Campfire
A Mirror, Mirror Fanfiction
~August 10th, 1863~
"She's a beautiful baby, Violette," said the woman, passing the aforementioned infant to her twelve-year-old daughter, seated by her side at the campfire, so she could hold out her bowl for Violette to ladle in a helping of hot stew.
Violette smiled and dipped the worn-smooth wooden ladle deep before dishing out the good woman's portion. "You are too kind, madame."
"Yes, kind, but – to be sure – we certainly think so," laughed Gervaise, the baby's father. He meant about her beauty, of course. "Although, I daresay every anxious parent thinks their first child has no fault. In looks or in mind. But, ah me! See if I do not simply continue on in my bias all the same, thinking our Constance will grow up to be extraordinary! This is why I am so keen to provide for her future, why Violette and I mean to make our home out past Greyton near where they say there is gold to be found. An extraordinary girl must have an extraordinary fortune to make her way in this world. I intend to provide her with one." And to think, if things had been different, this little one of his might yet be in a gilded cradle in a fancy chateau in France!
The girl holding the baby now remarked, "She looks like Snow White, from the fairy-tale, you know – all white with black curls and a little red mouth."
Gervaise raised his brow. "And what do they call you, child?"
Reaching up one hand to adjust her bonnet, still carefully holding the baby with the other, she grinned up – one front tooth revealed to be missing – at him.
"Oh, I am called Matilda, sir," she said, and gingerly lifted Baby Constance to Violette's lap and settled her there – for Violette'd just finished serving the men and was sitting down with her mother and the other women.
As soon as the baby was out of her arms, Matilda let out a piercing scream – "ooooh!" – that made Violette frown and Gervaise put a hand to his heart. "Goodness gracious, whatever is the matter?"
Something hard had struck her back.
It was a great clod of mud, thick and chilly, and running down the back of her dress in a slow, sloppy mess.
She scrambled to her feet, stamped them in her fury, flung off her bonnet, and bellowed – despite her reddening mother murmuring and fretting with exaggerated hand movements for her to hush and have a care for the cold this time of year, exposing her bare head like that – at a retreating back, "Edgar Iredale! You horrid little beast! I know it was you! I'll get you for this! I'll get you back for this, do you hear me? I swear it!"
Fin