AN: This story was written a long time ago, but when I found it I thought that still I could publish it now, because it is long and I had much work with it, so why not? I hope you enjoy this first part of a two shot told from an uncommon perspective.
Summary: The greater the manor, the more secrets it keeps inside its walls. And some are yet to be discovered; a story of the most unlikely person unveiling a most unlikely secret.
Word count (part 1): 15, 163 words
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters you may recognize.
A Window to the Past
Part 1: Falling…
"The greater the manor, the more secrets it keeps inside its walls. Hundred, no, thousands of secrets are hidden by portraits, mural paintings, climbing roses or vines slung around gates and bollards. The wind can whisper them in foreign languages, so no human shall understand."
Mother smiles at me, her gaze dreamy, her eyes having that far away look. "Our manor is greater than any other out there. Just try to discover some while we're gone; time will fly that way. You won't even notice our absence."
She takes my hand in hers. At once I find myself inable not to compare them. My skin is fair and flawless, while hers has an olive tone and scars twine around it like the vines she told me about. But though it may be softer, it is also smaller; so small in hers, and the face smiling down at me is so much more beautiful than mine that I wonder if I'll ever look as fair as she does.
"Have you seen everything there is to see?", I ask. Her smile falters slightly and her eyes grow sad, though they hold a distant sadness, as if what she sees has long passed. I grip her hand tighter. I do not want to see her this way. It scares me.
"I don't think I have," she tells me. "But when I was young there was so much to discover. I told you how I was just a maid before your father married me. Whenever I couldn't sleep at night because I missed my parents I'd wander around. I was enchanted by how much there was to find. When I'd open a new door and see the beautiful room behind, I'd feel like I just found a hidden treasure. You will find much joy, I promise."
She squeezes my hand one last time before letting go. She then rises to her feet and lifts her long dress as if to shake the dirt off.
She's so beautiful, so wonderful, so gentle. I love my mother more than anything could comprehend. I've seen her gray eyes filled with cold when she looks at other people, cold I do not understand, yet when they land on me, they're certain to be soft, loving and everything I could wish for.
Her long, brown hair falls in waves down her back as she opens our gigantic door adorned by more flowers than I can count; yet every single one is more beautiful than the other, like stars of the light. Sometimes I spend the whole day out there in the sunlight, tracing the flower's outlines, with my mother next to me on the steps leading up to the door, and ask her what name which one carries, for she knows all of them, whether they be big or small, plain or rich.
The last thing I see before she disappears is the laced seam of her purple dress. My mother's dresses are the prettiest ones I've ever seen. Maybe because of her. Other women have similar ones, wide skirts and tight around their middles, but only my mother resembles a queen in them, only she is fair enough to be titled a lady. I imagine wearing those dresses when I'm older, and becoming the woman she is.
I sigh and rise to my feet, trying to look as graceful as my mother did. Then I brush my dress off, concentrated to make it look as elegant, until I notice the mirror opposite me. My face falls when I look upon my reflection, for instead of purple, my own dress is a simple beige, and it isn't as extravagant as my mother's but modest. My skirt isn't wide but falls to my feet in a simple fashion.
My hair bears the same color as hers, yet it is shorter, barely reaching my shoulders. But my eyes are different; entirely different. A piercing blue, brighter than anyone else's. My mother once told me she loved them. That they were the most beautiful eyes on the surface of the earth. And that her sister had the same ones.
I tear my gaze away from my reflection and instead walk over to the big door leading to our long corridor. The handle is heavy and it's hard to move it to open the door. I'm still impressed by the size of our manor and everything inside. So, so much bigger than I will ever be. So great and bright. The door is easily trice my height, and just a year ago I wasn't able to open it without help.
Once I'm through, I'm met by the portraits of my ancestors. Ladies and Lords of the manor, all of them with strict faces, complex coiffures and extravagant clothing, some with gold-adorned canes, some with white wigs. All of them look wealthy and distant, except for the last one.
A young woman wearing a white dress, although only its shoulder is visible. Her dark hair is knit together in so many braids they aren't countable. Woven through those braids is a snake. Thick and golden, as if it was dominating her. Right where her forehead begins is the head of the beast, which is glancing down at her mercilessly. The woman's lips are smiling, but her eyes are sad, and she's not looking at the painter. She's staring at something outside the picture, so it seems as though she was gazing at the frame.
The woman is my mother, shortly after she married my father. She was pregnant at that time, that's why her stomach isn't visible. I asked her why she was so sad then once; only once. She shook her head and said she wouldn't tell a soul. No one. Never. Her voice was hard, like it never had been and has not been since. So I listened. And never brought it up again.
Still, I never did stop wondering and involuntarily step closer, reach out to trace her outlines with my finger. Somehow, suddenly it's as though there was no drawn woman already. It's as if I'm the one sketching, sometimes adding shadows, sometimes simple lines. And it's no longer just the silhouette, I begin drawing the knots in her hair, the snake's scales, trace the lines of her lips, the shadows which portray her nose and finally the eyes, those wide gray eyes lacking the strength and love I'm so used to. And then something strange happens. I follow them. I follow her eyes.
And right where her gaze lands on is a small wedge between the portrait and the wall, so narrow it's barely visible, barely thick enough to get my fingers through, but I manage. At once there's a clicking sound and I jump. The portrait swings back as if touched by some kind of magical force.
I step forward again and am surprised to see dark, heavy curtains instead of the marble the corridor's walls are made of. The golden rolls cling to the rod holding the curtain jar as they are scratched along said rod.
Hidden behind it isn't the rich golden window frame I'd anticipated. Although a frame there is indeed. But it's simple, wooden, brown. Unlike all the other windows of our manor, unlike all the expensive walls and ceilings. It seems as though it belonged to one of the huts mother speaks about when she reads fairy tales of dwarves and maids to me.
Underneath the window is a sill, which I climb to get a better view of what is outside, of what I hadn't noticed afore.
Out there are two shadows. It's bright daylight, but the figures are black and not recognizable. Their surroundings, though, are. Right behind them is an apple tree, green and filled with apples in all shades of red. It's strange, for apples are mellow only in fall, usually, and it's spring, but maybe this tree is enchanted, why should it not be? In one of my mother's fairy tales, there was a tree growing golden apples in the end. Maybe it's the same with this one, even if the fruits are red instead of golden.
The tree is one of three in the beautiful garden, and opposite is a house, which I suppose to be the small separate house our servants live in while they're not working, for there is a wall connecting it to our manor.
Strange only, how I've never seen this garden before. I know every corner of our grounds, or I thought I did, but this part has never been shown to me.
The long hair of one of the figures, which I suppose to be a woman, is blown by the light breeze outside. She hasn't noticed the other figure, who must be a man judging by his hair's length and shoulder's size. I think he's watching her, for his head is turned in her direction. She as oblivious as can be.
Wouldn't it be kind to tell her?, I think to myself. She's probably a servant, maid, and he could be there to tell her something that needs to be done. The male servants in our manor tend to be like that.
So I turn the handle to open the window, and although cracking and creaking, it slowly moves back. I shift so I can get my head through the slot I've created, and call out: "Hullo! Haven't you seen this man? He might wish to talk to you!"
As though some veil has fallen from both they aren't black figures anymore. The girl is wearing a simple brown dress, a maid's dress, as guessed, and he is dressed in a long black coat. So he's a man of some account. I don't know what he would be doing there, why he would be there, or who he is, yet I do indeed wonder why the woman isn't responding to my call. At once it strikes me that neither is he.
He's still watching and she. . .she is humming. Humming some kind of foreign tune. Yet even so her voice is stunning. Beautiful. Heavenly, even.
I always wished my mother would sing to me, as I know other mothers do to their daughters, but she would get sad and shake her head. I find myself wondering if she has heard this woman's voice. Maybe she's afraid hers isn't as good. But wouldn't that be ridiculous? To me, there's no person on earth who is more enchanting.
However, I do not want to get the girl's attention anymore, for I do not want her to stop singing.
But she does. For suddenly, there's a noise, a cracking. My eyes wander to find the source; the man has moved forward, and his foot snapped a twig on the ground while his arms were removing the leaves and branches covering his view.
The woman's head spins around till it's turned into his direction and an aghast look is plastered on her face, hidden by the shadows of the tree and thus only half visibly to me. However, quickly her astonishment turns into anger.
She must be brave. My first reaction would have been fear if I'd found a stranger watching me and listening to my voice. I'd have been embarrassed, also.
"Who are you? And why were you watching me?" Her hand is half raised, a basket clasped in it, as if to defend herself. Her whole body is tensed and if she was a grown man instead of a short girl, she would come across a lot more dangerous.
But when the man -for there is a man in the picture- steps forward, shaking off the tree's leaves sticking to his expensive coat, her muscles seem to relax slightly. However, her face only hardens further. There's no recognition.
The sun is shining onto the man. His face is lit fully by its radiant beams, and his eyes gleam in it, for they are blue, blue like the sky. His lips stretch into a heartwarming smile when his hand goes to his hat, grips it, and bows down while taking the hat with him, lifting it from his blonde curls. When he stands tall again, he nods once.
"My name is Peeta Mellark. I was taking a walk and came across this beautiful estate. I was listening to the birds' songs till at once they stopped singing. In the quiet I heard another voice, only one. And it was behind this wall." He points at the crème colored wall connecting the servant's house to the manor.
"So I thought to knock on the door, but heard it wasn't coming from inside the house but from the garden. I followed the tune till I saw you. And I can't say I'm sorry, for I could neither pry my eyes nor my ears away from that stunning scene. How could it be otherwise with a voice that makes the birds stop singing?"
Somewhen the girl must have moved, for now her shoulders are relaxed, she isn't crouching anymore, and her eyebrows are scrunched up curiously. She's stepped out of the shadows also; her eyes are visible, and they hold suspicion as well as something else. I wonder if that something else has anything to do with her flushed cheeks.
"Funny. I'd laugh if only I was a pretty girl to mess with." Her voice is hard in contrast to her face. She sets the basket on the ground ere she threateningly folds her arms in front of her chest.
"Unfortunately, though, I'm neither. Not pretty, not to mess with."
The man smiles charmingly, not impressed by her harsh words in the slightest. "I'm afraid I must disagree. You're not to mess with, I see. But not pretty? I have seen many women in my life, and none were as beautiful as sight as you are."
He speaks the truth; indeed she is fair. Her youth, her strong features, all of them make her beautiful, and also the woman's eyes, such a stormy gray, and her long hair, which is in the moment being twisted into a braid. The pieces of dirt daubed across her cheek do not lessen her bloom.
She rolls her eyes. "Haven't I made myself clear? Those aren't your grounds, and though neither are they mine, I imagine myself having a greater influence on the owner than you do."
Yet the owner isn't home. I'm alone at home, besides the two of them. I wonder if she doesn't know. Why else would she be threatening the man with my father and mother otherwise?
Though perhaps I may be able to help her. I am the Lord's daughter, after all.
"You heard her, she doesn't want you here! My father shall not fancy a stranger talking to one of his servants!"
And again neither of them budges, or even so much as glances in my direction. Their eyes stay fixated on each other.
And now I think they're both quite impolite.
"Can you not hear me?"
But again there's no reaction. Although for a moment, my hope is sparked when the man opens his mouth. But when the words come out, I know he isn't talking to me.
"I doubt it. But either way, I didn't want to upset you. You look so lonely doing your work. And your voice is stunning. Can't I keep you company?"
His smile is dazzling, his own voice pleading. She can't refuse him in that moment; the most severe man on earth couldn't.
The wind blows her hair from her face as she bows down to pick up her basket again. She's looking at him all the while.
"Why would you? Aren't rich men conceited and lazy?"
He shakes his head, laughing. His curls bounce underneath his hat, and he takes it off, places it onto the grass where her basket had been. With his free hand, he picks up one of the ripe yet fallen apples.
He holds it out to her as he speaks. "I claim myself to be quite eager to work, and when I'm bored I take walks."
And didn't he say he was taking a walk before he heard her? Is this his answer? I've heard many adults talking like that, never answering directly. I still wonder why they'd do that. It's impractical.
The girl, however, smirks for some reason unknown to me. "But conceited is true," she says teasingly.
But then it's like a twig had snapped again when the wind suddenly washes across her face and it falls while her body is straightening, as does the grin. I don't understand. Wasn't she cheerful just a second ago? What happened?
Hesitantly, she reaches out with her hand to take the apple out of his. And when their hands touch, she draws hers away as if it had caught fire. She drops it into her basket; a basket which she is clinging to rather vigorously.
The man seems to be as confused as I am, and for a moment his smile falters, afore it seems to magically reappear.
"Am I?"
He takes his heavy coat off exaggeratedly slowly and throws it carelessly across one of the branches. He then rolls up the sleeves of his blue shirt, which doesn't look less expensive, for it is made of silk. But suddenly he looks a lot younger. Much more like an older boy. Maybe sixteen or seventeen.
Maybe that is why my father would never do this. I wonder if it's proper for a man like him. Probably not, I answer my own question, for he's about to help a servant pluck apples.
"Let's get started, shall we?"
His eyes are still cautious.
The girl seems to have overcome her strange troubles, too, as she only snorts in reply. "Start? It's continue, rather. I've been interrupted, remember?"
He chuckles wholeheartedly as he stretches his arms to reach a fruit about nine inches above his head. "Who's the conceited one now?"
There's a plopping sound as the apple snaps off its branch. Her eyes roll again, but when I bow forward to get a closer look, there's a humor in them she's obviously trying to hide.
"I'm not conceited. I only know better." She also tries to keep her voice steely.
She fails miserably.
He knows.
And he's smiling to himself.
"So what's your name?", he asks. "I told you mine right in the beginning. Isn't it improper not to introduce oneself?"
She smirks again. Softer this time. "Isn't it improper to penetrate the garden of a stranger and talk to the maid, keeping her from working?"
She looks at him when she reaches out for the apples he's picked. And for a moment she halts her movements. I can't say why. Maybe because of the dirt rubbed off the branches now sticking to his former clean shirt. Or maybe merely because he is a handsome man helping her for no reason.
And her eyes become almost as soft as my mother's do when they land on me.
But then she gives her head a fast shake and when the boy turns he merely sees the end of her braid disappearing behind her back.
He grins. "So will you sing again?"
"No!", she cries, surprised. "I won't."
"Why," he gingerly touches her arm. She pulls it away at a pace much faster than needed. He isn't deterred though. "I have heard you already."
She shakes her head. "I am aware of that now, but I wasn't then. So that is no reason."
"Then I'm going to pry for your name again. Till you tell me."
And without further discussion, a new tune fills the air again, even more beautiful than the last one, and I listen to her voice rather than the blowing of the wind or the rustling of the leaves. He becomes silent, also, but his eyes never leave her as they continue to pluck apple after apple and fill the basket to the brim.
Suddenly I fall forward, crashing against the window, and it snaps shut in an instant. From the force of it I'm flung backwards and can barely rotate my body to the side before it makes impact with the ground. I roll a few inches afore coming to a stop. I'm panting heavily, but figure out there's merely a scratch on my arm rather fast; I don't cry. I've heard of other girls my age, who cry about everything, but I only do when I'm really hurt. Things like falling and stumbling happen to me constantly; my father always buys long dresses to cover up my red scrapes and blue bruises. Even if I don't think them half as ugly as other girls apparently do.
I rise and beat my hands against the skirt of my dress to dust it off. Of course the floor of our corridor is as clean as possible, but as Greasy Sae, the woman who is responsible for the tidiness of our house, always says, keeping a manor as large as ours perfectly clean is impossible. Thus none of us would leave their clothes untouched after they fell to the ground.
When I look at the window I see the two figures, the man and the woman, again. They aren't standing beneath the tree anymore, and the basket is gone also. They're seated on a rock shaded by another tree on one half, irradiated by the sun on the other. He's sitting in the sun, over her is cast the shadow. It's strange how both of them are black now, though. With her it's understandable. With him it isn't.
I open the window again, this time without much effort, to find a pile of brown leaves in front of the wall. The sun is literally gleaming, as if it was a hot summer day. And the brown leaves make even less sense. Why have they fallen already when others aren't even grown? Why is there a pile I hadn't noticed afore? I can't seem to remember it, and I've looked at the wall quite a few times.
Again neither the man nor the woman are irritated by the opened window. They still don't seem to notice me. It's strange, thinking about it, but somehow watching them is far too intriguing to stop.
"So you've heard me again," the girl states. Another weird revelation. He was standing right next to her. Of course he's heard her.
He grins at her. "No, actually this time, I only noticed the silence of the birds. And I went here because I knew on a day beautiful as this, only you could be the cause."
She glares at him, but there's the hint of a smile in her eyes and on her lips. "You're lying."
He chuckles, shaking his head. He's not wearing his hat, I realize, as his curls fly with the simple motion. My eyes search the garden for it -maybe it's still on the ground-, but I cannot find it, which is a queer thing, for only seconds ago it was there. His jacket isn't missing though; it's laid loosely around his shoulders, his arms out of its sleeves, his hands bracing his body on the rock.
"I'm not. You can't tell me you never noticed the utter silence around you. It's as if even the wind stops playing the leaves. And my wind chimes, for that matter."
She turns to him, her scowl forgotten. "Wind chimes? Aren't they unnerving for a continuance? And what's the use of them anyway?"
"Use of them? They're not useful. They're just pretty to look at."
Her eyes widen in disbelief. Her jaw snaps open. Her hand flies up to her mouth as soon as a snort escapes her lips.
"I'm sorry," she says. "But you sound like the daughter of my mistress. She says that about pretty much every ancestor in the corridor of this manor."
Little girl of her mistress? The little girl of her mistress is me. I, however, do not think any of those portraits are pretty. Except the one showing my mother. But why would this girl, this maid, tell him lies about me? She doesn't even know me. How can she say something about someone she doesn't know? And why would she?
Peeta Mellark, unaware as he is, looks skeptical for a second. Then he laughs. "So you're saying I'm a little girl?"
"Posy is twelve. She already got betrothed to some rich man. They're going to marry her off in two years. She's a little girl and yet those things are happening to her."
Posy? My name is not Posy. As long as I remember, my name has always been Mary. Chosen by my father. And I am not twelve either. I'm ten years of age. My parents would never betroth me without my agreement.
What is it with this woman?
"I'm very sorry for her. Forced marriages must be horrible. I can't imagine marrying someone I do not love. It should be forbidden."
He lowers his head to his hands while he's speaking.
"And who's supposed to forbid them? It's been common for hundredth, maybe thousandth of years. They won't suddenly change it in 1827 only because you say so."
I barely see him nod afore the frame clatters with the force of the window clapped shut.
For the year is not 1827. The year is 1838. And not both of them can have been mistaken.
I've been right all along. Something has been wrong all the time. And that something -obviously- is that those people aren't out there at the moment. They were out there eleven years ago. And it's scaring me just as much as it's fascinating me.
Their black shadows keep talking. At one point I see her long hair covering her whole face as she shakes her head, laughing. One of his hands isn't visible, so I assume he's clutching his stomach.
I wonder who they are -or were. I try to recall people I've met; perhaps an aged person. Him I've never seen, I'm certain. I'd remember eyes like his. Yet her. . .her features are familiar, but have I ever met a woman as cheerful as her? And if I have, how could I forget her? How could I be able to?
Maybe that was youth, and age has stolen it from her, as well as her beauty. But none of the women I've met look like they've been beautiful in their young years. Or maybe this is young Sea. Which would be strange, for she once told me she is fifty years of age. Although my father refuses to teach me how to work with numbers, claiming it's something only men should be able to do, I can see how that wouldn't fit.
No, she has to be someone else. And the only way to be able to learn who has to be to find out her name. I remember how she refused to tell him. But at some point she must, doesn't she?
So, carefully this time, as if not to disturb them, I pull the handle back again, bringing the window with me.
Just when I get a good view of the scenery again, it changes. In no time at all it seems, snowflakes begin to fall, down and down, till the trees, the rock, the roof, the wall, and every browned blade of grass are covered in a white blanket. The pile of leaves has disappeared, the trees have gone bald. Only bits of gray, brown and beige stand out of the consuming yet nonetheless enchanting white.
A chimney I hadn't noticed afore is starting to smoke. Thick white clouds puff out of it and the whole scenario seems picturesque. Could be adopted from one of the large drawings in our living room; a hut surrounded by mountains, all covered in white.
The door of the small house opens with a creak as the snow is shoved to the side. Out steps a figure wrapped in a plain, not nearly warming enough, brown coat, her head draped with the hood, which is made of fur, hiding her face. I wonder how the person, a servant, and most likely the unknown woman, got enough money to afford even a hood like that.
Clasped in her bare hand, which is reddening by the second true to the freezing temperature outside, is a shovel, which seems to be too large for her body.
I hadn't noticed the amount of the snow fallen afore, or its height rather. It goes up to the woman's shin, where the coat ends. I wonder if she wearing anything underneath that possesses the ability to shield her skin from the icy cold. She's shivering, but that could also come from the lack of warmth, which should be provided by her coat.
I anticipate a horribly scratching noise as the shovel makes contact with the ground, but again only the snow is creaking. Of course, I remember, there's only grass in the garden, no stone. I once watched our gatekeeper shovel our entrance free off snow, and I had to cover my ears, for the sounds it made were almost unbearable.
The woman lifts one hand from the shovel to her mouth, and the cloud forming from there confirms my suspicion; blowing breath onto her hands is the only way she'll be able to keep them from freezing. I wish I could give her my mother's pair of gloves, but I can't very well travel back in time.
Then she repeats her former motion; she shoves the shovel into the snow, uses her foot to balance the action of keeping the snow in place afore lifting it and throwing it to the side. Again and again. She sometimes groans, lifts her hand to wipe sweat off her forehead or warm it, rubs both together. Once her hood falls off, confirming her identity, and she quickly has to pull it up again. Then, a satisfied sigh escapes her. She's halfway through when both of us are at once startled by a male voice.
"Doesn't your mistress have men to do these things?"
She plunges her tool into the ground, so hard it sticks there. Out of shock or anger, I do not know.
The voice, though, is all too familiar by now, so it doesn't surprise me when Peeta Mellark in a coat completely made of fur, his curls sticking out of the hat pulled over his ears, appears in my view. He leaves deep footprints in the snow while he's walking, and it's like the snow is groaning and moaning beneath his weight.
"She does and she doesn't. There's a man shoveling the main doorway free of snow; you'd know if you didn't always come here. But since the death of my mistress' husband, she hasn't been able to afford many men, and they are out logging trees to get some wood for the manor. So it's up to me to chop the wood for our little house over there; I don't want to freeze either."
He shakes his head. "Still, it's not the kind of task a woman ought to do."
Another pile of snow is built as the woman turns the shovel to the side to unload it. She heaves it back into the snow and starts repeating the movement. It's only then that she speaks. "Are you saying women aren't strong enough?"
He steps closer, and a bunch of the sticky white material is thrown onto the seam of his coat. There's a stern look on her face when he glances up at her. "That's not what I was saying. Neither is it what I believe. How could I, knowing you? There's no need for demonstrations."
He lifts his coat slightly to shake the snow off. Leathern boots appear beneath, and I wonder if they're lined by fur also.
Apparently, I'm not the only one who noticed those boots.
"Are they even fashionable for a man like you?", the woman asks.
He actually chuckles. He's so very different from my father. My father would never take words like that from a servant with a laugh. Perhaps he'd even go as far as punishing her for being cheeky.
"I don't know. Do you? Why should I care? There's no one seeing me anyway."
The maid raises an eyebrow. Only one. I've spent hours practicing this task in front of a mirror, and still I won't succeed. My mother, though, can do this effortlessly. She says she never had to practice. "So I am no one?"
To my surprise, he nods his head. "Yes. Since -at least to me- you do not bear a name, you're no one."
She snorts. "So whatever doesn't have a name is not real?"
"I didn't say that. But even flowers have different names, why don't you give me yours? What's the harm?"
This time, the snow lands directly in his face. He lifts one of his glove covered hands to wipe it off. I'm anxiously watching him, waiting for his expression.
The woman doesn't seem to wait for anything. But somehow, she can't seem to muster real anger. None reaching her eyes, at least. "So that's your newest idea to coax my name out of me. Forget it."
"Is this any way to treat a gentleman?", Peeta asks teasingly while bowing down. He picks up some of the cold substance and clenches it in its fist.
She shrugs, cautiously eyeing his hand. Or perhaps she's only interested in the glove. Warming, in contrast to her own freezing, shivering fingers. They're still red, and she rubs them against the other hand once again.
"When he's invading the property of a lady without permission?" She grins. "Yes."
And he can't keep the smirk off his face either. "Alright."
He then lifts his arm to a position where he could pitch the snow in his fists at any second. "But then the gentleman can treat the maid of said lady the same way."
And then he throws. Her eyes widen. The snowball flies as though time was taking longer, as though it was being shown every second of the flight.
And when it hits her square in the stomach, time goes back to normal. "And you call yourself a gentleman?"
The shovel's content goes flying at him again. This time, though, he's prepared, and sprints out of the way, so only his side gets struck with surprising force for a girl.
He looks like he's trying to raise his eyebrow, like she'd done afore, but fails miserably. I'm slightly relieved that there is -was- someone out there who's as ungifted as I am. "You cannot be serious?"
Another load wets the seam of his coat.
"I could ask you the same thing. It looks like that." And she does that thing with her eyebrow again. I see him struggle, but a laugh escapes his lips nevertheless.
He collects some snow again, but is not as fast as her. His back is hit by yet another loading. He falls forward, his whole body landing lengthways in the snow.
Neither I nor the woman can contain our laughter.
When he pushes himself up, as dignified as possible - in his current state - there's a playful grin hidden beneath a hurt expression. "I hope you're up for a fight."
She chuckles conceitedly. "I hope you are up for it."
And then snow is being thrown, coats are being damaged for soaked and shouts are being heard. And somehow, suddenly there's a way over to an roofed circle with a ground made of stone and a single wooden block in the middle. Sticking in said block is an axe. And on the wall, neatly stacked, are a few logs.
They are still laughing as they approach the circle, like children, clutching their stomachs, shaking their bodies to shake the snow off their coats, and Peeta pulls his hat down to beat it against his leg again and again, till it's purely black without white, wet dots. When their feet finally touch the dry stone, their laugher begin to die out, till there's only slight panting to be heard.
"Well, who do we declare the winner?" he asks while shaking his head, sending some drops flying with his hair.
The woman is smirking. "Me. I've got a free path to the wood now. The only thing you've got is a soaked coat."
Despite the truth of her words, or perhaps because of it, he laughs. Dwell on it, however, he does not.
"Now, that definitely is not a job suited for women. Let me help you."
She rolls her eyes at him. "If I can shovel my way through the snow, I can also split some wood with this axe."
She yanks the tool out of the block in demonstration. Unfortunately for her, though, the force she needs to fulfill this task sends her stumbling a few steps backwards.
And directly into his arms.
He catches her securely around the middle, his grip firm despite his surprise. Her arms, stretched out to catch something to hold onto, or to balance herself, fall to her sides, and for a moment it looks as though she's leaning against him.
It is a rather odd move, actually. Inside, the fur may still be warm and dry, but outside it's cold and wet. And his body warmth can scarcely be enough to rehash her through her, though thin in comparison, surely completely soaked coat.
But still her body relaxes shortly, a half smile gracing her lips, a content one nevertheless. Strangely enough, he is wearing the same expression.
Then I see blood rushing to her cheeks, painting them a flaming red that has nothing to do with the icy breeze outside or the state of her clothing.
She detangles herself from him in a rush, but the smile never leaves his face. And a smile, it is. Not a cocky I-told-you-so smirk, but a sincere, gentle, soft, honest smile. A hint of adoration as he looks at her.
"Come on," he says as softly as humanly possible when he reaches for the axe in her fingers. "Take my gloves for a while and I'll chop your wood."
He's already taken one of them off when she finally seems to find the strength to respond.
"I can't. They're yours. Besides, what if you forget them? They'll accuse me of being a thief. And who's going to believe a simple maid that she's been given them by some nobleman?"
He ignores her, pulls off the second glove and thrusts them into her unwilling hand. She holds them, out of reflex or to prevent them from falling down, but she's ´shaking her head.
He then removes the axe from her - now loosened- grip, and tells her, "First I'm not a nobleman. Solely a boy born with an exalted family name. Some people pride themselves on names like mine. That's disgusting, if you ask me. I don't want to be seen as one of them."
He scrunches his nose, creating small wrinkles in the space between his eyes, as if he's smelling something repulsive.
"And I insist you take them. I won't forget them, don't worry. But your fingers are freezing. They look like they're going to turn blue any minute. Please, if you don't wear them for yourself, wear them for me."
She scowls, but obviously can't deny he's right. Or perhaps the temptation is too much to withstand, the awaiting warmth inside the fur. Gloves like his are resistant to snow and water; even if the outside is wet, the inside is dry and cozy.
But either way she slips her hands into them, and breathes a sigh of satisfaction when they enclose her hands. They're too big for her, and it looks as though she had grown the paws of a bear, of course, but that matters to neither of them.
"Better?"
She shots him a glare, but responds with a surrendering "Much better".
Peeta only smiles at her. "You can bring me the wood, so you won't feel useless. And…" He hesitates.
She raises an eyebrow, visibly irritated. "And what?"
He bites his lip afore speaking again. "And would you do me the honor of singing for us again?"
Her face falls at his words. "I can't. Not that I'd necessarily like to." She would. I see it on her face. I'm not sure why. Last time he had to practically blackmail her. But clear is she does.
"But I'm not allowed to sing. In a winter a few years ago, in this month, the lord of the manor died. Now music isn't allowed in winter. It's a time to grief. And my mistress needs it. But no singing, no instruments, nothing. Her husband loved music, just like my father did."
Something is wrong with her statement, but I can't quite grasp it.
Till Peeta voices it. "Did?"
Did.
"He died," the woman says. " He was driving the sleigh my mistress' husband died in. The ice cracked beneath them. They fell into the lake and couldn't be saved soon enough."
Her gaze is fixed on the wood, but the sadness, the grief on her face is still visible. He looks at her with sympathy in his stunningly blue eyes, and the way he reaches with his arms for the wood she's carrying, it's as if he's reaching for her.
"So that's why you're working for this family."
She nods, but keeps her head down as she hands him the wood. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this," she sighs.
He tenderly but firmly grasps her hand, not caring that it's wrapped in fur. She blinks down at the ridiculous sight; the bear's paw in the man's hand. "How old were you?"
Only now does he have her look at him again, confused. "I was only eleven. But my sister was seven, even younger."
He lets go of her hand and places the wood on the block. "You've got a sister?"
Peeta lifts the axe and a second later, the log is split in two. He doesn't see her gentle smile when she answers. "Yes."
But maybe he hears it. For his features light up in a similar way.
"Yet I haven't seen her in years. She must be so beautiful by now."
His smile grows even wider. It looks like a grin when he turns to her. "Does she resemble you?"
The woman shakes her head while picking up another log. It looks slightly clumsy with her paws. "Not at all. She looks like our mother. Her skin is fair, her hair is blonde and her eyes are blue. Like yours. Even if your eyes are a different shade of blue, and her hair is straight not curly. She was much more beautiful than me, even then."
Somehow, her description sounds like one I have heard afore. I don't know of whom. But I'm certain there was someone.
"I don't believe that."
Her head shots up. A look of pure wonder is plastered on her face.
He chuckles, and I flinch as the noise of another log cracking fills the air. "You don't realize how beautiful you are."
She quickly tries to hide her blush, but neither Peeta nor I miss it. It causes him to smile. It causes me to grin. This woman flushes often, and very deep.
"You shouldn't be saying those things," she tells him sauntering over to give him more wood. "Not to me at least. Tell them a mayor's daughter, or a count's daughter, or anyone who's worthy of hearing them. Not a servant."
He shakes his head, snorting. "But maybe neither the mayor's, nor the count's daughter deserve them. Maybe they aren't beautiful and don't you think I shouldn't be lying to them? And anyway, didn't I tell you already that I make nothing of titles?"
Suddenly there's a clatter. The logs the woman had gathered are sprawled all over the ground. He looks at her questioningly, and she seems to be shocked. Why, I can't say. He was only complimenting her. Whatever is wrong with that?
"Stop," she whispers. "Stop." This time it was louder. "Don't talk to me like that. Don't say words of that sort. Please."
He is perplexed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you. "
She smiles bitterly. "I know."
She then kneels down to gather the fallen wood without further comments.
And leaves me confused. Which girl, which woman wouldn't want to hear nice words spoken about her, even to her? Why would she react like that? It isn't as though he's committed a crime of some sort, no, merely has he told her she was beautiful. I've been told that multiple times, by other women, friends of my mother and father, or by my parents themselves. Even if I cannot see it.
And then there's a gust of wind, snowflakes swirl across the scene in a kind of whirlwind, the man and woman's shape, and about everything in my view gets blacker till they vanish without so much as leaving a footprint. When the whirlwind is gone, there's only the garden. The trees are still blank, but the ground isn't covered in the crystal white blanket of snow anymore. Instead there's a mushy, brown grayish substance, and footprints here and there. It doesn't look beautiful, let alone picturesque anymore. It looks dirty, the mud and the snow mixed to an ugly sight. Only the leftovers of clear snow on the roof or on some branches remind of the wonderful view I was presented the last time.
Peeta Mellark is out there already. One hand stuffed in the pockets of his cozy, fur-lined coat, the other clutching a sort of basket, his gaze is lingering on a titmouse sitting in a tree and chirping. Its yellow chest lifts and lowers in time with the sounds it spouts. He seems to be utterly fascinated. There's a slight smile playing his lips.
It doesn't fade when the door opens and the woman, wrapped in the same coat as before, steps out and he turns to her.
If anything it grows wider.
"I saw you from the window." She nods in the direction of the house. "What are you doing here? Waiting till I show up?"
He laughs. "Well it worked, didn't it?" Another chuckle escapes his lips. "But to be honest, I wanted to see if you made it through winter well and above all, well fed."
His eyes take in her appearance; slender her legs and arms had always been, but now her trousers seem just a tad bigger, the sleeves of the coat seem a bit more saggy. There are dark circles under her eyes, and her cheeks appear hollow. Her lips are dry and slightly cracked.
His worries are justified.
And she must know, because she looks down shyly. "The winter was tough, as you know. There was barely enough food for the family. Naturally, the employees got even less."
She smiles halfheartedly at him. "It wasn't even that bad for me. My friend Finnick looks worse. He gave almost all of his food to his fiancée, Annie, and kept working as hard as he would have done with a filled stomach. Annie is…not quite right in the head. It's not her fault, she's just traumatized. He's trying to get them out of here. Made some investments and saves all his money. They want to move to America."
She frowns. "America. The New World, they call it. They're foolish enough to believe they'll have a better life beyond the ocean, like trillions of people before them."
He gives her a questioning look. "And aren't they right? I'd go there myself if it wasn't for my wealthy state and especially my family's business. There's so much ground to colonize and so much work."
She rolls her eyes. "Yes, and so much money to spend to even get there. Then there's the journey. With a ship load to the brim across the ocean. Storms and diseases included. No thanks. My mother and sister are fragile enough as it is, and so is my income. Besides, even if I wanted to, it would be nothing but a dream. And I do not dream."
He doesn't even ask her why. I certainly would. How can't she dream? I love to dream. Of fairy tales and unicorns and hidden treasures. Even if I know they won't come true. It's nice to dream of a life without troubles. Sometimes, I wish I could paint the pictures in my head, but for some reason, my mother won't let me. She always looks so sad when I ask her about it, but tells me it's too much to afford. I know that's not true, but I never pry. I want her to be happy.
She clears her throat and brings me back to the present. Or, well, to the past.
"So, what's with the basket?" She points at his right hand.
He's clearly taken aback. It takes a few seconds afore he glances at it, as if surprised to see it, and shakes his head. Not denying something, but clearing it. He lifts the basket. "In there is food. For you, originally, but you can share it with Finnick and Annie if you want to."
"No," she says. "I can't take it. It's yours, it's…"
With a few strides he's crossed the distance between them and clamped his hand over her mouth. She struggles, glares at him, but he just smiles goodheartedly. "I should have told you. I won't take no for an answer. You need it and I do not. Sometimes life is simple as that."
He then removes his hand from her mouth and uses it to pry her fingers, which have closed to a fist, open, shove the basket into her hand and close them around it again. She's still too stunned to speak. He takes a step back and grins innocently at her.
She gathers her wits again, it seems, because suddenly her eyes focus again, back in reality. They move to her hand, the basket clasped in it, and then at him again. "I'll give it to them and refuse to touch a piece myself. That way I won't feel guilty."
"Oh no, you won't." Now he's glaring. "I'll personally sit down next to you and make sure you eat. I'll even feed you if I have to."
She mutters something under her breath, a word my father would scold me for using, scowling. "Alright. Then come in. Finnick and Annie are the only ones inside. Everyone else is somewhere in the manor or in the woods."
That, however, causes him to hesitate.
"What? Don't want to be seen with me?", she asks.
"No, that's not it," he rushes to reply. "Of course it's not. The problem's much rather…won't you get punished for inviting a stranger in?"
She snorts disbelievingly. "You didn't care before, so why do you now? Anyway, no I won't. No one's going to notice and even if they did, they wouldn't care. And a stranger…you honestly aren't anymore."
He smiles brightly, leaving me wondering where the sudden happiness comes from, and nods. But as they start moving towards the door, I realize I won't be able to see, much less hear them anymore. And although this whole thing is somewhat scary and queer, very queer indeed, I want to see what happens next. And I want to see Annie and Finnick as well.
And so far, I see only one way.
So, hoping I won't feel the cold, for I do not want to go to grab my coat, I open the window just a tad wider, so I can squeeze through, and jump out. I quickly turn around, to see if the window is still there, and only when I can touch it, wooden, brown and strange on the marble wall, do I dare to take the next step.
Thankfully my hopes weren't in vain, and I do not feel a thing. Not even the ground beneath my feet reacts to my steps, makes so much as a sound. I almost float across the muddy snow. It feels as though I weigh nothing, as if I don't even exist. Which, I remind myself, in this year, I did not.
So what am I? A ghost? Yet wouldn't I have to be dead for that? And ghosts are, as far as I know, transparent, not invisible.
But what else can I be? For when I try to move the door's handle, my hand slides swiftly right through the metal. I flinch back a step, not having anticipated this. How am I supposed to get into the house now? I pound my fists against the door in frustration; only they never hit it.
I smirk, proud of my discovery though slightly ashamed of my own silliness. Of course. If my hands go through metal, they'll go through wood, too. And if my hands are transparent, that means my whole body is.
My suspicion is confirmed when I step through the closed door without coming across any sort of resistance.
I lift my arms, to inspect my whole body, grinning. I twirl around once, and when my gaze lands on the wall, I don't hesitate afore running towards it with closed eyes. When I open them again, I'm in the garden. I laugh, because this is so absurd, and somehow funny, and somehow queer.
Then suddenly my laughter stops, as I remember the purpose I originally came here for. I'm still smiling, though, as I walk back into the house, and I can't keep the giggle from escaping me when I walk through the wall. The room I enter consists of only a small floor with shoes in the corners and a single clothes hanger, with some coats and a few jackets, all a dark, ugly brown, slung across it, and a lamp on the ceiling to light it. The light is turned off, though, so it's relatively dark inside. Would be fully, if it wasn't for the light streaming through the window. Of course that doesn't mean much, as the sky is covered by hideous, gray clouds.
So I walk through the next best wall, hoping I'll come out in the right room.
And I do.
Only it makes my smile fade.
For the sight that is presenting itself to me is pitiful. A blanket sprawled across the erratic floorboards, which look like they could crack at any second. The room is lit by a candle in the middle of the blanket and the light from the two windows only. It isn't necessarily dark, but it gives the room an uncomfortable appearance.
I realize I'm practically standing right in a small chimney. It's made of rocks and I see some leftover coal on the rims. I quickly move to the side, although it is irrational. I'm glad for my weightlessness now, for I wouldn't trust this floor to carry me. There's a small table right beneath one window, made of dark wood, surrounded by four in terms of color unfitting chairs, all of different sizes. In one corner is a small stove, which looks more like a black barrel with a pipe sticking out of it and a dirty door than anything else. Some pots and one pan hang next to it on a sort of bar, right above a sink. Then there's an old cupboard with visibly used dishes, plain white, unlike the elaborately decorated ones in our cupboard in the major, which is easily trice the size of this, and newer, too.
Standing in front of this cupboard with his back to me is a man with red hair. No, it's not red. It's not brown either. It's like one of the coins father treasures; he says they're old and precious; some golden, some silver, some bronze. And bronze is the man's hair as well.
Despite the weather outside, he's wearing nothing but a white shirt and simple trousers. His muscels are well-defined, for there are lines on his arms, but he's far too thin for it to be attractive; or healthy, for that matter.
Still, when he turns around he appears to be the most handsome man I have ever beheld. His eyes are of an impossible color, green like the sea I've seen on the picture in our dining room. Beautiful and captivating. I like my eyes, think they are pretty, beautiful even, but they cannot compare to his, not in a million years. He must have been even more handsome back when he wasn't starving.
Finnick, as I remember his name to be, smiles charmingly, although it isn't directed at me. "So you're the glad our little girl has been talking about that whole time. Nice to meet you."
The "little girl" huffs, rolling her eyes. "I haven't been talking about him the whole time as you know very well, Finnick."
He chuckles. "Right. Only half of the time."
She crosses her arms in front of her chest, scowling, but doesn't say anything else, causing him to grin triumphantly. "She cannot deny it."
Peeta joins in Finnick's laugher, but both are of good nature. He shakes his head. "Well, I'm glad to hear she thinks as much of me as I do of her."
He gives her a soft smile, and her cheeks flush a dark pink again, prompting her to lower her head to evade her friend's smirk. She also misses Peeta's following, reassuring smile
It's almost frightening how out of place he looks. While the other man and both women are slim, thinner than healthy, his built is rather stocky in comparison. The three servants have dark, untidy hair, while his is an ashy blond, and his locks curl neatly down his head. And if those factors do not betray him, his clothes do. Not simply because of their color. Not simply because the shirt he's wearing is a plain yet elegant white, but because it's made of cotton. Finnick and the woman are wearing modest hemp.
Annie's clothing, however, isn't visible, for she's enveloped by a second blanket, a dark, itchy looking blue with dimly colored pattern. She's seated on my right, so I can merely see her profile. Bushy brown hair, about the same shade as mine, goes down her back, and her eyes have the same color as Finnick's; yet they are not as bright, not as enchanting. Her expression is somehow bewildered. Her snub nose doesn't help the impression she's made on me from the first second; distraught, dazed and helpless. Traumatized, the woman said. It's not hard to imagine.
The dishes clatter as Finnick sets them down on the ground, despite the blanket beneath them. Annie looks up for a second, and when her eyes find Finnick's, she smiles. In that moment, they beam radiantly, and his resemble hers.
"So Peeta, have you gotten her to tell you her name yet?", he asks while sitting down next to his fiancée and taking her hand in his. She leans into him, but zones out again, this time staring at the candle in front of her with empty eyes.
"No she hasn't," he answers, glancing at the couple opposite him longingly. They are visibly happy, at peace, despite the circumstances they're forced to live in.
Finnick clicks his tongue and glimpses at her reproachfully. "I would have expected you to at least tell him, sweetheart."
Her staunch posture suddenly loosens as her head snaps around. "What's that supposed to mean?", she questions angrily. "And haven't I told you to stop calling me sweetheart?"
Her eyebrow is raised and she flashes her eyes at him. The light shadows the candle casts onto her face make her appear even more furious.
Finnick seems completely unfazed by her temper. He's still grinning, absently stroking Annie's hair. "You've told Haymitch about a thousand times and he still hasn't stopped. And really, what choice do we have? You refuse to tell us your real name."
"You do?", Peeta interferes, eyeing her incredulously. "I would have thought you'd at least tell the people you've known for longer than me and live with. And who is Haymitch?"
I remember a Haymitch. He used to work for my parents when I was younger. He was strange, always asleep when I saw him. Also, he was dirty; his beard untamed, his hair greasy. I was slightly afraid of him, but my mother would never hesitate to roughly shake him awake and tell him to stop drinking afore his liver would surrender to the alcohol. But he didn't stop and died a few years ago because of it, or so my mother says.
The woman sighs, capitulating. "Haymitch," she glowers, "is the always drunk gatekeeper of this manor and has made it his spare time job to unnerve me."
Finnick chuckles, turning their attention to him. "You should hear the two of them. They like to bicker like an old married couple. But deep inside they know they love each other." He winks at his friend.
Peeta laughs as she snorts. "And that is the reason why neither of us takes Finnick seriously." But she allows a grin to play her lips, so he knows she is not upset anymore.
She then reaches for the basket she'd placed right beside her and lifts the fabric covering it, throwing it carelessly to the side.
Her eyes widen to twice their usual size when she sees what's lying inside, prepared. I'm curious, too, and walk -or float- closer to them, to get a better view. But I could have stayed where I was, for suddenly she eagerly reaches into the basket, taking handful of all sorts of food out; different kinds of vegetables, apples - god knows where he got them at this time of the year - , freshly baked, golden bread, although I can't smell it myself, I see all of them exhaling deeply, so I know it must smell heavenly, as bread always does, and there's even some meat.
I'm fairly certain the mouths of the three servants water at the sight, for so does mine, and the last time I ate properly was this morning, not a month ago. All they can do is stare for a moment, while Peeta is smiling contently and brightly.
And then they savage the food with both hands, the dishes in front of them forgotten, and I can only watch as delicacy after delicacy vanishes, is devoured by hungry mouths to fill empty stomachs.
Till without a warning, the woman's posture straightens. "Stop", she says, carefully placing the chicken's leg on her plate.
Finnick, still a mouthful of food, stops in his tracks. He swallows afore his jaw snaps open and he gives her a disbelieving look. "You can't be serious. I haven't had this much food in years. That is like telling an emigrant standing right in front of a ship 'I'm sorry, I know you wanted to travel to America, but now you're going to have to stay in Hamburg.'"
She rolls her eyes at him. "I'm not telling you to stay in Hamburg - although technically, if you're trying to emigrate from England, it is another country as well, you know. I'm only saying you should skip one ship and take the next one."
He does not understand what she means. He may try to hide it with a slow nod, but his blank expression gives him away.
Peeta chuckles, sharing a knowing look with her. "She's trying to tell you that you should leave something for later."
Finnick glances at her for confirmation, and she nods, shrugging. "You came up with the metaphor."
The man pouts and sticks his tongue out at her, a childish act I would surely be scolded for, causing both of them to laugh. Only Annie keeps quiet, although I see her squeeze his hand. So she isn't as oblivious as it seems, obviously.
He cranes his head haughtily, and says, "Oh and sweetheart, Hamburg may be in another country, but it's still Europe and thus there are too many people. Plus I cannot speak their language."
And just like that he earns himself another round of laughter.
Once they've calmed down, there's a slightly awkward silence as they put the unfinished food back into the basket. That is, until Peeta speaks up,
"Why do you mind telling us your name so much?"
Three pairs of eyes rest on him. One wide, one curious, and one strangely calm. Annie green orbs seem to flicker to life once again, and, in a tone as if it was the most natural thing on earth, she answers,
"Because everything but her name belong to the manor. If it's never called inside of its walls, she'll be able to forget it should she ever get away from here."
Annie's voice is very soft I notice, and clear. It's also steady she's sure of what she's saying.
Finnick eyes his fiancée cautiously, as if he's afraid she'll snap at any moment, the woman is purely shocked and Peeta looks amazed.
"How do you know?", she breathes, so I barely understand her.
Annie, however, does without a doubt. "You talk in your sleep." She laughs, as if she'd said something funny. That's what the woman meant with not quite right in the head, I guess. There's nothing funny about her statement.
Finnick sighs. "It's starting again. I'm going to take her to bed."
He presses her against him, once, embracing her tightly, afore rising to his feet, helping her. Apparently effortlessly, he lifts her into his arms, her head resting in the nape of his neck, walks over to one door and kicks it open. I only catch a glimpse of the stairs behind, which look worn like everything else in this house, before Finnick shuts the door behind them.
Peeta's and the woman's head are turned in the same direction, their gazes fixed on the door the couple disappeared behind.
Only slowly, they begin to face each other again. "Is it true indeed? What she said?`"
She nods, but her mouth is as shut as the door. He scoots closer, taking the blanket with him, and soothingly runs his thumb over the back of her hand. Said hand twitches, but she doesn't flinch. Instead she looks at his action, as if it's completely foreign to her.
He places one finger of the other hand under her chin and uses it to tilt her head back up. "Look at me," he says softly. And only when her eyes, very shy all of sudden, find his does he talk again.
"I wasn't under the impression that you didn't like your work, or that the conditions were too bad. I mean, aside from the hunger you had to suffer this winter. I'm sincerely sorry I did not come earlier."
She shakes her head, which is still cradled by his hand, causing a strand of hair to fall out of her braid. He smiles while tucking it behind her hair. The candle's light only deepens the color of the blood rushed to her cheeks.
"My work isn't that bad, you're right. Actually I can be glad to have gotten food at all; I'm not sure I would have had I stayed at home all those years ago, when I had the choice. My real home, where my mother and my sister live I mean. This manor, however, will forever be connected to the death of my father. Somehow. Something I want to leave behind. But as long as I live here, as long as I'm remembered, I can't." She smiles sadly. "And don't be. You should not have done anything. You didn't have to do anything at all, I'm not your servant."
"No you're not," he tells her, caressing her cheek. "You're my friend. And friends help each other, do they not?"
She gives him a smile. "I suppose they do."
"See," he grins, afore turning serious again. "But friends also know each others names. And I don't belong to this manor, do I? You can tell me."
And she actually appears to be considering it for a second, afore a slow but definite shake of her head crushes his hopes. As well as mine. Somehow, I'm intrigued by the story I'm witnessing, even if it may concern the fact that I currently find myself being a ghost floating in a house in 1827; or possibly a year later, for it looks as though spring is approaching, and that means it's a new year.
He sighs distraughtly, pulling back a little. "Why not?"
She shakes her head again, giving him the simplest yet most complicated answer possible. "I cannot."
And he reacts in the most considerate way possible. "Well. . ." He bites his lip, leans forward and kisses her cheek tenderly. And it turns an even darker shade of red. "That shall be fine."
He grins. "I'm just going to call you sweetheart, too. Till you decide you're ready to tell me."
She snorts, placing her hands on his chest and pushing lightly. Not strong enough to force him to move even an inch, but he retreats nevertheless. "Are you trying to blackmail me?", she asks.
"I'm not. If you really want to know; I'm trying to find an excuse to see you again. Without suddenly appearing, I mean."
She laughs, actually. More carefree than before. "Do friends need an excuse?"
He shrugs. "I do. I don't want to cool my heels out there waiting for you every time I feel like it. And I can't always hope for you to notice me through the window."
"You're right." She bites her lip, thinking. "I'm going to be out there every morning in the spring. Planting vegetables for the family to eat, you know. Since they sell everything they grow on their own fields. And my mistress doesn't like to spend much money on things we can provide ourselves with."
"So I'm going to see you as soon as all the snow has thawed?" His eagerness is dimmed. I suppose it's because he isn't going to see her for another month. Or longer. I do not know. What I do know is that I understand him. I don't get to see my friends, the children of my parent's friends and Sae's granddaughter, very often, and sometimes, when I'm bored, I miss them.
She nods. "I guess so. That's when I'll start to subsoil."
At once I feel a sudden blast of air, sending my body flying a few steps backwards. I shortly wonder how the air got into the house, for the windows are closed. Only when the second blast hits, and blows me right through the wall, do I remember I shouldn't be feeling anything at all. Why is it the wind can touch me when something as massive as rocks can't?
But while I'm pushed further backwards, into the direction of my window, my surroundings start to change again. I can see the single drops forming, watch the water trickle into the soil. Buds begin to practically rip the branches, squeeze their way through a lot faster than they should, and the first leaves sprout, the grass begins to spear.
My body falls against the wall of the manor with a force I hadn't expected. Especially, hadn't expected to feel it. I quickly turn around, grab the window board in the room and drag myself inside. It requires more effort than just jumping out, for I have to brace my feet against the wall and awkwardly walk while pulling myself up.
It's no surprise I let out a breath of relief once I'm safely inside, leaning against the window frame, in my comfortable fleshly form again. I touch my arms, my dress, even the glass of the window to confirm it, but it's true. It's real.
Something I can't certainly say about the sight in front of me.
Or maybe it's what I hear.
Or maybe it's both.
My eyes and ears at least, however, show me something that is different from what I witnessed before. The woman is out there again, singing. Her words are clear, but her face, her body isn't. It's as if she's moving too fast. As if the scenery is still supposed to be changing.
It's strange, for afore, every time one of them was out in the garden, it stopped changing, went back to normal pacing.
Now, however, it doesn't. Even when his figure, as blurred as hers, appears, the garden doesn't stop moving. I can make out some bits of what they're doing, but really some pieces only.
She's bowed down with some kind of garden tool in her hand and then she's suddenly at his side, embracing him. They move back to the place she worked at before, and it seems he's helping her once again.
Then they lie there in the garden, on the grass, probably talking, but all I can hear is her song, which continues flying through the air no matter if her mouth is closed, laughing or talking.
When both are gone the sky goes dark, even if only for some seconds, which I'm guessing signalizes the new day.
It only takes yet again a few seconds for both of them to reappear, and the same procedure from the day before begins, although this time he goes straight to work with her.
It continues that way for a minute, with only minor changes in the story. Some days he's carrying something, a basket again I believe, twice two other figures, which I suppose to be Finnick and Annie, join them, and once the door of the house opens and closes as quickly. I suppose it was just another servant.
At some point I start watching the garden rather than the man and the woman. I watch the trees green, the flowers bloom, the vegetable's greens break through the soil, the birds fly, the rain fall one day and the drops trickle, and I watch the sun rise and set, watch the moon wane and wax.
One month and a half flies by like that, and the day begins like all the others, fast through the part where they work in peace, the notes of the song still ringing through the air. It doesn't have any lyrics, doesn't included any words; it's a tune rather than a song I notice.
And just when the last sound rings out, the shapes of the man and the woman become focused, till even their irises are visible again.
They're lying on the grass, on the blanket I recognize as the one Annie had been wrapped in on that day in the house. It looks slightly lighter in the bright sunlight, more colorful. His coat is draped across their bodies, and both are shielding their eyes with their hands as they look up into the sky.
It's not a plain blue today; there are these puffy white clouds that have nothing to do with rain scattered over it. She's pointing at one and they're laughing. It reminds me of my mother and myself in the garden on a spring day like this one, gazing at the clouds, trying to decide which shape they have, what they resemble. Are those two doing the same? But no, they cannot be. It's a game for children; I stopped playing it some years ago, much to the regret of my mother. She claimed now she had no excuse to do it anymore and poked me in the belly. I giggled and the subject was gone once and for all.
"I cannot believe you've never done cloud guessing before!", she exclaims. "How did you spend your time when you were young?"
He laughs, then lifts his arm to point at another cloud. "Like that," he says. "How fitting."
The woman as well as I follow the direction of his finger, but my view is blocked by the manor, and although I do know I could just jump down and look from where they lie, I am unwilling to leave my place again unless I am forced to, for I do not want to feel that blast of wind again. And I feel more at ease when I'm, well, whole.
"What do you mean?", she asks, obviously as oblivious as I am. He takes her hand in his hand lifts both of them. I see the edge of the cloud he's trying to show her.
But she shakes her head, and I catch her eyes flicker to the intertwined hands. "I don't see it."
He drops there hands and turns his body so he's lying on his side, propped by one elbow, facing her. "There's a dancing couple. It's rather obvious that they are waltzing. She is wearing a dress and he's wearing a some sort of fancy coat."
She pries her gaze away from his and fixes it on the cloud again. I can see the woman by now; she is wearing a dress indeed. Her hair is curly at one side of her face, and some is up in bun made of braids. The hem of her dress sways to the side. He's right. They're clearly dancing.
"Oh right, now I can see it. But in my defense, I cannot dance myself. How am I expected to notice clouds doing it?"
She turns to her side like he did, only to find him staring at her. "What?"
He runs one of his hands through his hair. "What do you mean you cannot dance?"
She shrugs, pulling her lower lip slightly forward in the act. I didn't notice it before, but she must have done so since she was little, for why would she start now?
"I have never learned it. And why should I have, anyway? What's the use if you're a servant's daughter?"
He shakes his head, chuckling in astonishment. "I can't believe you have never learnt how to dance." He then smirks, but I don't know why till he adds, "At least I don't have to ask how you spent your time when you were younger." That's why. His first statement resembled her former one about him and cloud guessing.
A mixture of a laughter and a snort leaves her lips. "No, you already know that."
He nods, biting his lip. Then, without any kind of premonition, he's rolled onto his stomach, braced his hands on the ground and pushed himself to a standing position. His hair tousles in the act and his rush, and his coat falls off their bodies, but he doesn't seem to care. She has propped up her upper body on her hands, so she's in a sitting position, eyeing him curiously.
He clears his throat afore straightening his clothes and making a bow directed at her. "May I have the pleasure of this dance, my fair lady?"
His face doesn't betray one emotion, but she chuckles at the, I admit, slightly ridiculous sight.
"Are you serious?", she asks.
"Really!", he exclaims in a haughty, self-mocking voice. Just like all those old gentlemen and earls visiting my parents would speak. Only they don't mock themselves while speaking. "I am in no mood for joking!" He breaks out into a grin.
Then, his voice returns back to its normal, soft self. "But yes, I am. Why not? If I have to guess clouds, you have to dance, too. It's only fair."
She sighs, but reaches for his outstretched hand and lets herself be pulled up. Her long braid swings behind her as she comes to a steady position.
"Alright," she says. "So how are we going to do this?"
He chuckles at her impatience. "We aren't going to do anything right now. I am going to instruct you to do something and you are going to do it. Understood?"
She rolls her eyes but nods, while I am trying to suppress a laugh. That's what the woman who taught me how to dance told me, too. I was six years of age back then, I know because my father said it was my birthday present.
"Good." He smiles encouragingly. "What I am teaching you is not particularly difficult, and it will be easier once you merely have to follow my lead." He chuckles. "Or so I hope."
And then he starts to talk, and her feet move in time with his words. She's a little clumsy in the beginning, and he has to catch her once because she trips over her own ankle, causing her to cheeks to redden as they seem to do so very often when he's around, but soon her body moves gracefully, eyebrows cocked in concentration, staring at her every step. Of course, he has to show her how to perfect her dance from time to time, but she could do a lot worse.
I recognize the waltz he's teaching her after a few seconds of watching; a Viennese waltz. A standard dance I was taught the basic figure of very early. It's not difficult alone, without spinning, but as soon as there's a partner and more than those basics, she'll learn how difficult the Viennese waltz can turn out to be.
When he stops her again, she's looking at him expectantly, and maybe with a tad of sorrow in her gray eyes, but he simply smiles at her hand gently places his hand on her waist, while leading hers up to his upper arm. He takes her other hand with his, stretching their arms to a level where they're just slightly bowed. A posture I know only too well.
"Do what you've been doing all the time. I'm going to help you find the right rhythm when you're wrong."
And she does. And he does. And somehow, although she steps onto his feet more than once, although he has to laughingly direct her how to move rightly, and although the closer they get, the lesser either of them can concentrate on what they're doing, in the end they almost look like the cloud which has long since left the sky above their heads. Sure, her hair is still in the untidy braid, with some strands fallen out of it, and the skirt of her dress is a lot less wide, and an ordinary brown instead of a puffy white, and there's sweat sticking to both of their foreheads, and he's not wearing a jacket, but they look as careless, as free, and her dress moves the same way, even if not as strongly.
They change into a move where they are just swaying from side to side, I was once taught the name of, but forgot it. He leans his forehead against hers though as far as I know that is not allowed, yet both of them are panting heavily, no matter the smile playing their lips, and as a break, this swaying is perfect.
The breeze blows through the leaves as well as their hair, causing a part of her face to disappear behind his curls. He chuckles softly. "You sure you've never danced afore?"
"I am," she laughs. "You're merely a good teacher."
I can see how he lowers their intertwined hands, but the swaying continues, although they do not move as much anymore. He sighs, the hair falling back in place, revealing his eyes, which are adoringly gazing at her.
"What?", she asks, moving her hand carefully from his upper arm to his shoulder. For support, I suppose.
He shakes his head, smiling. "Nothing."
"It's not nothing. Go ahead, tell me," she demands, brushing a curl which had fallen over his forehead away.
He sighs again in surrender, squeezing her waist lightly ere whispering, "I'm imagining you, in a fine gown, your hair loose, not in that braid", he tucks on the tip of it. First I think just to emphasize his words, but then the knots begin to unwind, till her hair falls in brown waves down her back. He smiles, pleased with himself. "And instead of this garden we're in a ballroom. And no one around us minds."
They've stopped swaying almost completely. It's more of a shifting from one foot to the other by now.
She turns her head slightly, looking down. "That's beautiful," she says. "But it cannot happen."
"Says who?", he asks, tilting her head back up to face him.
"Says me," she replies, biting her lower lip. Their movements stop altogether.
"An what if I say it can?" His tone ought to be playful, like afore, but it's heavy and serious. His gaze is so intense I am not certain I could bear it would it be directed at me. She doesn't flinch. But she isn't steady either.
"Well, then you're a fool." And her voice isn't as defined as it should be. It's weak, as is her conviction.
"Oh am I?", he whispers, moving even closer to her. And then, when she tilts her head upwards, happens what I couldn't have, what she couldn't have, what even he couldn't have foreseen.
He presses his lips to hers in the most natural, most wonderful, and most fairytale-like fashion possible. It only takes her a few seconds to respond, only a few seconds for her lips to start moving with his.
They stay like this for what seems like forever. Her hands sneak up to his neck and she links them behind it, while one of his pulls her by the waist, tighter to him, and the other cradles her face lovingly.
There's a happiness deep inside me, one I can't define, but one I feel whenever my mother tells me these stories when she comes to the endings, where the prince gets his princess. Maybe I feel that way because they as well seem to deserve it; deserve each other. Maybe because just like my parents, they let love win over titles and money. Another proof that fairytales may yet come true.
When they pull apart, both of their faces flushed, and lips slightly swollen, but dreamingly gazing at each other; she's the first to speak. "Yes you are." She brushes the tip of her nose against his. "But so am I." And she kisses him again.
Only slowly do they part, when she seems to murmur something against his lips. And he leans his forehead against hers again.
"I'm sorry. What did you say?" Although he's speaking, he can't keep a grin so wide I'm afraid it's going to break in two off his face.
"Katniss," she repeats, her expression mimicking his. "That is my name."
And I see him reply something. And I see the wind move the leaves. And I see a bird land on a branch and open its beak to trill its song.
But I can hear neither.
For her words are stuck my head, like a curse. "Katniss. That is my name." Katniss. There's only one person I know who bears this name.
It is my mother.
But I also know another name.
That of my father.
And it is not Peeta Mellark.