The view from the rumbling carriage was stunning. Blankets of crisp virgin snow; shimmering crystals like chandeliers above and beside and all around; smooth glass stretching onwards, begging to be glided upon; and of course, the mansion itself. Whereas the ballroom was of a more exuberant richness, the mansion was much more understated, possessing a quieter type of beauty, not unlike its owner.
They partially circled around a silent fountain, massive icicles dangling from a dragon's spread wings. A knight held a slanting shield to protect against the onslaught of flame in the form of water that would undoubtedly spew from the upturned, fearsome jaws in warmer weather. An interesting spectacle to be sure and one she was somewhat disappointed not to be able to witness.
Continuing on past rows of dead hedges, the mansion loomed large and bright. Clarke was looking forward to exploring its halls as well as the estate grounds this holiday season. What secrets might they hold? What wonders?
A series of cleared stairs ascended to the main doors. Off to the side of these were guarded alcoves, and standing in one of them with their hands on the rail was the countess. Upon their arrival, she moved to stand at the head of the stairs, hands behind her back, all but discouraging any formal greetings. Clarke had the distinct impression that the countess did not like being touched and Clarke would respect those unspoken wishes during her stay here. However, she still intended to uphold her promise to Roan, and attempt to keep the woman in gay spirits.
The countess was clothed in a long, dark, fur lined coat, her hair once more done up impressively atop her head. Apparently she always wore it like this, no matter the occasion.
"Greetings, cousin!" called Roan from just inside the carriage.
Her only response was a dip of the head. It was hard to fathom what she was thinking, though it seemed likely that she was less than enthused about playing hostess for the ensuing fortnight. When they were all standing before her she forced a smile and welcomed them into her home. This was the clearest Clarke had ever been able to observe her features. Their first encounter had been under lantern light, and the second, her face had been partially obscured. Now in direct sunlight, she was able to see the slight imperfections painted across her skin. Rather than lessen her beauty, it rather enhanced it, and Clarke vowed to put pencil to paper at some point during their stay here.
The countess turned on her heel and led them through the doors, which were opened for her by servants. She shed her coat revealing a simple, yet clearly expensive green dress, the cut of which was somewhat suggestive, and Clarke caught herself staring before anyone noticed. Not that it was unusual for women to notice each others fashion and compliment it, but Clarke had been observing more than the dress itself. No doubt her artistic eye was to blame.
At any rate, they too handed off their traveling cloaks to a servant and proceeded to follow the countess further into the mansion. Various small statues and tapestries lined the walls, but it was the paintings in the parlour room that truly drew her attention. One of them seemed to be straight out of the art history books Countess Woods gifted her, and likely, it was. The fact that it was of a nude woman had nothing to do with Clarke's current absorption.
"You have had a long journey," said the countess. "Please, take a seat by the fire. Tea and biscuits will be served shortly."
Everyone save for Clarke did as she suggested, something the countess was quick to note. She came over to stand beside her.
"She's breathtaking," said Clarke, not taking her eyes off of Rembrandt's masterpiece. Impertinently she asked, "Is this the real Bathsheba at her Bath?"
"I'm afraid not," said the countess. "A man named Louis La Caze outbid my mother a number of years back, and he has since donated it to The Louvre so that all may enjoy her delights. My mother was so devastated by the loss that she commissioned a talented young Parisian man to duplicate the original."
"Aren't forgeries illegal?" she said cautiously, glancing sideways to gage the reaction.
"Only if the buyer does not know," replied the countess with the hint of a smirk. She caught Clarke's eye. "We shall keep this our little secret, yes?"
"Why of course, countess," she returned, also smirking slightly.
The countess nodded and added, "Thank you again for that flattering rendition, Miss Griffin. You are very talented."
"It was my pleasure to paint it. You make a fine specimen for such things."
They stared at one another for a moment longer before tea was announced and they moved to join the others.
The remainder of the day was spent in a lazy amiable fashion, chatting about nothing in particular. A short dinner was had and then the new arrivals retired early to their designated guest rooms, of which there were many. Clarke's was considerably larger than her own, the bed double the size of what she was accustomed to, and far more luxuriously adorned. Clarke thought it somewhat strange that the countess herself escorted them to their rooms, rather than have a servant do it. She bid Clarke goodnight and then moved only a few doors down before disappearing into what was presumably her own room.
The next day was far livelier. Immediately after leaving the mansion that morning, Roan decided to start a snowball fight. Having played with Wells often, she was well versed in this sport. Everyone joined in, even the countess. The woman had pinpoint accuracy and never once missed her target. She spared no one, not even Mrs. Griffin. The countess was actually laughing and enjoying herself, particularly when she walloped Roan in the face with a very large amount of snow. Bits of her hair came loose in the ensuing chaos, and Clarke found herself just standing there staring at her until her father hit her from the side and brought her back to reality.
In the afternoon they went ice skating. Being a city slicker, this was a sport she was not well versed in, and quickly made a fool of herself by falling on her backside the second her blades touched the ice. Roan laughed at her misfortune and held out a hand which she begrudgingly accepted. He continued to hold her hand as he gently maneuvered them around the pond. Her parents were likewise attached, except it was her mother supporting her father. In more ways than one, she took after him.
In contrast, the countess easily glided past them as if she were born to it, even going so far as to bend forward, lifting one leg in the air. Once again she was wearing men's clothing, something her mother had clearly not approved of, and her father had been initially surprised by, but otherwise no one batted an eye at. Well, that was not strictly true. Clarke couldn't help but notice how form fitting her trousers were, how firm the woman's backside was. Again, she chalked this perusal of her figure up to her artist's eye.
"Are you going to put on a show for us, cousin?" called Roan.
In response, the countess sped back over, just about crashing into them, instead veering off, and twirling around them, smirking all the while. Roan swatted at her and Clarke almost fell because of it, but the countess steadied her from behind. Then before she knew it, the countess had grabbed her other hand and pulled her away from Roan, laughing at his indignant expression when he realized what had just happened. Clarke laughed with her when Roan attempted to chase after them but was much too slow. The countess held her waist firmly with her other hand so that she could have greater control over Clarke's own sloppy movements. It was invigorating and somewhat terrifying to move this quickly on the glass-like surface. She wondered how she hadn't managed to trip both of them up. She wondered how the countess kept the ice so smooth.
As if reading her mind, the countess said, "The man I hired for the job has a strange contraption. I do not understand how it works and he refuses to explain. The results speak for themselves, so I forgive his insolence."
They dodged Roan for some minutes until it was clear he was about to explode. "Yes, yes, you are masterful, cousin!" he yelled. "Now stop being a brat and give my girl back!"
"I suppose I should return you to him now. We can't wound his male pride further or he shall be sour the rest of the day. Which of course would be a terrible pity."
They smirked at one another and then the countess changed course and deposited her with Roan. A small part of her felt odd at the lose of contact, but she figured it was due to the lose of her previous speed, and nothing more.
On the twentieth of December, two days after arriving at the estate, they finally had a tour of the mansion and immediate grounds. The mansion was even more massive than she had been anticipating and it took hours to look through every room (or at least the ones opened to them). They came into a hallway lined with portraits, and it did not take a genius to realize they were Woods family portraits. As they quickly passed through, Roan needlessly pointed out a much younger version of his cousin, dressed in a frilly pink dress, reminiscent of her own childhood horror. She caught a glimpse of another depicting a handsome young man. From the little Roan had said, she gathered it to be the countesses brother, Aden.
At the juncture here, they bypassed another area, an entire wing, and Roan muttered that was where they had all expired. All four members of The Woods family had become ill with a particularly nasty strain of consumption, but only Alexandria had survived the ordeal...physically at least. Clarke couldn't fathom how difficult it must have been to hold their hands at their sick beds and watch them waste away one by one within the span of a couple of months. At least Wells had gone quickly, having been run over by a reckless carriage driver.
Some time later they entered what appeared to be a small ballroom but turned out to be a fencing room. There were several sets of suits, face masks, and swords. It seemed all three variants of the weapons were on hand, depending on the type of match to be had. Without prompting, Roan scooped up the lightest of the bunch from the rack, the foil, and swished his wrist back and forth like a muskateer.
"Care for a quick match, cousin? Show our guests how it's done?"
"Perhaps another time," Countess Woods replied, all but ignoring him as she strode to the exit on the other side.
He seemed somewhat crestfallen so she nudged his shoulder and said, "I should very much like to learn the basics of this sport. It seems quite thrilling."
"Indeed it is, Miss Griffin," he said, since her parents were in hearing range, "indeed it is."
They weren't given a tour of the basement as it was the home of the servants, and wasn't their place to intrude upon. Which was rather strange logic since the servants were continuously intruding in the countesses home and bedroom, you name it. Though the mansion was vast, one could scarce go anywhere without coming across someone dusting or otherwise tidying up. It was a rather thankless job and she was thankful to have been born into some money, not that she thought any less of those individuals that weren't, indeed, she was fairly close to Monroe, but she simply couldn't imagine herself coping in such circumstances, mostly because of needing to hold her tongue.
Bright and early the next morning Roan announced to the breakfasting party that he was going to go chop down their Christmas tree. The prospect seemed dubious at best, so naturally everyone offered to accompany him in the selection process, expecting some sort of spectacle. The quintet roamed the grounds for hours until finally agreeing upon the ideal specimen: an eight foot tall spruce. It would just fit within the confines of the parlour room and would afford them hours of fun decorating.
Roan hefted the axe from his shoulder and prepared to strike. Clarke closed her eyes, envisioning something going terribly wrong. Instead, the axe made contact without a fuss, chipping the frozen bark away, and coming cleanly off. He continued on in this manner for half an hour, making progress, albeit slowly. Finally he was in need of a break and her father decided to try his hand at it. He may have sawed many a piece of wood in his workshop, but this was a decidedly different endeavour. Clarke winced as the axe missed its mark, hitting the frozen bark instead, and became immediately stuck in a knot, his arms obviously jarring painfully at the impact. After the shock to his ego and pride, he attempted to loosen it, only to find he could not. Roan was also too weary to retrieve it, so the countess stepped forward, placed a boot to the stump and yanked with both hands. It came free and for a moment she held it aloft like the sword of Excalibur, sunlight glinting on the holy blade.
Clarke had yet another image to sketch at a later date. The countess seemed to provide her with a limitless supply of inspiration. Without looking at either of the men, she proceeded to finish what Roan had started, had nearly finished.
"Stand back," she ordered right before she took another swing.
The tree groaned and crackled with the impact but did not fall. Rather than swing again, she simply kicked it. With that resounding crash there was silence for some moments, and then the countess hunched down and began tying ropes around the severed stump still attached to the tree. Clarke joined her and then passed out a line to the men, who took a hold. Together they managed to drag the behemoth all the way back to the mansion.
"Should have brought a horse," grumbled her father after the first few minutes of labour.
Clarke once again found herself staring at the countess, and this time she was caught. The countess gave her a small smile and Clarke glanced away, feeling distinctly embarrassed.
With the help of some servants, they lifted the tree up the many steps to the front door and proceeded to very carefully navigate the hallways and take it round into the parlour room. After a much needed tea break, the countess ordered decoration supplies to be brought to them, and soon they had more items than their ten hands could handle at once. The countess lit a candle in a small holder and balanced it on one of the thicker branches.
Roan immediately admonished her. "Lit candles? Don't be daft, cousin! They are a fire hazard!"
The countess looked irritated at his remark, specifically since it embarrassed her, but she clearly saw the logic in his less than delicate remark and blew it out, removing it from the tree altogether. She excused herself a moment later. Clarke had half a mind to go after her but instead got to cutting out whimsical shapes from a variety of colourful paper with her mother. Roan and her father simply began hanging red and blue baubles on the first of many branches. They proceeded merrily in this fashion for some time, even going so far as to sing a number of carols.
When the countess returned it was with a large bowl of something foreign and white and steaming.
"What on earth is it?" asked her mother, picking out a piece and sniffing it dubiously.
The countess took a piece of the unknown substance and stuck it in her mouth. "Popped corn," she informed them. "Seasoned with a little salt and butter. I had some during my travels. It is quite tasty."
"I will concur, it is very good," added Roan, suddenly looking ravenous.
Everyone took a piece and instantly fell in love. Clarke took an entire handful and disgracefully shoved it in her face. Her mother scolded her bad manners, all the while looking like she too wished to do nothing more. The men and the countess simply laughed, and Clarke flushed prettily at the undue attention.
Once the tree was decorated as high as anyone could reach, a ladder was brought in by one of the servants so that they could finish it in full. The honour of placing the crystal star on top went to Clarke who handled it with the utmost care. It was an heirloom from almost a hundred years ago. They stood back and admired their efforts of the past two hours. It was definitely not in want of colour and cheer. As expected, the star was the shining glory, casting fragmented light and even a rainbow. Satisfied with their accomplishment, they went to a late lunch.
Sore from the last two days of outdoor activities, the party lazed about the mansion playing exotic boardgames the cousins had acquired during their travels. One of the simplest yet most frustrating was from India, called Snakes and Ladders. It was apparently a morality game, where the snakes represented temptation and sin, and the ladders represented goodness and virtue. As such, there were far more snakes than there were ladders, signifying all the vices one could easily succumb to in life.
"If this game is a good judge of character," grinned Roan, "you are positively wicked, Miss Griffin."
"Let us hope it is not then," she said as calmly as she could considering she had once again hit the longest snake and was consequently back to square one.
Right after her turn, the countess rolled the die and finished the game for the third time in a row. Clarke silently fumed. Was there nothing the countess could not do? Even best chance itself?
"I wager you would make a formidable gambler, countess," she muttered, somewhat grumpily.
"Thankfully such a vice holds little interest for me," the woman returned with a smirk. "Otherwise I would surely upset many gentlemen challengers."
"Must I defend my honour again?" quipped Roan in mock seriousness, thumping the table. "I will die in the attempt if necessary. Anything less would be unmanly."
The three of them shared a look and then burst into laughter, her parents looking across the parlour room from the books they had been reading.
"But in all seriousness," continued Roan, slightly out of breath, "do not by any circumstances challenge my dear cousin to a round of chess. You will be eviscerated. She has no mercy."
"Oh shush, Roan, I am not without feeling." She smirked again, glancing at Clarke. "But it is true that I rarely lose."
"Perhaps I shall be the exception to the rule then?" suggested Clarke. "Perhaps you shall bow down to me before the night is through?"
"I do not think it likely, Miss Griffin, but by all means, let us play. Heaven knows I could do with a new," she looked sweetly at Roan, "capable challenger."
And so a new board was set and a different game commenced. Wells taught her everything she knew of this particular game. He was considered a rising talent before his untimely demise and likely would have gone on to tour the world. So even though Clarke had not played since his death, she was fairly confident she could provide at least a small challenge for the countess.
It was a rocky start. She made a couple of idiotic errors and the countess did not take pity and grant her a pass. By the time she had a feel for the game once more, it was too late. The countess dispatched of her queen, all but ensuring her victory. Still, Clarke would not concede defeat, and forced the countess to well and truly butcher her before the game finally came to a close.
"An admirable attempt," said the countess kindly, if not a little disappointed. "I have faced many a worse player."
"Again," she replied with some intensity. "I wish to try again."
The countess just stared at her unblinking and bowed her head slightly. They reset the board and recommenced. Clarke's mind was firing on all cylinders this time, swirling with all of the strategies and maneuvers Wells taught her before he died. Though no silly mistakes were made, Clarke could not find a way to get the upper hand. It seemed the countess knew all of the same strategies and how to combat them. For every piece Clarke managed to take, the countess just took one right back. They dwindled one by one until they were both left with only their Kings, and a knight and bishop, respectively. There was no way to put the other in checkmate. Effectively they had reached a stalemate.
"Oh, well done, Miss Griffin!" congratulated Roan, clapping his hands with bravado. "I have never seen this happen before! She nearly got you, cousin!"
Her father and mother had likewise come over to watch the lengthy game, and also paid her some compliments.
However, Clarke was far too entranced by the way the countess was looking at her to pay them much mind. She seemed to be somewhat in awe, and Clarke was finding it difficult to breathe. She almost imagined the woman would have bowed to her right then and there if no one else had been present.
The moment passed and the countess stood, holding out her hand. "Good game. I should like to play again some time."
Clarke took her bare hand and they shook once. It was the first time they had touched skin to skin, all other times involved gloves. She pretended she didn't get another thrill at the contact.
"As would I."
The countess nodded and released her hand, they immediately retreated behind her back. "Well, I believe I shall retire for the evening. Goodnight, everyone."
"Goodnight, countess," was the general reply.
Clarke tore her gaze away from her retreating figure to look at Roan who was saying something or other to her. "...point in me asking for a match? You are out of my league!"
The extreme idleness of the previous day had Roan roaring to go today. He suggested a hunting expedition to aid in food preparation for the impending Christmas dinner. To add to the excitement, he also suggested it be a competition of sorts, that they should pair off and attempt to bag as many hares as possible within a three hour period. Naturally, her mother had no interest in such a thing, neither did Clarke for that matter, but if she didn't go, the teams would be unevenly matched. Clarke could not go off alone with Roan for such an extended period of time, and her father knew little of hunting, or the considerable estate grounds. So it was that Clarke now found herself in the company of the countess.
The snow in the surrounding acres was quite deep, so they wore snowshoes. And while they were remarkable aids for this type of terrain, they were also somewhat unwieldy and cumbersome. Clarke knew she was slowing the countess down, and she was sorry for it, though the woman did not seem to mind. They were both attired in men's clothing for this excursion, and Clarke was once again reminded just how liberating the experience was. No skirts to trip on or hike up. No corset to confine her breathing. If it weren't for the snowshoes she would surely have taken off running.
She said as much to the countess who glanced sideways at her and smirked. "Indeed, it is a refreshing experience, one I never tire of. I assure you, Miss Griffin, I would wear them everyday if it were more socially acceptable."
"Society can eat my hat," Clarke replied defiantly. She would have linked her arm with the countess if it would not have made it even more difficult to maneuver. She settled for nudging the woman's elbow. "We should start a revolution, countess. Someone of your stature could surely lead the charge. I have little doubt that women all over the country would follow your lead. 1875 could be the dawn of a new, glorious era!"
The countess shook her head, amused. "You make it sound so romantic, Miss Griffin. Politics are anything but. You are forgetting that progress has already occurred, elsewise, you would not be here on my estate. I believe there shall be more change along these lines in the years to follow. We cannot simply storm parliament. You must have patience."
"That has never been one of my strong suits, I'm afraid," admitted Clarke.
"You seemed to possess enough of it last night. That was quite the marathon match."
Vividly recalling that odd moment, Clarke avoided looking at the countess, "Yes, well, my good friend Mrs. Sterling has given me plenty of cause to learn some."
The countess chuckled lightly. "Yes, Roan has spoken of The Sterlings in passing. How is Mrs. Sterling faring in her new married life?"
"She is quite unchanged and accepts her new duties with as much enthusiasm as she does everything else."
"I am sorry for taking you away from her this holiday season," said the countess a little hesitantly.
"Do not be, countess. Indeed she was upset at our parting, however, she was quite enthused about the prospect of my coming here for such an extended duration. I am led to understand it is quite the honour."
"My family did not often have company here, no," said the countess softly.
Wanting to quickly change the topic, Clarke uttered the first thing that came to mind. "Roan has told me that you are writing a novel. I commend your use of a heroine. There are far too few in current literature."
The countess kept her eyes ahead, seemingly lost in thought.
"Have you completed much of it?"
A jerk of the head sideways. "No."
"That's unfortunate," she pressed on, "perhaps I could be of assistance? Talking about whatever has you stumped might give you an epiphany of sorts."
Countess Woods looked at her for what seemed an eternity before responding, "As I have already informed my dear cousin, I do not desire to share its contents with anyone just yet...perhaps never."
"Forgive me, countess," she said somewhat abashed at her tone, "I only wished to help."
The countess gave her a curt nod and then blessedly looked away, holding up a hand, telling her to halt. Clarke looked where she was looking to find the barely distinguishable snow hare sniffing about some twenty yards ahead. Very slowly the countess removed the rifle from behind her back and took aim. Though Clarke was not holding the weapon, she held her breath all the same and watched in some amazement as the countess easily dispatched of the poor creature.
The countess gestured for her to follow, and the very dead, bloody hare was deposited in the sack Clarke had the honour of carrying. The countess pulled out her pocket watch and said, "That took much too long. We must cease all intercourse from this point forth unless we wish to grant the men an easy victory."
In other words, the countess was telling her to close her trap.
There was time for a final hare before they must head back and stay within the parameters of the hunting tournament. As usual, the countess lined up the shot.
Unusually, she lowered her rifle, cocked her head to the side and said, "Would you like an attempt, Miss Griffin?"
It was the first they had spoken to one another in hours and Clarke was somewhat startled by the sound of her voice.
"Oh, I don't know...I have never even held a firearm before. I will surely miss."
The countess just stared at her in that unnerving manner in which she did not blink. "You will never know if you do not try."
Not one to back down from a challenge, she laid the sack of dead hares down and took the rifle out of the countesses' hands, trying to mimic the same stance.
"Hold it a little higher," instructed the countess. "Aim slightly to your right. Before you take the shot, hold your breath. Your aim will improve considerably. Now, there is a small amount of kickback so-"
Clarke took the shot and it went very wide. The unscathed prey took off like the wind leaving no hope of a second attempt. She lowered the still smoking barrel and looked sideways at the countess who was shaking her head again, somewhat amused.
"Yes, patience is definitely not your strong suit, Miss Griffin."
Clarke handed the rifle back to the countess and hefted the sack over her shoulder. She would never tell her that she had purposefully missed. Killing was not in her nature.
On the way back to the mansion, they descended a slight hill. It was perhaps more treacherous than either of them anticipated, and Clarke tripped and landed awkwardly thanks to the snowshoes. When she attempted to right herself, she yelped at the savage twinge that shot up her leg.
"Miss Griffin," said the countess in concerned tones, hunched down beside her, "you appear to be injured."
How observant of you, she wanted to snap, but did not.
"May I take a look?" Countess Woods asked.
Clarke nodded and the countess unstrapped the snowshoe and slowly unlaced her boot. The countess very carefully eased the boot and thick sock from her foot, and then pulled off her gloves to feel around her foot and ankle. At the first touch, Clarke gasped and the countess immediately retracted her hand, looking up at Clarke in a worried manner. No one besides herself had touched her bare feet in a very long time. Clarke was unused to the sensation. The fact that the most alluring woman she had ever set eyes on was touching her so gently surely had nothing to do with her reaction.
"I'm fine, countess," she reassured, slightly breathless. "Continue."
Clarke tried not to enjoy the woman's ministrations too much but found the task difficult even though she was in pain. The countess felt around her ankle for some time before coming to an assessment.
She smiled in relief and said, "Nothing appears to be broken, Miss Griffin. I believe you are simply suffering from a bad sprain."
The countess redressed her foot and then in a reminiscent manner to that of their first meeting, helped Clarke to her feet. Clarke grit her teeth when even a slight amount of pressure on her ankle hurt like the dickens.
"I don't think I can walk all the way back, even with your aid. You will need to leave me here and go fetch a hor-"
Rather than do as she suggested, the countess simply swept her into an intimate embrace, wrapping her arms around her neck. Clarke's breath caught at such close proximity, at the new angle of her features, at the firmness of her arm muscles through her fur lined coat. The fact that the countess was not wearing a corset was driving her to complete distraction. The countess did not spare her a single glance but simply began marching forward, their combined weight causing them to sink deeper into the snow than before, further hampering their progress.
"The hares," she eventually managed. "The competition."
"You are my guest, Miss Griffin," the countess replied in an odd voice. "Your well being is my primary concern."
After a few moments she said, "I'm sorry I ruined your hunting expedition...again."
"There will be others."
Attempting to lighten the situation slightly she smirked, "Perhaps one day you will not need to rescue me."
The countess turned her head putting their faces much too close to one anothers. The breathtaking woman looked at her almost tenderly and murmured, "Perhaps one day you will return the favour."
Clarke gulped and licked her lips. The countesses' eyes flickered down like they had at the ball and then back up to meet Clarke's gaze once more. Except this time Clarke could see that her pupils were blown wide open. She had seen this phenomenon before with Mr. Collins and Roan, even Wells on occasion. Her heart hammered wildly as they shared an unwavering look. Was the countess attracted to her? Or was this simply a trick of the light? The fact that the countesses' lips were slightly parted told Clarke all she needed to know. The question now became, was she attracted to the countess? It would certainly explain an awful lot of her inexplicable reactions to the woman. But how could she be attracted to her in that taboo way if she was also attracted to men? Such a thing was not possible, was it?
A fox ran across their path, drawing their attention away from one another.
Neither said a word to the other the entire arduous trek back.
I think she's kind of like Fine Stud Lexa, Victorian edition. I was already writing her like this before the tumblr thing happened. Lmao.
My goodness. There's so much touching this chapter. How scandalous.
There you go Clarkey. You're finally starting to get it.
Things might be awkward now. Huh.