Act Two

From Butterflies to Fireworks Amongst Rocks and Amber

Chapter Four: A Bitter Lesson

The warm air smells after late summer, and the clatter of passing carriages blends with the voices of people meandering the streets of Corona's market and hawkers offering their services and goods.

Varian heaves a sack of potting compost onto his shoulder and carries it inside the small shop called "Rosie's Pots & Flowers," behind the door with the wooden tablet heralding its name in cursive letters. He takes it where his dad is standing next to an arrangement of sacks and crates they've already brought from two streets over—where a careless supplier had dropped them off—into the protective walls of the tiny shop.

"What luck you came by. I wouldn't have known what to do if it weren't for your help," Rosie, the elderly shopkeeper, says. She produces a threadbare pouch, working fingers trembling with age into the crumbling leather. "I hope I haven't kept you too long. How much do I owe for your effort, Quirin?"

Varian's dad cups the woman's hand with his own, hindering her from fishing out the spare coins rattling under her reach. He shakes his head. "Please, that's not necessary. We were glad to help." His gaze seeks Varian. "Am I right, son?"

Setting down the bag, Varian passes his lower arm over his brow before equipping himself with a smile, nodding. "Yes, very glad."

Rosie lets out a small sound of gratitude and pockets her pouch again.

It's no lie. Varian, indeed, is glad to have been of help to the old lady. After all, she's always been kind to him on his visits to her shop from when he was merely a child so young he could barely walk to this very day. Lately, whenever Lashanie dragged him here and the day aged into evening during their stay, Rosie would offer them tea brewed from flower petals and cookies tasting of lemon. He likes her.

"Such a well-bred young man," Rosie delights, her gaze finding Varian.

From the corner of his eyes, Varian watches his dad's lips twitch with amusement. Causing his own to bunch into a pout. What's so funny about her words?

Rosie doesn't seem to notice any of it, however, for the warm expression clings to her features still. She steps closer to Varian, her head rolling to one side. One of her hands settles on her chest, at roughly the place where her kind heart beats. "You've grown so much. Soon, you'll be even taller than your father," she says with a touch of nostalgia weighing on her voice.

It's a phrase she can't deny herself whenever she sees him, and Varian answers with the usual shrug and chuckle of, "You think?" Of course, he knows he won't be; his dad still towers at least two heads taller than him. But to accept some harmless flattery now and then can't hurt, can it?

"But of course." Rosie nods, her eyes misting. "Oh, your dear mother would be so proud of you."

To their side, the smile glides off Quirin's face, and suddenly, the small shop, always seeming to be enveloped in a golden afternoon glow, feels stuffed and suffocating instead of cozy.

Varian struggles to keep his lips turned upward. "Heh, maybe so. Well, I-I—I think I should check on our wagon." Without waiting for a response, he sweeps out the door.

The bustle of noontime in this prosperous place hasn't worn down yet, and Varian's gaze meets dozens of people going about their day. But no one seems to take notice of him, seems to care about his presence. The bright colors of the shops' awnings, the chatter of the crowds, the clinking of coins, and jangling of keys—all of it seems to blend in a riot of noise and motion. And for once, he's glad to be invisible to the dwellers and merchants of this town.

Varian draws in a deep breath. His mind is racing with jumbled thoughts, and he can't quite pinpoint what had caused him to flee the shop. Was he afraid his dad could have disagreed the next second? Or was it the evident discomfort written across his face when she was brought up? He can't tell.

Varian lets his gaze fall to the ground. Would his mom be proud of him? He'd love to know. And yet, asking his dad seems impossible.

When he was younger, they often indulged in memories of her together. Quirin had gladly told him about happier times then, consoling Varian for the loss her death meant for him—for both of them. But not anymore: whenever Varian breaches that subject these days, his dad blinks his questions, only ever repeating there is no more he could tell him. Too often, Quirin would even rather pick up an earlier argument and get into a fight with his son than answer his questions.

Now, he only got Lashanie to talk with about his mom. And while she always listens with angelic patience, it's not the same. Lashanie never met her. Never could she do anything but reflect his own impressions back at him, for the picture she has of his mom is one painted by Varian's words alone.

A deep sigh lifts his chest.

This very instant, as if the town was heaving a sigh of its own, a gust of wind travels through the streets, sending a sheet of paper twirling in the air. It gets caught on Varian's leg, curling around it before finally floating to the ground as the breeze continues its journey, leaving them behind. Varian beholds the dark letters inked to the paper, heralding, 'Exposition of Sciences.' He stoops for the flyer, muttering to himself while seizing it between his gloved fingers, "Huh, what do we have here?"

The flower shop's doorbell jingles a little tune in Varian's back, and he hears the soft thump of his dad's step approaching right before he straightens back up and the weight of a familiar hand lands on his shoulder.

"What is this?" Quirin gives the paper in Varian's grip a curious glance.

"The palace is inviting inventors from all of Corona to attend a science expo," Varian answers, already pondering what he could present to the judge prized on the flyer, master scientist Dr. Alcott St. Croix. He turns to look his father in the eye. "I need to join, Dad. Can I?"

The curiosity fades from Quirin's face immediately, deep lines sinking into his now furrowed brow instead. He shakes his head, starting for their wagon and the dark bay harnessed in its front. "I don't know if that's a good idea, Varian. I haven't forgotten the outcome of your, mh—your last inventive ambitions yet."

Quirin strokes the horse's neck, to which it responds with an affectionate snort. He clutches the reins, and the wagon wheels rattle to life.

"Yeah, I know, I know!" With quick steps, Varian closes up to his dad as he shoos away the memory of hot-water tanks exploding in the underground tunnels beneath their village. "But, uh, I will make sure something like this can never happen again. So, you—you trust me, right?"

A reluctant sidelong glance from Quirin is met with the most hopeful hangdog look Varian can summon up. And as expected, he can see his dad starting to budge.

Again, Quirin shakes his head, but, at the same time, his frown is soothing evidently. "Oh, Varian . . ." he sighs.

And in turn, Varian inclines his head, allowing a touch of gleeful anticipation to his voice, prodding, "Yes?"

Following another long breath, Quirin starts, "Son, you know I—" when the irritated voice of a woman, not unfamiliar to them, cuts over his words.

"Oh, what am I to do with you, you dimwit girl?!" the woman cries.

An even more familiar voice responds, "I'm sorry, Aunt Marie, I didn't mean to—"

And gets cut off harshly. "Why, you never mean to, yet you keep making the simplest things difficult."

Varian and Quirin exchange a glance akin in meaning. The next beat, they find themselves picking their way through the workday's bustle of Corona's market, careful to avoid bumping into anyone as they move towards the center, guided by the sound of the voices that grow louder with every step.

And sure enough, they behold Lashanie surrounded by her family, gathered near the sparkling fountain at the center of the square. Or at least most of her family, much to Varian's regret. He can't spot Ludwig, but that doesn't make good for who's in his friend's presence in lieu. Because, next to her mom, her aunt Marie, and—worst of all—Ben, her meanie of a cousin, have planted themselves by Lashanie's side. The thought alone is wild, but Varian would even prefer her kill-joy father over them.

Quirin forces himself to wave at Lashanie's mother in greeting. "Anne, what a pleasant surprise!" And despite the clear flinches flickering across her face, he and Varian join their—more or less— fun little gathering.

Upon spotting them, Lashanie's mien brightens distinctly, forming an utter contrast to her mother's. A smile breaks across her face, and as if acting on their own, Varian's lips mirror her mirth.

While the elders share their requisite greetings, polite alright, but no less stiff, Varian just makes a beeline for Lashanie to pull her into a lighthearted hug. In replacement of any common greeting phrase, a "Birdy, I've got the most exciting news!" bubbles out of him.

Lashanie lets out a giggle, stirring the air near Varian's ear, her breath teasing his skin as she requests, "Really? Tell me everything."

The familiar tingle inside his stomach, becoming a sensation recurring too often to readily ignore, prompts Varian to abruptly break their embrace and step back an inch, trying to maintain his composure.

A touch of mildly confused curiosity sneaks into Lashanie's features, and Varian reckons to already see questions, a faint suspicion perhaps, beginning to dance behind her eyes. But then, for a mere beat, her gaze flicks to her family, and whatever rests on the tip of her tongue, she thinks better of voicing it.

Varian can't help feeling somewhat grateful for this brief moment of distraction—he wouldn't know how to explain his hasty reaction anyway—and makes quick use of it by waving his flyer into Lashanie's view. "Here, look what I found."

Instantly, the curiosity in Lashanie's gaze flickers back to life, intensifying as she bends her head toward him with a conspiratorial grin playing on her lips.

"They're holding a—"

Suddenly, Aunt Marie edges herself in between the friends, clawing at the paper in Varian's hand, cutting him off, crying, "Oh no! No, no, no!"

Varian manages to just yank his arm out of her reach, recoiling. What is it this time that woman has to complain about?!

As if she needs to shield Lashanie from him, Marie positions herself before her niece. Fluttering a dismissive hand at Varian, she chides, "Take that away! We cannot allow any distraction."

By 'we,' of course, she means that she's deciding for Lashanie and ordering everyone else about on the side as is her wont. A drop of sourness spreads underneath Varian's skin, and he can't help it crawling into his expression. Glaring at her, he stuffs the flyer into his pocket—just to be safe that she won't try again to prey it from his hands.

Marie eyes him with unmasked distaste, the way one might look at an insect in their house. "You'll have to excuse us. As you can see, my dear little doll is busy. She's going to perform for her beloved aunt now."

Almost, a loud snort escapes Varian. Not just because it's a new degree of absurdness even for Marie to speak of herself in the third person to underline how superior she thinks herself, but—' beloved aunt'?! Sure. Since when?

Varian peers at his dad to see his reaction and, from the corner of his eye, catches a shared glance between Quirin and Anne, filled with layers of meaning he feels ill-equipped to interpret.

At the same time, Lashanie bends to peer at Varian around her aunt's frame. "Please, Aunt Marie . . ."

Tapping her fingers against her hip, Marie gives a sigh, edging down, however. "Fine, you may tell your,"—she scrunches up her nose—" friend yourself." Schooling her expression into a smile that's keeping pace with a grimace, she takes a scarce step aside.

Allowing Lashanie to make one toward Varian, her eyes troubled. "I'm sorry, Vary; I fear what you wanted to show me will have to wait. But I promise to hear everything when we're home." Her face, her voice, and her posture all are dripping with apology.

Needless. Varian isn't cross with Lashanie. The treatment Marie is sending her way—or, well, practically everyone's way—is what's upsetting him. Yet, he tries not to let it overly seep into his tone, for Lashanie's sake. "It's alright, the flyer isn't going anywhere. So, you're to perform for your aunt, eh?"

"Mhm, that's right. She came here all the way from Equis to visit, after all. Oh, and my grounding has been shortened, too." Lashanie's lips venture a skeptical smile. "So, for that, I should be grateful, I suppose."

Before Varian can respond, Marie chimes in once more. "'She' is the cat's mother, my doll. And, yes—you should be much grateful," she lectures sickeningly affably.

Lashanie wrings her wrists, leaving Varian no doubt she buries a remark of a different kind when she says, "Ah, yes. My apologies, Aunt Marie."

And Varian can't help but wonder why the complacency her aunt displays towards Lashanie's obedience renders him so inexplicably mad. Sure, he never harbored any affection for Marie—or Ben, for that matter—but lately, their presence has become almost unbearable.

"Perhaps," Lashanie begins, pulling Varian out of these thoughts. "Perhaps you could stay and watch me." Her gaze seeks Quirin. "Unless you're in a hurry?"

Within a beat, Marie's face grows taut with anger. Her lips part to rebuke, but Quirin beats her to give an answer. "We're not. And we'll gladly stay to listen to your song." He meets Varian with a sidelong glance and a smile before dangling an idea. "In return, we could offer you a ride back to Old Corona afterward. Only if you don't have other plans, naturally."

"As far as I know, we don't. And I would love to travel back home with you." Lashanie beams as if she'd just been made a precious gift. She casts her mother a pleading look. "Is this okay?"

And Anne, on her part, glances at her sister. "Oh, well . . . I guess."

For a tick, Marie's expression leaves no doubt she entertains the idea of scorning Quirin's offer. Scrutinizing, she lets her gaze trail along their wagon, followed by a deep downturn of her mouth. However, they must lack a more comfortable way of traveling, for she lastly forces herself to say, "Why, what a generous proposal. We would be foolish not to accept it."

Varian hears Ben nag to himself, "Ugh! You gotta be kidding me!" And he has half a mind to tell him and his mother that no one invited them .

But then he looks at Lashanie; her hands tucked behind her back, she's biting her bottom lip as mirth stretches her mouth into a saccharine smile. One she directs solely at him. That simple realization fills him with a ridiculous sense of joy. And suddenly, sharing the way home with Ben and Marie doesn't seem beyond all bearing so long as his Birdy is there.

Deciding their conversation is over for the time being, Marie plants her hands on Lashanie's shoulders and spins her about so that she faces away from Varian and toward her instead.

"Now then! Since this is settled, you can stop dawdling and finally do what we came here for." She pinches Lashanie's cheeks to force color into her face before spinning her again and nudging her toward the fountain. "Sing, my doll. And don't disappoint me. I won't brook my presence here to prove a waste of time, understood?"

Lashanie stumbles forward, catches her balance after a few steps, and turns round to face them, nodding. "Yes!"

She seems so eager to please. And Varian struggles to swallow his frustration with it. Usually, she's so full of playful banter and amiable repartee—things contrasting so pleasantly with everybody else he knows that he can't help liking them. A lot. But beneath Marie's cold gaze, they always shrink ever so rapidly. Just once, he wants to witness Lashanie defy that woman.

But that's not going to happen, and he hates the knowing of it.

A moment of Lashanie just silently standing before the fountain passes by, sparkling streams of water cascading down behind her, creating a soothing background noise. Varian watches her shoulders lift as she takes a deep breath, trying to rid herself of her inhibitions.

"How long are you just gonna stand there doin' nothing? We don't have all day!" Ben grumbles, impatiently shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

To Varian's surprise, Marie immediately rebukes her son, silencing him with a stern glare. "Quiet, Benedikt. We want to see what Lashie really can do. Let her steel her nerves as long as it improves her performance."

Ben's lips press into a stiff line. He crosses his arms over his chest, punctuating his disapproval with a huff, but refrains from arguing.

Curious. Varian can't recall Lashanie's aunt ever caring much about her singing. So, where does that sudden interest derive from?

Lashanie's fingers quiver as she raises them to her lips, ready to produce the first note of her song. As the sound echoes through the air, her heart races with nervousness, but gradually, a confident joy envelops her, and her voice blooms with warmth and richness.

Westering home, and a song in the air

Light in the eye and it's goodbye to care

Laughter o' love and a welcoming there,

Isle of my heart, my own one.

The once-trembling notes now flow from her with ease and grace as Lashanie pours her soul into the music.

Varian is no stranger to that song; he's often heard her sing it—for she loved how joyous and loving of life it sounds, she shared with him—and despite the little unpleasantries this day has already met out to him, he wholly enjoys listening and watching as she begins rounding out her performance with delicate dance steps. At least until, with a sidelong glance, he notices the intensity with which her aunt is surveilling Lashanie's every move.

Perhaps he's just reading her all wrong, but Marie seems inscrutably cold at that moment, devoid of even the slightest trace of affection. No, she sooner bears the semblance of one of the many prospective buyers swarming back and forth the market, closely eyeing the objects of their desires before trying to haggle the traders down from their profit margins. He almost expects her to turn round toward Anne and spit a meager offer any minute.

And almost that idea would be funny if Anne didn't look just a bit too . . . expectant. It's too evident for Varian to miss—she is awaiting Marie's appraisal.

And sure enough, Marie bends her head towards her sister the next beat, admitting, "She does have potential; I give you that." Her gaze sweeps over the slow-growing audience, pausing the rush of their day to gather here and relish her niece's song. "It is no feat, however, to attract a crowd when what you're offering is free." Her sharp eyes catch hold of Anne as she asks, "Or is it?"

While Anne's still assembling a response, Marie already shifts her attention back to Lashanie. "Regardless, it would be a shame if she'd never amount to more than a penniless street minstrel, doomed to live from hand to mouth." The ghost of a malicious smile touches her lips. "Furthermore, what honorable man would court a girl like that?"

Anger bubbles at the back of Varian's throat, and he tries to tell himself that it's because of how carelessly Marie thrusts aside the smiles adorning the faces of the people surrounding them, overlooks the ones swaying to the melodic singing and the children even dancing. How she talks down all that merriment, Lashanie can bring with no more than a song. But despite his efforts to ignore it, Varian can't help but acknowledge that Marie's last remark stings the most, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Especially when, instead of arguing against her sister, Anne says with a stone-cold face, "Lashanie will not fail her family like that. When the time comes, she will enter an advantageous marriage, I guarantee you."

What? Instantly, Varian's lips are ready to protest and refute the idea of Lashanie getting married off. So fast that even he has to wonder what exactly might fall from them.

But the instant he inhales to differ, he feels a heavy hand discreetly squeezing his shoulder. He looks up to find Quirin shaking his head in a gentle warning.

Part of him knows his dad is right; this is a matter between Anne and her sister, and they shouldn't meddle. But it's hard to tame that other, louder part willing to cause a fight. Varian unconsciously bites down hard on his bottom lip, feeling the sharp edges of his front teeth pressing into the soft flesh.

At the same time, someone shifts into his proximity and stoops closer, sparing Varian the effort to check for their identity when scoffing quietly, "Better heed your daddy and keep your mouth shut, buckteeth."

As always, when his unusual incisors become the target of mockery, Varian's tongue instinctively touches them behind lips pressed tight. He cuts Ben a glare.

"My mother wouldn't care for your useless opinion anyway," the older boy continues, unimpressed, barely masking the amusement he draws from meeting out unkindness to Varian.

And before the reasonable voice of his mind can advise him not to react to Ben's provocations, Varian hears himself hiss through clenched teeth, "Neither you nor your mother got even the slightest—"

Just to get cut off by Ben, who pointedly raises his hands, feigning disbelief over that interruption of his cousin's performance, scolding loudly, "Shh, Varian! I want to hear Lashie sing."

Heads turn, and eyes filled with disapproval seize them. Then, shaking heads and hushed words of annoyance.

Anger hammers inside Varian's chest, about Ben's insolence but also because he let it once again cloud his judgment. And it only swells when he hears the other cackle to himself. Argh, this is maddening!

But just when Varian feels like he's going to burst and the idea of jumping down Ben's throat weasels its way into his mind, Quirin places one arm around his shoulder, drawing him closer and out of Ben's reach.

Varian blinks up at his dad, confusion knitting itself in his brow. Is he upset with him?

He finds Quirin glancing back, a mild smile perched on his lips. He knows. Thank goodness his dad isn't falling so quickly for Ben's stagings.

Trying to calm down, Varian drags in a long breath. He'll just let Ben be. Any word to that clunk is a waste of time, anyway.

Of course, Marie doesn't see any reason to propose an attempt at reprimanding her son. Not when she's ever so busy studying the people surrounding her. Suddenly, she whips her head around toward Anne again and shares with her the conclusion of that observation, "Lashanie will never achieve anything noteworthy. Not in a place like this."

And that's when Varian fails to tamp down on the anger roiling in his stomach but a second longer. "How would you know what she's capable of?! Birdy is—"

"Varian!" his dad cuts in, his voice laced with an edge of disapproval.

Indignantly, Marian draws in a sharp breath and, for what feels like the first time that day, she deigns looking at Varian. Really looking at him. Or rather, she faces him down, letting contempt-loaded scrutiny slip down his frame in slow motion.

"Watch your tongue, boy. Or shouldn't you have dishonored your father enough by now?" she rebukes, her voice as gelid as her gaze.

And Varian's fire turns to smoke, his words trapped in his throat, unable to escape.

"Let it be my concern what I deem dishonoring, Lady Bradbury," he hears his dad give back, one hand still resting on his shoulder.

Promptly, Marie's mouth tilts downward, and she turns away brusquely. "Fair enough! I suppose one does not need to worry about honor if they do not possess any."

The slightest hint of a flinch crosses Quirin's features for a mere blink. It's remarkable the way that woman always finds a new threshold of ugliness to cross.

Varian seeks his dad's gaze to silently mouth, 'I'm sorry.' This isn't what he'd intended. He only wanted to stand up for Lashanie.

But Quirin shakes his head without a trace of anger, gently rubbing Varian's shoulder.

And cursing through Varian is a mixture of relief, ire, and the mounting urge to engulf his best friend in a hug. His Birdy . . . He's glad she doesn't have to hear all the awful things her aunt is spitting.

Marie, on her part, wheels around to her sister. "You see what I mean?! With the likes of them exerting their bad influence over Lashie, what do you think will become of her?"

Anne's mouth opens, but Marie cuts her short, adding, "If only you'd let me take her to Equis! I'd gladly pay for her education. And what's more, one of our greatest composers has a son not much older than Lashie; I bet he'd be enchanted to meet her." Absent-mindedly, she lets one hand wander to a strand of her mink-brown hair, threading her thin, beringed fingers through it with care. "Once we've made some minor adjustments to her appearance, naturally."

A twinge of panic unfolds in the pit of Varian's stomach. Marie wants to take Lashanie away? To Equis?! She can't be serious! Telling himself that Ludwig would never allow this, he forces his mind to banish this idea. For the moment, at least. He fixes his gaze on Anne, expecting to hear her shatter these plans of her sister. She has to!

Anne turns her attention to Quirin. Her expression stuck in conflict, she tries to explain, "Please don't believe that I am robbing Lashanie of this opportunity. I'm not. It's just that . . ." She fails to find the right words.

"There's no need to fret, Anne. I'm sure Lashanie will be fine—here in Corona." Quirin motions at the joyous ado filling the place.

And Anne meets his words with a thoughtful nod. "Yes. Thank you, Quirin." Yet, for reasons Varian fails to fathom, she sounds anything but happy.

With a sharp gasp, Marie intervenes, "You're only fooling yourselves! She can never—"

To get interrupted by Quirin mid-sentence. "Pardon me, Lady Bradbury, but I was talking to Anne and not you. I wouldn't presume to take up your time by requesting your opinion." His tone remains calm but is painted with unmistakable sternness. "And you won't take up mine by sharing it unbidden if you're still seeking to avail yourself of my courtesy and enjoy a ride back to Old Corona on my wagon."

Marie's eyes grow wide, then narrow into crescents, glinting with ire. She glares daggers at Quirin while biting out at her sister, "You're letting that lousy farmer speak to me this way, Anne?!"

"B-but Marie, Quirin is the lead—"

Throwing one last withering glance into the round, Marie waves her sister away, "Ugh, save it! What am I to expect from you anyway?!" She whirls about, the plenty of layers of fabric of her skirt swishing as if hissing at them.

While Anne and Quirin, devoid of more to say, content themselves with exchanging a silent glance that speaks volumes, Varian can't resist openly searching for Ben's reaction.

Ben gapes. He doesn't even seem angered, solely surprised. Varian assumes that it's not every day that someone speaks up against his mother. If it even ever happens at all. And the fact that Quirin has done so must have caught Ben off guard. It's funny, though; Varian reckons to even find a touch of admiration in Ben's face as he casts his gaze at his dad, and— Oh, rats!

Their eyes meet. Ben catches him staring red-handed, and irritation breaks into his face in a flash. Followed by a smug grin twitching the corners of his mouth upward. That bodes ill.

But Varian doesn't need to wonder for long what Ben might be up to when a woman near them delights, "My, what a lovely song!"

And Ben chimes in with contrived mirth, speaking loud enough to be heard over half the place. "Yeah, lovely, isn't it? Even with her singing all these false notes."

Varian picks up a flicker of anxiety blazing in Lashanie's eyes, and panic races along his nerves. He grabs a fistful of Ben's sleeve, giving it a rough tug. "What the heck are you doing?!"

But Ben simply jerks free of Varian's grasp and ploughs on. "One would think, though, that someone who's quite experienced with performing little ditties would be able to sing in tune!" He lists his head, hands planted at his hips, lending a comic air to his malice.

And the first ripple of laughter surges up against Lashanie's voice.

A twinge of desperation coils in Varian's stomach. He tears at Ben. "Stop that! I—I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to stare!"

But the older boy doesn't even spare him a glance. Instead, Varian receives a violent shove from Ben, letting him stumble backward and collide with a passerby. A tall man who glares daggers at him, grumbling, "Watch it, will you?!"

Varian can't catch a thought clear enough to reply to that stranger. His frantic gaze darts to his dad.

"Do you really condone this kind of behavior?" Quirin asks, voice brimming with restrained anger.

But Marie merely meets him with a careless one-shouldered shrug. "Lashanie must learn to maintain a flawless impression against all disturbance anyway. So, why not grant her the chance of a—let's call it a character-building lecture— right away?" She lifts her chin, punctuating the words following after with a triumphant grin. "You said it yourself: 'She will be fine.'"

With his brow stuck in a frown, Quirin shakes his head in disbelief. "That's just—"

But then, Anne's hand settles on his shoulder. "It's alright, Quirin. Marie is right."

What ? Varian can't believe his ears. How can Anne claim this to be 'alright'?! He studies his dad's face, yearning to still find some fight in it, that he will stand up against this injustice.

A muscle twitches in Quirin's jaw, but he doesn't say more, avoiding his son's hopeful gaze.

And disappointment starts cursing through Varian. If he isn't allowed to interfere and his dad isn't willing to help either, then . . . how far will Lashanie's family let Ben go?

.

Lashanie is confident she's hitting the right notes. She knows Ben is merely trying to unsettle her. Yet, she can't prevent her heart from thumping ever faster to the burgeoning sound of giggles from the audience. Are they interpreting Ben's jibes as part of the performance? Perhaps they believe this is really just a staged act, some harmless entertainment.

Now I'm at home, and at home, I do lay

Dreaming of riches that come from Cathay

Or she is ruining the song, and they're laughing at her.

Doubts start gnawing at Lashanie. And as if he hadn't done enough to embarrass her already, Ben begins to mimic her dance moves to the point of absurdity. The once graceful little twirls and feathery steps now appear comical and over-the-top in their exaggeration.

The laughter grows louder in response, just like Lashanie's trepidation. Still, she keeps singing, paying no mind to the fact that she can't hear what's coming from her own throat anymore, with her heart pounding frantically in her ears. Her body continues to mechanically lead her through the dance steps.

As best she can, Lashanie ignores Ben and the voices cheering him on.

I'll hop a good ship and be on my way

The song is about to reach its end. She's almost done.

Only one last stanza is left.

And bring back my fortune to Islay

The lyrics fly off her lips, and an unpleasant screech escapes her. The door-hinge-squeak she believed to have long rid herself of.

The very instant Lashanie's eyes dilate in shock, a guffaw from Ben already blankets the place. It echoes against the walls of the shops that gird the square, ringing in her ears.

"Oh, that was wonderful!" he delights loudly, his voice rising to a high-pitched squeak at the end of his sentence. And a wave of laughter from the assembled folks washes over Lashanie. A noise in which every other sound dissolves.

Her voice dies away, choking on panic and disbelief, as the world skids into slow motion, a stark contrast to the drum roll her pulse has become within mere seconds. Heart in her throat, her eyes scan the crowd.

She stares into the faces of strangers booing her with smiling lips. Finds Marie's pitiless, cold eyes. The disappointment and shame written into her mother's features. Quirin's sympathetic gaze.

And then there's Varian, looking just as helpless as she feels. The same sorrow she feels coiling in her stomach hovers in his expression. They're both trapped in the same sense of defeat.

Instinctively, Lashanie's eyes search again for the person who should help her, a desperate plea reflecting in them. But her mother refuses to look back at her.

She wanted to brave the mocking and laughter. But She can't. She just can't.

The only impulse Lashanie is left with is to run.


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Westering Home lyrics by Hugh S. Roberton