Act One

Beginnings

Chapter Four: Turbulence Ahead

When sleep lifts its comforting blanket from Lashanie's consciousness the following morning, she's still burning with the same resolve that granted her rest in a night threatening to become a sleepless one; if not, the flames of determination have even been fanned during these past hours of blessed unconsciousness. Spurred by that resolve blazing inside her like a tiny sun, she nearly jumps out of bed, ready to make the most of that day.

All morning—during breakfast, while preparing to see Marie and Ben off, and—yes—even when Aunt Marie admonishes one last time, "You'll be good, my doll. Heed what we've told you," as she gets into the ridiculously palatial carriage sent by her husband to ensure she'll journey home comfortably, Lashanie manages to grin and bear it.

Soon enough, her aunt and cousin are on their way back to Equis, and her parents lastly have to go about their work. And Lashanie's left to herself. Finally!

She darts over to Varian's house, and anybody watching would likely reckon her a mischief-maker: the energy she's emanating ranges between a victor burning to receive their well-earned reward and a thief running from the scene of their crime. Of which the latter slowly gains the upper hand as Lashanie climbs the stairs leading to her friend's door, fueled by the thrill of doing something forbidden.

The sturdy wood of the entrance meets with her knuckles while her eyes intently scan the surroundings, making sure the coast is clear. They do, at least, until they land on the forget-me-nots she had dug out for Varian just yesterday. They've found a cozy spot on the small yet lush green by the house, and a wave of enchantment bubbles up inside her, pushing the tension dominating her senses to the back of her mind. He actually planted them .

Still . . . he's taking rather long to answer the door, and if—by some immensely bad luck—Lashanie's father should encounter her here, this clandestine meeting would end before it even began. Her father would keep a wary eye on her from thereon, that's for sure, and thus bringing her ambitions to fruition would become an even greater hurdle, maybe one insuperable. Not to think of the avalanche of lectures it would send upon her.

What's taking him so long?!

Lashanie reaches out to knock one more time when the door suddenly swings back on its own before even getting the chance to make contact with her hand, revealing Varian's slender frame. Her knuckles almost hit him in lieu when Lashanie just about halts in her motion. That was close!

"Whoa, easy!" Varian reflexively flinches a bit, something like a weary smirk tugging at his lips the next second. "Impatient, aren't you?"

"I—no! I just thought you hadn't heard the first time, and—" Lashanie's eyes curiously trail down Varian's wardrobe. "Are you in your pyjamas ?"

"No, it's my dress suit," he jests in response while taking a step aside, beckoning for the girl to get in.

But something about him—about the way he behaves towards her, looks at her—whispers to Lashanie that he doesn't want her around, offering an uprising surge of insecurity the opportunity to bond her feet to the ground.

A lick of that discomfiture inches up her throat and forces out a tiny giggle. "Wait, aren't we going to look for monkshood anymore?"

"We would be if your ' most esteemed aunt' hadn't come here yesterday to spread Ben's bare-faced lies to my dad," Varian explains with put-on casualty as a shrug heaves his shoulders.

His words reduce the girl's voice to a mere squeak, with which she ascertain, "Wait, she did?"

But who is she kidding? Of course Aunt Marie did! And in her mind's eye, the scene already begins to play out . . . That explains why he's acting so differently with her today.

"Yeah. She was apoplectic, claimed that I attacked your cousin, and demanded punishment for me. And—thanks to her!—I am not allowed to go into my own laboratory for the next three days or so. Eugh, what a nightmare!"

Varian turns about under an unnerved gesture not particularly directed at anyone and heads back inside without checking for Lashanie again. Either she follows or closes the door and makes her way home. And at this point, he honestly doesn't care which she'll go for. After all, it was her aunt who got him into this .

Still standing in the doorframe, Lashanie's no idea what she should do now. Varian seems so irritated . . . should she really follow him? Yet, he beckoned for her to tread in, didn't he?

And so, filling her lungs with a deep breath, she conquers her reluctance and sticks to him, leading the way down the corridor to a spiral staircase. As they climb into the second floor, the echo of their footsteps remains the only sound.

Oh! Varian's disgruntlement is so awfully palpable, and a nagging voice inside Lashanie's mind grows louder against the silence between them, repeating over and over that he didn't want to see her, that she should have left, no—shouldn't have come here in the first place.

She didn't mean to be intrusive.

Just before her self-doubts manifest to force a cascade of apologies across her lips, Varian stops in front of an open door.

"Welcome to my demesne," he quips with a lopsided sneer, motioning for Lashanie to enter first.

Lashanie's feet take tentative, small steps, carrying her into Varian's private room. Her aunt would probably scold how unseemly it was for her to be here . . .

If Varian senses her insecurity, he lets it show no whit while thrusting past her and dropping himself to his messy bed listlessly. Lying prone, he reaches for a sketchbook, takes the quill from between the pages to dip it into a jar resting on a nightstand, and starts to fervently cover the open page with ink. For Lashanie, he leaves little more than the space she needs to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Make yourself comfortable," he says without looking up.

"So, your dad has locked you out of your lab, and now you're staying in bed all day?" Lashanie queries carefully, earnestly hoping she's wrong and they'd still venture out to explore.

Varian affords a tight explanation without shifting his gaze. "I'm not just staying in bed: as it happens, this is a peaceful protest!"

Yet, the girl's quizzical glance remains resting on him, expectant. He'd love to ignore it; he doesn't owe her an explanation! But for some reason that he fails to determine, he can't. So instead, he adds reluctantly, "I refuse to leave my room—well, 'cept for answering the door . . . Regardless! By staying in here, I let my dad know I disagree with this darn punishment. He doesn't want me to go into my lab? Fine! But then I'm not going anywhere at all!"

Varian's lips form a sulky pout as he resumes wrenching the quill across the paper, making the tool in his hand screech as though it wanted to object to this rough usage.

Resignedly, Lashanie sinks to the bed's edge, her eyes sending a longing glance out the window where the sun—as if to taunt her—shines with all its might. It's such a lovely day, but—alas!—they'd spend it inside twiddling thumbs, moping. But what else can she do other than comply? Reasoning with him would probably be for naught, considering the bad mood he's in . . .

She stifles a sigh as her eyes begin examining the furnishings inside Varian's 'demesne': a large rotunda with pale blue walls. Besides a plain cluttered work desk, a carving decorated wardrobe with clothes sticking out from the doors, one bookshelf robbed of its purpose when most of the books pile up on the floor anyway, the bed holding a heavy blanket and a counterpane just like a huge pillow, and the nightstand with ajar drawers—all made from the same dark wood—it's chock-full of all sorts of curious things. No bric-a-brac, like Lashanie treasures up in her own snugly boudoir, but a glorious mess of inventions galore fill the abundant space. From musical instruments whose function she could only hope to guess to mysterious machines shining with copper and silvery cogs.

This place is a tiny land of miracles!

And despite the wealth of things gathered in this room, a remote area inside her mind adjudges it surprisingly comfortable. Perhaps this favorable opinion is partially owed to the lovely subtle aroma of peppermint intertwined with a faint fragrance of lavender filling the air.

If she has to spend that gorgeous day indoors, Lashanie's glad it's at least in such a delightful, new place.

Every other second, she's sending sidelong glances Varian's way, hoping to catch his eye, but he just keeps polishing his drawing unperturbed, and lastly, Lashanie's gaze instead wanders back to the bookshelf. There, amidst a series of adventure stories she knows inside out herself, it beholds a tome that excites her curiosity. The saddle is missing any labeling, and the leather's struck with clear signs of age, and yet—or maybe precisely for this reason—it caught her attention.

Lashanie points at the shelf. "May I?"

Finally giving her a short glance, Varian nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders. "Go on, help yourself."

As this permission passes his lips, a rush of excitement courses through her veins; it shoots into her legs, which immediately carry her towards the tome. Her fingers gingerly brush against the slightly porous cover before she flips it open, the first page revealing it as a herbarium.

" Propriété de Isabella ," she reads aloud the tiny inscription at one of the lower corners.

Prompting Varian to forthwith jump off his bed and dart over to her. He pries the book out of her hands ungently to press it against his chest as if it needed protection, his eyes dilated with discomposure and framed with grief. "You can read any book you want, but don't touch this one!"

For a moment, he had seriously startled Lashanie with his reaction. She inhales a deep breath; hopefully, that will suffice for her nerves to calm.

"Isabella—that's your mother's name, right? And this book belonged to her," she concludes, keeping her voice low, soothing.

Varian nods, a motion so short that Lashanie wouldn't have guessed it could ever convey pain—but it did, and if it weren't for the peek inside she gained before he snatched it from her, she wouldn't ask to see more of this book's contents. Yet, what her eye had met, it looked familiar, and she has to make sure . . .

Gingerly resting a hand on Varian's shoulder, she begs, "I know you're treasuring your mom's belongings—and I understand; I really do, you know. But this book, this herbarium . . . the inside looks just like the one I got from my grandma, I think. Please let me make sure I'm not mistaken."

Varian frowns, his gaze fixed on the girl. "You're kidding me."

"I wouldn't dare. If you don't want me to look inside that book, I—Oh, yes!—I can fetch my own herbarium; you can compare them and tell me if I was wrong."

A long sigh leaves Varian's lungs, and his shoulders sink a little, the tension holding him in its grip discernibly melting away. If having a look inside is all she wants, it's alright with him. As long as she doesn't touch it, he doesn't mind.

"That won't be necessary," he says, carefully opening the tome.

He stands close to Lashanie while flipping through it, allowing her to regard the pages covered with information more than well-known to her: the handwriting differs from Lashanie's exemplar, and some alterations grace several pages, but it is the same book altogether . . .

How is that even possible?! It was written by her grandmother, a unicum, comprising knowledge she lavished time on gleaning!

While Lashanie's deprived of words, utterly speechless as a flurry of thoughts wings their way through her head, Varian shuts the book audibly. "So, are they alike?"

Jolted by the noise, Lashanie curtly nods in response and murmurs to herself, "But— how ?"

"Perhaps they've been to the same library and copied the same book," Varian surmises, offhand.

No, this can't be it. Sure, the herbarium had been complete by the time Lashanie first laid eyes on it, but she knows with certainty that it was written by her grandma—it's not just some copied work. Yet, while Lashanie's thoughts twist themselves into a jumbled mess, Varian regretfully seems to deem it a peripheral matter.

Securing the book will be out of reach for Lashanie; however, that's what he's got an interest in: he tiptoes high to safely stow it away on the top shelf.

Does he fear lest she would take it, despite his request for her to keep her hands off it?! Try as she might, Lashanie can't halt the ugly sensation of offense inching its way into her stomach.

Dropping back to the sparse spot on the edge of the bed, she remarks sourly, "You really don't trust me, do you? Way to treat your partner . . ."

"Partner," Varian repeats as a touch of bitter realization creeps into his features. He already reckoned there was a selfish reason for her presence, and now he's figured it out. Or so he thinks.

"So that's where the land lies! I'm sorry the lies of your cousin make it such an onerous task to see to your problem."

His words summon Lashanie back to her feet. "Wait—what?!"

It's not guilt reflecting in her eyes, as Varian expected, but something he can make out for . . . bewilderment? Is she trying to fool him by playing dumb?

Varian folds his arms across his chest firmly. "Oh, come on! I see right through you. You knew about your aunt's visit, and now you're here to ensure I'm still willing to help with your— magic stuff . Admit it!"

He can't be serious! Lashanie shakes her head vehemently at this reproach. "I am not! And I'm sorry my cousin and aunt have given you a hard time with Ben's lie; I don't even mind taking the rap for them, but I won't stand for the accusation that I'm just using you . . ." A catch had surreptitiously slipped into her voice, one she fails to hide,". . . because I'm not."

Bright blue eyes blink at Lashanie, wide with surprise, and a twinge of embarrassment suddenly clenches her heart, growing under their gaze. She didn't get loud, yet her lungs burn as if she had run a mile at full tilt. And he's just standing there, silent like a statue. Why doesn't he say something?

He must think her absolutely ridiculous!

Not even her soothing breathing technique now helps to subdue this burgeoning feeling. Only one impulse remains: to flee; escape the room and that whole aggrieving situation.

But as she tries to run past him, Varian's fingers clasp her wrist, foiling that plan.

"I'm sorry. Please . . . don't leave."

His hand abruptly rereleases Lashanie when she turns around to face him. In her place, it wraps around Varian's skinny arm as if moving on its own, driven into action by the guilt now welling up inside him.

"I—I shouldn't have taken my frustration out on you," he admits. "It's just that, guh . . . nevermind."

Varian's dad had told him he must learn to keep his temper, and yet, instead, it keeps getting the better of him . . . Only as the hurt reflecting in the mirror of Lashanie's gaze fell to his eye, he fathomed how ridiculously eager he's been to find a reason to get mad at her, to wreak his anger about the laboratory ban on her since the moment she appeared by the door. And now that he's realized and wants to explain, the emotions seething inside him refuse Varian to grasp the right words—any words accurate in the slightest, actually. What else . . .

So he might as well remain short on further explanation. Dejectedly, he plummets back into bed and picks up his drawing again.

A painful silence settles down in the room.

Lashanie ponders—should she just walk out the door and leave? Yes, he apologized, but still . . . he's been very rude! And yet, now that his large blue eyes betray genuine regret, something prevents her from going, like a pull beckoning her towards Varian still. That capricious boy sure is lucky she's already begun to embosom him, somehow.

With a deep, soothing breath, which luckily serves its purpose—unlike before—she rids herself of the urge to slink away and instead walks back to the bed, once again sitting down on that darn meager edge. Unexpectedly to Lashanie, though, Varian slightly scoots over, giving her enough space to sit comfortably this time.

Embracing that little act of conciliation, Lashanie summons her courage and leans into his view. "What you just said there, that wasn't very nice, you know. But you've got the right to be mad, Varian. You're suffering the consequence of something you didn't do at all, and . . . yes, I'm not happy to admit it, but, in a way , it's my fault, too. So, tell me how and I'll make it up to you."

Varian flashes a weary smile in response, not rightly knowing what it is that's tugging at the corners of his mouth: the slight amusement her offer provides him or the relief she stayed?

"Nah, it's not your fault, and you already got it bad enough with them yourself, I'd wager," he finally says.

"Mhm, they're not exactly the 'kind and caring' type, but, well . . . there's nobody else making things harder for me except them. But for you—people in this village . . .," Lashanie ventures carefully. The last thing she wants is to hurt him.

"I know, but I don't care. I will prove them all wrong eventually," Varian replies, feigning indifference.

He makes a lousy liar, though, and his true emotions bleed through the facade evidently; they lace his words and are fathomable in his posture, movements, and eyes alike. He cares; he cares a lot.

It's for the sake of their fragile friendship that Lashanie lets his fibbing pass without comment. If she just gives it enough time, there will come the day when he'll share his feelings with her more honestly. She'll be patient.

"I know you will, Varian," she assures with a smile, genuine and soft.

One he gladly returns, even though a trace of doubt still lingers on in his gaze.

During this shared smile, Varian lifts his head from his drawing, allowing Lashanie to finally steal a glance at it: A composition of dark ink lines, artfully brought to the page, form a young man heroically leveling his sword at a slavering dragon.

"Flynn Rider!" Lashanie's lips burst out before her brain could even suggest Varian might not like her looking at his drawing.

A smile breaks across his face, rebuffing any feeble doubt of hers immediately. "You know the Flynn Rider books?"

Lashanie's mouth mirrors that smile when she declares happily, "Of course—they're the best adventure tales out there!" Her words meet only affirmation imprinted to Varian's mien until she adds, "And—oh!—so romantic!"

To which he responds by slightly wrinkling his nose and furrowing his brows. "Romantic?! No way!" he counters, a little chuckle working its way through.

"Yes, there is romance! You know, like that one time when Flynn saved that lady from a werewolf. He risked his own life to save her and—" Lashanie tries to convince Varian.

Yet, when it comes to his favorite hero and book series, he just can't hold back and cuts in before she can finish her sentence, insisting, "He only saved that girl to earn the reward her father had promised to issue on her safe return."

Insouciant about this interruption, as she's too happy Varian's perked up, Lashanie shakes her head softly, replying, "Come on—he's a master thief; he could have stolen the reward if that was all he cared about. And he also told the girl he'd gladly risk his life for her anytime if it meant seeing her smile again." An entranced sigh leaves her lungs.

"Tsk! He would have said the same thing to any other girl; it wasn't about her." Stating this, Varian sits up. He doesn't get the chance to discuss Flynn Rider with others often, and the energy bubbling inside him now is too much to keep lying down. There's so much energy, in fact, that frisky gestures accompany his added, confidant explanation. "And he also couldn't simply steal the reward—he still had to win the bet against his rival, you remember?"

But Lashanie sure won't admit defeat that easily. Calmly but not one bit less confident than Varian, she persists, "Perhaps. Anyhow, when they were dallying with each other, there clearly was a spark between them."

Varian shakes his head incredulously while a smirk remains to tug at his lips. Even though they disagree, this is quite fun.

With a twinkle in his eyes, he motions to the bookshelf, dangling an idea. "You know, we could reread it to see who's right. What do you say?"

Lashanie smiles. "Sure, why not? It's been a while since I last had the chance to read them anyway."

Brimming with excitement, Varian brings over the Flynn Rider tale being the matter of their 'discussion'. She's so going to admit he was right!

He scoots to the back of the bed to comfortably lean against the wall, patting the mattress by his side so that Lashanie will follow suit.

Sitting close, they get enthralled by the great adventure overflowing the pages as they playfully read the story aloud by turns, vying for the most livid delivery. Anon, their silly quarrel is forgotten, and the room's abuzz with joy, echoing with the friends' inanities and laughter.

They spend quite a spell soaking in one tale after another, time slipping away uncared.

•●•●•

The sun's begun to set, the sky is slowly turning dark, and Quirin finally sets foot into his home again. It's been a long, strenuous day, especially with the ongoing pest invasion of their fields, and he's longing but one thing: to sit down with a warm, soothing cup of herbal tea. He's really earned that today.

But before satisfying this desire, he has to carry his weary bones up the stairs to check on his son. Their argument kept guilt pinching Quirin's conscience all day long, just like Varian's taunts to starve if he wasn't allowed to go inside his lab. He hadn't been in the mood to put up with him and his hot temper then and ended up turning him away—and remained internally scolding himself for doing so countless times throughout the day. But now he can finally make sure his son will eat right.

Arriving at the door to Varian's room, Quirin only opens it a crack after knocking gently.

He peeks inside. "Varian, are you there?"

The room stays quiet. Where could he be? Should he, by any chance, have gotten into the lab despite Quirin locking it?!

A surge of anger energizes his limbs; he's about to head down to the laboratory when a soft noise reaches his ear just in time.

Snoring?

Immediately, he feels ridiculous for not considering Varian might be sleeping already. A side effect of this dreadful exhaustion.

It's best to let his boy sleep, and yet—telling himself he has to make sure Varian's not dozed off on his desk again—he finds himself quietly entering the room. He will make sure not to wake him.

Gaining perspective on the bed, Quirin momentarily stops in his tracks, the door handle still in contact with his fingers.

There, surrounded by plenty of Varian's books, his son and Ludwig's daughter sit cuddled together in the hues of sunset enveloping the room, softly aglow with it. How peaceful they look.

A tender smile forms on Quirin's lips.

Carefully, he reaches for the counterpane dangling from the edge of the bed. He'll tuck them up—quietly—and let them rest. Ludwig still needs to know, but that's alright; Quirin's tea can wait just a little longer.

Ever so gingerly, he bends down to lift an open storybook from Varian's lap, forgetting how light his son's sleep lately has become.

Varian's eyes blink open, still veiled by the dream now slowly fading from his eyelids. His bleary gaze registers but a dark silhouette leaning toward him, and a violent jolt racks through his body. A screech tears from his throat, startling Lashanie awake likewise ungently.

She sucks in a deep gasp, her heart threatening to leap out of her chest. "Heavens!"

So much for letting them sleep . . .

Quirin gently cups Varian's face, soothing, "Hush, Varian. It's me."

Hazy realization wanders from his eyes into his mind, and Varian's breathing gradually calms. Frowning, he shakes off his father's hands. "Dad?! Why are you sneaking up on us like that?!"

Quirin straightens his back; shaking his head, he points at the book still resting on Varian's legs. "I wasn't—I only wanted to put that book back on the shelf." And with a smile playing on his lips, he adds, lifting the counterpane higher for it to gain Varian's attention, "And make sure you won't get cold tonight."

The boy harrumphs in response. So he is still miffed . . .

Meanwhile, Lashanie got up from the bed. By her own accord, she slightly bows her head to Quirin, uttering coyly, "Good evening, sir!"

Quirin can't help his lips from generating a grin at this overly formal gesture. "Well met—Lashanie, right? You are Ludwig's daughter."

Lashanie nods reticently. It's beyond curfew, and she's well aware that this is an unseemly time to bother people in their homes. Yet, the tall man's mien stays cordial, so she hazards a smile.

Snapping the book from his lap shut loudly, Varian gets up as well, making a beeline for the shelf.

Prompting Quirin to ponder a way to propitiate his stubborn son. A loud growling produced by Varian's empty stomach supplies him with just the right idea.

"Now that you're awake, I think I might as well prepare supper for us—if you're alright eating with me, that is," he offers, his gaze fixed on his son, waiting.

A soft touch of red has risen to Varian's cheeks at the sound of his rumbling stomach. He is ravenous; he can't turn his father down, but he also has to make it seem casual—his dad shall know one meager meal isn't enough to bribe him!

So he shrugs his shoulders, keeping the response deliberately flat. "I guess."

Wearing an amused smile, Quirin heads to leave the room. Of course he sees through Varian's pretense, but he'll just let him have his way this time. Already standing in the doorframe, he turns towards Ludwig's daughter once more. "Say, Lashanie, would you like to join us?"

"Um, I—I would, yes. But . . ." She peers out the window, worry painted on her face. "It's high time; I better be on my way."

"Come on! An hour or two won't come amiss!" Varian demurs toot-sweet. He would never have guessed so when Lashanie showed up earlier, but her company's become an delight he doesn't want to fade just yet.

"Maybe you're right," Lashanie mumbles. Her gaze, seeming almost beseechingly, meets Quirin's gentle eyes. "But I don't want my parents to get mad at me."

Smiling back at her, Quirin offers, "How about I'll see you home right after? If necessary, I can explain to your parents the reason why you're late then."

"I would like that, yes. Thank you." Lashanie beams at Quirin first and then at Varian, her heart jumping for joy inside her chest. She wouldn't have thought Varian's father to be such a kind man.

Quirin makes his way for the kitchen—but not before advising his son, pointing at the books scattered across the bed and floor, "Maybe you want to make use of the time the preparation needs to put the rest of them back where they belong."

Even though Varian lacks the get-up-and-go, he slowly starts picking up his books. After all, they're his favorite, so he'll muster up some motivation that must be resting somewhere inside his limbs to stow them away properly.

He's balancing three books in his arm and reaching for a fourth when Lashanie grabs it for him. "Here, let me help you."

A smile breaks across the faces of them both, alike in their warmth, when suddenly, a dull knocking approaches their ears, coming from the first floor. They hear the scuffling of feet, the sound of a door getting opened, and two voices—too faint and far away to be understood.

And then Quirin calls, "Lashanie, your father is here to pick you up."

At this, the girl's eyes widen; she bites her bottom lip.

"Oh no!"