Archive of Our Own

The day dawned orange.

As the sky beyond the shield dome brightened, the early morning sunlight spilled through the fractured streets of Lumière, languid and occasionally halting when met with the clustered buildings of the arrondissements. Viewed from above, it gave the impression of slow-moving sap, honey-colored veins snaking through shaded indigo alleyways.

Maelle stretched, and decided that the air had a somewhat honeyed quality as well—though, perhaps ‘syrupy’ was a better descriptor, as the thick and clinging warmth was not especially pleasant; work would be a sweaty affair, today.

With that in mind, she set off at an easy pace for the nearest rope, and let the glittering chroma threads drop her down to street level. The change in temperature was immediate and welcome—certainly worth the extra ten minutes or so it would add to her route.

The extra time wasn’t the only tradeoff, though. The shaded jog to the warehouse district took her right through the open air market, which was already busy with flower vendors and aqua-farmers prepping their stalls.

Several of the latter greeted her as she passed. She waved back, hoping the confusion didn’t show on her face as she tried to remember where they might know her from.

‘Work’ was the most likely answer, of course, as being a runner for the warehouses took her to nearly every corner of Lumière; there was also the whole ‘dwindling population’ aspect that loomed like an ever-present spectre over the island. It wasn’t so unusual, these days, for everyone to know everyone. Maelle, though, knew she was something of an exception to that rule. She had cared about that once upon a time—had even been bothered by it. Now, though? She had more or less accepted the general feeling of other. A handful of adults had assured her that such feelings were normal. Everyone felt that way now and again, especially at thirteen.

Maelle politely nodded at their platitudes, even as she privately doubted it was normal to feel that way for one’s entire life.

It was after the fifth or sixth ‘Good morning, Maelle!’ that she realized the farmers probably knew her through Emma. Or maybe Gustave? He’d said something about working on the aqua-farms. Doing what, exactly, Maelle had not asked. (Presumably farming…aquatically?)

“Morning,” she said as yet another unfamiliar face smiled in greeting, at which point she’d decided she’d had enough socializing. At the next street corner, she took a sharp turn, and then another, moving further away from both the market and the warehouse district.

To any stray onlookers, it would seem like backtracking. However, this particular side street was not well-traveled, split by chromatic spill and blocked by debris at the far end. Hardly ideal as a thoroughfare, but perfect for hiding a pilfered grapple point.

She’d found it in one of the piles of abandoned belongings one Gommage prior. It was not the sort of thing an average citizen would own, though, restricted as they were to the Expeditions.

As it turned out, it was faulty, or broken, or something, thrown away by one of the instructors at the Academy. Maelle had been determined to get it working again, the prospect of navigating the island more quickly and efficiently too tempting to pass up.

After a great deal of fiddling with the chroma (one of her prior guardians had worked with pictos, and taught her some basic chroma manipulation) she managed to get it…functioning. To say it ‘worked’ implied a level of safe and correct operation that it…did not possess.

‘Functioning’, though… It…did function.

As she spied the familiar ring of glowing blue at the rooftop’s edge, she wondered if she might be able to…borrow some more. Both Gustave and Emma had close ties to the Academy through work. Maybe she could find a way to leverage that…

You’ll screw up the placement, she thought, which was quickly followed by, well, what’s one more?

(She talked a big game; the prospect of going back to the orphanage sent a cold bolt of anxiety right to her core.)

She thrust out her hand, intent on distracting herself from the negative turn her train of thought had taken. There was a split second of her soles scraping against stone before the chroma around her wrist tugged her through the air. The landscape blurred into streaks of color in her peripheral vision, and she reveled in the all-too-brief feeling of weightlessness before the embrace of chroma gave way to gravity’s hold.

She landed only slightly off target, with a metallic twang on the rooftop. The dark surface was already radiating heat, producing shimmering waves that distorted the horizon. As such, the paths up here were blissfully free of pedestrians, but also, as expected, the unshaded paths resulted in a great deal of perspiration.

She arrived eight minutes late to her shift, pink-faced and smelling faintly of hot tar, but the foreman offered no reprimand beyond an annoyed frown, forced to paused his task to retrieve the manifest and route list for her. She made sure to appear appropriately contrite as she accepted the documents. She had no great passion for courier work, but no one else had wanted her for any sort of apprenticeship, back when she’d reached the age for such things; best to try and keep the only job that would have her.

Equipped with a canvas satchel and assortment of correspondence and packages, Maelle hurried to start her route. The sun was fully up now, and the air felt heavy; Maelle was made uncomfortably aware of each breath she took.

As she departed, she could see dock workers and fisherman already down to undershirts and rolled cuffs. She envied them; the warehouses were situated close to the harbor, yes, but she’d spend the rest of her day running back and forth further inland, away from the meager ocean breeze

If she worked quickly, though…

Her pace turned a bit reckless; her morning deliveries were finished in a (sometimes literally) breathless rush. More than one recipient offered her water as she sped through; she acquiesced only once.

Sufficiently ahead of schedule by the time lunch rolled around, Maelle once again found herself backtracking, this time to the southeastern shore of the island. It was the more…treacherous side, terrain-wise, to be sure. Whether from the initial shattering of the Fracture, or merely decay over time, she didn’t know, but the land there was less stable, dropping off in steep, sometimes sheer slopes. The resulting cove was not ideal for docks, as the submerged shoreline was mostly rock and varied in depth; there was the risk of boats running aground.

It made for a quiet spot. And a somewhat dangerous swimming hole, if one was feeling brave.

Maelle was feeling more sweaty than anything else, and had snuck off to this cove enough times to feel fairly confident she wouldn’t drown, or be crushed against the stony shore at high tide. Really, the riskiest aspect was potentially being spotted by fishing boats rounding the island’s perimeter, catching one in their smallclothes. Or less.

Not wanting to tempt fate, or frankly hassle with shedding multiple layers, she peeled off her shirt and trousers, opting to remain in chemise and shorts. A modest compromise. (…And the chemise was in need of a wash anyway.)

The climb down to the water lacked both finesse and grace, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the sweet relief of the cool water on her heated skin as she finally ducked beneath surface. She took care to open her eyes, mindful of the rocks as she swam a bit further out. Light from above filtered through the waves in shafts of green, undulating with the current. Sound was muted, distant, if present at all, making for a serene escape.

Though, her lungs did not fully agree on that, eventually forcing her to swim back up for air. She supposed it was still mostly peaceful above water too, and decided to lazily float for a bit. She had time, after all.

As she drifted along, occasionally kicking a little so as not to stray too far, she allowed her thoughts to drift as well. First, to the remainder of her deliveries for the day, and then to the prospect of going home for the evening.

She hummed to herself. Home.

House, really. She’d been with Gustave and Emma for nearly a month. They seemed nice enough, but plenty of her previous foster families had been ‘nice enough’; ‘nice’ was not the problem.

You’re the problem, she thought.

While she wished she could dismiss it as typical teenage melodrama, or hormonal overreaction, it was unfortunately, objectively true, documented several times over in the housemother’s careful script as Maelle was moved from one family to the next, with stays at the orphanage in between.

The sudden wave of emotion was stifling; with a grunt, she ducked her head under the water and yelled, watching with satisfaction as the resulting bubbles dissipated into the depths. It didn’t really solve anything, but it felt good. Some of the tightly held sadness in her chest subsided, if only fractionally.

When she came back up, however, she was greeted with the distant shape of a boat, peeking out on the horizon from the western side of the island.

“Oh come on,” she scowled, and had to quickly turn tail and swim back. Her red hair and pale skin did not make for good camouflage, even in the dark, silty waters nearest the steeply-sloped shore.

A glance over her shoulder revealed that the boat had now fully rounded the landmass, and was hewing close to the cove, probably to avoid the larger whitecaps further out. Having never been caught out here, Maelle wasn’t actually sure what the consequences would be. (Well, aside from general embarrassment, of course.) Swimming here was dangerous, sure, but there were no signs forbidding it.

…Still. She was young, and alone, and technically exploiting her employer by swimming on company time. …And probably scaring off fish? She’d get a lecture, certainly. They might even tell her boss.

A worse option suddenly occurred to her as she clumsily climbed up the nearest rock: they might tell her boss; they’d definitely tell Emma.

She scrambled faster, scraping her palms and bare feet. She jumped the remaining meter or so back up to where she’d left her bag and clothes; she was not tall by any stretch of the imagination, but she was mostly legs, which meant that there was some tangling, some tripping, and definitely the stubbing of a toe.

But she was on land at least, and thus less likely to be punished (dripping wet circumstantial evidence aside). The threat of embarrassment was all that remained, and that was a distinct possibility, as the boat was now close enough to make out distinct people.

She grabbed her things and dove for the nearest hunk of ruined building. It provided excellent cover—from the ocean, anyway. She prayed no one would wander past this particular alley, as she fought her pants. They were determined to cling to get still-wet legs.

It was during this undignified hopping that she felt the pant leg snag on something—a loose nail, a sharp bit of stone—whatever it was, it tore a straight line from her ankle to mid calf.

She cursed loudly.

She liked these pants—they were hers! She had bought them with her own chroma, from a shop. They had not been hand-me-downs or donated or scavenged from the Gommaged. Suddenly, irrationally, she wanted to cry. She fought the impulse, instead angrily tugging on her shirt and boots, furiously swiping at her eyes and wringing out her wet hair.

It was silly, to get so worked up about this, especially when they could simply be repaired. She supposed she was more frustrated with herself—for ripping them in the first place, and therefore necessitating wasting chroma on mending.

She sulked through her afternoon deliveries. She doubted anyone noticed; the humidity was punishing. Those still forced to be out were either lethargic, or irritable, or both. Women waved fans and men mopped their brows with handkerchiefs. Idle chatter was minimal and conversations short, much like tempers.

“We need rain,” someone insisted.

“There are clouds…”

“But no wind. They’ll stay *stuck over the Continent, watering the damn Nevs.”

She heard the same sentiment echoed on her way into the Notary. The office was narrow and paneled in dark wood; every window had been propped open to encourage the stagnant, stuffy air inside to move, but to no avail.

Maelle endured the claustrophobic space, waiting her turn, the couple behind her bickering. Rain will help. No it won’t. And so on.

“Next.”

Maelle handed the stack of documents over to the poor, wilting notary. The woman’s shirtsleeves were rolled up, her long hair gathered in a messy bun that had been haphazardly pinned in place with a fountain pen. The strands nearest her face clung to her temples, damp with sweat.

“Maelle, right?” she asked as she rummaged through the desk drawers for the proper stamps. Maelle blinked.

“Um. Yes?”

“Anders called, said that if we saw you, to send you home early,” she explained, and, brandishing both a rubber stamp and piece of creased paper, read aloud, “‘tell her, quote, it’s too fucking hot to be running around on the roofs, end quote.’”

Maelle blinked again. That did sound like the foreman.

“…Okay,” she said, somewhat at a loss, “uh. Did he say if I should take these back first or…?”

“We’ll post them tomorrow,” the notary assured her, “or. Whenever it isn’t so damned miserable outside.”

Maelle nodded and thanked her, and then had to gingerly maneuver through the close press of people as she exited the building. It was only fractionally more bearable out on the street, if only for the lack of immediate body odor.

She blew out an audible breath in an attempt to clear her nose of the acrid stink, and wandered several doors down to the nearest shaded alcove. Faced with hours to kill, she found herself somewhat aimless and indecisive. Gustave and Emma would not be expecting her back until later…but she didn’t really have anything else to do in the meantime.

Well there’s always more swimming, she thought wryly. That was a no. Maybe a late lunch, early dinner…?

Gustave would be disappointed that she’d be skipping the evening meal with them (again) but. It wasn’t like she was purposefully avoiding it….much. The three of them had different work schedules, was the thing, and Maelle did not see the sense in putting either of them out, when she was perfectly capable of feeding herself.

Early dinner, then.

The nearest café was in the plaza, and had a decent selection of cold sandwiches. They even had meat. Real meat.

It was terribly tempting.

After much deliberation, she made her selection and left with her wax-paper-wrapped meal, bypassing the metal tables and benches that lined the plaza’s perimeter, and instead climbed one last rope for the day.

The hanging gardens were busier than usual, dozens of people seeking out the draping vines and arching branches for some marginal relief. Maelle had to pass several pavilions before finding a vacant spot beneath one of the trees.

She situated herself cross-legged on the grass, mindful of the roots as she settled against the wide trunk. She tipped her head back, eyes closed, and breathed deeply.

She liked it here.

On a quieter day, you could hear the lap of the waves on the docks below, and the rasp of the metal windmills from the aqua-farms. But even with the heavier foot traffic, there was still the rustle of leaves, and hum of bumble bees enjoying the seasonal blooms.

It was alive in a way that so much of the broken city was not. Perhaps that wasn’t quite fair, though; these gardens had no time limit, no Monolith to number their days…ironic, really.

For the Paintress did so love her flowers…

The café sandwich was good enough to make Maelle regret not splurging on the meat option for herself. She eyed the paper bag and remaining sandwiches wistfully. Ah, well. Next time, maybe.

She sat a bit longer, content to watch the still-distant storm clouds and idly wonder at what the Continent below might be like. Of course, her imaginings did not bear much academic merit, quickly veering off into absurd mental pictures of Nevrons welding umbrellas.

Time passed. As the sun moved overhead, so too did the shade, and the late afternoon rays reached her crossed legs; she could feel the heat on her pants.

She frowned; she’d been able to ignore the tear for the last few hours, but here it was again, the edges of the fabric angry and frayed. If it had been a seam it wouldn’t be so bad…She ran her fingers over the split. It only occurred to her, then, that this was the sort of thing she could, theoretically, leave to her guardians. That’s what they were for, right?

But it was always such a—a process, getting to know someone (or someones) new, reaching a point of feeling comfortable to ask for anything…

Maelle scrubbed the back of her neck. Ughhh.

She stood and moved, intermittently chasing the shade; she might’ve felt silly, if not for the two or three other people she spotted doing the same thing.

Eventually, however, the shadows became untenable, the shapes too distorted to offer a retreat from the sun. With a sigh, Maelle admitted to herself that she could put it off no longer.

She had to go home.

As expected, neither Gustave nor Emma was in when she arrived, but that suited her fine as she stored the sandwiches in the icebox, and retreated upstairs to her room. It was stuffier on the first floor, unfortunately, which sapped whatever remaining energy she might have had for chores.

She flopped on her bed, mattress squeaking audibly. It was just laundry and tidying, right? Gustave wouldn’t be mad if she skipped it…Emma might be a bit stern-faced but she wouldn’t really mind, either.

Maelle kicked off her boot, wincing as she heard it smack some piece of furniture across the room; she was more careful with the next.

Gustave and Emma were really nice, and she did like them. Gustave knew all sorts of weird facts about Lumière and the Expeditions that he liked to share, and Emma never held back when it came to her opinions on the city and its people; she was direct in a refreshing sort of way.

They both spoke to her like she was a person, as opposed to a collection of prior placements and problems.

…But Maelle had liked some of her other foster families as well, and that hadn’t changed anything. It only made the inevitable leaving worse.

She stared at the ceiling, eyes stinging at some of the memories. She quickly rolled onto her stomach and pressed her sweaty face into her pillow. What was with her today? It seemed that everything was setting off her moody cynicism.

…It was probably the damn heat.

Even as the sun sank towards the horizon line, the mugginess remained. The oppressive warmth stubbornly settled against her skin, making her feel faintly feverish. She pushed herself off the bed and opened the narrow window at the end of the room; the Crooked Tower loomed beyond. Much like the rooftops earlier, the bent metal structure seemed to waver in the atmospheric shimmer. Past the tower, though, was a surprising sight: the clouds that so many had assumed would not reach their shores. The dark blue thunderhead was still far off, but, it had left the Continent behind, trawling the open waters.

It still didn’t do them much good here, and like the Notary office earlier, the opened window offered little change. At least her room didn’t stink.

But she did. The terrible, humbling truth was revealed to her when she reached for the latch. The discovery drove her to the small chest of drawers beside the desk, and then down the hall to the bathroom.

She drew a cold bath—or, rather, a tepid bath, the pipes in the building having been warmed all day. Ultimately, it was more cleansing than cool. Once she was sure she had scrubbed off the smell of sweat (which, realistically, would probably return within the hour) she drained the tub and went about her evening routine, dimly aware of the front door opening and closing downstairs. Gustave, probably; Emma was apparently something of a workaholic, according to her brother.

“You’re one to talk,” had been her response to the accusation.

Maelle pulled on her clean nightclothes and forewent putting her hair up in a tail; the damp weight on her neck felt nice, actually, and there was no sense in pulling it back if she was going to bed soon, anyway.

All the while, she could hear the faint sounds of Gustave walking to the kitchen, Gustave walking to the dining room, Gustave walking back to the kitchen, verbalizing his displeasure at having forgotten why he was there in the first place.

Maelle smiled and shook her head before quietly padding back to her room; if Gustave heard her footsteps, she couldn’t tell, the sounds below carrying on without interruption.

It was still too early for bed, and Maelle was still too unmotivated for chores. She considered writing a bit in her journal, but that was unappealing as well, especially considering the day she’d had—she’d end up writing something deeply overwrought and melancholic and she would be embarrassed by it, later.

Idly, she wandered to a set of shelves left from…whatever the room had been, before she arrived. There were a few knickknacks, but Maelle was mainly interested in the books kept there. She liked to read, but had no books of her own, relying primarily on school to provide them, and then the public library, once her…‘apprenticeship’ began. Emma said she could read these, but warned her that the nonfiction titles were rather dry.

The books, like the rest of the townhouse, were Emma’s. Gustave used to live elsewhere, on his own, but had moved back here; Maelle didn’t know when, and she sensed that it was a sensitive subject.

She picked a cheap dime novel, as it looked the least boring. (Emma had not been exaggerating about the dryness of her collection.) The writing was poor, but the story was fun, clearly inspired by one of the Expeditions. She wasn’t sure which; Gustave would probably know. Unfortunately, the lackluster prose started to drag quite a bit in the middle. Maelle found herself yawning, and frequently resting her eyes, which had begun to strain somewhat as the sun set and the light in the room faded.

She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, she awoke in the dark, breathing hard, her nightshirt soaked through.

…Not a nightmare…she was mostly certain, just…too hot. Too damn hot.

She stumbled out of bed and blindly made her way to the window she’d opened earlier. Miracle of miracles, she could feel moving air outside the glass pane.

Like many of the buildings in Lumière, a balcony ran along the length of the upper floors just below the windows. This one was wider than most; hardly spacious but there was room to sit, which is what Maelle did, clambering over the sill to stretch out on the (cool! Mercifully cool!) wrought iron.

Saints, but it was a relief.

And though it was hardly what Maelle would call comfortable, she determined that the balcony was—at least for the present moment—preferable to her room. She lied back on the metal, rejoicing at every gentle gust of wind.

A sudden shuffling caught her attention. Her shoulders tensed, and she listened hard—it was footsteps. Not from her own room, but the next one over.

Sure enough, a gentle knock against the frame had her awkwardly craning her neck to see the darkened outline of Gustave’s messy bedhead.

“Room for one more?”

“It’s your balcony,” she replied before she could think better of it. Too late, she realized how sardonic it sounded. She didn’t mean it that way—she was just. Stating a fact.

She agonized in the silence that followed, unable to see Gustave’s face in the dark. Should she apologize, or explain herself, or—?

“You’re right,” Gustave said, “I demand you scoot over.” Maelle let out a sound that was equal parts surprise and relief; she shuffled to the side to make space for Gustave to stretch out, head to foot, beside her. He exhaled audibly, “that’s better, the house gets so stuffy,” and then, “how did you not die today? With all the running? In the heat.”

Maelle shrugged, “I don’t run the whole route,” she told him, “and it wasn’t so bad this morning.”

“Ah, youth,” he lamented.

Emboldened, and admittedly curious, she went on, “and I uh…I went for a swim. At lunch.”

She waited for his response.

After a beat, it came.

“Oh, yeah?” He said, tone neutral, revealing nothing.

“…Yeah,” she replied, and worried that would be the end of the exchange.

But he went on, “today would have been perfect for it,” he said. Maelle was privately relieved; so far, so good—no lecture. “Down at the harbor?” There was a stretch of public beach, there.

Maelle fidgeted. “Uh. No. A…different spot.”

She heard a rustle of fabric, like he was nodding, maybe, “I used to know of a couple, back from when Emma and I were kids,” he said, “as a…as a favor, to me, if you could just make sure there’s—someone knows you’re out there? To be safe.”

Maelle was not sure if this counted as discipline, as Gustave’s voice was so…gentle? A sincere request, as opposed to a firm rebuke.

“Yeah, okay,” Maelle told him, equally sincere. It didn’t feel right, to be anything less.

There was a pause. “So do you just. Dog paddle.”

He was teasing her, now.

But she would not be bested. “I am a champion dog-paddler, in fact,” she answered. She was rewarded with a soft chuckle.

“Best in Lumière, I’m sure.”

“Well. Top three, I think.”

“Good that you’re so humble about it.”

“Yes.”

His chuckling tapered off, but Maelle could still hear the smile in his voice as he continued, “but seriously, it’s nice,” he said, “to hear that, you know, kids are still being kids—or teens in your case,” he rushed to add when Maelle started to protest. “With the way things are…it feels like a rare thing. And getting rarer, unfortunately.”

They both went quiet after that. Maelle wondered if Gustave perhaps felt awkward, or melancholic, or both.

“…Cheery,” she said, in an attempt to ease the tension.

Gustave’s laugh was apologetic, “sorry.”

She shrugged again, “don’t be. It’s true.”

There was silence again but. Maelle liked to think it was less awkward this time. Perhaps not comfortable, but maybe. Companionable?

“Thanks for the sandwich,” he said suddenly. “I assume that was you, anyway.”

“Oh. No problem,” she replied.

“It tasted like real beef,” he added.

“The sign out front said it was,” she told him. He let out a low whistle.

“Fancy,” he said, “thank you. Wish I’d known, I would have tried to get home early, to eat together.”

There it was again. Family dinner.

“Mmm,” was all she managed in response, not sure she felt like sharing the complicated push and pull of disparate desires; of craving a place and a people, but being too full of past…hurt? to seek them out.

Being independent was safe. (Being independent was lonely.)

Fortunately, there was a sound at the other window, saving her from the prospect of emotional vulnerability.

“I see we all had the same idea.”

Both Maelle and Gustave looked up to see Emma casually leaning on the sill, a small oil lamp in hand, presumably because she had the farthest to travel, her room being down the hall.

“Great minds,” Gustave replied.

“Not great enough,” Emma countered, “I’ve arrived too late to join, it seems.”

“Nonsense, there’s room,” Gustave declared, and then motioned at Maelle, “we’re scooting again. Come on.”

“What?” Maelle asked, truly baffled. There was barely any room!

“Gustave, I don’t think—“ Emma started to say, but he wasn’t having it, and patted the vacated spot next to him. (Though calling it a spot seemed generous.)

“See? Plenty of space.”

As Emma grumbled and situated herself, Maelle begged to differ, the three of them crammed like sardines.

There was a moment of exhale. And then,

“You know this defeats the purpose, right?”

Emma snorted, and Gustave made a noncommittal sort of noise, refusing to admit defeat.

“It’s cozy.”

“It’s ridiculous. And warm.”

Gustave continued in his denial, quietly arguing his case with Emma.

Maelle, meanwhile, was…surprisingly content. It was certainly a people and a place—perhaps too many people, in one place, but it was…nice.

Her breathing evened out; Gustave and Emma’s voices, kept low out of respect for their neighbors, began to fade as sleep crept closer. She turned on her side in an attempt to get a bit more comfortable, heavy-lidded gaze drawn to the darkened shape of the city, given that she was now so much closer (smushed, really) to the railing.

Only a few gas lamps remained lit, their glow from the central plaza distant and fuzzy.

“…Going to feel this in my lower back, tomorrow—“

“Shhhh, Maelle’s trying to sleep.”

A lazy sort of smile spread across Maelle’s face, and indeed, sleep did come.

But not for long; the sensation of goosebumps along her forearm pulled Maelle into a confused sort of wakefulness, which was only further compounded when she felt…raindrops? On her nose?

She rubbed her eyes. It was drizzling. Maelle could hardly believe it.

Gustave, though, awake beside her, did not seem fazed. He held out his palm.

“Right on schedule,” he said as the drops gathered in his upturned hand.

Maelle propped herself up on her elbow, “everyone in town today was sure it’d never reach the island,” she said, voice a little rough from however long she’d dozed.

Gustave laced his hands behind his head, knocking both Maelle and Emma’s feet in the process. “Well. Everyone was wrong.”

“And yet, we’re the ones caught in the rain,” Emma pointed out from his other side, “warn me next time, please?” She stood to leave, forced to shuffle and bend and sidestep, and then, grumbling to herself, “as if my hair wasn’t enough of a mess already." She sighed. "Are you coming?”

“Oh, a little water never hurt anyone,” Gustave insisted, at which point the drizzle became a proper shower, “…right. Going inside.”

He hurried to his feet and helped Maelle up as well, the two of them slipping a bit in the gathering puddles. “Okay, this is soggier than I anticipated, actually,” Gustave told her, and Maelle giggled as the two hurried back to their respective windows. “Regroup downstairs? For towels and tea?”

“The rain isn’t that cold,” Maelle said.

“…Lemonade?”

Midnight lemonade sounded patently absurd. And fun. “…Alright,” Maelle agreed. Gustave offered a mock salute, and was halfway inside when Maelle suddenly blurted,

“Gustave?”

He poked his head back out into the downpour.

She faltered, reaching for her elbow, hugging herself around her middle.

Being independent was safe. But lonely.

“Do you know how to sew? There’s—I need something mended, and I was going to look for a tailor, but if maybe you or…Emma…?”

Gustave pushed his wet hair out of his eyes.

“That sort of thing is a little tricky for me,” he said, wiggling the fingers of his prosthetic. Maelle winced. Oh. But Gustave continued, “and I think Emma sold her machine awhile back,” he thought for a moment. “I have a—friend. Who sews. I can ask her about it, if that works?”

Maelle nodded.

“That’s—that’ll work.”

“Great. We uh…can sort out the details inside though, yes?”

“Oh! Yeah, inside.”

He disappeared back into his room, and Maelle climbed into her own, doing her best not to drip all over the floor and failing spectacularly. She made for the door, but not before eyeing the journal on her desk.

After a moment of deliberation, she grabbed a pen and flipped to the proper page, leaving a few water spots in her wake, but not enough to smudge the ink.

She kept her sentiments short. (Brevity, soul of wit and all that.)

A good day.