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Jan. 17th, 2008 06:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrIf my eye is this bad tomorrow, I'm saying fuck it and calling in. Today is going to be one long day of fucking agony >_o Ah, well.
Have two parts left of knight story, am sad the whole thing is not already done, but them's the breaks.
Weather today is supposed to really suck, hopefully it'll hold off 'til I get to work.
Um. I got nothing to offer, sadly, except more knight and I may as well wait 'til it's finished by this point.
Oh! I know! I'm hoping soon to get back to editing, and the next fairytale book will have one I haven't posted here ^_^ I wrote it for skylark. Want a piece of it?
Jamal wiped his brow and grimaced as he realized he'd just smeared dirt into the sweat. Ah, well. He was already a mess; what difference would a bit more dirt make?
He bent back to the flower bed, pulling weeds and gently examining every flower to ensure they were just as they should be. When at last he finished, he sat back on his heels and this time fumbled for the kerchief shoved into the edge of his pants, using it to wipe the sweat and dirt from his face and neck.
The midday sun beat down something fierce, and this was really the worst time of day to be working outside, but he had been working since the barest threads of sunlight stretched across the sky – and he likely would still be working until supper.
Laughter spilled briefly from the house, the high, tinkling laughter of women sharing some delicious secret. Jamal bent and went back to work, trying not to be stung. It shouldn't hurt, it didn't hurt, and he'd rather be outside in his stupid garden than inside suffering through polite chit chat and uncomfortable fancy clothes anyway.
He picked up his trowel and stabbed viciously at the earth, going back to work on his garden with a vengeance. Dozens upon dozens of flowers, carefully gathered and planted, every last one of them flourishing.
Finishing with his trowel, he set it aside and fell back on the grass to admire all his handiwork of the day. Beautiful, every last bit of it. He might not be good enough or worthy enough for anything else, but he made a fine gardener.
More laughter spilled out, followed by the sound of Georgina's voice, sharp and clear and pretty. His momentary happiness faded, and he drew his legs close told to fold them beneath him, fingers pulling unhappily at the grass – but not tearing it, quite.
Through the curtains that hid the yellow salon from the garden, he could see the silhouette of girls in silk and lace; pastels and bright spring colors, their fancy tea hats hiding spun-gold curls and protecting cream-pale skin from any hint of sun.
He ran a dirty hand through his own hair, thick spirals of a brown-black shade no one else possessed. If that was not enough to spell out his shame, his dark, dusky skin certainly was. His half sisters would never order him to dress up and attend them and their friends during a tea party; they would never command he escort them to this or that ball, and fetch lemonade all night.
No…
They just asked if he would please make himself scarce and not embarrass them.
More laughter spilled out, and he stood up with a rough sound, moving to the back of the garden to work with the ivy and the weeping willow, where hopefully the sound of the fountain would drown out the noise from the house.
He lingered in the one spot of his garden that remained bare – a place he could give over to many a flower or shrub, but which he refused to do. He wanted something different for it, but had not yet landed upon precisely what.
Sighing, he moved away from the empty patch and went to tending the rest of the garden, throwing himself back into it with a fury, determined not to let anything else intrude on this one small piece of happiness.
When he finally stirred again, his entire body ached and the sun had dipped low enough in the sky that the air had cooled. He used his sodden kerchief to wipe away the worst of the grimy sweat, and listened cautiously for the sound of giggling girls.
Nothing.
Still, no one had come to inform him he was permitted back in those places where he might be seen…
But it was his house too…even if he…
Sighing, he raked a hand through his hair and looked down at himself.
Pants, dirty. The shirt was even worse, and the clothes were already threadbare and worn to start. He'd rolled the sleeves up to get them out of the way, making his forearms even darker than he already was.
Servants' entrance, then. Better to be on the safe side; he didn't want to make his sisters mad.
Trudging back through the garden, he let himself in the kitchen and then up the back stairs, gaining his room quickly.
He stopped short to see that a bath awaited him, and it made him smile even as his chest ached – Ms. Roberts, the housekeeper, was always far too kind to him. Stripping off his filthy clothes, he stepped into the tub and sat down with a happy sigh, groaning as the hot water sank into his sore muscles.
Only after several minutes of blissful soaking did he finally stir himself enough to begin scrubbing himself clean. The soap had a faint hint of honey and cinnamon to it, making Jamal shake his head and smile fondly.
At last clean, he stood up and combed through his hair as the water sluiced from his body – a body well-muscled and too dark to belong to nobility, marked and scared from hard labor, hideously unfashionable.
Mouth tight, he left the tub and quickly dressed for supper, but the superfine and linen, the velvet of his jacket, only made him feel worse rather than better. Shrugging to settle the jacket properly into place, he made one last attempt to tame his tight curls, then gave up with a sigh and made his way downstairs.
Porcelain dolls, his sisters. Utterly beautiful. Georgina's hair was pure gold, Augusta's had a slight hint of red to it. Long lashes and china-blue eyes, both, flawless skin. Georgina had changed into a green evening gown, Augusta a pink one. Gold and pearls at their throats, fresh flowers in their hair.
To look good should Father appear, for he always liked for them to look their very best at all times. They said nothing as he took his seat opposite them. "Georgina, Augusta. Did your tea party go well?"
"Quite," Augusta answered, voice level and decorous, but her eyes shone with unadulterated delight. "I do believe our tea parties are becoming quite the invitation to receive. Wouldn't you say, Georgie?"
Georgina nodded primly, sipping at a delicate rose wine. "Speaking of which, I do believe we shall neglect to invite Miss Worthington next time. She is becoming a bit too confident in herself over it."
From the hallway, the clock struck the ninth hour. Servants appeared, the housekeeper and two footmen, to serve the first course. Jamal smiled at the housekeeper, murmuring a quiet thanks as she set out his bowl of soup. She smiled at him, and patted his hand briefly, before moving on to tend his sisters.
The soup was spicy, their father's favorite, and Jamal frowned. Father was expected back that day; in fact, he should have arrived already. It wasn't unusual for him to run late, of course, but still Jamal worried.
"So what do you have planned for the rest of the week?" he asked, attempting to distract himself.
"Lord Montgomery and Miss Clearwater are engaged," Georgina said with a frown. "Their betrothal ball is two days hence, and that reminds me I must speak with our seamstress; she should have contacted us for the final fittings already. If I do not outshine that simpering Clearwater, I shan't go at all." She tossed her head, carefully arranged curls bouncing. Long, loose curls, nothing like his own tight and springy ones.
Jamal smiled. "You are both stunningly beautiful, and hardly need gowns to outshine every other woman – though it is rather mean to outshine the bride to be, isn't it?"
Augusta laughed and poked her sister gently with a fork. "Yes, Georgie. Do let the poor thing have her one day in the spotlight. When you finally catch Lord Eastgate, you shall have your moment of triumph."
Georgina sniffed, but let the matter drop, taking a dainty bite of her food.
"A couple of girls noticed our gardener. Didn't you stay out of sight, Jamal?" Augusta asked, and he hated the way she still hesitated on his name. He knew it was strange, but it was his mother's last request. Even after all these years, they still could not say it right. He should be used to it, but it stung still.
He picked up his wine and drank deeply, banishing the unhappy thoughts for at least a little while. "I never left the garden," he said quietly.
Wouldn't it be nice if he stopped caring? Then nothing would sting, nothing would hurt, and the way his sisters treated him like a vaguely amusing stranger would matter not a bit. He could not help what he was – a half-breed bastard neither acknowledged nor denied by his father, heathen in appearance and name. Why was that held against him? But he could ask why a thousand times and nothing would ever change.
His sisters did not respond to his comment, but instead turned to gossip and other idle chatter, dismissing him. Jamal ate in silence, straining to hear any sound of their father returning. When the clock finally struck the eleventh hour, however, he still had not arrived.
A half hour later his sisters finally finished eating and chatting, not bothering to tell him goodnight before they departed for bed.
Jamal sighed and helped the servants clear everything away, then wandered to the library. Discarding most of his evening wear, he settled down to enjoy a bit of brandy and some light reading. The house soon fell silent, as the servants finished closing up the house and snuffed all but the library lamps.
He bid the housekeeper good night and settled in to his reading, barely noticing as the clock chimed the hours away. It was just as he was beginning to nod off himself that he heard the rapid clopping of a horse up the cobbled drive. Jerking fully awake, book spilling to the floor, Jamal sat a moment to gather his senses.
Then he bolted for the front door and fumbled with the locks, finally throwing the door open – in time to see his father all but fall from his horse. "Father!" Rushing down the stairs, he caught his father close, steadied him – and wondered why the older man trembled so badly. The night was cool, but pleasantly so.
Lord Greene looked up, his eyes a fine china blue, but dark now with exhaustion – and fear, and Jamal could not fathom what there was to fear. "Father…come inside. You are so late. Whatever is the matter?"
"No," Lord Greene said, wrenching away, turning back to his horse. He fumbled for a moment, then finally wrenched something free, but rather than display it he stumbled his way up the stairs and finally inside.
Confounded by his behavior, Jamal obeyed the gestures to follow him inside, and did up the locks again before following him to the library.
He froze in shock as he finally saw what it was his father had been carrying, and what he now set so carefully on the desk.
A rosebush. Only a small one, not even any blooms upon it, but he would know a rosebush anywhere.
Have two parts left of knight story, am sad the whole thing is not already done, but them's the breaks.
Weather today is supposed to really suck, hopefully it'll hold off 'til I get to work.
Um. I got nothing to offer, sadly, except more knight and I may as well wait 'til it's finished by this point.
Oh! I know! I'm hoping soon to get back to editing, and the next fairytale book will have one I haven't posted here ^_^ I wrote it for skylark. Want a piece of it?
Jamal wiped his brow and grimaced as he realized he'd just smeared dirt into the sweat. Ah, well. He was already a mess; what difference would a bit more dirt make?
He bent back to the flower bed, pulling weeds and gently examining every flower to ensure they were just as they should be. When at last he finished, he sat back on his heels and this time fumbled for the kerchief shoved into the edge of his pants, using it to wipe the sweat and dirt from his face and neck.
The midday sun beat down something fierce, and this was really the worst time of day to be working outside, but he had been working since the barest threads of sunlight stretched across the sky – and he likely would still be working until supper.
Laughter spilled briefly from the house, the high, tinkling laughter of women sharing some delicious secret. Jamal bent and went back to work, trying not to be stung. It shouldn't hurt, it didn't hurt, and he'd rather be outside in his stupid garden than inside suffering through polite chit chat and uncomfortable fancy clothes anyway.
He picked up his trowel and stabbed viciously at the earth, going back to work on his garden with a vengeance. Dozens upon dozens of flowers, carefully gathered and planted, every last one of them flourishing.
Finishing with his trowel, he set it aside and fell back on the grass to admire all his handiwork of the day. Beautiful, every last bit of it. He might not be good enough or worthy enough for anything else, but he made a fine gardener.
More laughter spilled out, followed by the sound of Georgina's voice, sharp and clear and pretty. His momentary happiness faded, and he drew his legs close told to fold them beneath him, fingers pulling unhappily at the grass – but not tearing it, quite.
Through the curtains that hid the yellow salon from the garden, he could see the silhouette of girls in silk and lace; pastels and bright spring colors, their fancy tea hats hiding spun-gold curls and protecting cream-pale skin from any hint of sun.
He ran a dirty hand through his own hair, thick spirals of a brown-black shade no one else possessed. If that was not enough to spell out his shame, his dark, dusky skin certainly was. His half sisters would never order him to dress up and attend them and their friends during a tea party; they would never command he escort them to this or that ball, and fetch lemonade all night.
No…
They just asked if he would please make himself scarce and not embarrass them.
More laughter spilled out, and he stood up with a rough sound, moving to the back of the garden to work with the ivy and the weeping willow, where hopefully the sound of the fountain would drown out the noise from the house.
He lingered in the one spot of his garden that remained bare – a place he could give over to many a flower or shrub, but which he refused to do. He wanted something different for it, but had not yet landed upon precisely what.
Sighing, he moved away from the empty patch and went to tending the rest of the garden, throwing himself back into it with a fury, determined not to let anything else intrude on this one small piece of happiness.
When he finally stirred again, his entire body ached and the sun had dipped low enough in the sky that the air had cooled. He used his sodden kerchief to wipe away the worst of the grimy sweat, and listened cautiously for the sound of giggling girls.
Nothing.
Still, no one had come to inform him he was permitted back in those places where he might be seen…
But it was his house too…even if he…
Sighing, he raked a hand through his hair and looked down at himself.
Pants, dirty. The shirt was even worse, and the clothes were already threadbare and worn to start. He'd rolled the sleeves up to get them out of the way, making his forearms even darker than he already was.
Servants' entrance, then. Better to be on the safe side; he didn't want to make his sisters mad.
Trudging back through the garden, he let himself in the kitchen and then up the back stairs, gaining his room quickly.
He stopped short to see that a bath awaited him, and it made him smile even as his chest ached – Ms. Roberts, the housekeeper, was always far too kind to him. Stripping off his filthy clothes, he stepped into the tub and sat down with a happy sigh, groaning as the hot water sank into his sore muscles.
Only after several minutes of blissful soaking did he finally stir himself enough to begin scrubbing himself clean. The soap had a faint hint of honey and cinnamon to it, making Jamal shake his head and smile fondly.
At last clean, he stood up and combed through his hair as the water sluiced from his body – a body well-muscled and too dark to belong to nobility, marked and scared from hard labor, hideously unfashionable.
Mouth tight, he left the tub and quickly dressed for supper, but the superfine and linen, the velvet of his jacket, only made him feel worse rather than better. Shrugging to settle the jacket properly into place, he made one last attempt to tame his tight curls, then gave up with a sigh and made his way downstairs.
Porcelain dolls, his sisters. Utterly beautiful. Georgina's hair was pure gold, Augusta's had a slight hint of red to it. Long lashes and china-blue eyes, both, flawless skin. Georgina had changed into a green evening gown, Augusta a pink one. Gold and pearls at their throats, fresh flowers in their hair.
To look good should Father appear, for he always liked for them to look their very best at all times. They said nothing as he took his seat opposite them. "Georgina, Augusta. Did your tea party go well?"
"Quite," Augusta answered, voice level and decorous, but her eyes shone with unadulterated delight. "I do believe our tea parties are becoming quite the invitation to receive. Wouldn't you say, Georgie?"
Georgina nodded primly, sipping at a delicate rose wine. "Speaking of which, I do believe we shall neglect to invite Miss Worthington next time. She is becoming a bit too confident in herself over it."
From the hallway, the clock struck the ninth hour. Servants appeared, the housekeeper and two footmen, to serve the first course. Jamal smiled at the housekeeper, murmuring a quiet thanks as she set out his bowl of soup. She smiled at him, and patted his hand briefly, before moving on to tend his sisters.
The soup was spicy, their father's favorite, and Jamal frowned. Father was expected back that day; in fact, he should have arrived already. It wasn't unusual for him to run late, of course, but still Jamal worried.
"So what do you have planned for the rest of the week?" he asked, attempting to distract himself.
"Lord Montgomery and Miss Clearwater are engaged," Georgina said with a frown. "Their betrothal ball is two days hence, and that reminds me I must speak with our seamstress; she should have contacted us for the final fittings already. If I do not outshine that simpering Clearwater, I shan't go at all." She tossed her head, carefully arranged curls bouncing. Long, loose curls, nothing like his own tight and springy ones.
Jamal smiled. "You are both stunningly beautiful, and hardly need gowns to outshine every other woman – though it is rather mean to outshine the bride to be, isn't it?"
Augusta laughed and poked her sister gently with a fork. "Yes, Georgie. Do let the poor thing have her one day in the spotlight. When you finally catch Lord Eastgate, you shall have your moment of triumph."
Georgina sniffed, but let the matter drop, taking a dainty bite of her food.
"A couple of girls noticed our gardener. Didn't you stay out of sight, Jamal?" Augusta asked, and he hated the way she still hesitated on his name. He knew it was strange, but it was his mother's last request. Even after all these years, they still could not say it right. He should be used to it, but it stung still.
He picked up his wine and drank deeply, banishing the unhappy thoughts for at least a little while. "I never left the garden," he said quietly.
Wouldn't it be nice if he stopped caring? Then nothing would sting, nothing would hurt, and the way his sisters treated him like a vaguely amusing stranger would matter not a bit. He could not help what he was – a half-breed bastard neither acknowledged nor denied by his father, heathen in appearance and name. Why was that held against him? But he could ask why a thousand times and nothing would ever change.
His sisters did not respond to his comment, but instead turned to gossip and other idle chatter, dismissing him. Jamal ate in silence, straining to hear any sound of their father returning. When the clock finally struck the eleventh hour, however, he still had not arrived.
A half hour later his sisters finally finished eating and chatting, not bothering to tell him goodnight before they departed for bed.
Jamal sighed and helped the servants clear everything away, then wandered to the library. Discarding most of his evening wear, he settled down to enjoy a bit of brandy and some light reading. The house soon fell silent, as the servants finished closing up the house and snuffed all but the library lamps.
He bid the housekeeper good night and settled in to his reading, barely noticing as the clock chimed the hours away. It was just as he was beginning to nod off himself that he heard the rapid clopping of a horse up the cobbled drive. Jerking fully awake, book spilling to the floor, Jamal sat a moment to gather his senses.
Then he bolted for the front door and fumbled with the locks, finally throwing the door open – in time to see his father all but fall from his horse. "Father!" Rushing down the stairs, he caught his father close, steadied him – and wondered why the older man trembled so badly. The night was cool, but pleasantly so.
Lord Greene looked up, his eyes a fine china blue, but dark now with exhaustion – and fear, and Jamal could not fathom what there was to fear. "Father…come inside. You are so late. Whatever is the matter?"
"No," Lord Greene said, wrenching away, turning back to his horse. He fumbled for a moment, then finally wrenched something free, but rather than display it he stumbled his way up the stairs and finally inside.
Confounded by his behavior, Jamal obeyed the gestures to follow him inside, and did up the locks again before following him to the library.
He froze in shock as he finally saw what it was his father had been carrying, and what he now set so carefully on the desk.
A rosebush. Only a small one, not even any blooms upon it, but he would know a rosebush anywhere.
