Edward Masen

Helen Jorgensen is looking at me again. I can't see her from my pew, but I sense her eyes. She's pretty. Dark hair. Clear blue eyes. A lovely figure. But perhaps a little thin on substance.

Occasionally I sense Florence Thompson's eyes, but she's much more subtle about it than Helen.

Florence's hair is like gold. Her eyes are hazel. She's well-read and, according to my mother, she is Mr. Peters' second best student.

We've spoken a couple times. Her lesson is scheduled right after mine and she often drifts in early to listen to me play. I can see something in her face when she listens to me that tells me I'm right - I am better than Mr. Peters now. I think Mr. Peters knows it, too, but maybe he's too prideful to admit it to himself just yet.

The service is finished and mother tells me to wait for her in the pew - she needs to speak to the reverend's wife about something.

I'm suspicious, but I don't know why. A moment later -

"Edward, how are you?"

I turn and see John Thompson, his sister Florence is on his arm.

"Hello, John. It's been a while." We shake hands. "Florence." I incline my head towards her, but look back to John.

"Edward," she says. She looks at John, too, but it feels reluctant. As if she's avoiding looking at me strictly out of decorum.

I can just make out Helen in my periphery. Something about her posture tells me she very much wishes she was in Florence's shoes right now.

John and I chatter about nothing. He's a dull man a couple years older than me. A little full of himself considering his sister is immensely more talented than he is.

"I saw you talking with John Thompson after service today," Mother muses as we walk home. Her arm is looped through mine.

I won't say anything rude about John to my mother. She's quite fond of the family. "His university is out for the summer," I answer vaguely.

"He's not as clever as his sister is he?" She asks with a little laugh.

"Certainly not," I agree, smiling. I shouldn't be surprised. Mother and I are often on the same page.

"She's pretty, isn't she? Florence?" Mother asks.

Florence is pretty. And so is Margaret, Lillian, Frances, Rose, and every other girl my mother asks about.

"Yes, Florence is plenty charming," I say, wary.

"Beautiful, educated, talented. She just seems different from the other girls."

"Hmm..."

"And Mrs. Thompson says Florence can't stop raving about how good a pianist you are."

I smile to myself thinking again of Mr. Peters. How he struggles to find music that will challenge me anymore. How resentful he seems when Florence or anyone else admires my talent.

"But none of the girls are good enough for you," Mother says, interrupting my abstraction

I roll my eyes when she's not looking.

"Why is that?" She presses.

I won't tell her. It would only hurt her.

A/N: Thanks for reading. I jotted this down to give my brain a break - something short and sweet. More chapters to come - one each from Elizabeth and Carlisle's perspectives.