Vol.2, Extra 1, P.2
“Oh, perish the thought,” the marquis scoffed. “No soul of my stead, be he sire or servant, should deign to divest a child so. Should he, my good yeoman?”
“No-n-n-not at all, m’liege! S-s-sssorry I am, tr-truly!”
With but an unblinking glare from the lord of Norden, the runner was made to run. Out the shop he flew, tripping over himself along the way. ‘Twas a fact that from his bloody-nosed and sweaty-cheeked face was wrung an apology to none other than myself. Misplaced, unfortunately, but ‘twas clear that such a sorry sight would’ve been unsought by the true victim: the boy. And so I let it be.
“My dear Mareschal,” the marquis turned to me, “might I know your pleasant business here on my streets?”
“Central missed me, it seemed,” I answered with no warmth. “The chore’s done with, and so am I bound for home. But then I thought to stretch my legs here, along the way. You won’t mind, I hope, dear Marquis?”
“Oh, not at all, Your Mightiness. This is a merry meeting, indeed,” began his doublespeak. “Already an honour and pleasure both to see you at the royal capital, but never could I have imagined a chance to entertain you here in my own lands. Yoná is ever playful with Her lambs, hm! To Her, a thousand thanks, for I may now boast to my subjects tonight of meeting here the kingdom’s keenest blade.”
From his words: a noisome whiff of suspicion at mine unexpected visit. This marquis—more beguiling and cutthroat again than most of his ilk. He was a lion, ever sniffing for the unguarded nape. The iron-stench of a bloodbeast was neither lost to Francis’ own faculties, for his vigilance was reared as he stood guarding the little boy.
Theirs was a long-reeking smell, the marquis and the 5th. To mine own nose, right from the outset. Why, make absent the matter of the recent exile, and I would’ve meant no less to seek out the source of their stench.
“Your praise is profuse, Marquis. But I’d say of late, blades sharper still have freshly left the anvils of Central,” I returned. “If I’m to speak my mind, such praise is best left to said steel.”
“One by the name of Emilie Valenius, perhaps? Indeed, the Lady has cut quite the impression, to be yielded a fief all her own at so young an age. Yet her edge is… soft, untempered; I should say that amongst blades of late, its bite is blunt compared to your own heroic hew, Lady Estelle Tiselius.”
A honeyed eulogy, sweet only to the undiscerning ear.
“Oh, my oh my, pardon! It was not the 5th’s mareschal you meant? Allow me another guess, then, of one more mete with your measure.” There: a grin upon the dread visage. “…Ah, yes. What of Brandt? Bo Brandt! Now there’s a beau of a blade!”
“Nay, good Marquis. I did not mean anyone in particular.”
“Is that so? Well.”
Terseness, followed by a lidless stare upon mine own, prowling for some secret or fault to lunge upon. The passing silence, tingling with barbs and briars between us, occupied but a moment, till at last the marquis’ lips cracked open again.
“Oh, the hour waxes. Business calls; I must be off. Fare you well, my fair Mareschal. May we meet again upon another pleasant day,” ended the marquis, ere stepping to the counter. “Shopkeep, a pittance for the pandaemonium. May it suit your purse.”
From the marquis’ hand: a gold reugol, now glimmering on the dusty counter. Then did he take his leave.
Were it a coin of respect, he would quickly find himself a man bankrupt. Yet ‘twas the aching truth that the marquis brought no shame to his robe of dignity: to neither the storekeeper nor the boy would he dare wield vain retribution.
This I reckoned as the unsought encounter was brought to its well-sought close.
♰
“H-ha-hallo! Good miss!” A bright greeting from the bright-eyed boy. We were all yet in the shop, now liberated from the lord’s company, and up to me did the little lad look. “M-might you t-truly be the Lady Estelle Tiselius, pray tell!?”
Bright indeed. His glowing timbre was enough to leave me abashed.
“That I am, my little prince,” I affirmed, bending down to meet his gaze. “You well-know my name! ‘Tis an honour. And a gladdening one, at that.”
“Let his kindness be neither forgotten, mademoiselle,” Francis observed. “‘Miss’, he said! Though you scarce match the meaning.”
“And your mouthing scarce matches the moment, Francis.”
How blunt, this butler! I am yet a miss.
‘Twas then, in the midst of mine inner indignation, that the boy spoke again.
“M-may I ask somethin’ o’ you, m’lady?”
“You may, my little master,” I said gently.
“…Have you really got no one in mind? When you said what you did?”
Ah. My prior words to the marquis. Children certainly are keen of ken at the most unexpected of times.
“Oh! Sorry! I-I didn’t mean to pry. Just, it tickled me fancy when I heard your words. You sounded mighty taken with somethin’… or someone. I’d like to know more o’ this special soul, if it pleases m’lady.”
“‘Twould very much so, but I’m afraid ‘tis a name you know nary a letter of,” I answered with some heaviness. “But of names, I should hear yours, my love.”
“C-Connie! Me name’s Connie!”
“‘Connie’? My, a charming name you have, Connie! More charming again that you keep your mother so dear in your heart.”
“Me mum… she works hard ev’ryday; I thought to give her a little somethin’, you know, to put a seldom smile on her face,” he described, before a thought happened. “Oh, that’s it! Would you mind if I ask’d one more thing, m’lady?”
“Not at all, dear Connie.”
The boy’s shoulders rose as he took in a deep breath, as if to muster up some courage.
Then, with earnestness in his eyes, “I want to be big an’ strong when I grows up! So me mum shouldn’t worry ‘bout me as much. But… I, er… I don’t know how, see. Maybe you can teach me somethin’ secret, m’lady? So I can be strong like you someday?”
How many times is it now? That mine ears have met this question? More than I care to count, truth be told. Thus do I have a reply always at the ready.
‘Have conviction. Have humility. Learn from others. Apply thyself.’
A crafted answer for the thousand same questions.
“…You mustn’t lose.”
“Ohh?”
But not today.
The one most mete with my measure.
The one most deserving of decoration.
My words with the marquis had indeed sparked the memory of that ‘special soul’, and ‘twas perhaps the pull of Connie’s question that teased it out to the open.
“You must never lose. Not once. He who walks the path undefeated shall arrive at true strength. So long as he loses not…” I answered distantly. Then, as if catching myself, I looked to the boy before me once more. “Hark well, dear Connie. Lose not once, not ever, and strength shall duly be yours.”
The boyish face wrinkled with confusion. Of course it did. I admit, heady overmuch was mine honest answer for that spring-green mind of his.
“But… but I… I can’t,” he reflected with difficulty. “…Nothin’ goes well for me—ever, really…”
A sullen pall then came about him as Connie cast his eyes down, dejected. “The strong are born so”—surely a notion branded into him from the very start, and one that immured him to this moment.
“Yet that matters little, Connie,” I returned, with firmness uplifting. “So you’ve not won. Yet have you lost? ‘Tis not so simple. You might be laid low, brought low, on and on, and have nary a soul beside you to say what valour you’ve shown. But that is fine. Rise, and give in not to loss. Then shall you know strength—just like that ‘special soul’ I spoke of.”
“…Oh…”
What silliness was this? That slipped from my lips to drum the ears of a small child?
What was I? In the wide eyes of dear little Connie?
“Worry not, my good Lady,” Francis whispered. “Your words have met his heart.”
Gladness, if so.
My faith that they have.
♰
Thereafter did Connie part from my company, but not ere a shower of many thanks. Out of the dustiness of the shop he went, and into the sunniness of the streets. Secure in his palm: the purchase of the ixora pomade.
His mother.
How blessed she was.
But in turn, how unblessed their lives must be, that she must labour so late into the night…
A solace, then.
To know that in her heart and home both, there waits a gentle son for her daily return. Waiting, to comfort his weary mother.
Not so different, she and I, working women as we were. Only, I had none to confide in. None from whom I might find comfort.
Catching myself ensnared in self-pity, I then thought to lift my spirits and treat myself to some trinket. To the display of wares mine eyes turned. And there, displayed upon a lower case, was a comb that piqued my fancy. I bent down and took it to hand.
Here, too, my measure did not fail: ‘twas a modest little treasure, this. Simple, shaped with care, and…
…pit-pat.
“…Mm?”
A touch or two upon my pate. I looked up. There was I met with the elderly cat, yet lounging upon the counter above, with its forepaw stretched and stroking my crown.
From my lips, soft laughter.
From the moment, some bliss.
“You would comfort me?”
Thank you.
I am most glad.
You seem long in your years, yet as wise as you are wizened. Perhaps you’ve caught a glimpse of my thoughts? Then I hope you’ll not mind hearing mine heart for this while.
Though I seem the dainty damsel, I am quite strong, if I do say so myself. ‘Tis why I’m rather given to lonesomeness at times.
Many are those that would lavish praise and applause upon me, just like that little boy moments ago. Yet of those that would share some care and comfort, I have none.
What they have for me is awe and admiration. And naught else. Seeds for solitude, really.
What’s this, now?
‘Sorrow beseems not the strong,’ you say?
Why, even the strong are no strangers to woe. Myself, especially.
I’ve saved many a soul. In that, I take pride.
But who, then, shall save me?
Someday…
Someday, there shall be a soul stronger than I.
A soul that would say:
‘You did well, Estelle.’
A day I long to reach.
Words I wish to hear.
A soul I yearn to meet.
From the feline sang not a sound. Instead, its gaze was locked upon me, unmoving. Words seemed to flow from its elderly regard.
Leavest behind thy childish fancies.
Or perhaps…
Steelest thyself, to savest thyself.
Or even…
What ill is there? In holding on to hope?
These, it seemed to say. And so to myself, I said:
“…‘Hope’, then. For tomorrow and on.”
Then did I rise again, in my palm not a comb, but a pomade of mine own. An azure vial, brimming with the essence of blue sages, popular as a celebration for the new journey ahead.
Indeed. A fair fragrance, filled with jubilation for the future.
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“Bliss Upon a Palm”
End
♰
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