iv. Sforzando – struck with sudden, marked emphasis
It was good to see a familiar face again, even if that face was fighting off a smirk as Max recanted the events of the past twenty-four hours.
"So, really, Barrett, if you'd have just provided me a tad more detail about Margaret, you would have saved me a great deal of..." Max paused, searching for the correct term. Not frustration exactly, no...nor confusion.
"Making-an-idiot-of-yourself?" Barrett offered, before taking a bite of the dinner Porcoline had somehow managed to whip up for the two of them.
"A de Sainte-Coquille does not ever make an idiot of themselves, thank you." They don't admit to it, anyway.
"Sounds like it to me."
Max frowned, resisting the urge to try and dissuade Barrett from his (incorrect) opinion, a pointless undertaking if there ever was one. "Well, whatever it sounds like to you, the point is we've made...some sort of amends. A bump in the road, but a minor one. I can safely say I foresee needing only a couple more days, tops, to warm up this Margaret before extending her an invitation to Alvarna."
"Hey, whatever." Barrett's ability to sound neutral about everything was astounding. "This is your thing, not mine. You're the one who's so stuck on this music curriculum thing."
"And yet, here you are, ready to help me." Directing a knowing look at Barrett, Max took a sip of his grape liqueur.
"Hmf, I was going to be here anyway, so why not. What's one day early?"
Barrett's gruff exterior was all show. Nothing meant more to him than his students; anything that would enrich their education was important to him, even if it was subjects in which he had no personal vested interest.
That, and whether or not Barrett would ever admit it, he and Max were friends; you didn't spend two-plus decades living on the same lane as someone without forming some sort of rapport, no matter how jarringly opposite your personalities were.
Ever since the days Julia had passed on, Barrett's attitude towards Max had never wavered; he was as standoffish, dry, and brutally honest as he'd always been. So many of the other townsfolk didn't know what to say to Max, and neither did Barrett, but neither did he pretend to. If Max would have been permitted to discuss the true events surrounding Julia's death with anyone other than his immediate family, Barrett would be the most suitable person to confide in.
However, he wasn't allowed (and who dictated such rules? Well, no one. It just...such a delicate topic shouldn't be discussed, was all), so it didn't matter. So Barrett's candidness lent itself to the perfect complementary edge Max could sharpen his wit upon.
"You know, Barrett, I'm sure even you could learn a thing or two from Margaret. Wouldn't that be fun? Being one amongst your own pupils?" Max said, thinking on how happy Barrett's own son Leonel would be to see his father as a fellow classmate.
"Yeah, I'm sure I'd be a real whiz." Barrett picked at the fried veggies surrounding his grilled salmon.
"Well, we could start you on something simple, like the kazoo or triangle."
Barrett grumbled something (likely profane) Max couldn't hear, not just because of his naturally lower voice but because at that moment, a handful of Selphians came filing through the entrance, chatting and laughing gaily with one another. Max recognized them by face, but didn't have names to place with them, although he assumed one of them was Clorica.
"Guess that's our cue to get outta here." Barrett nudged his plate aside and rose from his chair.
"Oh, no no no. Porcoline invited us to attend-" Max stood too, motioning to the group seating themselves. "- tonight, and attend we shall. This birthday party for the lovely Miss Clorica." The lovely Miss Clorica whom Max had never met for a second in his life.
"No." Barrett made to back away, but Max rounded the table and grabbed his friend by the upper arm.
"Yes! Come along, Barrett. It's been so long since we've done anything fun together."
Barrett shook off Max's hold. "You and I have never done anything 'fun' together."
"Yes, and whose fault is that? Come now, don't you want to have something interesting to tell Leonel about when you get back to Alvarna?"
With one critical strike, he who wielded a thousand excuses against social interaction had been defeated, and begrudgingly followed Max over to the table full of Selphians.
A seasoned veteran of parties and all other kinds of gatherings, Max had no problem inserting himself into the festivities for Miss Clorica, taking care to introduce himself (and Barrett, who'd apparently not even bothered to learn half their names) to each and every one of the townspeople who circulated in and out of the restaurant throughout the evening.
As he did, Max was reminded in many ways of all his Alvarnan friends, with just hownotably different they were, yet all sharing an obvious affinity for one another. Comparing them to his friends in Alvarna made it even more effortless on his part to create a memorable first impression, something he'd never any issue with (until yesterday, that is) to begin with.
Clorica was a very lucky young lady, showered with every sort of present imaginable, from books to sweets to a fluffy pillow with a (rather sloppy) embroidered C on it, courtesy of Xiao Pai. The grandest gift of all came in the form of her mentor, Volkanon, revealing he would be taking her and her compatriot Vishnal on a day trip to the Capital tomorrow, on her actual birthday.
Max, charitable person that he was, gave her 500 G spending money from his own pocket, adding posthaste that it was from both himself and Barrett, since Barrett was otherwise occupied, slouched in his chair as he slowly, methodically broke apart a dinner roll and ate it piece by piece.
After an hour or so passed, Max decided he would have to find some way to repay Barrett for sticking around for so long, as honestly it wasn't his intention to do so either. Specifically, he was waiting for Margaret to make an appearance; she had admitted before they parted ways that she'd written a song for Clorica, for the girl's birthday, and Max took this to mean she would be be playing it here, tonight.
Certainly, he was content with listening to her play whatever she'd like, on any other night, but a composition that she'd written herself, and for a friend? Max considered himself to have an ear for learning songs, but writing ones were above and beyond a level of creativity he could fathom. Such an ability was innate, not something that could be taught, and he'd never actually known anyone personally with such a talent.
Soon after Porcoline departed to the bathhouse with Lin Fa and Xiao Pai, the one person who Max had been waiting for arrived at last. With her arm hooked in that of a serious-looking young woman outfitted in knight's armor and a warm smile rounding her cheeks, was Margaret.
It was another ordeal altogether to find the chance to speak with Margaret, as she spent the better part of the next hour all but sewn to the side of her knight friend, Forte as they and Clorica chatted about – well, whatever it was girls chatted about. So Max instead found himself over by the kitchen counter, regaled with the exceptionally detailed life history of Vishnal, after making the mistake of asking the butler-in-training just what it was about the occupation that appealed to him so much.
Finally, Forte and her younger brother wandered over to a hulking mountain of a man who had just entered, and Max excused himself from Vishnal's verbal autobiography, hastening away to make Margaret all his.
Quickly, he picked up a fruit tart from the spread of snacks, wrapped it in a napkin; he'd seen Margaret eat at least three of them so far. Then he approached her, all nonchalant confidence, and extended the dessert to her. "So we meet again."
"Hey!...Oh, thanks~!" Immediately she took the tart from him, and Max noticed the folio in her one arm, clutched possessively against her person. She bit into the tart, swallowed, and asked, "Did you find everything you wanted at the flower shop?"
After their productive conversation, Margaret had left Max at the flower shop. There he'd found an assortment of dried flowers crafted onto various decorations and accessories. He'd purchased a few flower crowns made of dried Toyherbs, for Leann and his nieces, and to replace the bouquet of Moondrops resting by Julia, that would surely be wilted by the time he returned.
"I did, thank you for asking. Might I ask what you have there?" He nodded to the folio she was holding so desperately.
"Oh, it's just my gift to Clorica." Margaret's smile was sheepish, her blonde fringe falling in front of her eyes as her head tilted down slightly.
"Is that right? Well, oughtn't you give it to her?"
"I can't right now, it's..I don't want to play it in front of all these people. Maybe after some of them leave." She finished off her tart, wiping at her mouth with the napkin.
"I'm sure it's plenty presentable for the masses. It can't be any worse than those detestable cookies that Vishnal fellow - " he gestured to the blue-haired butler, who was now with Forte and her company. "-gave her. They looked more like the wretched insect skins my young neighbor used to collect. Besides – and this is just my observation - I don't think you would have brought it along if you didn't intend to play it for her."
Concern still edged Margaret's voice, even though she tried to play it off with a faint laugh. "Well, yeah, but since I've been here, I just thought of all this stuff I can change to make it better, and I don't know if-"
Oh, enough already! Time for an impromptu audition.
"Clorica!" Max called over to the butler, who was standing over by the stairs with Volkanon and the elderly shopkeeper from the general store. She blinked at him dazed, as if he'd just woken her up – which, literally, he had. "Margaret wants to give you her gift!"
"Wh-! Stop!" Margaret grasped at his sleeve.
"Yayy~!" Clorica lit up with childlike glee. "Meg, what did you get me?"
Margaret didn't answer straight away, giving Max a look that wasn't a glare, but wasn't exactly friendly either.
Then she looked back at Clorica. "I..." She stepped away from Max, towards the piano. "How about I just play it for you?"
The song, as Max might have predicted if he were to pin a style of music to Clorica, was a soothing nocturne, one with a dream-like melody flowing impeccably over warm, muted bass tones. It was intoxicating, really, and Max watched, fixated, on how Margaret's fingers so gracefully traversed the keys. It was as if she were a mechanical invention, just wound up and let go, playing the song like clockwork without the slightest effort.
Of course, no machine could add half as much sentiment to a piece as Margaret did. Regrettably, he chose to glimpse at her face as she was immersed in the song, and was struck by how appealing... no. Gods, he couldn't...of all things...no.
Thankfully, the piece decrescendoed to its conclusion, and a thin layer of applause replaced it.
"Wow, Meg, that was...the best! You really wrote it just for me?" Clorica's face was the very picture of joy, her smile lively and bright, much unlike her demeanor.
"Heh, I'm glad you liked it.~" Oh, what a juxtaposition Margaret was, so passionate about her craft and yet so humble. How very mysterious.
"Could you...keep playing?" Clorica asked. "Your music makes me feel so...good inside."
Margaret stilled with apprehension, save for her eyes traveling about the room searching the faces of the other attendees of the party. There were murmurs and hums of assent, though Max wasn't among them. Of course, he wanted to hear more; who in their right mind wouldn't? But given what she'd confided in him earlier, about how she'd been ordered about while in the Elven Kingdom, he would tread cautiously; he'd show that he wasn't here to command her inspiration on his whim, but that he really did respect it - her, and what she could offer.
With a deep breath, Margaret launched into a soaring rhapsody that, from the first note, tugged on his heart with an unnameable sensation - but one that Max knew should be swallowed down. So he took a long, long sip of wine, and did just that.
The music shifted from an entertaining sonatina to a more classical, formal waltz, and Max checked in with his stoic colleague. "See, Barrett? Isn't this fun, just like I promised?"
"Yep. Tons."
With a little assistance from the goblet of wine resting beside his slice of marble cake, Max trusted that yes, Barrett was having fun, as much fun as Barrett could have.
"Good, good." Max refilled his own wine, watched Margaret for another minute or two before speaking to Barrett again. "She's splendid, isn't she?"
"No shit, I told you about her." Barrett maintained a deep, personal connection with his cake, scraping at the frosting with his fork.
"Language, Barrett. And you did, but I'm merely restating it – you should take it as a compliment, that I'm agreeing with your assessment. You know, you could stand to be a bit more...enthusiastic about this, since you are here. Show your appreciation, all that."
Almost on cue, the waltz concluded, and Barrett, looking Max right in the eye, set his fork down and slow-clapped until Max hissed at him, "Oh, be that way."
Out of the corner of his eye, Max caught the large form of Volkanon steering a slumped Clorica to her seat; it appeared the birthday girl had fallen asleep mid-waltz, though her body continued to sway in rhythm to the song.
Clorica slumped forward, her head falling into her crossed arms, giving no acknowledgement to Volkanon admonishing her, that she wouldn't have anywhere to lay her head tomorrow while they strolled about the Capital.
A young woman with a long swishing braid came racing through the front door and up to Clorica's side, shaking her awake by the shoulder. "Hey hey! Sorry, I'm late, I had a case to crack: The mystery of the missing birthday gift!"
Max recognized the newcomer from earlier in the day; Illuminata, the proprietor of the flower shop where Max had purchased the first of surely to be many souvenirs.
From behind her back, Illuminata produced a small, neatly wrapped box. "It was hidden so well that even I, the Amazing Illuminata, had to search high and low for it!"
Illuminata's bragging reminded Max of Alicia and her aspirations of fortune-telling. Her prophecies always came true based on a little intervention, which he hypothesized might also be the case for Illuminata's second career as a detective.
"Oooh!" Clorica's droopy eyes widened. "I'm glad you...solved it, Lumie. You're a -" she stifled a yawn before carefully unwrapping the present. "- a real great detective. Oh...! It's so pretty!" Clorica removed a small bejeweled brooch wrought in the shape of a Pink Cat flower.
"Very fetching indeed, Miss Illuminata." Max agreed from his spot, inclining head to her. "It's good to see you again. "
Illuminata let out a cheery little laugh. "Hey, you're the one who bought the Toyherbs! Porco's cousin or something! Matt!"
Across from him, Barrett gave a snort of laughter, the only one aware of how much Max abhorred when someone forgot his name. Really, was it too much to ask for?
"No, no. It's Max. With an X." He wagged a disapproving finger at her, his smile tight and his eyes hooded. "As in 'x-cellent', 'x-quisite', or 'x-treme.'"
"Or 'x-hausting," Barrett put in, deadpan.
Max paused to give Barrett a very pointed look, then turned back to Illuminata.
"Do you dance, Miss Illuminata?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Because Barrett here was just telling me how much this song makes him want to get up and dance, but, alas, he doesn't have a delightful lady to accompany him."
"I don't dance." Barrett immediately responded to the both of them, hand tightening around his fork, as if expecting to have to defend himself.
"Aha! A likely story! You just haven't had the right partner!" With deceptive ease, Illuminata yanked Barrett's fork away and all but wrenched him from his seat. "I'll get to the bottom of this!"
Max couldn't hear Barrett over the clever scherzo Margaret was playing, but he could very distinctly see his friend mouth the words "Eat shit, de Sainte-Coquille," as Illuminata led them off to the floor
Satisfied with his victory, Max picked up the plate Barrett had left behind; he would have his cake, and eat it too.
As he would have expected from Porcoline, the cake was delicious. But two bites in, a certain disgust snuck its way into his thoughts. Julia's voice complaining about how fattening cake was, how bad for the skin chocolate was. Not that he cared, nor suffered any of these adverse effects, but oh, the way she carried on about it!
Enough that Leann on her eighth birthday had wrinkled her nose and parroted the same words when Cecilia had been so kind as to bake her sugar cookies.
Max gave himself something else to focus on while eating by studying the others at the table. On the opposite end sat Doctor Jones and his wife, Nancy, who'd been at the party since soon after it started. With all the people who'd been milling about, Max hadn't the opportunity to speak with them past greeting, or even get much of a look at them, but now they were impossible to miss, for more than one reason.
An odd, unsettling feeling took hold of Max, his senses so suddenly heightened. He could taste the combination of chocolate and a revolting sourness that was rising up his throat. Could distinctly hear the beginning of the common Elven ballad Margaret was playing, its tender melody and the Elven lyrics that he didn't know by heart, exactly, but knew the general meaning of.
Nancy's hand folded into Jones's arm and he led her to the floor. The doctor's hands firmly held onto his wife's waist as her arms slipped about his neck, and Max could see so plainly – so horribly plainly – how in love they were.
And he hated them for it.
His gaze remained glued on the couple, as Nancy tilted her head in, whispered something to Jones that made him laugh lightly – and an image flickered in Max's mind, one of many that (he thought) he'd locked away because they served him no benefit. The same song playing at Cecilia and Jake's wedding reception; Julia dancing with him, absolutely stunning in her bridesmaid dress, so vibrant, one of the few days he remembered her as such – and the last day that her and Max weren't a couple.
Nancy pressed a soft kiss to Jones's cheek as the song ended – just as Julia had done to him, before asking if maybe this could be the first of many dances.
The scar that Max thought had healed was slashed open, bleeding devastation and bleeding fast.
For all his connections, for all his money and influence, Max would never be able to acquire what was right in front of him. Just like the stereotypical spoiled brat label he'd fought so hard against, Max had not ever, and still could not, handle being unable to get what he wanted, when he wanted it.
And right now, and every day, all he wanted was to have Julia back.
In a most un-de Sainte-Coquille-like manner, Max stabbed his fork straight down into the remaining chunk of cake, and all but tossed the plate back onto the the table, that it landed with a clatter and nearly slid off the opposite edge.
He broke for the stairs, was a few steps up when he heard Barrett's voice from behind him, felt a hand roughly grab at his elbow. "Hey. Max."
Max took another step up, hoping his lack of response spoke loudly enough, but Barrett's grip only tightened. "What's your deal? What happened to havin' 'fun' together?"
It was a lame attempt at playfulness, and Max internally cursed Barrett for choosing now to make such an attempt.
He twisted away more forcefully this time, the momentum of breaking away causing him to trip sideways onto the landing separating the two flights. From his new seat, Max stared up at Barrett's confused face, and hoped that Barrett would understand by his own expression that any sarcasm would not be tolerated.
"Hey," Barrett repeated, frozen in place a few steps below him. "Are you...okay?" His hesitance disclosed that he knew he wasn't asking the right question, but apparently didn't know what the right one was.
Staggering to his feet, Max spat out his answer in tone far more vicious than anyone else would risk taking with Barrett. "Yes. Just leave me be."
He didn't wait for a reply, hurrying the rest of the way up to his room and fumbling to lock the door behind him.
Sitting in the nearest chair, he chastised himself for acting like such a juvenile, so stupidly. How could he let jealousy, or whatever the hell it was, overtake him, on any night, but tonight? Surrounded by pleasant company and in the midst of a joyous occasion?
And after doing so well, too! The townspeople (in both towns), Porcoline, even Barrett were convinced Max de Sainte-Coquille was nothing if not okay.
But no, fool that he was, he'd let it slip. Anyone could have and likely had seen him make an idiot of himself, not but a few hours after staking the claim that de Sainte-Coquilles did not act in such an inappropriate manner.
For an indeterminable time, Max sat at the desk, heels of his hands dug into his eyes as he breathed in, breathed out, and again, and once more and once more. Through the silence, the echos of the piano wound up the stairs and under his locked door. The tranquility of the song fought away the boldfaced resentment that was completely uncalled for on his part.
That peacefulness settled upon him, into him, and Max finally lifted his head, only to spot a leather-bound journal resting but a few inches from where his elbows were planted. He examined it, finding it to be blank – perhaps left behind by a previous visitor? Max didn't know, nor particularly care; he was only incredibly thankful that it was there.
Clarity. In all these years, he'd never been able to describe what music provided him with, and maybe clarity wasn't all it gave him, but in this moment it did. Enough that he had an idea, of what he could do instead of sitting here like a pathetic, woebegone mess.
Picking up a pen laying nearby, he began to write.
First he wrote of the day that had been - of what was currently happening, Clorica's party. Then, of Margaret; of her remarkable talent and how he was equal parts awestruck and envious of how she could so flawlessly meld so many emotions together into one song. And on he continued, with useless made-up filler about why it'd been so long since he'd seen Cousin Porcoline.
Max tried to listen for the music from downstairs, but the only noise was frantic buzzing from his overworked brain filled his ears, along with the return of his own shaky breath – and this time, an itching in his eyes accompanying a knot in his throat.
No, no.
'UNACCEPTABLE'
he scrawled in huge, slanting letters over his latest paragraph, where he noticed a significant decline in the quality of his penmanship.
He would have to start over, and again if needed, until it was enough. Until he'd written so much about how great he was, how fine he was, that he wasn't just writing it, he was sure of it, as he'd always been so sure of the trajectory his life would take until it'd been upended by Cammy bursting in the front door of the manor and wailing incoherently.
Tearing out the previous page, he was faced with a blank one, and no clue what he was going to write. That is, how his pen would keep up with all that he wanted to say. Yet, he pressed the nib to the paper and started anyway, focusing on maintaining both a steady breath and hand.
Hi, I'm Max de Sainte-Coquille. I'm recording my name in memory of my first visit here. Make sure you don't forget it! That's Max, with an X (for X-TREME) de Sainte-Coquille...
On and on he wrote, countless paragraphs that became pages, every one of them in an impeccable script and error-free spelling, only pausing every so often for the splittest of seconds to errantly wipe at his cheek, to keep any tears from staining the paper.
He wrote about the wonderful food Porcoline served that Father would devour faster than any of his eating contest times; about the fabulous weather he could imagine Rosalind taking Sera and Serena out for a stroll in; about the lovely people who Leann would find positively enchanting, and whom she would charm in return.
Throughout his entire exposition, the main theme he circled back to was how he, as any de Sainte-Coquille ought to be given their lavish, privileged lifestyle, was completely and utterly fine.
Because Julia, until the end - she'd been fine, she promised him, no matter how many times he asked, up until that evening she'd gone over the bathhouse to help Cammy close up. She'd been so frightfully pale and fragile, more than ever, and Max had asked her, was she sure she was... able to help Cammy? And she'd assured him, one last time, that she was fine.
Thus it became an endless loop in his mind.
He ceaselessly clung to that belief – that Julia wasn't in the same emotional and mental pain that she must have been in physically as the last threads of her life unraveled. He had to hold so desperately to that mindset or the grief would usurp it, drive him to sheer madness, because the words and hugs - they just weren't enough, not when they were for the accident that wasn't an accident at all.
For himself. For Leann. He would be okay, be fine, even when he wasn't.
And what's more, anyone who dared question him on his behavior tonight need simply look to these pages, where it was forever preserved how absolutely perfectly fine Max de Sainte-Coquille was. They could pick apart every last sentence of every last paragraph and come away none the wiser that throughout this night, while everyone else carried on dancing and laughing, Max de Sainte-Coquille was drowning under sorrow and heartbreak, not at all fine in the least.
