Fleur d'Espoir
"Fleur d'Espoir, the flower of hope. Things are changing in the world. Companies hire on Pokémon for jobs of all sorts, but what impact could that have on the economy? Old jobs disappear, and new ones spring up. But in this time of upheaval, we all need a bit of hope. For Ladira Mercier, that hope has a name." T/M Rating. Fluffy, F/F romance, sexy times, shameless cuddles, and school life in a new region.
Chapter Eight— Noble Foibles
8-8
[Planning around plans]
I love my parents. I do. But sometimes it's hard to ignore that they're just people. Flawed, imperfect, trying to do the best they can with what they have. Walking around some affluent Motostoke car dealership, all I can think about is how little I want to be in this city and how little I want to offer my patronage to businesses hosted here.
The cars are all gorgeous, don't get me wrong. Porsche, Ferrari, Audi, Lotus, Mercedes Benz, Lexus, Bugatti. High-end luxury and sports cars from across the globe. Everything a girl could ever want to ensure her comfort and a certain amount of style. Bright lights and high ceilings to truly showcase the majesty of each model, with a salesman that has a, frankly, slimy disposition.
"Perhaps Ms Mercier would be more interested in our sports cars? We have Porsche nine-eleven," the overly dandy-fied salesman motions to a fire engine red sports car with the roof down and barely seating for two, "that will make you stand out in a crowd. Or perhaps the Lotus Elise is more your speed? It comes with all the conveniences I can dream up, and we can have it delivered in any colour you desire? Do you prefer red? Black? Silver? Pink is also quite popular!"
The only saving grace is that the man speaks Galarian and, by his own admission, doesn't understand a word of Kalosian.
"Papa, really. I'd love any of these cars, but for the price? I could buy two houses on our street for less."
"Ah, Ms Mercier is displeased. Perhaps she's more for luxury models?" To be right for all the wrong reasons. "Forgive me for being so forward, miss. But I seem to be striking out here. What could I interest you in?"
"A question, that's new," I intone, rolling my eyes. They're the first words I've offered in Galarian, but I switch right back to Kalosian. "Really, papa. I don't understand her insistence in this. Why am I suddenly expected to act like some spoiled rich brat and prance around in these?"
"The important thing," papa presses a dry kiss to my brow, "is whether you like them."
"Is this about you feeling guilty for traipsing me about the globe?" I ask, honestly trying to understand where this is suddenly coming from.
"What do you think about this one, sweet pea?" maman calls me over, motioning to a sleek black tank of a car. An SUV, I believe they're called.
"Ah, the Beemer Ex-Five." Mr Sex-on-legs is more than happy to tend to someone showing interest it seems. He starts spouting off the usual gimmicks. Zero to a hundred in this-point-that seconds, and whatever V the engine is, and the amount of doors and what's so special about them.
This makes no sense. None. At all. Maman's uncle threatens them, and suddenly they are spoiling me like there's no tomorrow.
"You could take your friends on road trips with this, no?" Maman tries to be all excited, no doubt hoping her upbeat attitude will be contagious. "With Marie driving, of course. Perhaps we could even get one with that… barbell thing at the back? To pull a trailer? We could get you a—"
"What's this really about?" I ask, tired of them dancing around this. "This feels like a buy-off and, last I checked, neither of you've done anything worthy of as much. Let alone for the price."
"Ah, is price the little lady's main concern? A first car, I'm guessing?" I hate how some Kalosian words are decodable in Galarian, if you pay attention. 'Le prix' and 'price' aren't dissimilar enough. Should I go full academic Kalosian? Or just insinuate what I mean? I don't want him knowing the issue and coming up with an actual solution I can't argue against. "If you desire, I could show you to our second-hand showroom? They're in excellent condition, and we have the factory-certified mechanics tending to them, I assure you."
"You would fault your dear mother for wanting to spoil you a little?" You might as well start the sentence with 'this is perfectly legal, but…'
"I fault you for having a hidden motive behind this. I don't like signing onto things without being informed of the implications. Would you be any different?"
Maman sighs. "Your father's daughter." She crosses her arms and shifts her weight away from me. "Alright, you win. I want bragging rights for the family reunion. I want to be able to shove in that bastard's face how well we're doing and I'm using you to get me the best ammunition."
I cock an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Could you show my husband the cabrios?" maman asks the salesman. "We need a moment."
"Of course. My good man! The Mercedes we just got in last week is the perfect place to start. Seating for four, could be used for a fridge in a heatwave, and—" He continues bragging about things in car-speak, and gets ignored for it.
"Sweet pea. I know I'm being selfish in this. That I've been selfish, letting Theo drag our family across the globe more times than I can recall. And they've been rubbing my nose in it for decades. It's why I pulled so many strings. Why I spoke to the Greens about becoming neighbours. I want to make up for what I've cost you."
I cross my arms, looking across the dealership at Ms Grenier, standing at the ready near the door and carefully casing any plausible threat. Curiously, she's not moved from that spot, not by much, but she also hasn't left me out of her sight. Little different from the Agents papa used to have watching me now and again.
"Yes, that's why I demanded you attend Eventide. Giving you the best memories of my youth is the least I can do."
"So this isn't about safety. It's—"
"Why can't it be both?" Maman motions around us. "Giving you what I wanted at your age, shoving the evidence down a pretentious prick's throat, easing my conscience, keeping you safe in uncertain times. Why does it have to be either/or?"
"If one does not explain the totality of the situation, I'm left with but fragments I must piece together. Whether the assembled picture paints your motives in a flattering light isn't on me."
"Am I not being open about this?" she asks. Her tone is kept even, her gaze neutral. She isn't playing me, this time. That's a plus. "Sweet pea, when I was your age I wanted nothing more than the flashiest car to tour the countryside with my friends. To go shopping in every region's capital. Dreamt of getting one of those fancy camper things to hook on the back so I wouldn't have to sleep in a horrid tent. Having my own servants, that wouldn't answer to my step-mother." She mutters something under her breath—I can guess it isn't something flattering. "It's why I've been pestering Theo about buying a place in the countryside, so we can steal away on the weekends. But, he is your father."
"Little point in owning something that isn't earning its keep," I murmur. Makes sense. So he'll pester me about making it to generate an income for us, to mitigate costs. "That I can at least wrap my head around."
Maman shakes her head, eyes closed. "Apples and trees."
"What? It's practical."
"The point," maman waves it off, "is that I am doing this for you. And for the things I wanted for myself at your age. And, as a bonus, I get bragging rights when my sister is going on and on about her precious Lucien and whichever hostile takeover he succeeded with this time. I never aim for just the one thing. And no, don't you dare think about second-hand anything. They'd never let me live it down."
Sigh. Hopefully I can have a headache all August long, so I can beg off this year. "Your family is impossible."
"It's why I keep far away." And that does put the globetrotter thing in a different light. Okay, fair.
But. Something intrigues me. "Are they going to be there?" I ask. Maman looks away. "In Camphrier. Are the Ashfords going to be there?"
"Enough of them, yes."
"Why?"
"They claim it's for your birthday." Maman crosses her arms sneering at nothing in particular. I see.
8-8
[The announcement]
We're seeing to the paperwork as papa's Dex rings. Knowing what it's about, he pulls me aside, leaving maman to handle the last bits, and answers it.
Grandmère's face fills his Dex's display, her usual smile absent. "Good morning, Clan Mercier. This conference call has been long-expected, I presume, so I will not beat around the bush. First off, a very happy birthday to Ladira. Sweet sixteen at long last."
There's a round of birthday wishes in dozens of voices, most of which I recognize, but not all.
"As," Grandmère motions for everyone to settle down, "as to the main course. Naming my heiress." I roll my eyes, wondering at the dramatics. Meline has been with Grandmère longest, and has aided her for years. She's the obvious pick. Anyone that questions that, is a fool. "Most will not be surprised, of course. I've selected Meline Mercier to succeed me."
Silence. The call is entirely silent. Why?
"Congratulations, Melly!" I say, letting everyone hear the joy in my tone. "Please let me and papa know if there's anything you need."
"Thank you, Ladira," Meline says, though the video feed doesn't shift from Grandmère's smile. "That means a lot to me."
"I'm sure you're all busy," Grandmère says, taking the reins before the predictable complaints start. "I'll see you all this weekend. Good day."
The call ends. Short, sweet, and to the point. All in all, everything this weekend clearly will not be.
My Dex vibrates. I fish it out, finding an unfamiliar Kalosian number. I answer just as papa's Dex rings again.
One of my cousins' frowning face flashes on screen. "Ladira. I'm so sorry you got passed over. I don't know what leverage Meline has over maman, but I will be calling Francois to contest this the second I hang up. Truly a disgrace passing you over like this."
"It's good to hear from you as well," I say, keeping my tone pleasant and as warm a smile as I can manage. So it starts.
"Please tell me you agree with me on this."
8-8
[driving (the point) home]
I don't know how to feel about this.
"Surely you see this makes no sense." Another cousin complains about Grandmère's decision. You'd think the woman senile from how no one thinks her capable of deciding such things. "Meline has no direction, no drive. You're the better choice, are you not?"
Funny. Mercier tradition is that the matriarch must pick of her descendants. Preferably a girl, to carry on the Mercier matrilineal line, as has been the tradition for generations. Yet, Grandmère's two sons, only two children, are in full agreement that this is her choice to make—and they both have a teenage daughter for her to choose from. Yet cousins are the ones up in arms about it, trying to manipulate the decision they should not rightly influence.
I don't know what the motive truly is, but I'm quickly losing patience for it.
"I cannot change what Grandmère decides. Forgive me, I've an appointment." I dismount as tactfully as I can—assuring them I'll be there this weekend, thanking them for the call, assuring them their concerns are being heard without ruffling feathers or eggshell egos—and hang up.
My new car purrs along the motorway east. A simple, if stylish, black Renault Talisman. Nothing overly spectacular. Just a five-door car with all the conveniences that slimy salesman could convince papa to splurge on. I'm grateful for the security system, if nothing else.
If I didn't know better, I'd call this a station wagon, but for some reason the salesman was dead set against the term. Marketing, perhaps? Attempting to cater to my perceived status? Who knows. Maybe it's the black paint with black tinting, or the upgraded engine papa asked for. Or the custom leather heated seats for the Galarian winters. Or the fancy desk-tray currently holding my laptop as I hammer out the details papa finally gave me regarding the parcel of land outside of Hubury.
Sigh.
"Are you alright, Ms Mercier?" Ms Grenier asks, her gaze meeting mine in the rearview mirror. Proper chauffeur that she is, I'm in the back being pampered as maman demanded—for some reason. I don't get it—any of this.
"No," I intone and heave another sigh. "But that aside. Forgive me for—"
My Dex rings before Ieven put it in my bag. I groan, but quickly school my features and check the number. Meline?
"They've been calling me all morning," I answer. Meline scowls, her usual smile long-forgotten even as she combs her bright red hair with her fingers. "How are you holding up?"
"I've been better." Meline shakes her head, her frown only deepening to ruin her photogenic face. She could be a model with her classic beauty and almost perfectly oval face. "And you?"
"I'm annoyed with people."
Meline giggles, lighting up at last. "Just another Tuesday, Dira."
I shrug, but a goofy grin peeks out. "I spoke to papa, I did. We're not going to fight you. This is Grandmère's decision and we respect it."
"Are you," Melly's smile inverts once again, "okay with it?"
"You are the one there with her, there for her. I would complain if she passed you over."
"But are you okay with it?"
"Of course I am. What kind of question is that?" I give her a confused look. "You're not letting their idiocy get to you, are you?"
"It's just," Melly combs her fingers through her hair more diligently, "they have a point. You always knew what you wanted and how to get it. And I…?"
"You're right. I know what I want. So why am I not fighting you?" I ask.
Tears well up in her eyes, her chin quivering. "That's what I would ask you."
"You have the servants you need? Grandmère will—"
"Please answer me, Dira."
"I've known for years she would pick you."
Meline's usually pale face goes ghastly white. The indicator flicks on, Ms Grenier pulling us off the motorway and into the outskirts of Hulburry. Have I been dealing with the fallout for so long?
"You offer her stability, Melly. A companion in the winter of her life. One would be a fool to expect her to choose a grandchild she sees maybe once a year over you." The simple truth has errant tears cascading down her cheeks. "Now. How can I help you feel steadier in your shoes?"
8-8
[tugging on strings]
The estate agent—such a weird term. I've not had to deal with this sort of thing, ever, in any language. Not sure if that's a galar thing, but it's not like I have something to compare it to.
The estate agent office is bright. With potted plants everywhere and pictures of homes I couldn't say I recognize. Everything from condos to homesteads on the fringe of the city to townhouses. There are even quite a few businesses up for sale? Not sure how I feel about that, in a city with roughly a hundred-thousand citizens that has a few dozen businesses for sale.
"Good morning." A woman in her early forties comes over, wearing an all-black skirt suit and one-inch heels. "How might I help you?"
"Ah, Mrs Reynolds," maman says, subtly elbowing me for some reason. "A pleasure to see you again."
"Livy," the woman's face splits into a beaming smile that honestly confuses me, "welcome. Forgive me for not recognizing you."
"Not at all. It's been, what, twenty years?"
Mrs Reynolds sighs, shaking her head. "Don't remind me. Miley loves getting on my case about it."
Miley?
"Ladira, dear. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." Mrs Reynolds offers her hand, to shake mine. I blink.
"She's your classmate's mother, sweet pea," maman murmurs.
Thought as much. I take her hand, only letting my fingers into her firm grip. "Mrs Reynolds."
There's an awkward silence I don't make sense of—or maybe it's awkward for me.
"Alright. Do you have an idea of what you're looking for?" My brain finally kicks in. Her fluent Kalosian slipped under the radar for a moment.
Still, it's a good question. "Not really."
"Not a problem, I assure you. Could I offer you something to drink while we discuss options?"
8-8
[changes?]
The townhouse is… spacious, I suppose. It's the same setup as our home, only down the street from Eventide . The walls are all plastered white, the floors and ceiling bare stone—concrete, by my guess. The backyard is a mess, though, and the fencing is a disaster. It's a fixer-upper, that's for certain.
Mrs Reynolds keeps saying things to maman I make no sense of. Neighbourhood watch this and allotted parking spot that—I'm not sure about any of it, really. I mean, I probably should know, but at the same time it feels… awkward.
I make my way upstairs, with Ms Grenier on my flank. It's exactly the same as home. Bare walls, the doors are in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint, and the flooring is absent, but the setup is exactly the same.
Down the hall, into where my room at home is. The same closets, the same slanting window over the balcony door. Just empty. Was the whole city designed by the same company?
"Forgive me for continually putting it off," I say, hoping to eke out a moment at long last. She's been in my employ for almost twenty-four hours, and I've yet to explain much of anything.
"Ms Mercier?"
Sigh. I open the balcony door, stepping out into the summer air. The yard is the same size, of course. Somehow. Like all these townhouses are clones—it's unnerving.
"I dislike putting things off," I say, my tone wistful. "Having said that, you've no doubt seen how busy life seems to keep me."
Ms Grenier stands in the doorway, as if to offer me some semblance of privacy. Or perhaps personal space. Sigh.
"I'm not sure what you know about me, so forgive me if I state the obvious." Ladira, you are not doing this to yourself right now. Just keep it to what she needs to know. "I agreed to hire you because maman demanded as much." Over-correcting, over-correcting. Come on, Ladira. She won't make sense of that either. "It has nothing to do with you, I…"
Sigh. I'm no good with people. Perhaps that's why I prefer befriending shrews—they don't ask your opinion, preferring to telling you theirs then expecting you to agree.
"Your primary duties would be centred around my safety. And being my chauffeur." Obviously. At least until I get my driver's licence. So much to deal with, and I've not even started taking lessons, let alone studying the theory. Sigh. "What are you even getting out of this? Tolerating such abuses for a salary seems unbearable."
"Would Ms Mercier prefer if I were frank, regarding such things?"
Perhaps plant a few trees down there, grow my own berries for my babies? Maybe install a little pond like at home? Do I even want to live here? I'm so used to living with my parents that it feels… overwhelming to even consider this. "Yes."
"What little I've learned of you and your family, is at odds with each other. As if you actively strive to learn from their shortcomings, yes?"
I snort.
"Then I believe I have little to worry about in this regard. My prowess is at your command, Ms Mercier."
Sigh. "Do you even like wearing that?"
Ms Grenier giggles, her eyes impishly lit up. "My uniform is yours to dictate."
"That's not a yes. But is it a no?"
"You wonder why we subject ourselves to such a life." Ms Grenier gazes wistfully up at the clouds. "I dare not speak for my classmates, but I… I do this for my family. My mother, she does her best to raise my siblings. This would help them, and that's enough for me."
I see. "They live in Camphrier Town?"
"Uh-uh." Ms Grenier smiles, her eyes out of focus. "I was born there, but we moved to Hulbury when I was young. Maman, she… she works down at the market. Has her own stall there, but it… well, she does the best she can with the hand she was dealt."
Hmm.
8-8
[weights and shoulders]
Becca and Kat have their leashed Growlithes at their sides as their Pidoves circle around overhead, fluttering down into my backyard. The two tiny pigeons flutter own and perch on the wooden bird house Junebug bought me, proudly showing off their filled pouches with letters. Sure, mailing is simpler, but these two are meant to ensure these girls can stay in touch, no matter where the chips land.
"Growlithe, stay," Kat says, and releases the leash. Becca mimics her and the pair of them hurry over to their Pidoves, checking their pouches. The pair of them gush and show off the packages their moms sent over, petting their respective Pidove and offering some berries. As one, the girls rush over to the table and open their packages to see what's in it.
I breathe easier than I have in a while. Despite how crazy hectic my days have been, I'm glad I get this done now.
"Aren't you girls forgetting something?" Coach Davis asks, nodding to the patiently waiting Growlithes.
"Come," the girls say in unison, and their pups rush over and sit beside them, alert to every little thing going on. Knowing all I need to, I head into the living room, spying Ms Grenier showing two little Ratses how to wash the dishes and put them away neatly.
A Kalosian maid's outfit-wearing Lopunny makes her rounds, dusting everything she encounters, her poofy little tail swishing in time with her feather duster. A butler's suit-wearing Audino, meanwhile, uses Psychic to hover down anything Lopunny can't reach. For the life of me, I can't recall their names, but I've known them all of a day—it'll come with time.
I smile all the way up the stairs and into my room, plopping onto my bed. Dealing with all this is exhausting, but so satisfying. My Dex rings. Again. I groan, fishing it out of my back pocket and holding it over me.
"Papa?" I answer it, wondering why he's calling.
"Just calling to confirm who all is coming with us this weekend, before I book passage."
Right. That. "I don't think it wise to invite anyone. Not with the insanity inbound."
"Fair point. But you only turn sixteen once, princess. And your grandmère looks forward to meeting your friends."
"Yeah." Damn it! I haven't gotten my dress for the ball! We'll do that as soon as we drop the girls home. "I'm not sure how to handle it, though. And Janette's maid doesn't have a passport."
"Spoke to Kira. She already took care of that."
A goofy grin takes me over. It's been so long since I've had an excuse to pester Junebug to dance. Not that I need an excuse, it just stands out less.
"Right. I'll get back to work then."
"I love you, papa." I blow him a kiss that sets his pale cheeks aflame, his goofy grin making it impossible to decode him telling me he loves me too—the look in his eyes is more than enough.
I hand plops onto the bed beside me. Right. Bought a car, bought a house, have a maid. Maman should back off for a bit, so… how do I make this work?
A knock at the door. Junebug leans against the doorframe. "You worry too much." Sigh. Find me an introvert that doesn't worry. "Come on. We've got to get the girls home."
8-8
[shifting gears]
Mrs Parker's chin all but hits the floor.
"Growlithe is meant to act as home security, but is trained to stay at Becca's side if she goes out. Ralts is meant to help out around the house. Washing dishes, cleaning up, that sort of thing. And Pidove is trained to find my house no matter where you travel to. So if anything happens, we can stay in touch and Becca can stay in touch with Kat as well."
I hand Mrs Parker the three Pokéballs, carefully setting them in her hand so she doesn't drop them accidentally. She looks down at them, working her jaw in vain.
"I've already taught Becca how to cater to their diets. All you have to do is register them to you and take the licencing exam scheduled for tomorrow morning, and you're set."
"I, this." Mrs Parker shakes her head to chase the cobwebs. "Thank you, Ladira. Really. This means more to me than you know."
We exchange another few pleasantries—mostly her thanking me more profusely with each attempt. Eventually, I turn to Becca and remind her about the fractions and history homework she has to review for tomorrow, and we take our leave.
In the parking lot of the Cosy Cottonee, two cars await. My station wagon, and Junebug's Jaguar—it looks to be at least ten years old and has seen better days, but the station wagon is every bit as black and tinted as mine. The two look similar enough to my amateurish eye, save the maker.
Ms Reis and Ms Grenier stand at the ready, nodding to Junebug and I as we approach, coming from two different directions. I'm not sure why the Shawes stay in this motel, but it's really not my concern.
"Righto!" Junebug slings an arm around my waist. "What say we get to it."
"Hmm?"
"Hehe." She flashes a grin, rubbing her finger along the underside of her nose, for some reason. As if that would hide her smile, let alone the joy in her eyes. "Do you trust me?"
8-8
[breathe]
Ms Grenier pulls into the mall's parking lot and kills the engine at last. It's not been a trying drive, barely more than ten minutes, but between another dozen calls—from maman's side of the family with birthday wishes—and trying to figure out what it is Junebug has up her sleeve, it feels like both eternity has come and gone, and that I barely had time to blink before Ms Grenier opens the door for me.
"Sorry to cut this short," I smile as best I can for my aunt, "but I've an appointment."
"Not at all, sweetie. I'll see you this weekend at Shabboneau Castle. The boys look forward to seeing you again." Auntie Marielle smiles—if you can call it that. It reminds me of a predator having decided to let its prey wander off, like it isn't hungry but likes the idea it would come out on top if it chooses to hunt.
More pleasantries are exchanged before I finally hang up and stow my Dex—already at ten percent from the slew of calls I've suffered through. Sigh. This weekend is going to be a nightmare.
I ease out onto the pavement and Ms Grenier closes the door for me. Two beeps and a flashing light announces she engages the security system, just as another car pulls in close by. A much nicer car. Even with me knowing little to nothing about them, this one stands out as a cut above the rest. I'd almost think it a Rolls Royce—one of the many names my cousins love to brag about.
The black luxury car pulls into an available spot and the front passenger door opens. A Battlemaid looks around, checking the coast is clear, and walks to the door behind her. Amandine exits and saunters over, with three servants trailing behind her—clearly a Butler, a Battlemaid, and the chauffeur.
"Happy birthday," Amandine says and hugs me, kissing my cheeks. "I've been trying to call you all morning."
"Sorry. My family has been calling me non-stop since breakfast."
"I'm sure."
Honking. A tiny convertible pulls up, bright pink with smiling faces. "Hey, birthday girl!" Miley and Blake are in the front with their Battlemaids in the back. They pull into the nearest vacant spot and the soft-top roof pulls itself up, closing the car up. Blake rushes over and flings her arms around me.
"Green told us about the insanity coming your way," Blake says, pulling back to let me see her furrowed brow and the concern in her eyes. "There's no way you're facing that without us."
"Got that right." Miley waves her car key at the ceiling and presses something. Her Mini's brake and headlights flash and the horn honks. She nods, satisfied, and stows her key, before rushing over and hugging me every bit as fiercely. "Your dad called. Sorted everything for us. So we're coming."
Papa. You won't ever change, will you.
A familiar Jaguar pulls in and parks next to us. Junebug and Ms Reis step out and join the insanity. I cock an eyebrow at her. Especially at only now noticing Janette's the one driving—when did she get her licence?
"What?" Janette asks, grinning. "Did you think I'd let you deal with this solo?"
Laughter catches me by surprise, easing the tension that had been building all morning.
More honking. A bright yellow Mini, clearly an older model—it almost reminds me of the Mr Bean car. Elaine manually rolls down the window, her Battlemaid slowing the car to a stop. "Everyone's already here!"
8-8
[retail rehab, never a bad thing]
Giggling. Despite the Cook and Evans boys tagging along, the girls huddle together, arm in arm, giggling our bums off at the sheer dread on their faces as we prance from one store to the next.
Evening gowns, cocktail dresses, sundresses, bathing suits, all the shoes and accessories to match. We go just a little crazy with it all, hitting every store in the mall to make sure we're properly ready for this weekend.
But there's one store where all things are equal, that even the boys can't help but grin as we finally enter. The camping store.
"You'll need a proper travelling bag." I escort Ms Grenier from aisle to aisle, getting her absolutely ready for anything we'll encounter. "And we'll need a tent." Ms Grenier doesn't once complain, wearing a soft smile the whole time.
One specific aisle stops me dead in my tracks. The Pokéballs are stacks in boxes of ten, dominating the shelves from wall to wall. Great Balls, Ultra Balls, Premier Balls. There seems to be a style for every occasion.
"Did you want any for your siblings?" I ask, looking to Ms Grenier.
"They're not registered as Trainers." She shakes her head.
"And if I were to sponsor them?" I cock an eyebrow.
Ms Grenier's eyes grow teary as covers her mouth. She tries, again and again, to form words.
"Think nothing of it. Now. Did you want any for them?"
"We've been over this." Junebug grabs a bulk pack of regular Pokéballs and sets it in her shopping cart. "If your little brother needs something, we're getting it. No arguing with me."
"Apologies, Ms Green," Ms Reis says, curtseying. She's every bit as emotional as Ms Grenier just now—likely for the same reason.
"You heard the lady," Blake says. She and Miley are all smiles, picking up the same bulk packs for their Battlemaids. Their shopping carts curiously have the most stuff just now—extra travel bags, tents, fishing poles, the works. From the quivering lips, their Battlemaids are every bit as moved at being spoiled just a little.
"Ms West would be wise not to argue," Amandine says, cocking an eyebrow. Elaine looks every bit as blown away just now—as is her Battlemaid. Then again, Amandine's servants aren't doing any better, each pushing a cart filled with gear they'll need.
8-8
[this gift of friendship]
Our motorcade pulls off the main road, just outside of Hulbury. My classmates, the Cook brothers, the Evens brothers, and us. We park our cars side by side, the security systems flashing and honking out of sync as we look around.
Route Five, but long before we reach the stone bridge. Poofy Mons flutter about in the afternoon's gentle breeze, their white cottony caps seeming to drag them along. Pink monstrosities hover about, chasing about—I dare not guess what they are after, or what's after them.
It's a gorgeous spot for some light Pokémon hunting, I guess.
"Ms Grenier," I turn my attention to my Battlemaid, "I dare not guess what's around here, or what your siblings would prefer. I would trust your judgment in the matter."
"Of course, My Lady. Leave this to me." Ms Grenier curtseys, not hiding a sliver of the gratitude in her eyes. She rushes out into the wilds, to see what she can find. We traded her 'oh look a maid' outfit for something more practical—in my opinion. A three-piece suit. She made the mistake of letting slip she prefers trousers, and there's nothing quite like a woman in a gorgeous suit, not in my opinion.
"Ms Mercier?" Amandine's butler bows low to me. "Would you care to join Ms de Verley for tea?"
"I am most grateful." I curtsey to him. Though his face is mostly blank, there's a… calmness to his eyes. I dare not guess at his reasons. He motions towards an already set up tent to keep the afternoon sun off us, as Amandine lounges in a comfy-looking lounge chair.
As I make my way over, the sounds of battle fills the countryside. Everyone is out looking for trouble, including the wildlife. I'd feel bad for them, but really the wild Pokémon are ganging up on 'us' as much as we are on them. So, meh?
Easing into one of the chairs, in the shade, I breathe a sigh of relief. Junebug runs around in the distance like her tail's on fire, shouting at a Stufful she chases that they're not getting away and they should better just give up.
"You're in love with her," Amandine says out of the blue. My eyes widen and cheeks catch aflame before I have half a chance to school my features. "I thought as much."
"Tea, Ms Mercier?"
"She prefers coffee. Cappuccino, decaf. Two sugars."
"Of course. I will see to it immediately," the butler says and bows, heading over to Amandine's car. Did she…? Okay, no. Don't ask, you don't want to know.
"Is there something you need of me?" I ask. She finally found her leverage. So what does she need it for?
"With anyone else, I would ask the same." Amandine sips her tea, gazing out into the distance. "Mr Woods?"
"My Lady?" The Chauffer steps up.
"You three may join my classmates, if you desire. Provided one of you stands guard here at all times."
"We are most grateful, My Lady." The blonde bows, hand on chest, and turns. "I shall see to it at once."
I stare at my folded hands. If she desires privacy just now, it can't be good what she has to say.
"You're different," Amandine says as the butler sets out my coffee for me. "Why is that?"
"What do you mean?" Acting differently? Existing differently?
"Of the Mercier family of Camphrier Town, granddaughter to Baronesse Mercier herself. And of the Ashford family of Languid City, grandniece to Viscount Ashford. Yet, you're nothing as I expected."
Sigh. "Don't remind me." I slowly bring my mug to my lips, sniffing for poisons. Nothing but cappuccino, with sugar. "No sedatives. No poisons. No demands, despite having found the leverage you previously lacked. No clear motives save wanting a conversation. Am I the only one different?"
Amandine flashes a lopsided grin, so unlike her reserved little smile she usually wears. "Lord Mercier invited me to Camphrier Town this weekend. I had not truly decided, until now, but I think I will join you."
I sip, carefully setting the cup onto its saucer. "You haven't been allowed to make your own friends?"
"Heiress to Verley Industries," she says, cocking an eyebrow. I snort, quite without meaning to. It isn't funny, nor was it meant to be. Before I even realise it, the two of us burst out in giggles.
8-8
[a little goes a long way]
Tired as I am after shopping and hunting all afternoon, I don't feel worn out. Not in the least. Though the studio apartment is cramped in the worst way, it hides nothing from Ms Grenier's family. Her three brothers and four sisters are all over their eldest sister. Questions are flying every which way, none seeming to even notice me as I sit at the tiny patio table-turning dining table.
"Seriously, Mar. You've got to hook me up," the second eldest says. He holds the youngest, a toddler still in nappies, in his arms. Tiny as it is, it's tidy. No dust anywhere, no flaking paint. The linoleum flooring is spotless as well. Hmm.
"About that." Ms Grenier motions to me. "Please meet my employer, Ms Mercier." The brats all peer my way, eyes wide and jaws low. "We're here to sort you brats out."
"Oye," second-eldest intones. "We ain—"
"Shush." Ms Grenier flicks his nose and walks over to my flank, handing me a travelling bag.
"It's quite alright, Marie," I say, shaking my head.
Ms Grenier beams and tosses the same bag to the brother she just shushed. He narrows his eyes, face scrunched up in confusion. Until, that is, Ms Grenier pulls out a single minimized Pokéball and tosses that to him as well. Of the seven siblings, only the younger three don't get gear.
"Ah-ah!" Ms Grenier holds up a finger, before the younger ones start complaining. She hands them each a Poké doll—a Fenniken, a Chespin, and a Froakie. "When you're of age, you'll get your own. I promise."
The youngsters tear up, dogpiling Marie, despite her protests.
"We wait until maman gets home, then we get you brats to the PokéCentre and register anyone over ten as Trainer."
"But you said you could only sponsor one?" one of the sisters asks, tugging on Marie's sleeve.
"That hasn't changed. However," Marie motions my way, "Ms Mercier has agreed to sponsor you lot. That means I'd better not hear any complaints about you on your wild adventures. And I will—"
A jangling of keys. The front door creaks open and a tired woman walks in, smelling of fish and salty breeze. Her children are all over her before she even gets the chance to close the door properly.
Warmth wells up within me, glad I can do some good here.
"Alright, alright. Shush. I can't make out a single word of any of this," the Grenier matriarch says after a solid minute of her children cutting each other off mid-sentence. "Where did you get th… Marie!"
Mother rushes her daughter, embracing her.
"Hey, mama. Miss me?"
"Have I ever! How'd you get off from work? I thought..." Tired brown eyes find me sitting at her table. "Marie? Who's that?"
8-8
[to sort]
Nurse Joy's deep blue eyes smile a little brighter with each Trainer she registers. Despite there being a line to the door, she clearly doesn't mind. Junebug has the Reis family. I have Greniers. Amandine and her servants have their families. Miley, Blake, Elaine. Each Battlemaid glows with pride as they introduce their family, as Janette and Amandine and I vouch for their loyalty.
Hulbury grows strong and these new Trainers are both symptom and cause of it.
Once the last of the new Trainers are registered, Nurse Joy launches into her spiel about Battlegrounds and licences and all that. She's practically singing the words, though I doubt she does so consciously.
Moments blur together, making appointments for licencing exams, hearing the new Trainers loudly proclaiming they're heading straight for a Battleground. I stop them, however, and make a video call.
"The fabulous Mr Gerald at your service!"
"Mr Gerald. I've a favour to beg of you." The room is deathly still, all eyes on me just now. "I have a few new Trainers that could use proper coaching. Could you—"
"Say no more, Ladira darling! You give them my number and I will handle the rest!"
"I'm grateful. But. Could you charge the hours to me?"
Mr Gerald lights up. "Where are…? Is that the Centre? Babycakes and I are on our way!" He hangs up before I get in a word.
"As you no doubt heard, two proper Trainer's coaches are en route. If any of you need assistance from them, it would be provided at no cost to you."
"Coach," Amandine says into her Dex. Three voices loop over each other, asking if everything is alright. No doubt Amandine's personal trainers are on the line. "I've a favour to beg of you."
8-8
[Journey 2.0]
Thursday morning finds me in the car once again. Our motorcade drives down to the docks, to the ferry that already has the loading bridge lowered for us. Papa and maman's car is up in front, papa himself handling the fees, no doubt. The boom barrier raises, and papa drives ahead in his sports car—of course he's in a sports car, with maman eager to make a 'proper impression' just now. Sigh. Whatever.
The barrier stays up, letting all of us drive onto the ferry's lower deck, parking side by side. It takes some doing, but we get everyone situated.
As Marie opens the door for me, nerves hit me like a freight train. We leave port in less than an hour and make for Cyllage City. From there, it's a two hour drive to Camphrier Town. And the longest weekend of my life.
Hopefully I've built up enough good karma to get through this without a permanent migraine. I have my doubts.
One of the ship's stewards comes our way, wearing that stereotypical sailor's outfits. I'm not sure why they wear the white trousers and white shirt and blue-striped hem, let alone the full blue-striped hat. I stopped trying to understand it years ago. He comes to each of us and scans our Dex, officially welcoming us aboard.
"Cabins eight through fourteen are reserved for your party, Mr Mercier." The steward takes a moment to explain where they're located, and something about where to find other things on board—all I care to remember is that there are maps everywhere, in case we get lost.
"Thank you, my good man," papa says, and leads us over to the stairwell. The same sailor scoops Elaine up, bridal style, and carries her up the stairs for us. "Ah, the royal treatment, I see."
"Of course, Mr Mercier."
Elaine rides along, her prosthetic leg almost dragging against the ceiling up the stairwell, but her rosy grin never lets me wonder if she's enjoying herself.
8-8
[the first sign?]
From Marie Grenier: "Aft deck clear."
"Aft deck is clear," I relay it.
"Bow deck is clear," Junebug says, looking up from her Dex.
"Casino is clear," Amandine says. "Lounge and gift shop, clear."
"Restaurant, clear," Elaine says.
"Smoke room's clear." Miley grins just a little too broadly for my liking. "This feels like we're spies, you know?"
"Right?" Blake is just as goofy-happy about it. "Bar's clear."
"You girls need a new hobby." Tracy rolls his eyes.
"Oye," Tracy's younger brother complains. "They just got steamrolled by a mob. You'd be careful too." It's a little weird, really. The Evans brothers both have black hair, but the Cook siblings all have light brown hair. All technically brunet. Huh.
From Marie Grenier: "Spoke to sailor. Says he spotted a reporter. Motostoke Times. Check out?"
To Marie Grenier: "Yes, please."
"Might have spotted a leak. Motostoke Times journalist. No indication which." I'm in no mood to deal with that woman a second time. The other girls hammer away at their Dex, no doubt updating the others. "She spoke to one of the sailors, if it helps."
"She's in the bar," Blake says. "Asking about Ladira?" Of course. Why not. "Pola Hudson."
To Maman, Papa, Marie Grenier: "Pola Hudson. Sports columnist at Motostoke Times. The same one from the Wild Area incident. She's in the onboard bar and asking about me."
There's a knock at the door. Papa comes in his frown subtle but unmistakable. "I'll handle it," he says, and leaves. Sigh. A one-off? Or a sign of things to come.
Sigh. Our little war council room has two queen-sized beds, mostly littered with my friends in our pyjamas for the night. Laptops are out, screens each showing recent details about Mrs Hudson. Interviews with up-and-coming sporters, opinion piece on the recent uptick in mobs targeting school teams.
All I care about is this long-unwelcome fascination with me.
To Uncle Francois: "Sorry to bother you at this hour. Got a situation. Motostoke Times journalist, Pola Hudson. Is on board. Asking about me. After her involvement in the Wild Area incident. Please advise?"
My Dex rings. Uncle Francois sits to a table, supper half-eaten, and what looks to be his dining room in the background. "You are in your cabin?" he asks.
"I am."
"Good." Uncle Francois taps his fingers on the table. Slow, rhythmic. "I don't have easy answers. I'll contact Theo, see what's going on."
"He's out dealing with her now. If you have advice for him, or something you need to confirm, now's the time to call him."
"Thank you, cher. I'll be in touch." He hangs up, no doubt to deal with this before it becomes an even greater issue. Why didn't I send that confrontation's data to him in the first place? Should I give him access to the database where that's stored? Then again, he has other things to concern himself with. Sigh.
This is going to be a long weekend. I just know it.
8-8
[Cyllage City spectacle, take one]
The ferry makes its way to the coast, Cyllage City fading into view in the distance. I stand on the upper deck, to the front of the ship, looking out to sea with only Marie watching my rear flank.
Waves crash against the ferry's hull, sending salty sprays every which way, the racket masking the approaching clicking of heels and crunching of boots of Pola Hudson and her cameraman. He keeps his camera in hand, pointing away to not give the impression it's recording, though it still might be.
"Ms Mercier. Thank you for seeing me." Mrs Hudson curtseys.
"What is your reason for being aboard," I intone, showing clear disinterest in any of this. "It is, after all, highly unlikely this is coincidence."
"A trusted source contacted me. I travel to Cyllage to meet with them."
"Regarding?"
"I don't see how that is relevant," Mrs Hudson claims.
"I've no patience for these word games. What do you want?"
"To meet a—"
"A sports columnist from Motostoke," I hold up a finger, "travels to Kalos," a second finger goes up, "using the same ferry," a third, "as the interview that got away," a fourth, "that she was asking about mere hours ago." My hand spreads wide.
Mrs Hudson offers a tight smile. "Coincidence, I assure you."
"Truly," I intone. "And yet," I hold up my Dex, loading the soundbite, "it doesn't explain this." I press play.
"A pleasure to meet you. I'm Paula Hudson with the Motostoke Times. Could I ask you a few questions?
"Regarding?"
"Ladira Mercier?"
"No, you cannot."
"I'll keep this conversation private, I assure you. Your name won't even be mentioned. Just an anonymous source."
"How would I know anything about Ms Mercier?"
"She is of your employer's party, correct?"
I stop the soundbite. "To know a Battlemaid's employer. To know which party she travels with. And to know I am on this ship. Yet call all this coincidence?" I cock an eyebrow. "You take me for a fool."
The cameraman's gaze flickers to Mrs Hudson, and she meets it for but a fraction of a second before turning back to me. "I just want an in—"
"What you'll get is what should concern you, Mrs Hudson. Please be advised I am recording this exchange. Kalos is, after all, far more accepting of one-party recording. Is it not?"
The woman holds up her hands, microphone trapped between pointer and thumb, as if in surrender. "You're annoyed with me, I get that. All I ask is that you hear me out."
"I should hear you, when you ignore me?" I ask, my tone even. "Tell me. What do you think you have to offer that I might find advantageous?"
"Exposure in a controlled setting."
"Ah, yes." My tone sours. "I've been batting away every reporter, because I secretly await the chosen one to whom I'll reveal all my secrets."
"On your terms, Ms M—"
"If terms were the issue, Mrs Hudson. Levora George with the Hulbury Gazette would be the obvious choice. What, with her being of Hulbury, working with Eventide, and being our team's announcer. And yet, there's been no interview."
"Mrs George is lowborn, correct?" Mrs Hudson looks defiant anyway. Her cameraman squares his jaw. "How could she meet you on terms she doesn't understand?"
"Which Ashford are you meeting, Mrs Hudson?" My question has her eyes widen ever so slightly. Uh-huh. "Be advised, Mrs Hudson, that my lawyer has already sent a cease and desist letter to your editor in chief. And the Mercier family will take legal steps should you press this. I trust I've made myself quite plain. Do enjoy your trip."
I end the recording and send it to Uncle Francois and upload it to the database. Sigh. It's already at seventy percent capacity. At this rate, it'll be full before the year is out.
"Are you aiming to try out for Hulbury's—"
"You've been dismissed." Marie steps up, minimized Pokéball at the ready. "Or do you prefer swimming to shore?"
Mrs Hudson, seemingly accepting she can push no further, curtseys and leaves, Dex already in hand. I see.
To Levora George of Hulbury Gazette: "Pola Hudson of Motostoke Times. You might wish to warn her of my stance. Or I fear legal actions against her, personally, and her place of business will become unavoidable."
Sigh. Why is it a simple no is never enough?
8-8
[Cyllage City?]
We pull out of the ferry, entering Cyllage, and Kalos at large, via a simple customs gate. The officers stop each car individually and check our Dexes, scanning our cars with some contraption I'm unfamiliar with—looks like a Tecyro Corporation fancy doohicky. Still, papa allows it, so I've little reason to argue.
Through the busy streets. Past the open air market, already open despite the early hour.
My Dex rings. Is it going to be another one of those days? I take out my charge and plug it into the little bin between the front seats, answering only once my Dex is charging.
"We have a problem," maman says. Between the furrowed brow and the tight little smile, I can guess it's of the Ashford persuasion. "We make a pitstop, just outside the city. There'll be a cosy little diner. I can guess you have perhaps ten minutes to freshen up."
"For?"
"Your aunt forgot to mention a meet and greet. With Cyllage gentry. It shouldn't take more than an hour, I don't think."
Sigh. "Press?"
"Strictly forbidden." Overflowing with it, in other words.
"I'll handle it," I say and hang up. I dial another number, carefully arranging my face so my sneer is perfectly masked by a warm smile that reaches my eyes.
"Ah, Ladira! Good to hear from you," Auntie Marielle says. I can't see lower than her neck, but the bustle in the background is unmistakable.
"Auntie Ri. It's been far too long. Do forgive the unexpected call, but maman let slip that someone is starting the party early."
"But of course!" Her whole face lights up, not a hint of trouble brewing. Uh-huh. "I have a few friends I'd love for you to meet."
"Like Mrs Pola Hudsen, neé Owens, who graduated at Eventide Academy?"
Her lips and cheeks smile every bit as bright—it no longer reaches her eyes. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh, this and that." I look away from my Dex, letting her see it. "We will not be stopping."
"Of course, Ms Mercier." Her tone is every bit as professional, but her shoulders tremble ever so slightly.
"Now, Ladira—"
"I will inform maman myself, I assure you." I hang up and call maman back.
"Really, Ladira." Maman glares at me through the display.
"Whether you dance to their tune is on you. Whether I do so is on me. That's how teenage rebellion works, is it not?" I glare right back. "Or was there another reason for your behaviour these past days?" I hang up before she has the chance to respond and dial Janette.
"Oh, boy." Junebug answers. Her Dex is held at an odd angle, showing a far more severe angle than I'm used to seeing, with her being shorter than me. "I take it we're not doing the pitstop."
"No, I'm not. My aunt is the source Pola Hudson is to meet. I'll inform the others."
Junebug throws a glance over her shoulder, before focusing on the road once again. "No need. Eva's already texting the others for us. I'll take point if your parents break off."
"It's not that simple. Amandine may need to stay. This could affect her standing with Cyllage's gentry."
"And she knows the risks either way," Junebug says. "But, if you need to discuss it?"
I hang up and call Amandine directly.
"I thought to expect your call," Amandine picks up, smiling. "Pola Hudsen, neé Owens. Any other indications?"
"The hostess is Marielle Ashford, my maternal aunt. Eighteenth in line to the Ashford name and Eventide Alumna—don't worry if you forget it, she'll remind you. Mid-forties-ish, carries her age well. The brighter she smiles, the worse she's apt to lash out. Likes to hold everyone to expectations she feels she herself is above. Don't bring up anything to do with age unless you want to see her true self. Her usual cortège are gentry of the brown nosing variety.
"A real estate broker, has a fondness for sweets and hates to admit it. Make no mention of nutrition in general if you wish to avoid irking her. Something about a thyroid issue I didn't quite follow at the time.
"An investment banker that I've long suspected is a drag queen in his down time—a sweet man, if you catch him alone. It's only possible to get on his bad side if you're homophobic. He's straight, I think. Or so deep in the closet he could audition for adventures in Narnia. Either way, you'd have to be overt for him to notice.
"And a fashionista that fancies herself a designer. Don't ask who anyone is wearing unless you want to insult her. She can't sew to save her life and facing that reality is more than her fragile ego can bear."
Amandine nods over and over, sorting through the information. "No one else?"
"None I've reason to suspect will…" Well, she did mention her boys? "There's a slight chance Auntie Merielle's sons will be there. Showboats, the pair of them. Just count the rings on their hands or guess how heavy their necklace is. You can't miss them. Anything that strokes their ego will earn yourself the shortest lived friendship you'll never want.
"Don't know which souls they conscripted this time as an entourage, so can't much warn you about that. But their latest fianceés will show signs of codependency, and likely withdrawal." I'd need a drink if I had to put up with either of those fools regularly. So I don't blame them.
"Noted. Thank you."
"Good luck." My dry monotone teases a subtle chuckle from her, before she hangs up.
I'm not too surprised when the pink convertible pulls off with papa's sedan. At least Amandine will have backup she'll need.
8-8
[Camphrier Town]
Gentle rolling hills dotted with farms and unspoiled forests finally give way to an idyllic little town. The station wagon's aircon is on full blast to combat the summer heat, especially with the shadows all but disappearing under midday sun.
Cosy little cottages dot the landscape on the outskirts, soon giving rise to two- and three-storey buildings crowded together between winding alleys, some so narrow you have to walk single file, and the occasional bustling shopping street, with neighbours so close you could shake their hands through the window.
The architecture is all over the place here. Some buildings look like they should be on some fashion channel somewhere, with their sleek design and oversized windows to let in natural lighting. A few maintain their wattle and daub walls and wooden windows held up by a stick—straight out of the history channel. Others still have their upper floor overhanging the first—something about not overburdening the support beams, I believe.
There is an ironmonger with their candelabras and custom silverware and wrought iron gate designs displayed in the windows. A baker with a dusty and faded green board leaning against the door announcing baguette prices in white chalk. Cafés on almost every street corner, each boasting Kalosian cuisine, if offering subtly different menus. A butcher that hangs a poster of a dismembered Swinub's head—better than the actual head that hung there the last time I came through. And not a blink later, a chic clothing store with its mannequins in that trendy-sassy pose you see on the runway in Lumiose, with an organic greengrocer but a few doors later.
Let alone the townsfolk. Fashionistas prancing. Blink and it's farmers in their overalls. Blink again and it's school-going children in their uniforms despite the summer vacation—likely going to summer school because their parents can't get off from work. Not even needing to blink, and it's hikers pointing west, no doubt planning on taking the hiking trail over to Santalune City, over perhaps to camp up in the hilly backcountry. A gaggle of nuns in their black habits with those white flaps I could never make sense of. And friars with their crown shaved bald and a halo of finger-length hair around it, in their earthy brown robes with rope tied about their waist.
Traffic isn't spared from the disparity. Tractors chugging along. Cars so old it makes Elaine's Mr Bean car look modern and chic. At one intersection I could swear we pass a car that you need to jab a pole under the hood to crank the engine to life. But mostly it's carriages pulled by Gogoats, or Gogoats themselves being saddled and ridden. And every once in a while, another sportscar will overtake our three-car motorcade, its engine roaring as it races along. The entire town feels like it'll give a time traveller whiplash from trying to figure out what year it is.
Out in the distance, peeking between the rooftops as we turn onto the main avenue. There's the pride and joy of Camphrier Town—Shabboneau Castle, nestled up on the tallest hill and overlooking the sleepy little town. Its white walls and green roof tiles standing out against the almost cloudless sky without even trying.
"Welcome home," I murmur, just loud enough to tease a warm smile from Marie.
8-8
[Mercier manners]
The green-lacquered drawbridge lowers, clapping onto the stone recess meant to support it as we enter Shabboneau castle at long last. The courtyard feels like it was ripped right out of a fairytale and mangled for modern conveniences.
Gogoats stick their heads out of the stables, to one side, with their groomer trudging along with a bucket of feed for them. We circle around a fountain roundabout, to the main entrance, where six maids and a butler-type stand at the ready to welcome us. Dozens of stained glass windows stand open, to let out the castle's hot air and dust the tapestries hanging from the windowsills.
The second our cars stop, the maids rush over to open our doors for us.
"Welcome home, Miss Ladira," the butler says, bowing to me as I exit the car. Marie pops the trunk and one of the maids rushes over to gather our things for us. "Her Grace will be overjoyed to hear of your arrival."
"Thank you, Jean-Pierre," I say as I nod to him. I've long given up on curtseying to them—last time he looked like he was going to have a heart attack. Elaine is just working her way out of her Mini, trying to find her footing between her prosthetic and crutch. "I trust the guest room on the ground floor is available?"
"Of course, Miss Ladira. Your honourable father called ahead to make arrangements." The cars get parked up over to one side, almost hidden by the stables, and our group gathers. "Please, this way."
"The rest of our party should be along, once maman grows tired of polite bickering," I say, following Jean-Pierre into the main hall. Three manservants hold each of the doors wide open for us, for some reason. The entire estate is likely in party-prep mode. Again. Sigh. That means Grandmère invited some of her acquaintances again. So much for an intimate Mercier family gathering.
"Will you be joining Her Grace for lunch, Miss Ladira?" Jean-Pierre asks as one of the corridor's side doors cracks ajar.
"Gladly. Once I've freshened up." A pleased cackling rings out. Oh, dear. Flore is excited—that means she's trying another of her creations, and she knows I love trying new cuisine… if prepared well.
"Of course." Jean-Pierre opens the door and bows, motioning my party inside. "And if I may, Miss Ladira. A very happy birthday."
Sigh. "She's planning a pre-party party, isn't she." No wonder Grandmère tolerates Auntie Marielle inviting herself over, to have me mostly to herself for a spell.
"Gracious me, and spoil the surprise?"
I walk inside, finding the room exactly as I remember it. Spacious, to be sure, with a semi-private balcony to one side, and windows to the other that overlooks the stables, and where our cars are parked.
Six four-poster beds stand elegantly made, three to either side of the room, with enough space between them to not feel hemmed in. Grandpère's old room hasn't changed a bit—other than lacking a hospital bed.
"Elaine? That en suite bathroom caters to your situation. So please feel free to make yourself right at home."
Not missing a beat, Elaine heads for the further of the two bathrooms and pulls the lever, sliding the door into the wall. Not even needing to look, I can still picture the expansive bathroom, with all the railings for extra purchase and a walk-in shower with a chair if she needs it, and the bathtub with an automated chair-lift to enter. She'll be fine in there—especially since there's alarms everywhere she can pull the second she's not okay.
"There's another bathroom, so you can take your time," I say, heading to the smaller one with my bag in hand. "Lunch should be served in about a half hour."
[Mercier hospitality]
The dining hall is as grand as ever. A four-man orchestra sets a mellow mood as Grandmère entertains Janette, Elain, myself, and our Battlemaids, with servants flitting about to tend to every little detail.
"Oh, yes," Grandmère says, her gaze on the newer maid as she clears the half-emptied plate, to see if they work efficiently for whatever she has planned for later, "Ladira always was a spirited one." Her crow's feet deepen as her face crinkles up into a warm and weathered smile. He angel's hair mane shakes from side to side in time with her laughter.
No sooner than the first course's silverware and soup bowl are removed, our second course is served—a brioche toast with ricotta cheese and, what I assume is, tuna pâte. A bit on the scarce side, but multi-course meals tend to be. What I find curious, is Grandmère's serving, once again, being barely half everyone else's. Still, she doesn't complain.
"She barely lost her first baby tooth when she told me. She said she'd seen the world and it's all, and I quote," Grandmère pats my hand, throwing me an impish smile and a wink, "a bunch of idiots that speak funny languages."
Junebug doubles over, almost into her meal, with tears in her eyes and cheeks flushed from laughing so hard. Not that the other girls are doing much better—hiding it better, perhaps. A steady staccato of footfalls slows to a gentle halt as we're left, once again, with our meal and but a handful of maids to 'stand at the ready' for anything we might need in the interim.
"I haven't changed my mind," I intone. Curiously, Meline and Grandmère share a look, and Grandmère winks—subtle enough most won't notice.
"Of course not." Meline giggles behind her napkin, but when she and Elaine share a look, it almost sends the pair of them into a cackle fit. An entire conversation happens under my very nose, and I find myself able to decode but a fraction of it.
Grandmère rocks back in her chair, her eyes lit up, though somehow paired with a thoughtful frown. "Excuse me, dears. I've an appointment." Grandmère gracefully eases to her feet, her usual maid—that I've yet to be introduced to—already pulling back her chair for her. They exit elegantly, if quicker than one would come to expect without someone doing the usual whisper into her ear. Meline looks hopeful, though she averts her gaze when I turn to her for answers.
Hmm?
"So Elaine," best not to draw more attention to it, "how does it feel to be back in Camphrier?"
"It hasn't been that long for me, so," Elaine waves her toasted brioche my way, "I should ask you that."
I smush my pâte on, spoon up some ricotta, and take a little nibble of my light and puffy sweetbread. Well, 'bread' is a bit of a misnomer, but still. "I'm here twice a year?"
"She lived with us for a while," Meline tattles, swatting Elaine's shoulder. "I'm not surprised you missed each other, with how reclusive you tend to be when you come calling."
Ah? Hmm. Well, she did say she was in… but why didn't… No. Not worth the brain cells.
"Libs? Reclusive?" Someone nudges me with her elbow. "I know she isn't much of a people person, but with family?"
"Mercier Manor at Christmas is…an acquired taste," Meline says as delicately as she can. "Especially for Dira." I snort.
"Not a people person?" Elaine asks, pâte smeared on her lower lip. She quickly sucks on her lip to remove it. Will discuss that with her privately. If she were to attempt that at school…?
"Dira has all the patience in the world, she's just," Meline throws me a teasing smile, "selective in who she spends it on."
"How were your exams?" I ask, my hand easing onto Melly's.
"Decent." Melly beams, too pleased for that to be nearly half the tale. "I've already sent you…something." She waggles her brow suggestively.
Her old notes and exams, no doubt. If the professors have half a brain, they'll change it for every term. But it could prove useful to know their question style and what I could rightly expect. "Thank you."
"Uh, what?" Junebug leans in, whispering only just loud enough for me to hear her. "Naughty pics?"
"Ew!" I swat her thigh. "Her notes and exams."
"Nothing wrong with being curious, you know," Janette whispers, her breath hot on my neck.
I roll my eyes, trying to act annoyed by unwilling to trust my voice just now. Not with how her warm breath seers my brain function just now.
"You attend Eventide?" Janette asks, pulling back at last—or is it already? I take a sip of my water, setting it down to find a soft pink imprint of my lipstick marking it. Meline narrows her eyes ever so slightly—the evidence vanishing as swiftly as it appeared.
"I'm in Three-Bee," Meline says, her eyes smiling just a little brighter. "And you?"
"We're all in One-Cee," Elaine says, quite focused on her meal.
The doors swish open once again, to Grandmère's poetry—or off-key and arhythmic rapping. "I pooped today. What did I say? I'll tell you anyway. I pooped today. I pooped today."
I didn't just hear that. Right?
Grandmère saunters over and lets loose a belting chorus, loud as an explosion and clear as a bell. "I poo-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooped toooooo-daaaaaaaaaaaay!"
I did. I heard my Grandmère singing about pooping. Okay.
"And it feels amazing!" Grandmère eases into her chair, her usual maid shifting it forward for her. Like nothing's the matter, Grandmère takes a nibble at her brioche.
I've been missing signs. Noted. "Elaine, Junebug, and three of my other friends we're expecting." I smile for Grandmère, as warm as I can without bursting out in laughter. "We're classmates. You remember Mr de Verley, Grandmère? Of Verley Industries?"
"Indeed. Theo tells me his heiress accepted our invitation." She continues the conversation as if she wasn't just singing about that? Impressive.
8-8
End Chapter Eight
8-8
A/N: I hope this makes up for the long wait XD