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Jean had always been taller than her, no matter what kind of shoes Barbara wore, but she was taller than ever now, Barbara barely coming up to her shoulders even when she wore her nicest heels. They’d been a gift from mother, or rather, Frederica had gone shopping with her, a few weeks before Barbara’s birthday, and they’d made a trip out to Liyue so Barbara could look through the boutique shops running under the docks, well-lit even after sunset, the reflections of the lamps out on the sea dazzling, distracting. Frederica had smiled fondly at the pair Barbara had picked, and paid without glancing at the tag, though that gesture was what made Barbara look at the receipt and gasp, tugging at her mother’s hand, Frederica saying quietly, gently, “Enough,” not allowing any argument. She’d bought Barbara another two dresses afterwards, and two skewers of candied fruit, a small bag full of hair accessories, and a few more pairs of socks. They had dinner on the way back, a stop at Wangshu Inn where Frederica ordered all of Barbara’s favourites and sat back to watch as she ate, a few wry comments about how much spice she could stand. “You have an iron stomach,” Frederica said, “I’ll give you that.”
Barbara, shorter for all her life, had never felt like she had a clear view of her sister’s face, if only because they were always standing or seated side-by-side, and the few times they’d been directly looking at one another, Jean had always looked away first, and Barbara would only catch the same angle she’d looked at her whole life. Jean’s handsome side profile, the clean lines of her cheek, her chin, the fall of her lashes, the strong line of her nose, crooked in two places because she’d broken it twice. Barbara had been the one to set it the second time, and she always thought she’d done a good job. From her vantage, there were parts of Jean’s profile that would always be shadowed for her, the real shape obscured. Her mother had told her once that it was only natural not to know all parts of someone, even when you were as close as family. Her father had said he’d been married to her mother for fourteen years, and he’d felt like he’d barely known her the day they got divorced. It was something her parents spoke of with frankness, blunt and direct, like there was no lingering awkwardness. If there was any, it wasn’t between them. Jean, though Barbara often heard her agree with her fellow knights about how she was an open book, one without secrets, has never displayed that sort of openness.
During Barbara’s seventeenth birthday, at a party her mother had thrown together with her sister, Barbara had trailed after Noelle onto one of the balconies, Noelle had been in search of a mushroom she swore grew by the balustrade, and Barbara, leaning over and down, had caught sight of Jean with Lisa and Kaeya and Eula Lawrence, shoulder to shoulder with Diluc and leaning against the wall. There was an ease to her posture that Barbara had never seen, or if she had seen, had never realised was there. A minute relaxation, a quality of woodenness gone, and only her good-nature in full view. Barbara had admired her for a moment, and then Jean had caught sight of her maybe, the wind swaying her shadow on the pavement below, her hair fluttering against the stone. Had looked up and to her left, suddenly much more serious than she’d been seconds ago, her hand raised in a gesture of hello, polite and impersonal. Barbara had leaned back without waving in return, embarrassed and shy and feeling like she’d been caught doing something unseemly.
As far as Barbara knew, or had observed, Jean’s expressions ranged between polite, smiling in a way that could be construed, offhandedly, as happy, and furrowed, her mouth pulled into a serious line, and a vague worry persisting in her brows. She’d spent her childhood assuming that Jean had never felt any other way, that she was always kind and gentle and patient, because that was how she always was with Barbara. It hadn’t been surprising or shocking to learn that wasn’t so, but the first time Barbara had seen Jean wrinkle her nose, just lightly, at the way Kaeya poured wine into his teacup, it was like she’d lifted a cobblestone off the path, and found the world underneath, the dirt and millipedes and tiny bugs, all alive and moving underneath. Something she’d neither considered or known before. She’d been touched then, by the knowledge that Jean was always so nice to her. That she’d never shown any annoyance or disapproval at any of the things Barbara would do, though Barbara would unthinkingly add too much chili oil to their shared dishes, or borrow Jean’s things without asking, though Barbara had broken so many of Jean’s pencils or ripped or spilled things all over the pages of Jean’s books whenever she’d go over to her mother’s for the weekend. Even though Frederica would take Barbara out every year and buy her expensive and extravagant things, and Seamus would never do something similar in turn with Jean, though he’d spoil Barbara in some other way as well, whether with trips out to beach or a new music set, or gold earrings.
Barbara had been jealous of Jean all through her childhood, for her innate ability which seemed to correlate exactly and unfairly with Barbara’s innate lack of. She would cry about it over and over again to her father, who never knew what to say or the right thing to say, though she’d never say anything to her mother, because she’d been scared that it would make Frederica love her less. She’d cried once, when she was fifteen and she hadn’t received a vision like her sister had, and it was Bennett who found her then, somewhere in a hidden corner outside the church, and afraid he was going to make it worse, had left to bring back the nearest adult he could find. Sister Grace, who had petted Barbara and offered all the conciliatory remarks she could and let Barbara sniff into her handkerchief, and then had said, “There are children far less fortunate than you,” and Barbara, quite rudely, had said, “I know! I know that!” but hadn’t been able to stop feeling unfairly wronged, and very quietly, Sister Grace said, “Your sister was far less fortunate than you.” Which Barbara hadn’t understood at all then, and not for a long time afterwards, though it had only taken her a few more hours to get over her woes, because everyone loved Jean and respected her and thought well of her, especially their parents, who mostly thought Barbara was a little stupid and not particularly gifted, and therefore needed to be coddled.
In the end, it had been Alice who had been the only one to look at Barbara and think she could do better than how she was. So Barbara had learnt to sing, and curl her hair just so, and apply her mascara and blush very carefully. She read Alice’s magazines with the same dedication she read her hymn books, and at some point, even Jean had looked up at her, a faint note of surprise colouring her face, saying, “You’re quite good,” like Barbara had been better than she expected.