Glass Houses, Part Five
Author's Notes: Long, rambling conversations here as well as some conflict and hints at why Orélie got along so badly at Beauxbatons - the other students didn't shun her for no reason, which will come up more in later chapters (by the end of the story, you'll probably be sick of it). No Galina, Luis or Carmela here, though they and some other students from Orélie's year will be featured in the next chapter.
I briefly mention Internal Magic here, which will be explained in depth later but I'll give a quick synopsis now. In an online chat, JKR said that it was possible to do magic without a wand, but that it was "unfocused and uncontrolled" or something to that effect. For the purpose of this story, I'm saying that all magical beasts/beings have a certain amount of magic inside them, but until a recent breakthrough witches and wizards didn't know how to channel it. Thanks to this discovery (which was made about ten years prior to this story), this Internal Magic can now be used, though Stella di Mattina is the first school to teach it to children. Confused? It'll be cleared up later.
Title source: "Maybe you could show me how to let go, lower my guard, learn to be free..." from the musical "Anyone can Whistle."
Disclaimer: The wizarding world and all related concepts belong to JK Rwoling. Stela di Mattina, all characters and Internal Magic belong to me. "Anyone Can Whitsle" belongs (I think) to Stephen Sondheim.
Aaaaaaah!
Oh, ciel, what's that awful noise? Be still, my heart. What could it be? Some sort of alarm? Maybe there was a fire! I have to get out of the room; I could be burned alive… where's my bathrobe? There, now I'll just shove my shoes on… I can hear other people moving around in the hallway. They must be evacuating the building. My, they're calm; I don't hear anyone screaming.
Véronique? Where is she? What a time for her to be lost! I can't leave her to be burned, though, I just can't - better that the Cappelinos should find my charred remains. She would never desert me; I can't abandon her. Véronique! There you are. Don't worry; I'll never leave you. Come on. I hope it's not too late.
--
Tucking Véronique under one arm, Orélie burst into the hallway, hair in a golden-brown cloud behind her. "Is there an emergency exit?" she demanded of the nearest student, a tall girl with curly hair piled atop her head.
"Emergency exit?" The girl stared in confusion as other occupants of Girls' Hallway Two gathered. A few began to giggle behind polite hands. "I don't know what you mean… you aren't going to breakfast dressed like that, are you?"
Orélie glanced wildly around at the other girls. All were fully dressed and appeared calm. "You mean there wasn't any fire?" A fresh burst of giggles exploded from the others. There was no sign of Galina or Carmela, only faceless Others. "What was that awful noise then?"
"Awful noise?" The tall girl seemed incapable of speaking in anything other than questions. Then she, too, began to laugh as comprehension dawned on her face. "Oh, that was the wake-up bell!" Her laughter, bell-like and melodic, reached a crescendo. "Did you really think that was a fire alarm?" Shrewd eyes looked Orélie over again, pausing to take in Véronique.
"Yes," replied Orélie in clipped tones. "I did. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to get dressed." Head held high, she about-faced and reentered her room. With one well-placed kick of her sensibly shod foot, she slammed the door shut in the face of nauseating giggles. The quiet of the tiny chamber was the most golden of silences.
She gently set Véronique on her bed as she sighed deeply. "What a bunch of idiots," she muttered bitterly, pulling robes of pale green from her largest valise. Her constantly flexing fingers had pulled themselves into fists, which Orélie unclenched with a look of regret before switching clothes. The green robes made a pleasant swishing noise against the floor as Orélie uncovered her mirror and began brushing her hair. Once, twice, thrice… with each pull through the soft strands, Orélie exhaled slowly.
Exiting the room for the second time, Orélie hurried along the now-empty hallway. "Late," she almost spat, narrowly avoiding catching her sleeve on the knob of the door marked "Jeanette." By the time she reached the Glass Social Hall she was practically jogging, one pale hand holding her robes as if they were skirts of a long dress. Like the hallway, the Social Hall was mercifully empty with the exception of Somerset, who reclined in an armchair.
"Buon giorno," Orélie greeted her friend, refusing to make eye contact and in a tone that implied that it was not a good day at all. Somerset stood at Orélie's arrival and smiled wearily.
"Ciao," he replied, moving so that his impenetrable eyes met Orélie's. "I heard," he added in response to the unasked question. "Sorry that happened."
"It could have been worse," deadpanned Orélie. "The apocalypse could've chosen that moment to occur."
Somerset began to lead the way to the Dining Hall. "Don't worry too much about it," he advised. "So many things happen over the course of the day; they'll probably forget all about it." Orélie only nodded and quickened her pace; Somerset merely lengthened his strides to catch up.
They entered the Dining Hall in silence but for the sound of their footsteps, which was lost in the greater noise of the room anyway. It appeared even more impressive in the light of day, beams of sun streaming through high-set windows and casting trails of radiance on the tiled floor. Orélie and Somerset followed one of these shining paths to the Glass table, which glittered in the sunlight. "Shall I sit with the third years again?" Orélie asked in what was almost a monotone.
Somerset looked at Orélie - at least, he cast his pale eyes at the spot where Orélie stood, though his gaze seemed to go through her. He blinked slowly, as if returning from a reverie. "If you'd like…" he paused for yet more contemplation, evidently not a morning person. "Or you could sit with me."
"Well…" Orélie bit her lower lip and looked at her perpetual-motion fingers. "Do you have anyone else to sit with?" She drew her fingers across the translucent fabric of one trailing sleeve, affecting nonchalance.
"No," replied Somerset brusquely, something akin to disappointment in his voice. "Here." He slid into a chair and pushed the one beside him away from the table. Orélie, equally subdued, seated herself and proceeded to pick at a pastry.
"Hello there." Nardo, the spy boy, hovered on the other side of Somerset. "Do you, by any chance, need any spy work done? My prices are forty percent lower for a limited time." He widened his brown eyes - or were they murky blue? - in an obvious attempt to gain sympathy.
"Go away," commanded Somerset with a scowl so menacing that Nardo backed off immediately, literally scooting backwards to find a chair in a move reminiscent of courtiers in the presence of royalty. Orélie raised one eyebrow but made no comment, instead looking furtively around the table.
"Do you think those three over there are staring?" she enquired anxiously with a surreptitious gesture toward some older students. Somerset obligingly directed his scowl to the other end of the table, then shook his head. Orélie sighed softly and traced the pattern of flowers that ringed her plate. Only the approach of footsteps made her turn around to see the tall, curly-haired girl from the hallway.
"Buon giorno," the girl greeted, putting one hand up to check her hair in a nervous motion. The other hand unconsciously smoothed her burgundy robes. She giggled for no apparent reason, eyes flitting from one direction to another. With a wide smile at Orélie, she began, "I'm so sorry about this morning. Are you and your--" (here she had to pause and muffle a giggle) "teddy bear all right?" She waited in anticipation, almost hunger, for a response - the vulture-esque look of a thrill-seeker.
Orélie's clenched fist was almost tight enough to bend her fork. She looked up at the taller girl, eyelids lowered. "Véronique," she stated in a soft, menacing tone "is a seal, not a teddy bear." Behind her, she could hear Somerset shifting in his seat, but she focused all of her attention on staring the other girl down, amber-set pupils dilating in primal anger.
The object of the stare found Orélie's wounded dignity hilarious, though she was unable to maintain eye contact. "Oh," she tittered, "Excuse me!"
"Shut up, Silvia." The voice was Somerset's, but the difference from his usual polite demeanor was astounding. "You're making a very bad impression. Orélie will think that all the students of Stella di Mattina are petty and shallow, not just a select few."
"There's no need to be nasty!" Silvia retorted with a toss of her head. "I was just asking a question."
Somerset rolled his eyes, now a truly icy blue. "Don't play dumb. I'm a member of Glass House - I know all about seeing through people."
"Now, if you don't mind," an acidic Orélie added, "Please leave us alone. I'm sure your gossipy friends are all waiting to know how your encounter went." Her pointy teeth suddenly seemed more prominent as well as sharper.
Silvia's face flushed with rage. "Why you little…" she trailed off, as if no words were bad enough to describe the two others. She turned to Orélie. "I'll bet that attitude got you expelled from Beauxbatons, and it's not going to work here either." Turning on her heel, she flounced off to the other end of the table, where several girls of similar age were watching, wide-eyed. Orélie tilted her head to the side, immersed in a shark-infested sea of thought.
"Sorry about the idiot invasion," Somerset sighed, twirling his fork so that beams of light bounced off of it. "They're more desperate than I thought."
"Expelled?" Orélie repeated robotically, in total ignorance of Somerset's apology. "Is that what you heard, that I was expelled from Beauxbatons?" Far from being angry or hurt, her tone was dangerously dreamy.
Somerset looked up sharply, forgotten fork clattering to his plate. "No, nobody told us that. I don't think even Silvia really believes it; she was just trying to get a reaction out of you. You know how these things go."
"I know all too well," replied Orélie grimly. Now came the ire, the pain in her words. "But what happened at Beauxbatons wasn't my fault. It was the fault of people like Silvia." If looks could kill, Silvia (who was busily whispering to her friends and basking in their shock) would have been six feet under.
"I never said it was your fault," Somerset reassured, returning to his standard benign mien. "If it's worth anything…" he closed his eyes for a moment and Orélie shuddered, unable to deal with seeing the closest thing she had to a protector looking so vulnerable. "I had a really rough first year."
"Oh?" Orélie brushed an errant lock of hair from its position hanging dangerously near the iced pastry on her plate and then folded her hands neatly over her napkin, all attention on Somerset.
"Yes," affirmed Somerset distantly. "You know I'm from England… well, there are students from all over Europe here, and a few from even further away, but my Italian wasn't very good and I had the most awful accent." He smiled, bittersweet, and leaned back in his chair. "So the others made fun of me for being British, and when I started spending my time alone to avoid them, they mocked me for that too."
"A vicious cycle," Orélie agreed, covering her mouth to yawn. "And the more of an outcast you become, the more it's considered acceptable to pick on you, and the more they pick on you, the more you're an outcast." It was a chant, a mantra, devoid of anger or self-pity.
Somerset shot a questioning glance. "I don't know if I ever got so far as to be considered an outcast," he mused. "I learned Italian quickly, and after a few months I just faded into the woodwork. They found other things to do, and left me in peace."
"Mm." Orélie slashed at her pastry, causing berry compote to ooze out. "Why did your parents send you all the way here anyway?" The berries were blue, and they stained the pastry crust slowly.
"That was another part of the problem." Heaving a sigh, Somerset began to fold and refold his napkin. "My parents were old friends of the Headmasters - don't ask me how they met - and they promised to send me to Stella di Mattina." He pulled a thread from the napkin's fraying edge. "So the Cappelinos have high expectations of me… I'm often the one they hold up as an example, their golden child. You can imagine how the others feel about that."
"I can picture it easily," Orélie half-smiled. "But then, I've always had a vivid imagination."
"As you proved to some of your peers this morning," Somerset pointed out. In anyone else, the statement would have angered Orélie, but it wasn't offensive in Somerset: he was laughing with her, not at her. "So don't let Silvia spoil your appetite," he continued with a look at the mangled pastry. "You'll need energy for lessons, and lunch isn't for a while."
"I'm not hungry," Orélie objected crossly. "You can have it." After rolling up her sleeve, she slid the plate toward Somerset.
"I don't want it." The fourth-year boy eyed the food with distaste. "Especially not after you've mashed it like that. Besides, I already ate." With one callused hand, he shoved the plate back.
"I don't like mashed pastry either," protested Orélie, "And you're the one who cares." She grinned wickedly, a rare sight, and returned the plate to Somerset. An inverted game of tug-o'-war ensued, each trying to push the plate into the other's space. A few onlookers smiled, amused, as the game grew faster and rougher. At last, Orélie gave a final shove and the plate toppled straight onto Somerset's lap.
"Oh, ick," Somerset groaned in utter disgust, scooping the remains of the pastry onto the plate. With his fork, he attempted to scrape the crumbs and berries off of his robes. A soft gray in color, they were now spattered with cobalt blue.
"Ciel!" Orélie clapped a hand to her mouth, staring in shame at the mess on Somerset's robes. "Oh, I'm so sorry - I should've been more careful…" With fingers moving more wildly than ever, she snatched up her napkin and passed it to Somerset. "Here. I'm so sorry. I'll compensate you - I'll buy you a new set of robes…" She trailed off and buried her head in her hands. "What an awful day."
"Hey!" Orélie hunched her shoulders but couldn't block the admiring tones of Nardo. "That was something. Do you want to be my business partner? I could do spying, and you could do sabotage." Nardo sounded positively delighted at the prospect. Orélie only moaned.
"Nardo," Somerset declared, "One more word out of you and I'll make sure you're never hired again." With an almost savage energy, he flicked at a piece of hair that dared to fall near his eye.
"I'm really sorry," repeated Orélie helplessly. Lacking a response, she continued, "I should've been more careful. You- you don't think I did it on purpose, do you?" She clasped one shaking hand in the other and stared straight ahead of her, awaiting judgment.
"I know it was an accident," Somerset answered with a sigh - annoyed, certainly, but not angry. "Unlike others at this table, I don't consider you a potential saboteur." Nardo glared and Orélie spontaneously returned the scowl. "Just remind me never to bother with your eating habits again," finished Somerset.
Orélie nodded meekly. Then: "Somerset?"
"Mm-hm?" Somerset was tucking a spare napkin between his berry-stained sleeve and his arm.
"Never bother with my eating habits again," parodied Orélie with an innocent smile, hands momentarily at rest due to exhaustion. "Oh, and, um, I'll owl my parents about your robes as soon as I get a spare moment, d'accordo?"
Somerset shook his head and snatched the last of the pizzelles. "No way. It was an accident, and I think they'll come out if I scrub them, or charm them. And if not, well," he shrugged and grinned, "my mother always said blue was my color." Orélie cracked a smile in spite of herself (on her solemn face, the crack was almost audible) and Somerset promptly changed the subject. "What elective courses are you taking?"
"Magical Creatures," Orélie tapped one finger against her glass of orange juice, "Divination," she added a second finger, "Ancient Runes," a third, "and Internal Magic." Her pinky finger joined the others. "I know it's a lot considering that I'm not a workaholic, but none of the fun courses are mandatory." A small sigh made its way from her, no medieval concerns about blood to hold it back. "C'est la vie (that's life)."
"Hey!" Somerset's eyes lit up, lacking the limpidity so often seen in pale irises. "I know what you said that time - 'that's life,' right?" He rolled up his sleeve and tied a napkin, bandage-like, around his other arm.
"Si," agreed Orélie absently. "Why are you bothering with all those napkins? Won't you have time to get changed?" Her eyebrows rose to hide beneath her wispy fringe. "I don't have any of my books with me; maybe I should just run and get them now. Oh, it was so stupid pf me not to bring them--"
"There's plenty of time," interjected Somerset mid-rant. "I just don't like having sticky stuff all over me." Orélie tilted her head looking nonplussed, then sheepish. "Anyway…" Somerset dipped a cloth napkin in a glass of water and began to dab at the stains on his robes, "would you teach me French?"
"Sure," Orélie replied automatically as she drew her right hand across tired eyes. After letting her head hang for a moment, she redirected her gaze at Somerset. "Only if you teach me English, though. If you get a chance to be trilingual, I should too."
Somerset blinked and blandly assured, "I wouldn't dream of denying you the chance to expand your knowledge."
Orélie's eyes narrowed to amber slits. "Are you making fun of me?" she enquired with childlike suspicion. Her fingers arched themselves in an imitation of feline claws.
Lowering his head, Somerset grunted in aggravation. "So far I haven't said anything mean to you, and I told you the sob story of my life here fifteen minutes ago. Why would I make fun of you now?"
"Old habits," Orélie declared darkly as she stood and shoved her empty chair against the table, "die hard." She snatched another napkin from an unoccupied place and handed it to Somerset. "I'm going to get my books."
Author's Notes: Long, rambling conversations here as well as some conflict and hints at why Orélie got along so badly at Beauxbatons - the other students didn't shun her for no reason, which will come up more in later chapters (by the end of the story, you'll probably be sick of it). No Galina, Luis or Carmela here, though they and some other students from Orélie's year will be featured in the next chapter.
I briefly mention Internal Magic here, which will be explained in depth later but I'll give a quick synopsis now. In an online chat, JKR said that it was possible to do magic without a wand, but that it was "unfocused and uncontrolled" or something to that effect. For the purpose of this story, I'm saying that all magical beasts/beings have a certain amount of magic inside them, but until a recent breakthrough witches and wizards didn't know how to channel it. Thanks to this discovery (which was made about ten years prior to this story), this Internal Magic can now be used, though Stella di Mattina is the first school to teach it to children. Confused? It'll be cleared up later.
Title source: "Maybe you could show me how to let go, lower my guard, learn to be free..." from the musical "Anyone can Whistle."
Disclaimer: The wizarding world and all related concepts belong to JK Rwoling. Stela di Mattina, all characters and Internal Magic belong to me. "Anyone Can Whitsle" belongs (I think) to Stephen Sondheim.
Aaaaaaah!
Oh, ciel, what's that awful noise? Be still, my heart. What could it be? Some sort of alarm? Maybe there was a fire! I have to get out of the room; I could be burned alive… where's my bathrobe? There, now I'll just shove my shoes on… I can hear other people moving around in the hallway. They must be evacuating the building. My, they're calm; I don't hear anyone screaming.
Véronique? Where is she? What a time for her to be lost! I can't leave her to be burned, though, I just can't - better that the Cappelinos should find my charred remains. She would never desert me; I can't abandon her. Véronique! There you are. Don't worry; I'll never leave you. Come on. I hope it's not too late.
--
Tucking Véronique under one arm, Orélie burst into the hallway, hair in a golden-brown cloud behind her. "Is there an emergency exit?" she demanded of the nearest student, a tall girl with curly hair piled atop her head.
"Emergency exit?" The girl stared in confusion as other occupants of Girls' Hallway Two gathered. A few began to giggle behind polite hands. "I don't know what you mean… you aren't going to breakfast dressed like that, are you?"
Orélie glanced wildly around at the other girls. All were fully dressed and appeared calm. "You mean there wasn't any fire?" A fresh burst of giggles exploded from the others. There was no sign of Galina or Carmela, only faceless Others. "What was that awful noise then?"
"Awful noise?" The tall girl seemed incapable of speaking in anything other than questions. Then she, too, began to laugh as comprehension dawned on her face. "Oh, that was the wake-up bell!" Her laughter, bell-like and melodic, reached a crescendo. "Did you really think that was a fire alarm?" Shrewd eyes looked Orélie over again, pausing to take in Véronique.
"Yes," replied Orélie in clipped tones. "I did. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to get dressed." Head held high, she about-faced and reentered her room. With one well-placed kick of her sensibly shod foot, she slammed the door shut in the face of nauseating giggles. The quiet of the tiny chamber was the most golden of silences.
She gently set Véronique on her bed as she sighed deeply. "What a bunch of idiots," she muttered bitterly, pulling robes of pale green from her largest valise. Her constantly flexing fingers had pulled themselves into fists, which Orélie unclenched with a look of regret before switching clothes. The green robes made a pleasant swishing noise against the floor as Orélie uncovered her mirror and began brushing her hair. Once, twice, thrice… with each pull through the soft strands, Orélie exhaled slowly.
Exiting the room for the second time, Orélie hurried along the now-empty hallway. "Late," she almost spat, narrowly avoiding catching her sleeve on the knob of the door marked "Jeanette." By the time she reached the Glass Social Hall she was practically jogging, one pale hand holding her robes as if they were skirts of a long dress. Like the hallway, the Social Hall was mercifully empty with the exception of Somerset, who reclined in an armchair.
"Buon giorno," Orélie greeted her friend, refusing to make eye contact and in a tone that implied that it was not a good day at all. Somerset stood at Orélie's arrival and smiled wearily.
"Ciao," he replied, moving so that his impenetrable eyes met Orélie's. "I heard," he added in response to the unasked question. "Sorry that happened."
"It could have been worse," deadpanned Orélie. "The apocalypse could've chosen that moment to occur."
Somerset began to lead the way to the Dining Hall. "Don't worry too much about it," he advised. "So many things happen over the course of the day; they'll probably forget all about it." Orélie only nodded and quickened her pace; Somerset merely lengthened his strides to catch up.
They entered the Dining Hall in silence but for the sound of their footsteps, which was lost in the greater noise of the room anyway. It appeared even more impressive in the light of day, beams of sun streaming through high-set windows and casting trails of radiance on the tiled floor. Orélie and Somerset followed one of these shining paths to the Glass table, which glittered in the sunlight. "Shall I sit with the third years again?" Orélie asked in what was almost a monotone.
Somerset looked at Orélie - at least, he cast his pale eyes at the spot where Orélie stood, though his gaze seemed to go through her. He blinked slowly, as if returning from a reverie. "If you'd like…" he paused for yet more contemplation, evidently not a morning person. "Or you could sit with me."
"Well…" Orélie bit her lower lip and looked at her perpetual-motion fingers. "Do you have anyone else to sit with?" She drew her fingers across the translucent fabric of one trailing sleeve, affecting nonchalance.
"No," replied Somerset brusquely, something akin to disappointment in his voice. "Here." He slid into a chair and pushed the one beside him away from the table. Orélie, equally subdued, seated herself and proceeded to pick at a pastry.
"Hello there." Nardo, the spy boy, hovered on the other side of Somerset. "Do you, by any chance, need any spy work done? My prices are forty percent lower for a limited time." He widened his brown eyes - or were they murky blue? - in an obvious attempt to gain sympathy.
"Go away," commanded Somerset with a scowl so menacing that Nardo backed off immediately, literally scooting backwards to find a chair in a move reminiscent of courtiers in the presence of royalty. Orélie raised one eyebrow but made no comment, instead looking furtively around the table.
"Do you think those three over there are staring?" she enquired anxiously with a surreptitious gesture toward some older students. Somerset obligingly directed his scowl to the other end of the table, then shook his head. Orélie sighed softly and traced the pattern of flowers that ringed her plate. Only the approach of footsteps made her turn around to see the tall, curly-haired girl from the hallway.
"Buon giorno," the girl greeted, putting one hand up to check her hair in a nervous motion. The other hand unconsciously smoothed her burgundy robes. She giggled for no apparent reason, eyes flitting from one direction to another. With a wide smile at Orélie, she began, "I'm so sorry about this morning. Are you and your--" (here she had to pause and muffle a giggle) "teddy bear all right?" She waited in anticipation, almost hunger, for a response - the vulture-esque look of a thrill-seeker.
Orélie's clenched fist was almost tight enough to bend her fork. She looked up at the taller girl, eyelids lowered. "Véronique," she stated in a soft, menacing tone "is a seal, not a teddy bear." Behind her, she could hear Somerset shifting in his seat, but she focused all of her attention on staring the other girl down, amber-set pupils dilating in primal anger.
The object of the stare found Orélie's wounded dignity hilarious, though she was unable to maintain eye contact. "Oh," she tittered, "Excuse me!"
"Shut up, Silvia." The voice was Somerset's, but the difference from his usual polite demeanor was astounding. "You're making a very bad impression. Orélie will think that all the students of Stella di Mattina are petty and shallow, not just a select few."
"There's no need to be nasty!" Silvia retorted with a toss of her head. "I was just asking a question."
Somerset rolled his eyes, now a truly icy blue. "Don't play dumb. I'm a member of Glass House - I know all about seeing through people."
"Now, if you don't mind," an acidic Orélie added, "Please leave us alone. I'm sure your gossipy friends are all waiting to know how your encounter went." Her pointy teeth suddenly seemed more prominent as well as sharper.
Silvia's face flushed with rage. "Why you little…" she trailed off, as if no words were bad enough to describe the two others. She turned to Orélie. "I'll bet that attitude got you expelled from Beauxbatons, and it's not going to work here either." Turning on her heel, she flounced off to the other end of the table, where several girls of similar age were watching, wide-eyed. Orélie tilted her head to the side, immersed in a shark-infested sea of thought.
"Sorry about the idiot invasion," Somerset sighed, twirling his fork so that beams of light bounced off of it. "They're more desperate than I thought."
"Expelled?" Orélie repeated robotically, in total ignorance of Somerset's apology. "Is that what you heard, that I was expelled from Beauxbatons?" Far from being angry or hurt, her tone was dangerously dreamy.
Somerset looked up sharply, forgotten fork clattering to his plate. "No, nobody told us that. I don't think even Silvia really believes it; she was just trying to get a reaction out of you. You know how these things go."
"I know all too well," replied Orélie grimly. Now came the ire, the pain in her words. "But what happened at Beauxbatons wasn't my fault. It was the fault of people like Silvia." If looks could kill, Silvia (who was busily whispering to her friends and basking in their shock) would have been six feet under.
"I never said it was your fault," Somerset reassured, returning to his standard benign mien. "If it's worth anything…" he closed his eyes for a moment and Orélie shuddered, unable to deal with seeing the closest thing she had to a protector looking so vulnerable. "I had a really rough first year."
"Oh?" Orélie brushed an errant lock of hair from its position hanging dangerously near the iced pastry on her plate and then folded her hands neatly over her napkin, all attention on Somerset.
"Yes," affirmed Somerset distantly. "You know I'm from England… well, there are students from all over Europe here, and a few from even further away, but my Italian wasn't very good and I had the most awful accent." He smiled, bittersweet, and leaned back in his chair. "So the others made fun of me for being British, and when I started spending my time alone to avoid them, they mocked me for that too."
"A vicious cycle," Orélie agreed, covering her mouth to yawn. "And the more of an outcast you become, the more it's considered acceptable to pick on you, and the more they pick on you, the more you're an outcast." It was a chant, a mantra, devoid of anger or self-pity.
Somerset shot a questioning glance. "I don't know if I ever got so far as to be considered an outcast," he mused. "I learned Italian quickly, and after a few months I just faded into the woodwork. They found other things to do, and left me in peace."
"Mm." Orélie slashed at her pastry, causing berry compote to ooze out. "Why did your parents send you all the way here anyway?" The berries were blue, and they stained the pastry crust slowly.
"That was another part of the problem." Heaving a sigh, Somerset began to fold and refold his napkin. "My parents were old friends of the Headmasters - don't ask me how they met - and they promised to send me to Stella di Mattina." He pulled a thread from the napkin's fraying edge. "So the Cappelinos have high expectations of me… I'm often the one they hold up as an example, their golden child. You can imagine how the others feel about that."
"I can picture it easily," Orélie half-smiled. "But then, I've always had a vivid imagination."
"As you proved to some of your peers this morning," Somerset pointed out. In anyone else, the statement would have angered Orélie, but it wasn't offensive in Somerset: he was laughing with her, not at her. "So don't let Silvia spoil your appetite," he continued with a look at the mangled pastry. "You'll need energy for lessons, and lunch isn't for a while."
"I'm not hungry," Orélie objected crossly. "You can have it." After rolling up her sleeve, she slid the plate toward Somerset.
"I don't want it." The fourth-year boy eyed the food with distaste. "Especially not after you've mashed it like that. Besides, I already ate." With one callused hand, he shoved the plate back.
"I don't like mashed pastry either," protested Orélie, "And you're the one who cares." She grinned wickedly, a rare sight, and returned the plate to Somerset. An inverted game of tug-o'-war ensued, each trying to push the plate into the other's space. A few onlookers smiled, amused, as the game grew faster and rougher. At last, Orélie gave a final shove and the plate toppled straight onto Somerset's lap.
"Oh, ick," Somerset groaned in utter disgust, scooping the remains of the pastry onto the plate. With his fork, he attempted to scrape the crumbs and berries off of his robes. A soft gray in color, they were now spattered with cobalt blue.
"Ciel!" Orélie clapped a hand to her mouth, staring in shame at the mess on Somerset's robes. "Oh, I'm so sorry - I should've been more careful…" With fingers moving more wildly than ever, she snatched up her napkin and passed it to Somerset. "Here. I'm so sorry. I'll compensate you - I'll buy you a new set of robes…" She trailed off and buried her head in her hands. "What an awful day."
"Hey!" Orélie hunched her shoulders but couldn't block the admiring tones of Nardo. "That was something. Do you want to be my business partner? I could do spying, and you could do sabotage." Nardo sounded positively delighted at the prospect. Orélie only moaned.
"Nardo," Somerset declared, "One more word out of you and I'll make sure you're never hired again." With an almost savage energy, he flicked at a piece of hair that dared to fall near his eye.
"I'm really sorry," repeated Orélie helplessly. Lacking a response, she continued, "I should've been more careful. You- you don't think I did it on purpose, do you?" She clasped one shaking hand in the other and stared straight ahead of her, awaiting judgment.
"I know it was an accident," Somerset answered with a sigh - annoyed, certainly, but not angry. "Unlike others at this table, I don't consider you a potential saboteur." Nardo glared and Orélie spontaneously returned the scowl. "Just remind me never to bother with your eating habits again," finished Somerset.
Orélie nodded meekly. Then: "Somerset?"
"Mm-hm?" Somerset was tucking a spare napkin between his berry-stained sleeve and his arm.
"Never bother with my eating habits again," parodied Orélie with an innocent smile, hands momentarily at rest due to exhaustion. "Oh, and, um, I'll owl my parents about your robes as soon as I get a spare moment, d'accordo?"
Somerset shook his head and snatched the last of the pizzelles. "No way. It was an accident, and I think they'll come out if I scrub them, or charm them. And if not, well," he shrugged and grinned, "my mother always said blue was my color." Orélie cracked a smile in spite of herself (on her solemn face, the crack was almost audible) and Somerset promptly changed the subject. "What elective courses are you taking?"
"Magical Creatures," Orélie tapped one finger against her glass of orange juice, "Divination," she added a second finger, "Ancient Runes," a third, "and Internal Magic." Her pinky finger joined the others. "I know it's a lot considering that I'm not a workaholic, but none of the fun courses are mandatory." A small sigh made its way from her, no medieval concerns about blood to hold it back. "C'est la vie (that's life)."
"Hey!" Somerset's eyes lit up, lacking the limpidity so often seen in pale irises. "I know what you said that time - 'that's life,' right?" He rolled up his sleeve and tied a napkin, bandage-like, around his other arm.
"Si," agreed Orélie absently. "Why are you bothering with all those napkins? Won't you have time to get changed?" Her eyebrows rose to hide beneath her wispy fringe. "I don't have any of my books with me; maybe I should just run and get them now. Oh, it was so stupid pf me not to bring them--"
"There's plenty of time," interjected Somerset mid-rant. "I just don't like having sticky stuff all over me." Orélie tilted her head looking nonplussed, then sheepish. "Anyway…" Somerset dipped a cloth napkin in a glass of water and began to dab at the stains on his robes, "would you teach me French?"
"Sure," Orélie replied automatically as she drew her right hand across tired eyes. After letting her head hang for a moment, she redirected her gaze at Somerset. "Only if you teach me English, though. If you get a chance to be trilingual, I should too."
Somerset blinked and blandly assured, "I wouldn't dream of denying you the chance to expand your knowledge."
Orélie's eyes narrowed to amber slits. "Are you making fun of me?" she enquired with childlike suspicion. Her fingers arched themselves in an imitation of feline claws.
Lowering his head, Somerset grunted in aggravation. "So far I haven't said anything mean to you, and I told you the sob story of my life here fifteen minutes ago. Why would I make fun of you now?"
"Old habits," Orélie declared darkly as she stood and shoved her empty chair against the table, "die hard." She snatched another napkin from an unoccupied place and handed it to Somerset. "I'm going to get my books."