Title: Five ways in which Europe surprises Syntychë
Author: Ali
Summary: Really, the title says it all.
Rating: T for kissing. Girls kissing. Everyone’s gay!
Disclaimer: All characters contained herein are property of DM Cornish, not me, who is not DM Cornish by any stretch of the imagination. We once lived on the same continent, but as I am sure he would tell you, this is nothing at all like being the same person. This is strictly a work of fannish glee with no intention of gaining money, fame, notariety, or good will from any person or persons. This partciular combination of written words is my own.
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1. She is eight when she arrives at the sequestury. Syntychë is eleven, and finds Fontrevault altogether a terribly boring place; this is largely because her mother is august, Marchess of Herbroulesse and her aunt Marchess of Fountrevault, and between the two they control the teaching of the young calendars. She might like to be a scold, perhaps, but her occupation will be decided by Mother.
Miss Europe comes with a parcel of fancy titles and fancier clothes, displacing Syntychë in the hierarchy of nobility. No one else comes near to her in peerage, and Syntychë wonders how in the world this child convinced her mother to allow her only daughter—only child!—to go off and do this potentially dangerous thing. Her own mother would never allow such madness were they not all calendars, and she merely the oldest of four.
It is two months after her arrival that Syntychë, on the grounds of pleasant acquaintance, stops by the younger girl’s bedroom before breakfast. She is astounded, horrified to find her sipping daintily at pennyroyal tea, chestnut curls pinned up in a bun.
“My mother says that will spoil your insides!” Syntychë says, by way of greeting.
Europe arches one brow at her, an expression of such disdain she looks twice her age. “Perhaps I wish to spoil my insides.”
“But how will you ever bear an heir like that?”
The younger girl laughs, and it gives Syntychë chills. “I will not. That is the point.” She sighs, wistful. “It does taste abysmal, though. Shall we go down to breakfast?”
2. They are sitting on Europe’s bed together when it happens, studying a history book they are sharing, The text is supplemental, and they pooled their pocket money—of which Europe has an inordinate amount, so this all feels a bit contrived—to purchase it during their last trip into the town. Syntychë is acutely aware of Europe’s hand next to her knee, which also feels contrived. She is seventeen, and somehow Europe’s fourteen does not feel a significant age difference anymore.
It certainly does not when Europe’s lips find her own during a shared glance up from the book. Nor when she finds herself unpinning that horrible bun the girl insists upon wearing, day in and day out—honestly, crows feet are not attractive, she wants to scream, but Europe is doing something so expert with her tongue Syntychë is caught in a border-world of not thinking at all and wondering how a girl three years her junior learned to kiss like this.
3. The others cannot tell that Europe is angry, furious, to be sent away. Syntychë knows. But, then, she is furious with Europe, and is glad to see her leave.
A calendar’s duty is to her clave, and that was what Syntychë had told Europe when she discovered her with a man in her rooms. Not just a man, but a leer. How Europe had managed to get him in, she still was unsure, but he had been there, and they had both been largely undressed, and the whole thing had been a terrible shame.
Well. And there had been spite in it, too. Three years of sharing a bed, with her mother perfectly aware and ignoring—peacefully ignoring something she had done, for once!—and now Europe had to go and ruin it all by having a fellow. A leer. She hadn’t even tried to make excuses or dignify herself when caught. She just raised her eyebrows at Syntychë and asked that the door be shut so her private affairs might stay private.
Syntychë watches the carriage go with Europe in it, and wonders if this is what heartbreak feels like. She does not enjoy the sensation.
4. “Mother. If you insist I must be transmogrified, at least let me choose.”
The request is reasonable. Syntychë frowns out the window, rather than at her daughter. How to explain she still can’t quite tolerate the sight of her daughter because her hair curls the way Europe’s did at that age? She lifts a hand, gesturing for Threnody to continue.
The girl breathes, and tries. “I should like to be a fulgar.”
“Because of those novels you read.” Syntychë cannot help but snap.
“No!”
“You are a liar, child. You wish to be like one of your heroines, yes? Let me guess. It is the Branden Rose.”
Threnody bursts into angry tears and storms from the room. Syntychë resolves to have her made a wit. She is too like Europe as it is, and Syntychë will never be free.
5. Defending a young man in front of an inquiry board is really the last place she expects to find Europe, so it ought not be a surprise that she is there. They exchange greetings coolly and ignore each other, stiff and pretending not to have a quarter century of shared history, half of it obscured by travel. She had heard Licurious, Europe’s horrible leer that ruined everything, had died.
It is only after Europe has finished reciting titles—has she acquired a few since Syntychë heard them last?—and claimed quo gratia to remove this young man, or manikin, or whomever (and she doubts he is any but the former, if self-righteous Europe is involved), and they are boarding a coach to leave that they share another glance.
Syntychë aches to call out to her, but instead, she watches, silent, as the coach takes Europe out of her life again. Unlike the last time, she does not believe it will be forever.
To her surprise, she finds she is pleased.
