just burn the paper once you're done," Viera reassured Lucille, as if she knew the rituals beforehand, "Uncle Al tells us that a good burning does the trick for dismissing summons and Crown Loyalists, and he was born on May Day, so it works."

        "Now that we clearly have the rules," Mira stated with the poise of an investor meeting, "My family is off limits. Few of them would ever willingly want to be summoned."

        "We tried summoning our late (maternal) grandpa once," Viera added, "he returned to the cycle of reincarnation long before our parents-" Viera shuddered at the thought of the word, but Mira completed the sentence "-were married."

        "We can summon the lady in the port statues holding a sextant-"

        "That's Miss Nagivator to you, Lucille! The sailors and dockworkers pay tribute to her every shift!", Mira corrected.

        Lucy continued, ignoring Mira, "-or my late great-grandfather. Rosie swears she saw him once while our (alive and well, paternal) great-grandmother was in her office. She fainted and woke up an hour later, screaming like she saw a ghost, which she seemingly did. Still holding the banner of resistance like a proper organiser."

        "He was a union organiser, no?" Asel inquired, trying to remember a snippet of history they learned last term, "Passed away in a massacre of striking workers in the capital square in 1883, just like the 1913 one in Date-Palm Riverbank Village. Ah, Sorry!" Slip of the tongue. Labour history was like breathing with Asel and Lucille.

        "No need for condolences, Asel, he would have hated the path my great-grandmother took, or perhaps not. Being dead for more than half a century could have changed him. Being alive for more than half a century did change my (still alive) great-grandma." The ghosts of labour organisers never slept, as their work was never done.

        "Our Uncle Al is twice-orphaned, but don't tell Aunt Manon we told you this," Viera whispered as if the walls could hear, "he was found as a wean on the doorstep of an Antrim orphanage and adopted shortly after, then in Belfast, he lost his parents again during a clash. We're all even now."

        "Mira," Asel asked, "Is there anyone in the room other than us right now?"

        "Other than the Night, a crow, and perhaps a cat?" Mira's eyes narrowed whilst she pointed at the corner that appeared like a trembling child, her voice without a hint of sarcasm, a little too smooth for her usual mixed U and non-U, and her pointing at corners, "Perhaps the city, or the sky. I can also summon a star, if needed."

        "Are you being sarcastic?" Lucille asked.

        "I do not understand it enough," Mira replied sincerely, "Our uncle Al says it's something that I inherited from his side. We aren't even blood-related."

        "Impressive."

        "In the direct vicinity, a cat-" she pointed at a corner with the trembling shadow, "-a crow-" pointed at a shadow on the window, "-some flowers-" pointed at Asel's bookshelf, "-the city that sleeps-" pointed outside, "-the Night-" pointed at the moon, "-one of the drivers from one of the Model Ts, his hat made from low-quality felt, the dull kind the upstarts use.-" pointed at a tree outside, "-I dislike choice, please choose."

        Mira famously hated choices, as evident from her usually matching Viera's outfit. Having an identical lookalike was convenient, which meant that they could wear identical clothes whenever Mira had to choose anything properly feminine. Luckily, her tastes in food were rigid, and she could eat the same meal for a week, as it often happens at the dining hall back in the dormitories.

        "One of the drivers died?" Viera asked with a hint of disbelief, "Sounds improbable, the crash wasn't that long ago."

        "Death sings right now."

        A chill ran through the room.

        The crash was only hours ago.

        Viera blankly stared back and dropped her hair ribbon.

        Lucille tilted her head and started muttering under her breath, hands clutched and fidgeting.

        Asel blinked.

        "The papers and radio will catch up in the morning."

        Asel was too stunned to respond.

        As if summoned by the silence, too quickly, there was a knock at the door. Mira answered. It was Irene, with a bunch of weird fiction magazines.

        "Brought you girls some entertainment, any ghost gossip?" Irene asked in jest while wearing a protective charm on her wrist, knowing that all the girls at that age loved a good old-fashioned séance.

        "One of the drivers from the crash has died, Miss Irene." Mira's cadence was too formal. "Any reports from the radio?"

        Irene and Sherry exchanged worried glances, silent for a minute too long. The triangular pillow seemingly turned its head to the new arrivals. Sherry jumped.

        "Yes, yes, Miss Mira, nothing from the radio, the news is sleeping, especially about upstarts who think that Model Ts are acceptable road-thievers," Irene jestingly replied with a hint of forced cheeriness, which was promptly noted by Mira, "When the sun disk rises again, time will tell. If you're unsure about the summoning, Sherry and I could sit here with you. We were summoning spirits at your age."

        "We once summoned Miss Navigator. She rambled about 'sentient tunnels' that lie under the ground and 'the pavilion far away from all, in the innermost corners of the mind of the Night'. We never called her again." Sherry added from behind Irene like a spectre, which made the other girls jump, holding a metal jug of water.

        Irene and Sherry, the 26-year-old uninvited guests, sat down upon the terracotta floor. Sherry offered water and poured it into metal glasses with the grace of a statue in a fountain. Sherry nervously glanced at the trembling pillow in the corner. Irene wasn't phased by the visitor, as if it arrived the moment that Mira arrived. "Sherry, you've seen that one before... It's harmless, otherwise, the wards would have kept it away..."

        Irene stretched her arms, thought deeply, then looked at the ritual steps. "Ah, that one. If you use blood, nothing will happen. We tried it. Use a flame, and something responds. The house has enough anti-djinn wards to be a fortress, so don't worry about summoning a djinn."

        "Not enough for the good neighbours or old gods," Viera retorted, "Cold Iron is the way to go for them, and Mira knows the names."

        "So, what would be a good question?" Sherry asked the room, "We should make a list."

        1) Asel's birthday privilege: "Will the wires survive winter?"

        2) Mira never verbalises her questions: "It's better to skip over me."

        3) Viera's suggestion: "Why do the bees like Berry better?"

        4) Lucille's concern: "Will Rosine be able to come with us on the train later this month?"

        5) Irene's joke question: "When will Miss Marianne get married?"

        6) Sherry's genuine gripe: "Can there ever be a day that the courtroom birds stop interrupting the amphitheatre plays?"

        "I am not lighting the flame until we decide the order of what to ask." Mira held her matchbox possessively, but carefully enough not to damage it.

        Now the difficult part begins.

Chapter Text

        Mira's sinister hand held a silver pencil-pen with a spiralling design that seemed to have come out of nowhere, and spun the top to reveal a pencil lead. "It's an old pencil. Aunt Manon was about three when this one in particular was bought." She opened a notebook with an odd cypher, written by seven different styles, with several symbols, a cat, a crow, flowers, a feather, and a pair of sunglasses. The pencil was placed upon the notebook. She ungloved her long, unnatural hands and placed the glove next to her knees, then picked up her matchbox.

        Viera's equally long and unnatural hands were placed on her lap; the coral pink nails with half-moons contrasted the unpainted nails of Mira, Asel, and Irene. Lucille's nails were a much bolder pink with the fashionable half-moons, while Sherry's were a crimson dark enough to seem black, with the moons accented with white. The shadow's little hands were transparent and indecipherable for the form taken, but they gazed at the nails of a world that they could never enter. The poor thing, stagnated by death, was fascinated by the concept of lacquered nails.

        Hands were on the circle, the candle is the star, and the hands must be on the rays. The star of Ishtar is much more gentle than the star of the sun, despite the war aspect. Ishtar was the one who was tricked into the underworld, and the one to rule it and the heavens.

        "If something happens, it's best for someone with a free hand to record it. I write with my sinister."

        "Mira, we understand, you're sinister, and the rest of us are dexter," Viera grumbled, being the dramatically frustrated one with nails poised to scratch her sister, "Now are we starting the ritual, or will you be telling us more about the bloody Sharp?"

        "Sharp? USA?" Lucille asked, calculating which stores could hold such a unique pencil.

        "Sharp. Japanese." Viera corrected. "(Paternal) Grandpa's impulse shopping during a business trip long ago. We own a crystal radio from them, too. Haven't done business there in years for another reason. Now, grandpa's obsessed with the Horse Brand Ink tablets from the subcontinent. He uses them for special occasions and sends them to our relatives who work with horses." Viera had said it as if it were like discussing the weather instead of a link to the horseflesh gentry. The mechanical pencil that Mira used was, unfortunately, to become a collector's item in the coming decades. The ink was not, but rather turning into a staple stationery item.

        "Enough stalling, the ghosts can decide the order for us," Mira spoke to the candle, while managing to light a match one-handed while holding the matchbox in the same hand, hazardous but doable.

        "How can you even do that?" Lucille asked, as if Mira's hyperextended left thumb and index finger were not sandwiching the matchbox, while her ring and pinky were holding the match and striking it in a motion that went from the inner palm to the outer. A spark, a strike, and the match was alight. Mira carefully tossed the box away and used a single motion to alight the candle promptly, then shook it till it went out and dropped it in a nearby dish.

        "Such dexterity!" Sherry exclaimed as she mentally catalogued the motions like watching a zoetrope. The little shadow looked at their own tiny hands, and wriggled the little fingers that may have once struggled to grasp a writing instrument, but hammered at piano keys without any care for artistry.

        Now was the time to concentrate on the questions. Everyone, sans Mira, thought of their questions with a focus that bordered on a pinpoint. The beating of left-sided hearts and one right-sided heart were barely audible over the wind outside and the distant sounds of traffic and trains. The moon hung low tonight, the downturned silver crescent a closed eye. The little shadow moved to the windowpane, wanting a better look at the scene.

        The flame turned blue-green. Copper.

        It split one, two, three times. Sparks as if there was a little gunpowder in the wick, yet Mira was not the kind to get near a firearm or use gunpowder in anything. Mira looked to the shadow, who shook their head to deny involvement."

        "It's not supposed to turn blue." Mira tried to assure the group, "Wax is horrible at distributing metal salts, it's not the wick either- Oh, they're blue again." Mira had been utterly entranced by her own fingertips turning purple while writing in something thought only to be a niche form of shorthand. Viera, looking at Mira's scribbling, only sighed. "Good thing Mira cannot write in Cuniform."

        "Which reminds me," Irene decided to change the topic, noticing the tension of the younger ones, "What plants grow around your beehives?"

        "Lavender, Anise, Marjoram, Catnip, Spices. We have some poisonous flowers in another spot, but they're for the honey wasps." Viera replied.

        "What does Berry smell like?"

        "Lavender."

        "There. Bees love lavender."

        Gentle piano music from the downstairs neighbours playing a record drifted in. Mira's eyes widened by a fraction. "That's one answered," which made Viera sigh once again, preparing to descramble her own sister's cryptic words.

        "Which one, Mira?" Asel asked, fidgeting with a tiny origami frog that could jump.

        "Good question." Mira started scribbling in her notebook. "There's never a binary answer to these questions. But it's an answer." Mira paused, intently listening to the notes, then returned her focus, "You know the bittersweet one about the arrival of autumn, it's that one. It seems like an ordinary song, but the lyrics have themes of loss, separation, and perhaps farewell. I doubt it's about Rosine. My (paternal) grandma would be packing an apocathery weeks ago if that were the case, and she's clairvoyant."

        "Mira's right about our (paternal) grandmother being clairvoyant," Viera added, "We once tried to sneak into her greenhouse and she was already there, ready to give us a proper scolding, which she did, then gave us a tour and taught us which ones were for ritual purposes only, and which ones were for medicines. We're not allowed to touch some of the flowers; they're only meant to be offered to the gods." Even Mira and Viera were denied knowledge sometimes, Asel thought as she made the frog leap, but it ended up on its back instead.

        "That's not much of an answer to anything," Lucille was a bit worried at the lack of anything clear-cut with the occult, "I have no idea what it could have even answered."

        The flame flickered and sparked. Irene and Sherry were being engulfed in the warmth and distance of nostalgia. "Irene, remember when we summoned Ms Navigator, she spoke through the radio." "Good times. The spirits never give a proper answer, do they?" "We racked our brains about the sentient tunnels for ages." Viera's eyes sparkled while she heard Irene and Sherry's banter.

        "Of course you wouldn't find any sentient tunnels," Viera shrugged, "The Ruins aren't many, and most of them were preserved as museums long ago. I hide my coin collection under my pillow in fear that a curator would offer me nothing for it, or worse, someone like my cousins Theo or Ed would sell it for peanuts. Nar wouldn't care; he likes playing with and collecting dice. Charlotte appreciates a good coin due to her discerning eyes. Lauren and Berry would want to play with them, being little tyrants who are little princesses. And Mira here would give me new coins to add."

        "True," Mira added, "I found one that had a pretty lady. (Maternal) Grandma says that it's a commemorative coin from her youth that has a depiction of Ms Navigator."

        "It's a replica of a coin from three thousand years ago," Viera informed them, "The British stole the originals from a dig site and a scholar's house, and made a replica about sixty or so years ago. Now they have the gall to lecture the owners of the originals about the superiority of the Museé d'Anglais!"

        A distant light from the rooftop of a distant building shone red, flickered with the rhythm of a heartbeat for a minute, then turned green and shone brighter and steadier than it had done before.

        "Green. Vegetation. Health. Nature. Ocean. Mints-Freshness. So much that green could mean." Mira muttered while scratching her neck, before perking up and looking in Lucille's direction, her black eyes showing an alien hint of surprise.

        "Well, we can introduce Lottie to Rosine at the platform, too, Lucille. What a relief." Viera ascertained.

        Lucille's eyes lit up, and she almost lifted her dexter hand off the circle before Viera, sitting next to her, grabbed it with her sinister hand, preventing the circle from being broken.

        Sherry was deep in thought, her sinister thumb near her teeth, as if poised to bite, but the crimson and white laquer was enough of a deterrent to prevent a habit. Some would rather trim their nails. Others may see the long nails as reward enough. A reward enough to have not bitten them.

        "I wonder," Sherry started, slightly in a world of her own, "I wonder if the Keas wish to play a part too. Well, think about it, they're parrots. Parrots love music and performance. The cockatoo in the big bird shop at Five Gardens dances and sings when the street musicians come by."

        "You think they want to be involved?" Irene asked.

        "Well, they're social. They're like curious, destructive children with wings. They need enrichment. Perhaps the plays should be written with them in mind, or involve them." The little shadow seemed to be imagining a play with only birds.

        The candle put itself out, leaving the smell of smoke and herbs in the air. The little shadow still lingered, a harmless thing.

        "Now, why would it put itself out now?" Lucille asked, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

        "Sometimes the spirits themselves decide when to sever the connection. I guess they thought it was all answered." Sherry replied, the confidence of someone who may have participated in a hundred of these.

        "I suggest we use the paper as kindling in the stove in the morning," Irene added, "Should take care of any lingering bonds. Now, off to bed, children, before another spirit decides to introduce itself."