A Moonacre Fanfiction Peace on Earth

Ambrose heard the creaking of hinges. He must be dreaming. He rolled over, grumbling something about kitchen servants and selfishness and 'couldn't even open the door'.

"Get up."

"Go away," he mumbled.

"All right, then." The footsteps receded. Then:

"WAIT!" Ambrose sprung from his bed. "Don't-go-don't-go-please-don't-go." The girl paused in the doorway, holding a small rectangular box in her hands. She arched an eyebrow.

"Why not?" He grasped desperately for a reason while trying to remember what her name was.

"I'm bored." It was the best he could come up with quickly. It was the truth. "I'm dying of boredom." Her eyes narrowed.

"Dying of boredom." She shook her head disbelievingly. "You are the most selfish boy I've ever met." She turned and slammed the door behind her.

"No-no-no-please-wait! I didn't mean—why did you—what was—isn't it Christmas?" He listened. He didn't hear any footsteps. Had she gone? Or was she standing out there, motionless? "Please." Was she even there? Was he just talking to himself now? "Isn't Christmas a time for kindness?" Silence.

Then, a scraping noise. Not the hinges, no. His eye caught on the box she'd been holding, now slipped under the door.

"What's this?"

"Open it and see." Good! She was still there. He tiptoed forward and crouched down in front of the box, then opened it. It was a small orange pie. He sniffed it hesitantly. Sweet potato. His nose wrinkled in disgust. He hated sweet potatoes.

"It's sweet potato pie." The girl said from the other side of the door.

"Yeah, I gathered that." Silence widened the gap between them.

"Aren't you going to thank me?"

"Uh, right. Thanks."

"Can't you do better than that?"

"Not really. I don't like sweet potatoes."

The girl didn't reply.

Then suddenly the door flew open, crashing into his head. He fell back onto his forearms. The girl—what was her name?—stood angrily over him.

"'I don't like sweet potatoes'? What kind of gratitude is that? You're a prisoner, you shouldn't be having anything." Her dark eyes burned. "You don't deserve special treatment, especially not from me." He struggled to stand. "But I thought maybe—I brought you a pie, a fresh pie, and I didn't really consider that you wouldn't like sweet potatoes." Her voice rose and Ambrose took a step back. "I didn't think it would matter because you are stuck in a tower and should be grateful for anything I brought! At least, I thought so." She waved her hands vehemently, stepping toward him. "I didn't think you would be so snobbish as to refuse something that I'd obviously gone to great lengths to get, because everyone knows that the pies are the first things to get eaten on Christmas, and I thought you might enjoy one since you've got nothing else to enjoy in your miserable life." He tried to step away from her, but his back was against the wall. "Do you ever consider anyone but yourself? It's all about you, all the time. It always was. What was best for you, you did. Didn't consider anyone else's feelings at all, you just…you just…" she ran out of words, breathing heavily up into his face. He held his breath, not daring to move for fear of invoking further rage and trying valiantly not to notice how pretty she really was or how she smelled of flour and vanilla.

Oh, what was her blasted name?

She squared her jaw. She had found the words.

"You just abandon them." He stiffened. She rolled her eyes and turned from him. "I don't even know why I bothered—"

Click.

Jackie.

"Jackie." She frowned over her shoulder at him.

"You remember?" He hesitated. No, he didn't. Not really. Was there something he was supposed to remember? She turned to face him fully again. "You don't," she answered for him, blowing a puff of air, making a strand of dark hair that had fallen over her forehead flutter. "Don't see why you would. You rebounded soon enough." She looked down, shaking her head. "I shouldn't have expected you to remember. I shouldn't have expected anything from you."

Ambrose had no idea what to do. She was awfully pretty; obviously he'd always had good taste. But why had he abandoned her?

It hit him. It should've been obvious, except he couldn't quite think straight while looking at her.

She was a servant maid, good heavens.

She was dirt poor.

She was…leaving.

"Wait, please!" He rushed to the door, closing it quickly before she could leave. He heard a faint thud. She glared at him.

"You idiot."

"No, I just want to talk to you. You don't have to stay long, but—"

"You idiot!" She repeated. "It seems I will have to stay long." He stared blankly at her. She raised her eyebrows. "The key was in the door." He swallowed hard.

This was not going well at all.

"Someone will come to feed me," he reasoned.

"I'm the one who comes to feed you," she growled.

"Well, they'll notice you're missing in the kitchen."

"I said I was going home. I couldn't tell them I was taking a pie to a prisoner! You absolute idiot!" She landed a fist on his chest, and, finding it to be cathartic, began punching him. He grabbed one of her flying fists, than the other, holding her.

"Punching me is not going to help matters."

"It was well deserved," she muttered. "And I found it very therapeutic."

"Yeah, well I didn't." He looked at her. "You're pretty." He couldn't help saying it. Then, to his alarm, she seemed to deflate.

"Those were the first words you said to me. So original."

"Well, it's true."

"Let go of me."

"Can you just—can you hold still?" He studied her. Jackie. Kitchen maid. Poor. Abandonment.

Oh.

A blurry memory was churned up, hazy and nearly forgotten. A wink. A smirk. A picnic. Then the information that although her uncle was rich, he also hated her. Ambrose had gone to fill up the water pitcher, but he hadn't returned.

He blinked.

"I'm sorry."

"I doubt that." She ripped her hands from his, but her words weren't bitter this time. Just matter-of-fact.

"You deserve to be remembered," he said quietly. She gave him a steady look. For a long moment, he wasn't sure whether she was going to punch him or kiss him; hopefully the latter. But she did neither. She only inclined her head.

"Yes, I do."

Then he frowned, remembering their talk last night.

"But you…you love Robin? Someone you know you can never…could never…?"

"Never say never," she said, but she gave him a sad, ironic smile. "Anyway, it's safe this way. Can't get hurt."

"Seems to me, you're hurting."

"Seems to me, it's none of your business," she said sharply, turning from him. "But since we're stuck here, we need to establish some rules." She stepped to the other side of the room. "This is my side, that's yours. The bucket is the divider. Cross to my side, and you'll suffer the consequences." She looked quickly up at him. "I'm still angry with you, you know."

"Right." He paced his side of the room, considering the new situation. He was rather pleased that she was trapped in here with him. It certainly wasn't boring. Then he paused, straightening his shoulders. "Actually, I have a welcoming gift for you." Her eyebrows lifted in incredulousness.

"Oh?"

He grinned handsomely.

"How do you feel about sweet potato pie?"

A/N: Dear readers,

What do you think our new little turn of events? How do you like Jackie (if indeed you like her at all)? Do let me know; I'm all ears.

Love,

Ponygirl7