May 15

Thanks awfully for all your advice, girls, I really do appreciate it. Well, except for—YOU know which part! I'll have to start burning your letters in case anyone else gets hold of them, so they won't get the wrong idea. Honestly; she's just a kid! If you're really so concerned for the state of my as-yet-un-burnt-butt, maybe you can tell me what you know about organic chemistry instead of writing the sorts of things that would get me immolated if the wrong person read them…

Roy thought that he exercised admirable self-control by not throwing the hateful book across the room. To relieve his feelings, he slammed it shut instead, and gave it a petulant little shove across the table for good measure.

"Stupid organic chemistry," he mumbled, and slumped forward to rest his forehead against the cool wood of the desk. Why was this so damn hard? He hadn't had nearly this much trouble with the other assignments his master had given him, up until now.

Rolling his head sluggishly to one side, Roy squinted at the clock across the room. Hm. Maybe his brain felt like mush because he'd been studying the same material for more than eight hours now. Definitely time for a break.

He rose and stretched his stiff, cramped muscles luxuriously. Abandoning the offending book, Roy grabbed his jacket and headed for the front door. He had vague intentions of a taking a brisk walk before going in search of supper, which should be ready just after sunset according to Miss Hawkeye's usual schedule. But when he reached the front hallway, his attention was drawn by the open door of the room he'd mentally termed "the blue parlor."

All thoughts of a walk (and of chemistry) forgotten, Roy curiously and hesitantly stepped into the room. Normally, the door was kept closed, although not locked, and Roy had so far avoided it more from lack of interest than because he was prohibited entry. He'd only had the barest glimpse of it when his teacher had first shown him over the house that first night, but he remembered thinking at the time that this room had probably been the special province of the late Mrs. Hawkeye. It was definitely a feminine room, with the interior all done up in blue and cream, and the occasional accent in gold.

Though it was very much a grown-up lady's sitting room and therefore very seldom used (and Roy knew without having to ask that his teacher never set foot in it), the elegant little parlor didn't have the slightest air of neglect. Not a speck of dust on any surface, not the faintest hint of stale or musty air, and none of those wispy little cobwebs that seem always to materialize in the corners of unused rooms. If it wasn't quite a shrine to the memory of the long-deceased lady of the house, then it was undoubtedly a room that her daughter was at pains to preserve as closely to its original state as possible.

Most boys would have felt vaguely ill at ease in such a place, as though the very femininity of the room were a communicable disease they could catch from prolonged exposure. But Roy was not most boys, and growing up surrounded by women meant that he'd spent a great deal of time in soft, pretty parlors very similar to this one. In fact, everything in the room, from the chintz arm chairs to the delicate translucent curtains at the windows, felt familiar and friendly somehow. Just as the scent of honeysuckle reminded him of the perfume Claire favored, this parlor brought to mind the cool, serene presence of Elinor—she and Violet had a similar space in the home they shared. Which is why he felt at once soothed and refreshed and at home, and wondered to himself why he'd never come in here before now.

He spotted a piano in one corner of the room, behind a little grouping of armchairs. Irresistibly drawn to the instrument, Roy moved closer, discarding his jacket on a chair as he passed. He sat down on the little stool and ran an experimental hand over the keys. It seemed to be in working order. Growing bolder, his fingers tripped rapidly up and down a few scales, which led him to conclude that the piano was in fact still in tune. Interesting. Did either of the Hawkeyes ever play it? If so, he'd certainly never heard them. Seemed a shame to let such a fine instrument go to waste.

"Do you play, Mr. Mustang?" a soft voice asked from behind him.

Roy jumped and whirled around to find Miss Hawkeye quietly perched on the edge of a window seat that he hadn't observed before. How long had she been there? Had she come in behind him? But then how had she done so without his seeing her?

And then he noticed that the window seat was set into a little alcove, with heavy brocade drapery on either side that could be pulled across it. They'd been drawn just a moment before, which meant that Miss Hawkeye had already been sitting on the plush blue-cushioned seat, both she and her seat effectively hidden, when Roy had walked in. Since he hadn't known about the seat before now, she might have remained seated quietly, and he'd never have even dreamed she was there. He had the feeling this was significant, somehow, but he couldn't quite wrap his tired brain around why. He did recall that she'd just asked him a question, and was waiting for his answer.

"What? Oh, no, I don't play the piano. At least, not well. I took some lessons when I was younger, but I was never much good, so Aunt Chris let me give them up. What about you?"

"No. I never learned," she replied, expression inscrutable. And then Roy remembered his own assumption that this room had been kept exactly as it has always been since the death of Riza's mother, and that the piano had belonged to her as well. The same piano he'd just been tapping idly at as though it was nothing.

Shit.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment.

"Should I…not be in here?" Roy asked at last, unable to bear the silent scrutiny. Something flickered over Miss Riza's face, too fleeting for him to read.

"You aren't forbidden from entering this room," she answered in that careful, quiet way of hers.

"Okay." Fine, but still not helpful. He tried again. "What I meant was: does it bother you that I'm in here?"

"Why should it?" was the reply. Darn her and her habit of answering questions with questions.

"Never mind," Roy mumbled with a little head shake. He rose and moved towards the chair where he'd left his coat. "It's been a really long time since I've been around a piano; I just couldn't resist touching it. I'm sorry if I disturbed you."

"I never said that you disturbed me," Riza replied softly. Unsure whether he'd heard her correctly, Roy glanced back at her with one hand still reaching for his jacket. She had drawn her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, but she was still watching him carefully.

"No. I suppose you didn't," he said slowly, letting his hand fall again. He wanted to ask her a dozen different questions, but he'd already seen how well that worked with this girl. He also remembered his sisters' advice.

"Let her come to you," their letter had said. "Let her initiate conversations when she feels comfortable, and then follow her lead on the tone and the pace. And for pity's sake stop talking about cooking and cleaning!" That last point had stung a bit-he'd panicked! But either way, it was Miss Riza's turn to speak, Roy thought. So he waited.

As he'd hoped, and his sisters had predicted, his silence encouraged Riza to elaborate.

"I didn't expect to find you in here," she began, and paused. It's not someplace a boy your age would normally want to be…It's not someplace the students usually go…It's my parlor, get out and leave me alone already…What made you come in here anyway?

Roy couldn't be certain which thing she wanted to say, but he could tell that she wasn't exactly saying what was on her mind, and that she wanted to know what he was doing here. Before the pause stretched out interminably, he decided to go ahead and answer her unspoken question.

"The door was open. It's not usually, so I was curious," he offered, shrugging. Of course, she had no way to know about his "sisters," and Roy felt a little shy admitting that he'd been drawn to the room because it reminded him of the girls back home. Instead, he simply added: "It's...pretty. This room, I mean." Miss Hawkeye's face softened a little.

"It was my mother's," she said. Never mind that any idiot should be able to guess as much. She was telling him something, voluntarily, that was clearly very important to her.

"Did she play, then?" he asked, nodding towards the piano.

"Yes," Riza replied quietly. "She was going to teach me," she added, almost as an afterthought. And then, surprising even herself, she continued, "But then she got sick and stopped playing, so...well. I never learned."

"I'm sorry," Roy said. And he really was. After a slightly awkward pause, he moved towards her impulsively. "And now I feel like a jerk. I didn't know it was an important memento of your mom; I won't touch it again, okay?"

"I wasn't...I wasn't trying to make you feel bad," she frowned a little and tightened her arms around her knees.

"I know. You're much too nice a person for that. But I'm sorry all the same." Riza blinked at him in surprise. Roy plunged on ahead. "Would you mind terribly if I came in here sometimes? Not to play, but just to sit and read?"

"Father already told you that you can go where you'd like-" she started to say, looking away.

"Yes, I remember. But would YOU mind it, if I came in here?" he persisted, smiling when her eyes flicked back to his. "I can tell it's a place you like, too. I don't want to get in your way."

"No," she answered, after a brief pause. "I wouldn't mind. It's...fine."

"Thanks," he said cheerfully, inordinately pleased to have her permission. "Hey, could I see-?" And he took a few steps closer, indicating her perch with a small hand gesture.

She shifted aside so that Roy could sit beside her and look out the large window. The untamed tangle of rose bushes from the front corner of the house was outside, just on the other side of the glass. At this time of year, many of the varieties were still putting forth fat buds. In another month they'd be full blown blooms, a riot of color and scent in the hot summer sun.

"Oh," he grinned. "Great view."

"Pretty, aren't they? The roses were my mother's, too," she said quietly.

"There're so many different kinds," he marveled, craning his neck to see over the tops of the bushes closest to the window. He'd noticed them before, but hadn't taken the time to really look at them until now.

"My father used to travel quite a bit for his work, before I was born. He brought back all sorts of colors and varieties for my mother to plant. Seedlings, I mean," Riza explained.

"You should prune them back quite a bit, before next spring. They'll be healthier and bloom a lot more, if you do," he said. She turned to him, eyebrows raised.

"Oh?"

"One of my aunt's employees said so, at least," Roy said, a little sheepishly. "Her family has a flower shop, so she's always looking after my aunt's roses and things."

"I know they're too tall and…well, scraggly," she admitted, "but I didn't like the idea of cutting them back so far." Roy understood at once.

"You don't want to harm them." She nodded. "Tell you what. In my next letter I'll ask Sophie for advice and see if she can send us a book about caring for roses. It'll tell us how far to cut and all that, so we won't damage them by accident."

"Thank you," she said with a quiet smile. "I'd like that."

They sat in comfortable silence until the light grew dim, and both remembered that they still had work to do. Roy had skipped his walk, so refreshed by the company and the nostalgia of the parlor that he'd returned to the library and taken up his book with renewed vigor.

It wasn't until much later that evening, when Roy was preparing for bed, that his overwrought brain caught up with the observations he'd made in the parlor: Miss Riza had intentionally, willingly left a hiding place, in his presence, in order to strike up a conversation with him. She might have remained hidden behind the brocade curtains, watching him putter about the parlor, safely hidden from his view, until he'd gotten bored and gone away. As she no doubt had done with other hiding spots, at other times, perhaps with other students.

But instead, she had chosen to draw back the heavy fabric, reveal herself and her hiding place, and even speak to him - before he'd spoken to her. Something she'd never have done even a week earlier.

Maybe he was starting to grow on her, after all.

A.N. So sorry for the long wait, my lovelies. Life has this annoying habit of getting in the way. Thank you for your patience, as well as the reviews and follows and favorites! As always, feedback is deeply appreciated!

xoxo Janie