So this is fairly different than what I usually do, don't know how many of you will like this sort of language and whatnot, but I thought a fair amount of it was pretty funny actually. This is what happens when I haven't written anything for the Murdoch Mysteries fandom in ages. I usually hate love triangles but I think this could be fun.

Reasons why this won't be like a typical Jane Austen story:

The love triangle does not consist of two male suitors.

There won't be tons of witty banter back and forth.

This takes place in 1870s England because that is the first time women were allowed to own property (normally if no sons existed, the fortune and land would transfer to another male relative upon the father's death)

There will be fighting and unladylike behaviour.

It will be similar in the respect that I won't be referring to race or colour at any point in this story even though some of the characters are POC. I just don't feel like focusing on those kinds of issues (being poor and/or gay or a woman is issue enough). It's what makes The 100 so great.

Other things to note:

I didn't give them more period accurate names because I thought it might be too confusing who I was referring to. Also, I don't know the correct terms for their clothing and other items and whatnot, so that stuff will likely be inaccurate, if mentioned at all.

Clarke and everyone else are their current ages.


"Halt, Mistress Griffin! Miss Blake! I cannot allow you to commandeer those horses."

The two young women flinched at the sound of the stable boys gentle, yet irritated voice.

"We will not be gone long, Lincoln," she said, looking behind her. "We only wish to take a brief trot around the pond."

Lincoln crossed his well defined arms and frowned at her. "With all due respect, mistress, I do not believe you." He looked between them. "As you well know, it is far too late for two young ladies to be out and about unescorted. Master Griffin will be most displeased to hear of this transgression."

They shared a look and then Octavia thrust the reins into Clarke's hand and turned to face Lincoln fully. Clarke pivoted further to watch their interaction. Octavia strode over to the tall, strapping man confidently, putting on her most self serving demeanour, that is to say, charm. He eyed her warily, as well he should.

Octavia was practically touching him when she said, "Then by all means escort us, Mr. Sterling." She circled around the stable boy, skillfully directing his attention away from Clarke. Discreetly she signaled to her to keep going. "A fine specimen such as yourself should have no difficulties in keeping the ne'er-do-wells at bay."

While Lincoln was distracted by Octavia's blatant flirting and pretty smile, Clarke quietly led the horses outside of the stable, opened the gate, and mounted one of the horses as gracefully as she ever managed in her ample skirts. A few seconds later she heard Lincoln exclaim in discontent and then her friend was beside her, grinning like the devil.

"Come along then, Clarke!" she yelled, sticking her dainty boot heels into the poor beast.

Following suit, the girls raced over cobblestones for a nigh on a mile until they reached the edge of the city limits and the blessed pastures and rolling hills bathed in moonlight. The stars were shining brightly tonight, and not for the first time Clarke wondered what it would be like to live among them, to breathe in their majesty. She also wondered why she let Octavia manipulate her into these nighttime excursions. More often than not, she was the sole receiver of chastisement and censure, and then she alone would be forbidden to leave the premises for days on end.

Now, she knew she enjoyed the thrill of disobedience, of danger, just as much as her friend. There was something so liberating in taking to the countryside, unchaperoned and free. It was hard to feel that way in the bustling city with near constant supervision, something Octavia purported to experience to an even greater degree when her brother was in town. Miss Blake being a recent acquaintance, Clarke had never met the gentleman, so she could not pass judgment on whether he was as domineering as Octavia made him out to be.

They both longed to live in the country, somewhere far away from all the smoke and noise and crime. The Blake's had lived in a modest establishment just south of London encompassing nearly eighty acres of land. Octavia's mother had died in childbirth, her birth, and her father had never stopped blaming her for it. His grief led to the bottle which led to the crops failing one too many seasons, which led to their ruination. After his demise, the son did all he could to keep the farm from total disrepair, but alas he could not, and brother and sister had moved to the city, to share a small apartment with what little they had left to them. Then the militia came recruiting and Mr. Blake had joined, sending back everything he could to ensure his sister did not want for anything, especially the education he never had. Certainly, this did not sound like the actions of a domineering man, but Octavia was prone to willful fancy, so Clarke did not think on it overly much.

The two girls rode past the pond, to the top of their favourite hill, dismounted their steeds and unceremoniously fell on the grass, laughing. Octavia had nothing but she was the gayest, most spirited person Clarke had ever met, and nothing her mother could say or threaten would stop her from cultivating their friendship further. With any luck, Lincoln would stay put with his charges and not come after them. With further luck, Octavia would be able to persuade him not to tell the master of the house of their most recent transgression. Clarke thought it plain to see that the stable boy was sweet on her friend. Whether Octavia was aware of this affection or not, Clarke could not say. Certainly her conduct left much to be desired.

Not that Clarke herself was an angel. Gentlemen far and wide knew to give her a considerable berth after her infamous misconduct concerning her last suitor. Mr. Collins, an apprentice watchmaker, had pursued her most ardently for several months, but she had caught him seducing one of the local barmaids and consequently rejected his advances afterwards. He had been incredibly displeased with this rejection but a swift kick to the shin had sent him on his way for good. For this one act of justifiable violence she was a pariah among both of the sexes.

Fingers entwined, Octavia and Clarke looked up to the clear skies, observing the heavens. Clarke itched to paint it in all its glory but there was no paint and canvas to be had at this particular moment. She would have to be content with laying eyes on the unknown realm of the Lord.

After awhile, Octavia turned on her side, propping her head up with an elbow and said, "Have you ever received intimate favours* from a man before, Clarke?"

Clarke glanced over briefly before returning her attention to the stars. "Are you asking because there is someone you wish to make violent love to**, Octavia?

"Perhaps," she replied, and Clarke could hear the smirk across her friends face.

"Are you asking because this someone is known to both of us?"

"Perhaps," she said, the smirk getting larger.

"And finally, my dearest friend, are you asking because you are unsure of how to secure such affections from said acquaintance?"

Octavia huffed in annoyance and nudged her shoulder. "Speak truly, Clarke, have you ever been kissed?"

Clarke let out a quiet sigh and shook her head against the grass. "I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure yet." She clenched her jaw thinking about Mr. Collins and the other woman. She forced herself to relax and then turned on her side as well. "Should I ever be so fortunate as to receive such favours, I won't hesitate to inform you of them. I hope you will pay me the same kindness when the joyous occasion comes to pass for yourself and Mr. Sterling."

Miss Blake averted her eyes, blushing prettily at this comment. Octavia gathered her composure and confidence and gazed into her eyes again. "I am at a loss as to how to proceed. I believe I have been exceedingly obvious in my intent."

"Perhaps that is the problem, Octavia. Perhaps you have been scaring him off with your constant love making. Or perhaps he thinks you do it all in jest, in aid of our excursions."

"In jest!" she exclaimed dramatically. "Why I have never jested in my life, Miss Griffin!" She slapped the grass between them. "I demand you take back such egregious charges at once!"

Clarke shook her head slightly, smiling. "Perhaps if you simply left him to himself for awhile he would come to you. Mr. Sterling is a shy, sensitive fellow, and I do believe he is rather bewildered by your effusive manners," she placed a hand on her shoulder, "winsome as they may be. Some find such attentions from a lady to be unseemly."

Octavia groaned, rolling onto her back once more. "How many times must I tell you that I am not a lady, Clarke? I would much rather spend all day in the rain and muck than inside learning how to embroider cushions! Of all the useless things to know! My brother is an ass for insisting I gain a formal education! At least your father allows you to gain useful knowledge in addition to the useless aspects forced upon our sex!"

Clarke let her finish her oft repeated rant and then said, "He only wants the best for you."

"I know," she said with a long suffering sigh. She turned to face Clarke again, suddenly looking unsure of herself. "Do you think my brother would approve of Mr. Sterling as a potential suitor?"

If Clarke were to answer truthfully, the answer was a decided no. Mr. Sterling had many good qualities to recommend himself with, the least of which was his determination to teach himself how to read and write - and was perhaps better educated than Octavia herself - but the fact remained he was even poorer than The Blake's. The only thing Mr. Blake ever wanted was for his sister to have a prosperous future. Mr. Sterling was not likely to be able to provide that, which was probably the real reason he had disregarded his own feelings thus far, hoping Miss Blake would simply get over her girlish infatuation and look towards someone else.

Thankfully, Clarke was spared answering as three disreputable looking men suddenly loomed over them.

"Nice night, eh, ladies?" said the first one.

"I hope you don't mind our intrusion," said the second.

The third simply stared down at them in a way that made her shiver and curse the horses for not warning them ahead of time. They had been grazing a short distance away, and now Clarke saw that they were being held by a fourth brute, the meanest looking one yet.

Both women attempted to flee but were easily grasped round their cinched waists with filthy hands as soon as they rose to their feet. Clarke screamed for help before a disgustingly sweaty palm was placed over her mouth and nostrils, practically smothering her. She flailed around frantically as the loss of air weakened her limbs and sent her closer and closer to fainting. Then she heard a yelp and she looked over to find Octavia had bit her assailants hand, like she should have done, and elbowed him in the stomach. The third one knocked her on the ground before she could carry on screaming for someone to help them. It was a pointless exercise anyway, they were too far from the city or a neighboring village for anyone to hear them and come to their aid.

However, just as Clarke fainted, she could swear she heard a distant gunshot. Lincoln had come for them after all, she thought, and knew no more.


The pungent aroma of smelling salts greeted her to the world anew. She blinked in confusion at the person before her, who was obviously not Lincoln, and her still frazzled mind assumed she was seeing things. The hooded person stared down at her without expression, a lantern illuminating their face in a slightly ghoulish way.

"You're a woman!" was the first thing she thought to say, rather stupidly she might add.

The woman arched an eyebrow and stood, holding out her gloved hand to assist Clarke to her feet. But all Clarke could stare at was the woman's legs, specifically the fact that she wore-

"Trousers. You're wearing trousers."

The mysterious woman was apparently the impatient sort because she placed the lantern aside, bent back down and hoisted Clarke to her feet instead, in a relatively easy manner, suggesting she had cause to rescue unsuspecting women all the time. The sudden movement sent another wave of dizziness through her and she couldn't help but to lean into the woman, and as she did so, she realized the woman was not even wearing a corset. What manner of woman was this?

Clarke turned her head to look at the stranger up close, and this time the moonlight allowed her to see that she was exceedingly beautiful, with a regal, almost ethereal countenance.

"Who are you?" she asked dumbly, (almost saying what are you) wondering if perhaps she was even real, or some sort of spirit come out of the woods.

Instead of answering, which was incredibly rude, the woman propped her against one of the horses and went over to attend to Octavia, who was also lying on the ground. Clarke felt guilty for being distracted by the newcomer and not even giving a single thought to her friends welfare. She watched as the stranger applied more smelling salts and then helped Octavia to her feet as well. Miss Blake seemed far less astounded to find a woman capable of rescuing them and Clarke felt ashamed of herself and lack of faith in her own sex.

Finally their rescuer addressed them in a surprisingly dead voice, lacking all expression, not unlike her face. "I will escort you back to your homes and then I suggest you two young ladies find your beds once more and desist in further foolish behaviour."

The woman, who was alone, couldn't have been more than a few years older than them herself, but Clarke wasn't about to point either of these things out to her right then, not when Clarke wasn't entirely convinced she wasn't a sprite intent on mischief.

After the three of them took to their horses, she attempted to get the story of what happened after she fainted.

"I aimed my rifle at them in turn and they fled," the woman replied simply.

A few more minutes passed before she asked, "What were you doing out here anyway?"

"I was attempting to hunt."

Curiouser and curiouser.

"Why that's positively brilliant!" exclaimed Octavia, seeming to come out of the daze she had been in. "I've been forbidden from ever holding a firearm again!

Clarke had learned that her brother had nearly had his head shot off when he allowed her to scare away the crows from their farmland once. Since then, all firearms were barred to her. That was six years ago.

"...your assistance, kind stranger, I could finally learn to use one!"

The woman didn't say anything for so long that Octavia's face fell and she muttered, "That is, if you would be willing to teach me."

"I think not," came the immediate reply.

Octavia looked ready to explode but Clarke shook her head, and her friend glowered from there on out. Further communication seemed pointless, so the remainder of the journey was completed in uncomfortable silence, at least from Clarke's perspective. They arrived at Octavia's home first. Clarke hugged her goodnight. The nearly mute stranger took the reins of the extra horse (Violet) and they proceeded to The Griffin's house, an iron gate running around it indicating as much. Once they were there, Clarke thanked her for her assistance, only earning a nod in reply, which also annoyed her.

Despite this annoyance, she couldn't help but to ask for her name again. "I'm sorry to be so bothersome on that score, but I simply must know the name of my rescuer." The woman just stared at her. "Perhaps I could receive an address as well, so that Miss Blake and I could call on you tomorrow and give proper thanks?"

This time the response consisted of the reins being handed over. "Good night, Miss Griffin."

The impoliteness of ignoring her attempts to express gratitude left her burning for some time later, and for this reason, as well as being reprimanded by her mother, Clarke found it difficult to get to sleep after her misadventure, and was accordingly very disgruntled by morning.


"I simply don't know what to do with her," said her mother from her father's workshop, the door of which was partially ajar.

Ignoring the disapproving looks she was getting from the servants, Clarke crept a little closer, feet bare and cold against the wood paneling. It was mid morning and she had already been chastised by both of her parents more than once. Admittedly, her father was always half hearted about such matters. Whoever said females were the softer sex was an imbecile.

"She is determined to vex me. She has no compassion for my poor nerves. Gallivanting off to who knows where in the middle of the night! She is a woman grown! She should not be doing such foolish things!"

If they knew the particulars of last night, she would surely have been sent off to the nunnery. As it is, she was under strict orders to be chaperoned upon leaving the house again, assuming she was ever permitted such an indulgence.

"I told you that Blake girl would be trouble but you refused to bar our daughter from seeing her! And now look what has become of it! She is disobedient and rude!"

"My dear Mrs. Griffin," came the quiet and composed voice of her father, "I must disagree with you on that point."

"Indeed?!" she said a little shrilly. "You must?!"

"Yes, Clarke is lovely in many respects but I'm afraid she has always been disobedient and rude. Miss Blake only enhances our daughters natural charms."

Clarke had to stifle a laugh at that remark.

"Oh, you are just as vexing as she!" exclaimed her mother. "Mark my words, Mr. Griffin, something terrible will befall our daughter if you do not put your foot down! Heaven knows she won't heed me!"

Clarke ducked into the parlour room moments before her mother stormed out of the workshop and marched upstairs to fume in peace and quiet as she had done countless times before.

"You may show yourself now, daughter," said her father, amusement evident in his tone.

When Clarke entered the smoky smelling room (her father was always puffing on a pipe) he didn't even look up from his latest endeavour, and simply continued to take precise measurements with various instruments. He was a moderately successful inventor, just as his father was before him, and he very rarely concerned himself with frivolous matters, namely running the household. Sometimes Clarke wished he would be a little more present in her own affairs, but she loved him dearly all the same.

"What are you working on, father?" she asked, coming around beside him to rest her arms on his hunched shoulders to look past. She stared at a series of interlocking metal pieces. It looked more like a puzzle than an invention.

"I haven't the foggiest," he replied, taking yet another measurement.

He often answered this way, preferring to explain his inventions only after he actually got them to work, that is assuming, he did. An exception to this rule was a project he had been working on for some time involving photovoltaic cells. Her father was convinced it was possible to harness the power of the sun and use it as a new source of energy. Unfortunately, try as he might, he simply couldn't crack the code. ***

"While I do enjoy the sport of vexing your mother on occasion," he casually said, "perhaps you could try a little harder not to. She is of a more delicate sensibility than you or I. No doubt her forays into the world of the less fortunate has heightened her sense of impending doom."

Clarke's mother thought herself something of a healer, and would tend to those in need to the best of her ability should they come calling. Consequently, there had been a number of unusual characters outside their gates over the course of the past few years. By most accounts, The Griffin's were odd ducks and very rarely got invited to parties and balls, and Clarke was ever so thankful for this. Like Octavia, she had never been one for airs and graces, though when she was younger, she had thought herself a bit of a princess, and had a number of frilly, dreadful dresses and hats, the only evidence of which resided in a single photographic still.

By the time she was eleven, she decided she wanted to be more like her father and had attempted to learn the required maths and sciences needed to understand his profession. Unfortunately, her mind simply didn't work like that and she was unable to follow in his footsteps and become his apprentice, not that her mother would have allowed such a thing anyway. Clarke instead focused on her drawings and paintings, in the hope, perhaps the vain hope, that she would one day be recognized for her talent. Few women were, regardless of the field of study.

"I do worry about you too, Clarke. I do not wish to see you get hurt."

It was very rare for her father to be so direct and express his feelings openly.

"I shall try harder not to be so vexing, father," she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

She turned to leave, intent on allowing him to concentrate on his work.

"See that you do. I do not wish to employ more severe forms of punishment."

Clarke was taken aback by the threat. Her father had never used the strap on her before, and doubtless, neither of them were keen to undergo the experience.

"Yes, father," she muttered.


Since Octavia was not allowed to visit and her painting supplies had been locked up tight, she had little to occupy herself with over the next fortnight. Every time she picked up a book to wile away the hours, her mind wandered back to that eventful night and the mysterious stranger that saved them from ruination. The woman's face was imprinted on her memory now and it was driving her to complete distraction because she could not draw or paint it in any way. Clarke was desperate to discover her identity so she could thank her, but she couldn't even leave the house, so making inquiries was impossible. She wasn't much for proper conduct, but in matters such as these, she thought it extremely important to pay her dues, whether or not the other party desired to receive them.

Octavia had not been found out, (Lord knows how considering the state of their clothing) so half way through her incarceration Clarke left her a hastily scrawled note and a simplistic ink portrait under a loose cobblestone just outside their gate in the hopes that her friend would do what she could not. The portrait was woefully lacking in depth but she had very little time to herself these days, and there were eyes and ears everywhere. Effectively, she was a prisoner in her own home. It wasn't the first time, and would doubtless be the last.

About a week later she discreetly retrieved the response, the contents of which sent her into another bout of melancholy. Octavia had learned nothing of their saviour. No one seemed to know who she was.

Perhaps she was a sprite after all? thought Clarke gloomily, as she ambled around the stable aimlessly. She fed Violet some oats and patted her head absentmindedly.

"You are more fortunate than I," she murmured to the gentle creature. "Would that I could be so unburdened."

When she noticed Mr. Sterling watching her she turned on her heel and left. Logically, she knew it wasn't his fault that she was housebound. To persist in folly even after he had caught them was inexcusable, and tempting fate. Lincoln was an upright sort of fellow who cared for her friends wellbeing. And hers as well, she supposed. Of course he would only do as he must.


The minute she was released from her metaphorical chains, she insisted on calling on Octavia. Her mother being her designated chaperon, it took awhile to convince her to allow this visit. Eventually she relented and Clarke practically skipped gaily the whole way there like a child. The Blake's lived in a less prosperous part of town so they had the additional protection of one of their manservants, Mr. Kane. He had spent some years in the army before losing a hand and retiring. Despite this lack of appendage, it was said Mr. Kane knew how to defend himself and others quite astutely. Thus far, Clarke had never had cause to witness his abilities.

The two friends bounded into each others arms upon their reunion and conversed animatedly for some time over colder and colder cups of tea. Then, because Clarke was in need of fresh air, they went out for a stroll on the outskirts of town, their three chaperons (Octavia's governess and keeper among them) demanding they keep within sight at all times.

Arm in arm, Octavia casually said, "How is Mr. Sterling faring? Is he quite put out by our putting him on the spot?"

"To answer your first question, he appears to be faring as he always does, that is to say well. As to anything else, I would not know, I have refrained from speaking with him this past fortnight."

Octavia gave her a reproachful look but otherwise didn't make her displeasure known. They walked for some time in a tense sort of quiet, of the uncomfortable variety.

Then, abruptly, Octavia glanced at her sideways and said, "Have you ever seen a fight, Clarke?"

"Of course I have, Octavia," she replied with a frown. "One can hardly avoid them in the city. There are drunkards everywhere."

"Granted, but have you ever been to a fight club for gentlemen?"

Clarke rolled her eyes. "If they're for gentlemen, I could hardly have attended."

"Would you like to?"

Clarke pursed her lips, not liking at all where this was going. "Octavia, I have just spent a fortnight as prisoner, unable to pursue my greatest passion in life. Agreeing to such a scheme would be the pinnacle of idiocy."

"And I do apologize for that, my dearest friend, but I greatly desire to attend this event, and I would rather not go alone." She squeezed Clarke's arm affectionately. "It could be very dangerous to do so."

Clarke had a sudden urge to throttle her manipulative friend but with some effort quelled her murderous instinct and instead smoothed out her dress to give her free hand something else to do. She was beginning to understand how her parents felt on a day to day basis dealing with herself.

"Why precisely is it so important for you to attend this...distinguished event?"

Octavia looked at her earnestly and said, "I have it on good account that Mr. Sterling will be among the participants."

Incredulously, "And who's account would that be?"

"You know me, Clarke, I hear things."

Oh yes indeed! You hear all sorts of things, but when I ask for your assistance, you are unable to aid me!

"Octavia," she said, losing her patience, "if Mr. Sterling were a frequent participant of this club, surely we would know of it. He could hardly hide the multitude of cuts and bruises he would accumulate."

"This will be his first bout of fisticuffs." She squeezed Clarke's arm again. "I must be there."

"Supposing I did agree to accompany you, how do you propose we gain entrance into this gentleman's club? We can hardly just walk straight in."

Octavia grinned at her slyly. "Oh I would not be so sure of that."

As usual, Clarke was caught between a rock and a hard place. If she didn't accompany Octavia to this event and something happened to her, she would never forgive herself. If she did accompany her, she would likely never see the light of day again. Still, since Wells death the previous year, she had never expected to find such devoted companionship again. Consequently, she could not find it in her heart to disappoint her only friend.

Smoothly, Clarke glanced behind them to see that their chaperons were still well out of earshot. "Very well," she said with a sigh. "I will accompany you."

Octavia was about to express her joy in a boisterous manner when Clarke cut her off with a single look. "When does this fight take place?"

"Tonight," Octavia responded, having the good grace to look ever so slightly abashed.

A den full of fighting men, what could possibly go awry?


A woolen hood over her head, she snuck out of the house an hour before the fighting was to commence. Clarke tread swiftly over the well worn path to The Blake's apartment, avoiding any and all problem areas. There would be enough to contend with as the night progressed. When she arrived just outside, Octavia gestured to her from the dark alleyway between the buildings. Clarke hastened over and Octavia pulled her deeper into the gloom, into an alcove of sorts, away from prying eyes. Then she thrust some unpleasant smelling clothing into her hands.

Furling her nostrils she said, "Octavia, what is this?"

Rather than answer, Octavia simply began to unbutton her dress.

"Octavia!" she exclaimed, aghast, strangely unable to look away. In her surprise, she dropped the clothing on the ground. "What on earth are you doing?!"

Miss Blake just smirked as she stepped out of her dress and threw it onto a previously laid out blanket in order to keep the discarded clothing clean. If nothing else, the dirt and grass stains from their last excursion would have given them away. Clarke couldn't understand why she kept staring at her friend, or why her heartbeat had quickened and her mouth had gone painfully dry.

"This blasted lace always gives me grief. Help me undo my corset...Clarke?"

Octavia caught her eye and Clarke finally mastered herself and came to her friends aid. Her fingers trembled slightly as she undid the rest of the lace and the corset was released, revealing her cotton chemise. This Octavia swept off too without a second thought and Clarke stood still as a statue, unsure of what to do with her hands. Octavia bent over right in front of her to scoop something off the ground and then turned around to face her. Clarke's eyes strained painfully in the effort required not to glance down.

"To complete the illusion, we must wrap ourselves like Viola did in Twelfth Night."

Violently, Clarke cleared her throat, eliciting a puzzled look from Octavia. "Indeed? I take it that is where you conceived of this idea?"

If her voice came out unusual, Octavia did not appear to notice. She was sure her face was ablaze though, producing enough glow to be seen through the relative dark of the alleyway.

"Education at its finest," she grinned. Her face fell slightly. "And well, if I'm being perfectly honest...the stranger from that night inspired me too."

"I see," she responded, perhaps more tersely than she intended to.

"Anyway, I suppose I should wrap myself now so as to avoid being mistaken for a lady of the night,****" she said in an amused manner. Clarke was excessively relieved Octavia hadn't asked her to do that for her. While Octavia wrapped herself, she raised an eyebrow at Clarke. "Hurry up and get dressed, Clarke, we haven't got much time!"

She was very uncomfortable getting mostly naked in public, even if it was in the dark, fearful that someone would walk by at any moment. And of course this person would recognize her and run off to inform her parents about her infamous conduct. When they learned of her assault of Mr. Collins, her mother pitched a fit, and carried on like doomsday was upon them. Her father however simply winked at her when her mother wasn't looking. Later on he gave her a hug and kissed the top of her head muttering, 'Well done, daughter, well done. I never cared for that nincompoop.***** You will find someone worthy of you yet. Of that there can be no doubt.'

Rushed for time, Octavia took it upon herself to wrap Clarke. If she thought she had been uncomfortable before, this was beyond compare. Every time Octavia's fingers brushed against her bare skin, she couldn't control the shivers that surged through her, and by the time her friend was finally finished, Clarke was on the verge of collapse once more. She pushed through her incomprehensible reaction and gathered the remainder of her clothes. It took surprisingly little time to don men's clothing, for which she was very grateful.

Before she knew what was happening, Octavia stepped in close again and started pulling out her hair pins, shoving them into her mouth as she went along. "For the wig," she murmured around them. "We can't have your hair done up all prettily like a woman's, now can we?"

With the pins out, the bulk of Clarke's hair was easier to mat down and shove within the confines of a short blonde wig. This too smelled a bit. Clarke didn't even want to know where Octavia had acquired these items. By now she was just along for the ride, wherever that may lead.

Octavia likewise stuck on a brown wig and then held up two bits of what appeared to be fur. Clarke groaned internally as Octavia applied a thin paste to her upper lip and stuck on the moustache. She made Clarke do the same for her and then tossed her a top hat to complete the ensemble. Octavia placed one on her head as well and struck a ridiculous macho pose.

"How do I look?" she said in as deep a voice as she could manage, which simply made her sound like a schoolboy on the verge of manhood.

The suit was somewhat ill fitting and creased.

"Dashing. Now stop behaving like a ninny, and let's get this over with."

Octavia pulled out her pocket watch and squinted at the dials before yelling girlishly. "Is that the time?! Why, we must be off with all haste!"

She grabbed Clarke's hand and pulled her almost out of the alleyway before Clarke reminded her that men don't hold hands. It would be a miracle if they managed to make it through the entire evening without giving themselves away. They were a trainwreck waiting to happen.

Clarke mourned for the paint and canvas never to be seen again.


*I just mean kiss basically

**not in a sexual way, more or less another way to say charm

***In 1876, the first solar cells were created with selenium, but they didn't become energy efficient until after the 1950s when silicon was utilized instead.

****prostitute

*****idiot

Well, that's it for now. These are longer chaps than I usually do so it might be awhile before the next update. I expect I'll be updating once a week though. Anyway, thanks for giving this thing a shot! :) And let me know what you liked, didn't like about this!