Author's Note: This is going to replace my other anachronistic fic, because I actually have a plot for this one. The other, I was making up as I went along, and I'm sort of in a rut. Oh, well, onward!

Disclaimer: Obviously, I am not the original author of this series. Haha, can you imagine writing fanfiction to your own novel?

May 28, 1918

It was Sunday. As a general rule, I loathed Sundays. They had an annoying tendency to be overly sunny and lethargic. My family sat at home and accomplished absolutely nothing. Excepting the bakeries, the stores were all closed. You could feel the emotions in the air: dread and resignation. Another week starting the next day and there was nothing whatsoever one could do to stop it.

This Sunday, however, promised to be exponentially better than most. I have always thought that after I celebrate my twentieth birthday, I would refuse to celebrate or even acknowledge any birthday after that. Why should I celebrate getting old and rheumatic? But, Mr. Masen, and my parents as well, for that matter, still somehow found joy in aging. The Masens would be coming over for dinner this evening, seeing as it was Mr. Masen's birthday.

I fancy myself rather good at simple mathematics. Mr. Masen and my father served in the same regiment during the Spanish-American War. They were both 18 when they joined, in 1898…Mr. Masen was 20 when he married Mrs. Masen in 1900, which means that in 1901, when their son Edward was born, he was 21 years old. That means that tonight he would be 'celebrating' his thirty-eighth birthday.

I lived in a fairly modest house in Chicago, on a quiet little street. Well…I suppose it wasn't really all that modest if I were to be truthful. My mother, Renee, even when her mood shifts, has two undying passions: her home, and everyone's outward appearance. She refuses to let our elderly maid, Agatha, do anything but menial tasks. Sometimes, my mother even does those. She is completely in charge of what goes into each room, how each room is decorated, and even how I fold my clothes.

It was her second passion, outward appearance, which she was advocating this particular morning.

"Your-hair'" she grunted, "is completely-and utterly-unmanageable." She yanked the boar bristle brush through my hair once more.

"Ouch! I won't have any left for you to worry about if you keep brushing this way!"

We were sitting, well, I was sitting, and she was standing behind me, at my vanity table. It was a quaint little table, a sort of dull green with a drawer in the middle, and a scene of birds and a little river painted on. I stared forlornly at my reflection in the three fold mirror.

It was a rare occasion that my mother attempted the formidable: making me look presentable. It was usually when we had company, company whose opinion she valued, or when a potential suitor stopped by. But they had all given up ages ago. She patted my shoulder affectionately.

"I suppose this is as much as I can do…hair wise, that is." I groaned as she walked to my closet.

"Here," she threw a pair of my thinner white hose at me. "Put these on," she pulled out my most horridly Victorian dress with lace up leather boots and frilly petticoats. "Then come down and help me prepare for dinner."

She closed the door and I grimaced at my clothes. I may not be the most fashionable person around, but in the matters of comfort I am well versed.

I traded in the white stockings for a silk, flesh colored pair. Next, I made my way to the armoire and threw open the doors. With the war on, it was hard to come by colored fabrics. Before the war, my dresses were all different colors: I had pastel yellow and lavender, ocean blue, sea foam green, pinks, reds, and a plethora of white. Now, since I have long outgrown those dresses, I have mainly drab, boring colors. Plenty of black and grey. I had two evening gowns, one that was my mothers and surprisingly fashionable, and one that I made myself with material I've hoarded since the start of the war. I also have three colored outfits for the day: one in a bluish color, one in a vivid red, and one a light green color.

I opted to wear the gown I made. It was sleeveless and made of ivory tulle and fell midcalf, with split paneling in the skirt. It was a show of how boring my days were that I'd taken the time to sew on milkglass and glass seed beads…I'd compensated for the boredom by listening to the gramophone while I worked. I had only just finished the gown, and tonight would be the first time I wore it. It had taken me just over two years. (that was a testament to how slow a worker I was)

I wouldn't normally take so much time with my wardrobe, but tonight was a special night. As previously mentioned, the Masens were coming over. I don't know why, really, but I always felt that I had to look nice, act accordingly, and be a proper lady whenever they were over.

I'm not really sure why that is, though. I've known that family virtually since birth. My father and Mr. Masen both served in the same regiment during the Spanish-American War. After the war, they both, coincidentally, settled within blocks of each other in Chicago. This wasn't discovered until 1902, January.

Mrs. Masen was going to Bramm's, the bookstore on our block, with little baby Edward in his pram. My mother, barely pregnant with me, was also in said bookstore. They were both on a quest for the classic Victorian book, "Enquire Within Upon Everything". They started talking and figured out the connection between their husbands.

After that, things became ritual. Our mothers would get together every few days to have tea and chat about things ladies liked to chat about. Our father would get together and reminisce about 'the old days', as they were always called. Once I was born, Edward and I would playfully beat each other up and steal each others toys…until, of course, he realized what he was doing and became the chivalrous man he is today.

Our fathers work together, on occasion. My father will assist in the capture of some dangerous lunatic, who Mr. Masen will then prosecute and put into jail. Perhaps twice a month, plus special occasions, our families will have dinner together.

Edward and I knew everything about each other. He knew that even though my mother infuriated me sometimes, I loved her dearly. I knew that the reason he beat up James Orson was because James said that only pansies read Virginia Woolf. That was when he was 14, and I 13.

Edward was the brother that I'd never had, protective and caring and witty. He was the only person my age with whom I could hold an intelligent conversation, and he valued my opinion and listened to me. I only wish things could stay this way forever.

Author's Note, Numero Dos: So, what did you think? Please, please, let me know…Oh! Yes, the dress…My life is so boring that I spent forever trying to find one I liked…just replace 'dot' with '.'

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