TO&FQ: Book 2 - Chapter 42 (RAW)

Chapter 42 - Writing If I haven’t any talent for writing books or newspaper articles, well, then I can always write for myself. - Anne Frank

Chapter 42 - Writing

If I haven’t any talent for writing books or newspaper articles, well, then I can always write for myself.

- Anne Frank.

It did not take overly long to locate Rashana at one of her secondary residences nestled in the quieter quarter near the Academy grounds. The townhouse, like much of the surrounding district, bore the mark of old Meridian elegance—three stories of stone with wrought-iron balconies that curled like ivy, their railings adorned with copper and brass. It stood at the edge of a canal so pristine that it reflected the sky like polished glass.

Seraphina paused just before reaching the stone arch of the entryway, taking a moment to gather herself. The late afternoon light cast long shadows over the water’s surface, and she found her gaze drawn to the serenelle as it glided by. Its hull, lacquered ebon and trimmed with mother-of-pearl, glistened. A boatsman in sleek uniform poled the vessel forward with practiced grace, while a couple reclined in the boat’s cushioned heart, their heads tilted toward one another in intimate conversation.

Seraphina’s full lips pressed into a fine line. There was something so maddeningly effortless in their comfort, their closeness—the way the woman leaned against the man’s shoulder, the quiet laughter that rose and rippled across the water like birdsong. For a brief and unwelcome moment, envy twisted in her chest. 

With a small shake of her head, she approached the front steps of the townhouse. The residence was discreetly opulent. Polished brass knockers in the shape of lion heads flanked a double door of dark, heavy wood. Intricately carved columns supported a small awning where trailing ferns swayed in the breeze. Dark grey stone steps led up to the entrance, and to either side, ornamental urns overflowed with white lilies and deep red dahlias—elegant, dramatic, and very much in Rashana’s taste.

The young girl adjusted her gloves, pressed a hand to her neatly styled hair, and lifted the hem of her dress ever so slightly to avoid brushing the stones. She had come to make a proposal, perhaps even a plea, and though she would never say such a thing aloud.

She raised her hand and softly knocked twice.

The door creaked open on silent hinges, revealing not Rashana but a woman of short and solid stature, framed in the warm glow of the entry hall. The servant’s face was broad and pale, her hair pinned in a haphazard coil beneath a once-white lace cap. Her apron strained slightly over her belly, and her small, deep-set eyes regarded Seraphina with polite suspicion, the sort reserved for unexpected nobility showing up unannounced.

“Yes?” the woman asked, voice gravelly and practical.

Seraphina resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose. The woman smelled faintly of onions.

“I would like to speak with your mistress. Kindly inform Rashana de Lehman that Lady Seraphina de Sariens has come to call.”

The servant blinked slowly at the name, her expression shifting as recognition—and a flicker of unease—settled in. She bobbed a stiff curtsy.

“Very good, my lady. Please do step inside.”

The threshold gave way to a tiled entrance hall, warm and thick with incense and candlelight. The air was heavy with perfume and faintly sweet—sandalwood and amber, with a cloying undercurrent of orange blossom. 

The maid scuttled off with surprising speed for her size, her steps muffled by thick embroidered rugs. Seraphina stood near the carved doorway to the sitting room, letting her eyes roam over the exotic appointments. The townhouse, though modest by aristocratic standards of Aranthia, bore Rashana’s unmistakable signature: an elegant, intoxicating chaos of velvet throws, lacquered boxes, and delicate glass curios from half a dozen foreign ports.

From somewhere deeper in the house, she heard a faint call—Rashana’s voice, unmistakably amused. The servant must have delivered the message, and Seraphina could almost imagine her reaction: a lift of an eyebrow, and a delighted smirk or smile.

A minute or so later, soft footsteps echoed on the polished wood of the upper landing, followed by the rustle of silk and the faint chime of jewelry in motion. Seraphina looked up just as the mistress of the house appeared at the top of the staircase.

“Oh, how wonderful! It really is you!” Rashana beamed at her, making her way down. “I did not think you would find me here! This is one of my little secrets. And, it isn’t every day that little Sera graces one of my humble abodes.”

The diminutive form of her name pricked Seraphina’s pride, yet Rashana, older by a handful of months and years of association, was permitted the liberty by the dictates of Aranthian society. Thus, Seraphina let the annoyance dissolve into a serene smile.

The de Lehman girl clasped both of Seraphina’s hands in her own. “Please, make yourself utterly, utterly at home. Only the best for my best of friends!” Rashana’s voice was warm as spiced tea, and her dark eyes danced while she reclined against a pile of silk-fringed cushions. Come in, come into the sitting room.” A trill of laughter escaped her painted lips, the gold bangles at her wrists chiming a bright obbligato.

Following Rashana, Seraphina glided across the richly carpeted floor. Sunlight filtered through the large windows of the sitting room, mottling a cream-colored sofa upon which her host guided her to.

Then, at Rashana’s discreet nod, the butler, a handsome young man with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, clapped twice. Two maids appeared, bearing a lacquered tray laden with freshly cooked rose-petal cakes, honeyed fruit dusted in sugar, and tiny tarts capped with sweet violets. The aroma alone was sinful.

“You came at a marvelous time! I was just about to have tea and could have done with some company. Oh, and I have heard from a certain friend of ours that there have been quite a few goings-on in our little circle,” Rashana said, pouring amber liquid into porcelain cups for them. “I would very much like to hear your side of things.”

“Michelié?”

Rashana grinned broadly. “Just so.”

“I should have known,” Seraphina sighed wearily, accepting the delicate cup from her friend.

“Don’t hold it against her. We both know de Montan likes talking about anything and everything whenever the fancy takes her. You might as well blame the rain for being wet,” Rashana giggled, setting down the teapot. “But that, Sera, is part of her charm; she holds secrets about as well as a vase with a few holes in it. ”

“You know I am not one for gossip, Senior Rashana,” Seraphina replied smoothly, playing with one of her ruby earrings. “But if you must know, Gravens has caused quite a bit of trouble.”

The older girl’s eyes flashed briefly with pleasure at being called “Senior” before she collected herself.

Rashana, maintaining her perfect posture, sipped delicately from her cup. “So,” she said, arching a brow, “that does sound rather deliciously romantic. Your Sir Gravens, Eloise, and Desdemona? There were daggers drawn, or so I am told. The two girls in question are in the same class, after all. However did this all start?”

The young noblewoman raced to find a plausible excuse. “Well, we had a study group in the library.”

“You, Sera, helping others study? That doesn’t sound very much like you at all.”

“Teaching others helps one retain facts and concepts more easily,” the blonde girl responded smoothly. “Perhaps you should try it?”

“Is that your indirect way of getting me to give you tips for your upcoming tests, Sera? You have truly grown devilishly cunning,” Rashana teased gently. “But enough talk of studies. What happened?”

“I would assume it happened as much as our mutual friend described it.”

“That dramatic?”

“Very much so,” Seraphina replied, averting her gaze slightly.

“I see. I didn’t think the prudish Desdemona had it in her. You do remember how she always used to complain about the cut of my dress. And now kissing boys in the library in front of everyone—hah! What an amazing display of courtly love.”

Rashana leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you think they have done more than kissing?”

“Rashana!” Seraphina chided.

“Well, I had to ask. And how are things now? Do tell!”

“A fragile truce,” Seraphina replied, raising her cup again. “Desdemona now practices discretion with her ‘urges,’ and Eloise has discovered the strategic value of patience. Though truth be told, she is cooling off on him. The funny thing is, Sir Gravens, being a man, thinks everything was amicably resolved due to his way with words.” She sipped, savoring the subtle notes of the tea.

“Boys do rather have an inflated opinion of themselves.” Rashana set down her cup gracefully. “Oh, since we are exchanging tidbits of information, I hear His Majesty means to donate quite a number of exotic beasts to the Academy.”

How predictable, Rashana, that you would bring this up, Seraphina thought. You think to goad me to get more information. Thankfully, Rashana had played into her hands, giving Seraphina an opening to confirm something.

“I heard a company of Adventurers, the Gryphon’s Claws, were to be credited with the feat,” Seraphina offered coolly. The Gryphon’s Claws, introduced to her by the innkeeper Velens the Lesser, were in fact the very group she had employed herself to track down and capture a Unicorn.

“No, Sera,” the older girl corrected gently. “Tamed by Este Lize herself, if gossip and my sources are to be believed, and with your fiancé’s assistance, no less.”

For some reason, Seraphina could not help but blurt out her next words.

“As if Velens could help anyone tame anything, let alone a monster or dangerous beast,” Seraphina delicately snorted. “If that were the case, I would give you Sir Gravens to do with as you wish or eat my left shoe.” The blonde girl’s smile sharpened. “Still, I do believe the spectacle will drum up prestige for the crown. But, I would have you know, the de Sariens will also be endowing the Academy with something. Something perhaps even better than the King’s own effort.”

A delighted spark lit Rashana’s eyes. “Ah, so Sera comes to me plotting some sort of mischief.”

“Not mischief. Symmetry.” Seraphina placed her cup on its saucer with near-surgical precision. “If my fiancé can pull off such a thing, then surely I can, too. I may just introduce you darlings to something equally special.”

Rashana winked at her. “You really must tell me everything! It’s your little white snake, is it?”

“No, Rashana—though I daresay she would easily be the equal of anything the King could find.” Seraphina’s laugh, soft and dangerous, floated beneath the salon’s pastel-painted ceiling. 

“I am the best!” her pet Hydra stated from beneath her clothes, stirring from its torpor.

The de Sariens girl remembered exactly who she was speaking to. “It will just have to be a surprise, Rashana dear. Timing is everything. But enough of that—there is another matter I wish to discuss with you…”

“Oh, please do go on, Lady de Sariens,” the dusky girl purred, her eyes dancing mischievously.

“I want you, Rashana de Lehman,” Seraphina declared formally, her voice confident and clear.

“Oh my! I do believe my heart skipped a beat just now. But, unless I'm mistaken, you are hardly the son of your House. And, Seraphina dear, I confess I don’t quite…”

“Not in that sense, you silly thing,” Seraphina cut in gently. “I want you for your extraordinary gift with words.”

“Well, if you wanted help composing a love letter or two, you needed only to ask,” the half-Al-Lazarian girl responded, a playful smile curving her lips.

“No, Rashana, I’ll need you to write articles.”

“Articles?” Rashana blinked in bemusement. “I'm afraid I don’t quite follow. Are you perhaps thinking of writing a book?”

“No, dear. I shall be creating a ‘newspaper,’” Seraphina announced proudly.

“A newspaper?” Rashana tilted her head in mild confusion. “Is that some Quassian invention?”

“A newspaper…” Seraphina explained with a spark in her eyes, leaning forward slightly as if imparting a precious secret, “....is a publication—a periodical, if you will—that will provide news, insights, and opinions about recent happenings, society events, politics, and culture. Imagine, Rashana, a written voice that can whisper into hundreds, perhaps thousands, of ears at once. A voice that can influence the powerful and enlighten the masses.”

Rashana sat straighter, her amusement fading into genuine fascination. “And you wish for me to...”

“I want you to be one of my first and finest writers and editors. With your wit, your keen eye for society's nuances, and your unparalleled elegance with language, you could shape the thoughts of our kingdom. I promise to give you a voice, Rashana, one that will resonate far beyond drawing rooms and ballrooms. A voice that will be read, respected, even feared, by many across the land.”

The dark-haired girl’s playful expression gave way to thoughtful consideration. She tapped one slender finger against her lips, pretending a coy indecision. “That is quite the intriguing offer, Seraphina. Truly, I must think about it. A decision such as this should never be rushed.”

“Of course,” Seraphina replied smoothly, giving her friend a knowing smile. “I would never dream of rushing you, Senior Rashana. Take all the time you need, of course. But first, we really must finish this most delightful tea.”

Rashana inclined her head, watching Seraphina’s elegant departure from beneath lowered lashes, her gaze thoughtful and glittering with barely contained excitement. Seraphina de Sariens, heir to the Sariens Duchy, knew full well as she nibbled on a delicious piece of cake that the matter had already been settled.

***

Seated on a bench beneath a trellis laden with late-blooming roses, Seraphina folded her gloved hands in her lap and allowed the hush of the Academy gardens to fill her ears. Each petal, painted crimson or blushing ivory, trembled in the brisk breath of autumn, and their faint perfume stirred the memories of summer. Alone with her thoughts, she turned a troublesome matter over and over, as though polishing a flawed gemstone in the hope it might yet sparkle.

Not every seed she pressed into the soil of strategy would flourish and grow as she had planned. Some, she mused, were destined to wither beneath an unkind sun, while others never sprouted at all. She prayed her invitation to Rashana would not prove to be one of those barren plantings. 

The prospect of creating a newspaper, of shaping public discourse with deft strokes of the quill and the ingenuity of a press, absolutely thrilled her; yet a whisper of doubt crept in on the chill air, asking whether her vivacious friend would commit fully or abandon the venture the moment a new diversion appeared.

Before she could chase that worry to its logical end, another concern rose from the dark corners of her mind. 

Haze Finleigh, her once-promising Bard, had embraced Meridian’s pleasures with reckless almost enthusiasm. The stipend intended to polish talent into brilliance now funded nightly revels, garish costumes, and an endless string of forgettable admirers. Seraphina pictured Haze lingering in velvet-draped lounges, Chordrelle forgotten while goblets of fine wine emptied at alarming speed. 

Could such a failed investment yet be turned around? Seraphina wondered, resting her chin on a dainty hand. Or must I cut my losses, perhaps, literally so? Yet, the idea of severing their ties left a bitter taste in her mouth, for she remembered the Bard’s first performance, the delicate fingers that coaxed melody from trembling strings. That spark deserved a grander stage alongside her.

“Milly,” she called sharply, expecting her maid’s prompt reply, but only silence answered. 

Of course, Miriam was spending the holiday buried beneath remedial lessons. An unexpected weight pressed on Seraphina’s chest, a familiar yet unwelcome pang. Loneliness—she recognized it at once, though she had worn ambition as armor against such frailty since the day she arrived in this world. The sensation settled like frost over her composure, making the garden’s vibrant hues suddenly appear a shade paler.

She drew a slow breath. Plans could be salvaged, investments redirected, and the initiative reclaimed. She vowed that the garden of her schemes would flourish. The young girl would, of course, like always, see to it personally.

It was time to have a long talk with Haze.