She cups the soil in her hands and lets some of it sift through her fingers. Flowers, as promised, she thinks, grabbing the packets of seeds. Quite the assortment, zinnias, wormwood, rosebay rhododendron, and ranunculus. Let's see, she thinks, remembering one of her more elderly governesses whose lessons always took place outside in the gardens. Listen to them speak, child, she'd say. The flowers speak their own language to anyone willing to listen. Zinnias, remembering those not here. Wormwood, absence. Rosebay rhododendron, danger. The ranunculus, so round and swirled like a miniature rose...dazzle. Dazzled by charm.
She shakes her head and plants those first, hoping for a wide array of color soon. The wormwood next, she decides, crawling over to make a new row. The zinnias next, and she plants the rhododendron in the very back, since it is far too obvious any climber venturing up here for deal or adventure should expect danger.
The cold air still nips at her, the winter wind slicing at her face, so she keeps her cloak on, hoping the weather will not take a turn for the worse. Sunlight shines down, a cold wintry sun, but maybe with just the right amount of water and love...a bird flies down near her, dancing around in hopes of catching a few dropped seeds.
"They are extra, after all," she says to it, holding out her hand and letting the contents drop to the ground. "Help yourself."
The little bird, gray and yellow, chirps a song to her before flying away. She catches herself waving goodbye to it. She stoops down again to pick up her tools and places them in the watering pail. Sniffling, she wonders how long she's been outside. Batting her eyelashes to exercise her drying eyes, she hurries back into the house, her body waiting to be inside before shivering.
Maybe it's from the work, maybe it's from when...from earlier, or maybe she's just in a mood, but she closes her eyes and hums to herself, just a soft little love ballad her father used to sing when moving from one room to another. The familiarity of it and the heat from the nearest fireplace pull her lips into a smile. The next few hours are hers, chores done. It's almost worth swaying, but she fights the urge and does her best to keep half her brain anchored in reality since chicken droppings or some fragile thing could obstruct her route to the library.
She finishes the song but restarts it just before she opens the library's door. Her jaw drops, song paused, at the sight of new books on the shelf. Running to them, she counts as she goes. Fifty. Fifty new books with hard covers and rich, starchy pages. Picking one up without bothering to look at the title, her fingers dance through the pages, and again with a second one she picks up. Some fiction, some non, some long, some short—a stunning display, and more books than her own home had ever had.
Giggling like a child, she picks each one up and rubs the spine before opening it and caressing the first page. Her mind swims against the current at what to read first. A small note flutters to the rug when she picks up the last one.
Will be gone on business. Back tonight. Enjoy the gift.
A gift? All of them? Her hand flies to her mouth and palms it, afraid to unleash a laugh. The last book then, she decides, and curls up in the high-backed chair. Thank you, she mouths. Thank you so much.
A/N: The little tune Belle hums in this chapter is meant to be Fleetwood Mac's "Songbird," but you're the reader and hence your interpretation is what goes! And what respectable Disney princess DOESN'T talk to animals? Again, thank you for all the reviews (hope to get more), and I do not own this show. Wish I did.