Own nothing. I'm getting sick of people putting Alek down, by the way. He'd never guess "Dylan's" identity in a million years, but neither would any other characters. People accept what's presented to them. On a lighter note, thanks so much for the reviews, they really make my day. The second is inspired by "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof. I know it's stupid, but I tear up every time I watch that movie...
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Aleksandar was rooting around in a drawer for something, holding one of his shirts. His wife, indifferent to his search, was sitting on the arm of the couch reading a battered copy of "Aeronautic Diagrams for the Modern Age," (if you considered 1876 the Modern Age). He fervently hoped that she wouldn't notice what he was doing, so, of course, she did.
"What're you looking for?"
He mumbled something about a screwdriver.
"What?" Deryn absentmindedly turned the page.
"Nothing."
Alek found what he was looking for: the little sewing tin his wife loathed. Although he had absolutely no idea how to replace a button, it probably wasn't very complicated. And whenever he asked Deryn to do it, she'd go into a long speech about how was it because she was a woman, would it kill him to learn, and how hard could it be anyway? So he might as well give it a try. He sat down at the table in the kitchen and spread the shirt out like a surgeon examining a wounded soldier. The second button from the bottom had come off when, in a rare moment of frenzy, the elderly Tazza had jumped at him. Doctor Barlow had found the button, luckily. The tin was untidy, and as he reached for a spool of white thread, a needle jabbed the sensitive tip of his index finger.
With the injured finger in his mouth, he assembled the thread, a needle, and the button. That was all he needed, right? Of course. Then came the task of threading the needle. No matter how much Alek squinted, the thread seemed to magically pass the needle instead of going through the eye, and the needle kept piercing his finger. Suddenly, a pair of slender hands reached over his shoulder and plucked the infuriating items from his grasp.
"Deryn!" He never knew how she could sneak up on him like that.
"Whenever you say 'nothing' like that, I know you're up to something. Trying to attach a button, are you?" As she talked, she deftly threaded the needle, measured out a length a thread, and tied a knot at the end, clipping the excess with her rigging knife.
"Thanks," he responded, feeling irrationally annoyed.
"Then you go on the inside of the shirt so the knot doesn't show."
"Yeah." This was very embarrassing. He pierced the shirt where she had pointed to, and slid the button down the thread like a bead.
"Good, now through-"
"The other holes," finished Alek. He would be more irked if her narration wasn't so helpful. Several times, he stitched through the holes of the tiny button, eventually tying a knot on the back and detaching the needle with Deryn's knife. She had been watching his work with a surprising tenderness. Alek held up the shirt triumphantly.
"Good?"
"Passable. But barely," she said, gravely. At the look on his face, she burst into laughter. "Actually, it's excellent."
"For a beginner, of course."
"Of course."
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"Papa." She nudges his arm. "We have to go in now." Her father is staring straight ahead, looking stoic.
Sophie knows him better than that, but she knows he would never be as sentimental as to cry in front of his friends and family. He nods shakily at pushes open the wooden doors.
The music swells and Jonathan is waiting at the altar. They walk gracefully down the aisle, arm in arm. She is reminded of when she was a little girl waltzing with him, standing on top of his feet.
The church is packed with relatives and friends. There's the elderly Doctor Barlow. God, she was at her parents' wedding. Her mother, weeping but beaming at her, looks so old to her right now. Her blond hair is streaked with silver, and the lines on her face reveal her to be a perpetual smiler. Jonathan looks at her with such love it melts her heart. When they reach the front of the church, all goes silent. Her father gently lifts the veil from her face, unsmiling. She knows how hard this is for him. A brief embrace, then he sits down next to his wife.
And Sophie gets married.
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Alek stared at the crowded marketplace in horror. Old women are haggling with the vendors, shouting in many languages. He heard Italian, Romanian, possibly Swedish, and something very close to German but not quite the same. Grubby children played in the street, somehow not trampled upon. And the smell. Fish, vinegar, unwashed bodies, a city in August. He turned to Dylan.
"I hate New York." His friend grinned.
"I love it! Reminds me of home, only everyone spoke English there. Say, let's get some of that! My brother gave me a bit of spending money."
Dylan walked over to a man with dark, curly hair, who was sitting on the steps with with his son. In front of them was a box of colorful, tiny, candies. They debated a bit, but in a seemingly polite way. He then selected a couple of candies, and walked off, waving.
"He was very nice," he said, putting his purchase in his bag. "Not the best at English, but he made up for it in enthusiasm. The son was a bit better then him, told me his name was Murray. Wonder what it was originally."
"What do you mean?" Alek asked as they began to push there way down the street.
"Lot of immigrants change their names, in Scotland too."
"Oh, that's interesting." He noticed that few people seemed to be originally American here. Maybe the wave of immigrants had to do with the war.
"A whole bunch of Russian ladies worked at the mills with my ma."
"Mills?"
"Yeah, lace mills. They have to straighten the threads from the silk worms, keep the machine running smoothly. Barking difficult, though. Hours are terrible and noisy. Ma would come home yelling like a deaf woman. I heard this one person, her hair got tangled in the machine. It didn't stop..." he trailed off, fingering his own short hair for some reason.
"Shall we get some coffee?"Anything to diffuse the awful silence. That woman's head... Eurgh.
"Yes, let's." They found a small cafe. Alek bought himself coffee and Dylan ordered something called a egg cream that he thought sounded interesting when he saw it on the menu. Apparently it had neither eggs or cream in it. His friend looked rather pensive, and he could tell his friend was thinking about his family.
"Dylan, I'm sure your mother is fine."
"I know, She'll just be so angry with me for sneaking to join the Service." His voice had done that strange thing again.
"She ought to be proud. It's an honor to have your son serve his country," he decided. Dylan flinched, just a millimeter, barely perceptibly, at the word "son."
"There is something," his friend said shakily, "That I need to tell you."
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Author's note: That last one I may or may not continue, dunno. I did in fact have a great grandfather who immigrated, changed his name, and sold penny candy on the streets with his father. I also had a Scottish ancestor, she worked in lace mills in Dundee and eventually Boston. The silkworms were a Darwinist replacement for the spool machines, that did actually rip scalps off. Also, an egg cream is a delicious combination of seltzer and chocolate milk. I know it sounds gross, but it's really really good.