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She’s grown used to the smell of chlorine, finds comfort in walking the edge of the pool in-between her classes, when it’s just her and the blue ripples of water, its reflection off the old sea-green tile of the floor.
She lets her body stretch: lifts her arms into the air, straightening her back, and feels the tension unfurl in her spine. She tips her head back, looks toward the glass ceiling to the grey skyline of winter passing over her. She thinks about how she has to pack after this final session of swim class, how the night train is bringing her home — her Great Aunt’s smiling face that waits for her at the station, mentions of how she looks as if she hasn’t eaten in ages, how pale she’s become.
“Penvellyn,” Coach Miller says with a hand on her hip. The harsh American accent pulls her from her reverie. “Are you going to swim or are you going to stand there looking at the clouds all day?”
“Americans,” she mutters. “You lot are always so impatient.”
She curls her body forward and lets the tips of her fingers rest on the edge of the pool.
“Did you say something, Penvellyn?”
Her name is spoken without meaning; here she’s just another student, centuries old rituals and rote memorizations of her family's lineage doesn’t matter here. No worth in the name Penvellyn.
“I said, I’m ready.”
She can sense the other students looking between themselves in watchful scrutiny.
She dives in head first at the whistles shrill.
“When are you headed home?”
Jane runs her fingers through her hair, working at a tangle, glancing at the other woman in the mirror.
“Tonight— 20:00. I still haven’t packed either.”
“Trying to resist going home?” Siobhan asks as she adjusts the back of her loafer against her heel. The chestnut waves frame her face, making her look like a doll when she smiles at Jane.
“I guess… It's been awhile since I’ve gone back. I really don’t want to deal with all the stuffiness of tradition. Hear how I should have gone to a more prestigious school for my background… blah blah blah.”
“Is it that hard to be British aristocracy?” Siobhan teases.
“Yes.”
Jane pauses, hands falling to her side.
“No… My family's history is interesting and my ancestors are all fascinating, but I like how I’m treated here. I’m normal!”
“A plain Jane,” Siobhan says. She pulls her hair into a ponytail, meeting Jane in the mirror.
“Right! I don’t have to worry about what my ancestors think of me. I don’t have to recite Latin all hours of the day…”
Siobhan regards her, turns to face her. “Jane,” she says, voice soft.
Jane feels her shoulders relax. She watches her eyes — irises the same green as the tiles in the pool.
“You’ll be fine.” Siobhan leans in, the water-cool bow of her lips against her cheek, her hand plush against her shoulder. Jane leans into the scent of her: water lilies, bamboo green, spritelike. “I’ll see you after the new year. Promise you’ll text me?”
Jane nods without another word.
The dorms are the kind of empty that reminds her of her adolescence: a blaring silence, only the hushed tone of someone talking in their room— on the phone or to themselves, she notices the lack of a response.
She sighs, leaning back into the bed. The suitcase stands by the door: a few changes of clothes, schoolbooks with lines of code, her own language of runes alchemized into digitized visuals.
The small cage of the room, the thought of ornamental decorations, a reminder of suffocation now. The lungs of the halls breathing heavily in the silence, the only reprieve her games, her studies—
She sits herself up on her elbows and sees the shadowy form of her reflection in the computer screen, drawn to the swivel chair, the hum of her monitor a calming sound. Jane takes a deep breath, opening up her inbox: announcements of next semester's classes, the final notes from her clubs before the break. The blank space jumps before her, the blinking cursor a spell.
SUBJECT: Return to Blackmoor Manor
Dear Ethel,
I hope this isn’t coming too late as you may already have plans for the holiday. I am returning to Blackmoor Manor for a two week holiday from university. Aunt Letitia will be picking me up from the station tonight.
The family will be wanting to spend time with me, of course, but it’s been so long since we last spoke and well, I’m curious about how you’re doing.
I would love to catch you up with my classes at uni. Did you know I went for game design? I don’t know if you’ve spoken to the family since our last tutoring session.
Well, let me know if you can make it to the manor.
Jane hesitates, fingers resting upon the keys. She bites her lip, the flaking skin getting caught in her teeth. She can still recite the French she learned, as if it were yesterday.
I miss you, Ethel.
J. Penvellyn
Your tone is important when you’re drafting a letter, Ethel used to tell her.
Ethel, she remembers shooting back. Everyone writes emails these days.
She snorts, hovering over one of the games on her desktop, a way to pass the time.
“Welcome home Jane!” Letitia places a gloved hand on her shoulder.
Jane catches whispers passing by on the train, in the station, locals seemingly shocked by the mundane presence of a Penvellyn, the attendants overt with their services even upon the request of a hot chocolate, her nose driven into a novel.
“Hello Aunt Letitia.”
Jane looks down at her great aunt, nearly 15 centimeters shorter than her, the same aunt who still prunes the leaves in the conservatory, who still believes in the kind of civility that evokes fear in her father’s heart, unfettered by the arthritis that wracks her hands.
“Look at you — you barely have any meat on you! It’s all that swimming you do. I highly doubt they’re feeding a young woman like you enough. Come, let’s get you to the Manor. Your father and I have been preparing the place for you.”
“Ah… I had a chippy toast for dinner. I’m actually pretty full,” Jane says.
“Well then, tea before bed should be nice. Come on now, the car is waiting.”
Powdery snow begins to pile up, glistening underneath the orange glow of lights. Jane watches it fall from the night sky as she follows her aunt, the gentle flakes falling onto her eyelashes.
“Here we are,” Letitia says, opening the back. Jane stops to eye the car — new, one she doesn’t recognize; all curves, the blue almost a cerulean under the lights.
“Is this new?”
Letitia reaches for the suitcase. Jane scrambles to pick it up and place it in the trunk. Her great aunt smiles in a way that makes her seem— youthful, Jane thinks. Cheeky.
“Oh, it’s not much, dear. Something to pick up my supplies in.”
Jane closes the trunk and slides into the passenger's seat, leather unmarred by any means or use, tracing her palm across the fabric.
“Truthfully,” she leans in towards Jane. “I just wanted a new car. The DeVille did just fine, but I wanted something a little more contemporary.”
“Wow. Well… it’s nice. Does it go fast?”
Letitia starts the car with an ease that startles Jane. She watches the rear view mirror as people scatter from the train station, stepping into taxis, embracing loved ones.
“Just wait until we’re out in the countryside.”
When her father embraces her, she feels like a kid again: they way his arms fit around her shoulders, clinging to the scent of his aftershave as she buries her cheek into his wool sweater.
“Welcome home, Janey.” He kisses the top of her head.
“Hello Daddy!”
Behind him stands a stilted Linda. Jane moves from Hugh to her — a kiss on the cheek and an embrace; more affection than her own mother gives her.
“Hello Jane.” Her smile is strained.
“Hello Linda.”
“Now,” Letitia removes Jane’s coat. She drapes it over her arm, the faux-fur collar wet from the snow, grown heavier since her arrival. “Let’s sit down for some tea and then head to bed, shall we?”
“Letitia,” Linda starts. “It’s so late. Jane is probably exhausted from her trip.”
“Oh, it’s just tea. I’ll make something herbal.”
Letitia wanders toward the kitchen. Jane flashes an appreciative smile toward Linda.
The coagulate of lavender tea and honey in the back of her throat is a sickeningly sweet taste of her home; the honey of her great aunt’s bees fostering a special Penvellyn charm that made the tea a dessert to her.
She taps the tip of her loafer on the floor as Hugh regales his attempts in the forge, trying to understand the more scientific methods of creations.
“It’s nothing like speaking to officials. I can do that with my eyes closed.”
“Jane, sit properly,” Letitia says. Jane stops tapping her shoe, placing it firm on the ground.
“Oh, Aunt Letitia. It’s fine. She’s been away from home for some time. Art school is far different from Blackmoor.”
Jane smiles at her father. “It’s alright, Daddy. If I’m to be in Blackmoor Manor, it makes sense to follow my training.”
Letitia nods towards her.
“I… do have a question, though.”
“What is it Jane?” Linda asks.
“I’m just curious if… Ethel comes by here anymore?”
“Oh, Ethel Bosinny?”
Jane nods and watches Hugh place his teacup down on the side table. “She still comes by sometimes when I need her help in my studies. It’s been a few months since then though since I’ve been busy with work and all. Why do you ask?”
“Oh— just curious.”
“She’s technically employed by us. She’ll probably be a tutor to the Penvellyn’s for generations. Last time I spoke to her, she mentioned tutoring her niece.”
“Oh.” Jane swallows the last of her tea, stifling her disappointment behind a yawn.
“It’s about time we retire,” says Hugh. “Jane will be here for some time. I want to hear about your games!”
“Alright, Daddy.” She stands from her seat and makes the proper rounds, kissing each of them goodnight.
The path to her bedroom is mechanical: the scent of wood polish, the creak of the floorboards underneath her shoes lulling her into the corridors. Loulou’s ever unchanging voice calling out for cake. Tomorrow, Jane thinks. I’ll make you one tomorrow.
The gargoyle eyes her like a stranger. She opens her door and switches the light on to see herself encased in the tomb of her childhood, untouched by any speck of dust or age.
She shuts her door behind her, kicks off her shoes, and throws herself down onto the bed, lulled to sleep by the smell of fresh linens.
The trees had blossomed overnight, verdant greens and candy-pink blossoms blushed across the skyline of the manor; Jane watched them sway in the breeze.
The graduation party was intimate; few family members she didn’t recognize, congratulations on her studies — both Penvellyn and academia. It was hard to believe she could ever be alone in the manor with the outpouring of cousins — three, four times removed, much older than her.
She sipped her lemonade, standing at the edge of the garden, a moment of reprieve from questions that she loathed to answer: Where are you going to university? What will your studies be? Aren’t you proud of your heritage, they didn’t say.
“Jane.” Her name was a calm lilt on the wind. Ethel stepped up beside her, manner no different: studious, put together, forgoing her uniform for a sheer black blouse, elegant camisole underneath, and the ankle-length skirt, black in the heat of the sun, the opposite of Jane’s cream dress.
“Hello, Ethel.”
“Congratulations,” she said, holding her own flute, a bubbly champagne that gave the illusion of rose-gold in the sunlight.
“Thank you,” Jane said, then paused. “Thank you for helping me with my studies, too.”
Ethel smiled at her, secretive, proud. Jane figured she had fulfilled her duties as a Bosinny.
“It was my pleasure tutoring you. Your great aunt told me you passed your exams with flying colors.”
“How could I not? I practiced Latin three times a day.”
Ethel hid her smile in the rim of her glass.
“You’re a very smart girl, Jane.”
The sentence had felt like a warning — the caution that came with a consequence.
“I know, Ethel.”
The aftermath of the whole thing had been— estranged. A mark on the Penvellyn home, something nobody but the immediate family and Nancy knew, therapists and tests, labels that made her sound like a monster.
In the old days, they had slain Eilinor. Now, there were ways to manage her anger, her debilitating loneliness the therapist had called it, watchful eyes of adults for the rest of her life.
“Perhaps too smart for your own good sometimes.”
Jane frowned, turning to Ethel. Her expression fell when she caught the clear line of compassion in her eyes.
“You have honor to uphold, Jane. Remember that. You’ve done good these past few years, I would like you to keep that in mind when you go off to university.”
Ethel reached out to squeeze her arm; she felt as if she would nearly crumble from the gesture. Jane set her jaw tight, tongue pressed against the back palette of her teeth.
“Good luck, Jane, I’m sure this won’t be the last time we meet.”
Hot tears dipped down Jane’s cheeks onto the cobblestone below, listening to the echo of Ethel’s heels disappear behind her.
She misses breakfast. The clock on the bedside reads late morning, nearly noon. She rubs the sleep from her eyes and crawls out from the comforter, her pace glacial. She dresses for the day and sits in front of the vanity, brushing her hair.
When she makes her way downstairs, she hears her father’s voice speaking on the phone, dealing with some gaff at work at the hands of another diplomat. She stops before Betty, her same smile unmarried by age, the porcelain-plastic sheen of her painted make up.
“No one really plays with her anymore,” Linda says from behind her. “She’s actually a little unsettling just… sitting here.”
Jane regards her and then looks back to Betty. “She felt like my only friend for the longest time. She is quite odd, isn’t she?”
Linda offers a smile. “Are you hungry? I was going to order lunch.”
Betty’s own smile unwavers. Jane toys with the fabric on her skirt. “That would be nice.”
“Meat pie?” Linda asks.
“Dogs eye—“ Jane corrects. “I mean… yes, meat pie.”
Linda laughs and leaves her to Betty. The day is going to be long, Jane figures, not enough to fill the time, elongated hallways stretching hours into minutes. Loulou croons, words in a repetition.
Jane sighs and boots the animatronic up. “It’s been awhile, Betty.”
Full on lunch, she decides to visit the forge. The winter has left it frigid. Jane pulls her arms closer to herself, lighting the stove. There’s no real reason for her to be here — brought into the darkened passageways by a compulsion, a reminder. Her father has been working on something. Twisted bits of metal, the stale stench of chemicals and fire. She sits at the table, observing each edge of the sculptures — thick bars with edges twisting out, soldered iron fingers stretching out towards her.
“The treasure was just some rock, Ethel.”
“It’s a meteorite and a family heirloom.”
Jane sat at her desk, a splay of paper before her— drawings, rules, the next puzzle in a line of puzzles.
“Randulf the Red believed it gave him great powers, but that’s entirely metaphorical, of course. You know very well how these traditions are passed down.”
Ethel stood next to her, arms crossed over her chest.
“It’s still a rock.”
Jane watched her expression change, bothered by something.
“Is everything alright, Ethel?”
“I am just fine, Jane. You should continue to work on the puzzle your father requested of you.”
Jane felt so small. Ethel redirected her often, but it felt more like a scolding. The same way her family addressed her after they discovered what happened. A pariah.
She continued her work, practicing mathematics, forging a game.
Jane looks over to the wall to the metal safe where the heirloom was hidden. She toys with the metal sculpture.
She feels the urge to swim.
It’s near-evening when she returns to the hall, the thought of dinner on her mind. The passageway door shuts behind her, pitch black darkness swallowed up behind her. She smells the ore on her fingers, sinking into her skin.
When she opens the door, she nearly falls backward onto the floor. A hand reaches out to steady her. Jane recognizes the touch, the familiar pale face, striking from her red hair — only small signs of visible aging in the corners of her eyes.
“Ethel, you scared me half to death!”
“You startled me too!”
Jane regains her footing, she stares at her for a beat. Her still-formal posture, the tight smile of her lips. Jane ignores her own politeness, throwing herself into her, hugging her close.
Ethel doesn’t react, no stiffening body, no guided push away. Instead, a hand on top of Jane’s head. “It’s good to see you too,” she laughs.
“Oh Ethel…” Jane sighs and presses her face into her, remembering the arid scent of her perfume. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Ethel stroked the back of her head, smoothing the hair down.
“I have so much I need to tell you about!” Jane steps back, grasping her hands, feeling the hills of her knuckles underneath her thumbs. “Let’s go for a walk! Er, I mean. Let’s go for a walk?”
Ethel nods, her laugh an aria. “Make sure you wear your coat.
Jane rolls her eyes and leads her down the hallway. “Alright.”
“And your gloves—“
“Okay Ethel! I’m not a kid anymore.”
Blackmoor’s grounds are blanketed in snow, a silent powder shifts underneath her boots.
Jane links her arm with Ethel’s, a gesture that would have been too casual in her younger years, warm breath spilling into smoke in the air, the dissipation of a cloud.
“I’m top in my coding class. My professor is impressed with my ability, and says it’s almost like magic. I’ve been doing it for so long, it makes sense.”
Ethel listens without interruption, sharing her sentiments when Jane pauses to catch her breath. Their walk stills by the fountain — sheets of thin ice reflects the cloudless sky above. Jane looks down at her fractured visage.
“Ethel…”
“Hmm?”
“The entire time you tutored me, you knew everything about my family. Everything about me. Well, almost everything.”
Jane observes Ethel’s reflection; the shadow from the dipping sun obscures her face. She can only make out the curve on her cheek.
“Our families have worked alongside each other for centuries. Of course—“
“Ethel. I don’t mean that. I mean…” Jane says, looks at her. “Doesn’t it bother you that your entire life has been dedicated to me?”
Ethel tilts her head and faces her with her palms outwards, toward her.
“I’ve made myself dedicated to preserving the history of your family, making sure that the Penvellyn name continues onward with pride and dedication.”
“You grew up just like I did.”
The chill of winter’s touch brushes against her cheeks. She buries the lower half of her face into her scarf, her warm breath whispering against the apples of her cheeks.
“I imagined you, as a kid, learning all these things about my family on top of all the academics. So much of it. How long did they teach you?”
“My entire life,” she says in a matter-of-fact response that shocks Jane. “Just like you.”
Jane huffs, taking a seat on the edge of the fountain, letting the piles of snow dip under her weight.
“I realized that a year into uni, how much our lives are alike.” Jane furrows her eyebrows. “And I don’t know, it made me feel so weird.”
“Hmm…” Ethel clears a space for herself next to Jane. “Weird, how?”
She frowns, placing her hands in her lap. “You didn’t even know if Daddy and I would even move back here. It could have been until my grandchildren moved here that all your hard work mattered. Didn’t that worry you?”
“No, it didn’t. Like you, I didn’t understand the importance of it when I was younger. Why I had to learn so much at a young age and the more I learned, the more it became clear to me why it was so important to remember. Whether you came to stay in Blackmoor Manor or remained overseas.”
“It doesn’t make any sense. After everything that happened, I was just so angry.”
“I know,” Ethel echoes.
She groans and buries her face in her gloves. “It was just so lonely and going to university meant nobody knew who I was, who I am…”
Ethel places a gentle hand on her back.
“Jane, you’re a Penvellyn. You’re old enough now to face what you did.”
“Back in the day they would have dealt with people like me differently.”
“This isn’t Ye Olde England anymore. There are consequences for our actions and we can always choose an action.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t almost kill someone!”
Jane looks up, noticing the cherry-red kiss of cold air on Ethel’s cheeks.
“No, I didn’t. That’s not my demon to face either. That’s entirely yours.”
“You act like you’ve never made a mistake in your life!”
Jane holds her breath.
“I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life,” Ethel says. “And I’ve had to live with them. I may not have made the same transgressions as you, but you are correct that my upbringing was similar to yours. I wasn’t lonely, far different from it. Mine was just— different.”
“Different how?”
Ethel’s hands folded back to herself, watching the formless distance. Jane shifts at the chasm; all the teachings, all the rituals, all parted away and she sees Ethel: memorizing the same Latin, the same alchemical mathematics, knowing each ancestor as if they were her own.
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Being raised as a Bosinny means following similar traditions to the Penvellyn’s. In some regards, at least. Continuing our lineage is especially important. That particularly pertains to me.”
“You mean…” Jane says and stands up. “You’re gay?!”
Ethel looks up at her and smiles. “It bore no relevance in your tutoring.”
“That doesn’t matter, Ethel! It just… would have been nice to know, I guess.” Jane looks down at her boots. “It would have been nice to know anything about you.”
“You don’t seem to be struggling with that much.”
“Not anymore.” Jane kicks at the snow with her boot. “It’s pretty easy to accept when you go to an art school.”
“As I said, it’s different now. Your generation is far more accepting than mine was.”
“Wasn’t it hard? Trying to be someone different?”
“I accepted who I am. It made no difference in my duties. Your grandfather gave me that book of yours on my eleventh birthday speaking of how it was to be a part of his granddaughter’s life. The sacredness of that always reminded me to not waver.”
“So, you never fell in love? Or dated?“
“I didn’t say that. My duties take precedent, but I’m still a human being, Jane.”
“More than I’ll ever be.”
Ethel rises, offering her arm. “It’s getting dark.”
Jane slips her arm into hers. It isn’t enough to know a sense of her internal life, but its enough to know Ethel.
“Really, Ethel, please stay for dinner. It’s been quite some time since we’ve had your company!” Letitia says.
“If Jane doesn’t mind, I’ll stay.”
Jane catches the glimpse of Linda’s confused face in her peripherals.
“Oh. I don’t mind.”
“Wonderful!” Her great aunt begins to busy herself with taking Ethel’s coat. “Please make yourselves at home. There’s some sherry in the credenza, have at it.”
“Thank you Letitia,” Ethel says.
“Now Hugh, what shall we make?”
“We—? Well, I haven’t thought about it.”
His voice is swallowed up in the vastness of the foyer, tension thicker than the snow outside.
“It’s great to see you again, Ethel,” says Linda.
“It’s wonderful to be back in the manor.”
Ethel takes a slow walk around the room, capturing all the familiar decor with a long look— a memory of home that was partially hers. Linda tracks her observing the line of the portraits, the regal texts of their crests, Hugh’s image still in the last of the line, Jane not yet comfortable to see her face upon the wall.
“I’ll go get the sherry. Would you like some, Jane?”
“Oh, yes. I would love a glass!”
Linda makes a line for the dining room to busy herself with the nervous clinking of glasses.
“Aunt Letitia says that you’re training your niece to be a tutor like you,” Jane says, following her.
“A few things here and there… French, art. The Penvellyn secrets are still safe with me, including yours.”
“Jane.” Linda hands her a glass.
“Thank you Linda.”
Ethel takes her glass with an appreciative smile.
“Well,” Linda sighs through her nose. “Will you be visiting us more often now that Jane’s here?”
“If it fits my schedule and if it’s not too much trouble, of course.”
Linda shakes her head. “I’m sure she has more in common with you than she does any of us. I’m sure she enjoys the company.”
Jane catches Ethel’s look, dipping her head low, downing the sherry, hiding her grimace in the taste of smoky tobacco, the bite of a bitter apple.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that.”
Jane licks her lips, the sting of sea salt burning her skin.
“No, it’s okay. I do hope Ethel stays longer.”
Ethel’s smile is tight.
“I would be more than happy to.”
Jane falls onto the bed with a grunt. “Gosh, I’m stuffed… and a little sloshed.”
Ethel gives her a pointed look from her stance by the bookshelf, leaving Jane to fall into a fit of giggles.
“What? I’m an adult now!”
“I’m aware,” Ethel says.
“Oh, come off it. Do you enjoy anything? Other than making children work 8 hours a day, every day?”
Ethel pages through the yellowed book, observing each illustration — stark reds and blues a film-like haze through the thin sheets of paper.
“Besides,” Jane teases. “You’re a redhead. You can’t hide your flush.”
“Has university made you forget your manners?”
Jane sits up, her own face reddening in embarrassment. “I’m just trying to make conversation, Ethel. You take everything so seriously.”
“Perhaps you’re right, but it’s served me well.”
“At least tell me something you do outside of work.”
Ethel shuts the book in punctuation. “I paint.”
“What? That’s it? You paint?”
“Is that really so odd?”
“Yes? I didn’t take you for an artist. You’re so scholarly. What do you paint?”
“I’m trained in oils— portraits, landscapes, anything that catches my eye.”
“Really?” Jane cocks her head. “Can I see them?”
“I paint for clients. This is my job,” she motions to Jane. “The rest is commission work.”
“Can you paint me? I mean, I need my portrait done to go with the others. It may as well be done by you.”
“That’s your father’s decision.”
Jane props herself up on her knees. “He’ll have to say yes! They like you Ethel.”
“I’ll consider asking,” she says, running a finger down the spine of a book. Her manicured nail traces the ornate gold trim.
“Now,” she moves across the room to sit down in the chair by her vanity. “Why don’t you sing Brigitte’s song for me?”
Jane adjusts her collar in the mirror; her long black dress rests just below her knees. She smoothes her hair, watching the half-quarter turn of her face underneath the light. She presses her finger against her cheek, underneath her eyes, watching the skin dip underneath the pad leaving no indent.
Maybe she’s immortal.
“A silly thought, really,” she murmurs to herself.
Ethel doesn’t bother to knock, opening the door to her bedroom. Jane startles, frowning at the intrusion.
“Are you ready?” Ethel asks.
“Yes,” she mutters, toying with her hair.
She watches Ethel’s form in the mirror, standing there like a statue, in wait for a command. Jane brushes her hands on her dress and turns toward the door as Ethel follows her out.
Jane chooses the forge: cold, dark room hidden away from the rest of the manor. She sits herself down as Ethel readies herself with the easel, meticulous in her set up, the placements of her paints on her palette — ochre, burnt sienna, cadmium yellow, umbers, the phthalo near-black under the dim light.
“Ethel?”
“Yes?” She begins dipping her brush into the paint, mixing colors together, repetitive, soothing.
“Do you think Linda will ever forgive me?”
“Have you asked her?”
“No, of course not! She would probably just say yes and not mean it.”
“Have you forgiven yourself?” Ethel pauses, meeting her gaze.
Jane straightens her back, warmth at the tips of her ears.
“The rest of your entire life could end up being a task of forgiveness,” Ethel says, returning to the canvas. “It may not ever be the same. We have to live with our transgressions.”
The tears prick at the corner of Jane’s eyes, a tight ball in the center of her throat.
“Coming back feels like torture.”
Ethel’s visage becomes blurred, an abstraction seeping into the grey walls. The tears drip onto the backs of her hands. Ethel’s cool palm rests on the curve of her knee. Jane tucks her face away.
“Jane,” her voice is gentle, soft. “Look at me.”
Jane looks at a dark corner of the room, a bargain, seeing the shape of Ethel crouched below her, patient.
“What?”
“Your life is still yours. You get to live your life just as your ancestors did, making a difference.”
Jane sinks into the hand Ethel places on her cheek.
“Ethel,” she whines, wrapping her arms around her neck.
“You were all I had,” She feels Ethel pull her closer, her palms firm against her back. “Daddy and Mummy gone — you were the only one here.”
The clean depths of the pool, the strain of her muscles not offered in the coffin of her family’s manor, their eyes following her everywhere and Elinor, who refuses to look at her— a lone wolf in the Penvellyn pack. Jane’s cries echo in the forge, swallowed up by the manor's secrets, smearing Ethel’s shirt with dark stains.
The forge has become another ritual to them, playful quips toward Ethel, casual conversations about her schoolwork, the pool, her art classes. Ethel always paints, always listens, tells her to straighten her posture, tutting at her impatience.
Jane swings a leg in the chair. “Do you ever think one of your ancestors and mine ever became friends— after all the tutoring?”
“My grandfather told me about Eldrick Bosinny, who grew close to Martha. Some even called him her most-trusted confidant.”
“Do you think we could ever do that? Be friends.”
Ethel is deliberate in her consideration, gauges Jane with a tenderness in the eyes that Jane doesn’t recognize, can’t recognize.
“In some way, I think we always have been.”
A lightness in her chest, the crack of the first pomegranate in the frigid air.
“It’s so… haunting. You did such a wonderful job, Ethel,” Hugh admires the portrait in front of him, the round of her eyes a reflective fire of spirit in the threnody of centuries' creative past in the confines of the forge.
Jane plays with the cuff of her shirt.
“Your family continues to make the Penvellyn’s proud,” Letitia follows.
“Really, you’re too kind,” Ethel says.
Linda drinks the portrait in: the shape of Jane’s cheeks, her youthful cheeks thinned out into the seriousness of adulthood, the close-lipped smile, vulnerable, genuine. As if she and Ethel were the only others in the room, Jane feels Linda’s gaze upon them.
“I think it’s the best Penvellyn portrait, yet,” she says.
Without a word, Ethel addresses Jane, who stands there for a moment, paralyzed.
“I— thank you Linda,” her voice comes out as a ghostly whisper.
“We had better get going,” Ethel states. “Your train will be here within the hour.”
“Right! Daddy—“ He holds her in a tight hug, kissing the top of her head.
“I’ll see you in a few months, Janey.”
“I’ll miss you.”
He smiles down at her. “I’m always a phone call away.”
In her usual reservations, Letita places a hand upon her shoulder, a reminder to make the family proud and Jane lets out a resounding Yes, Aunt Letitia.
“Goodbye Jane,” Linda smiles at her, enfolds her into her arms, leaving Jane to slacken into the touch.
“Goodbye, Linda.”
The two of them sit in Ethel’s car. Jane watches as families gather, their rosy cheeks and picture-perfect smiles captured in the frame of the windshield. Jane reaches out, seeking the familiar shape of Ethel’s hand and wraps her fingers around her palm. Ethel squeezes her fingers, thumb pressing against her knuckles.
“Ethel…” Her eyes turn downcast. “I’m going to miss you.”
Ethel considers her for a moment.
“You’ll be too busy with your studies to miss me too much,” she says, smiling.
Jane looks at her with a frown.
“I’ll miss you too, Jane.”
Ethel’s laugh signals the train's horn in the distance, a final cue, the weight of something greater than any family treasure. She presses a kiss against Ethel’s cheek and smiles.
“Goodbye, Ethel.”
“Goodbye, Jane.”
She is alone in the pool, stretching her limbs under the cleansing grasp of cool waters. She dips her head into the water, bobbing along the surface. The skyline above the same crystalline blue, shapes of clouds like paintings in the sky. She watches the abstraction of her long arms underneath the water, disjointed-doll. Jane closes her eyes and pushes herself forward, until her limbs ache, until she can’t breathe.
If she reaches the other end, she might come up as someone else.