Isabella Foster
I like a look of agony
because I know it's true
A
ll my life I have been a sheltered thing, although I rest on the precipice of it now. I am no longer just a girl, but there is some piece that doesn't feel fully grown either. I still have my studies, am not yet considered graduated, my parents still have such a tight hold on my life, and I can almost see a pattern that this may be how it is forever. I see Grandad with his daughters, how much he still makes decisions, how much he even makes decisions for my father, my father who was not born a Foster, but earned the right of taking the last name when he married my mother. For all my grandad was concerned, my father was all Foster. He was a professor here, in Terrastella, of military history. He is a bit gaunt, he likes tea a bit too milky for my taste, he did love games, chess in particular, he would always let me win, even to this day. He is fond of boats, archery (he got my my first bow, made me an arrow), books, and art museums. We’ve spent hours in a museum put on be the De Clare’s agonizing over their work, wondering what each painting was trying to convey. He was protective, strict, he had high expectations of his children, perhaps more than other Fosters, as if trying to prove just because he wasn't one, he could still raise his children to be impeccable. He infinitely loved his children, even if the furrow in his brow when he looked at a less than stellar book report, or I missed the target with my arrow, says otherwise.
I’ve spent the entire morning in class, literature. We read, we discuss, everyone shows off how smart they are. I doodle arrow designs to give to the merchant Hugo, to create. Since my very first bow and my very first quiver of arrows, I have designed them all. Granted, when I was a child, they were much more shaky, and included plenty of hearts. My latest design has been inspired by the Halcyon unit. Intricate feathers carved into the wood, a strong string, arrows with strong feathers on the ends, worthy of carrying a cadet. Hugo has made nearly all my bows and arrows, since he was old enough to do so. I would trust no one else.
“Want to get lunch together, Isabella?” One of my classmates say. She isn't a Foster, you can tell just by the way she holds herself in our library, but she so desperately wants to be one. I think this is why she is asking me to lunch, wants to get into my good graces. I’ve seen her helping Ansley, I’ve seen her flirting with Bennett. I look at her with steel grey eyes. “I’m already meeting someone,” I say, it’s a lie, but no one ever talks about how honest Fosters are. We’re scholars, not priests.
I dont expect the chill of the day, I had almost forgotten that winter was coming. The sun manages to stay warm, but I pray it grows warmer to keep the snow at bay. I have my drawings in my hand, thinking I might have time to meet with Hugo if he is available, show him the designs, develop a plan. I take a shortcut, jutting under an archway, it is not empty, but it is quieter than the main streets. It is why I am surprised that someone reaches out and touches my shoulder. My lip quirks slightly in greeting. There is something empty in my smile, I can tell by the way a breeze flows through the fissure lines. “A jeweler?” I ask looking up at her. She is, what my mother would call, ‘eccentric,’ with her piercings, those vibrant amber eyes, the red hair. She doesn't recognize me the way so much of Terrastella does, and something unclenches in my chest I never knew was being held. “Sure, there is one just down the way,” I say with a blink of storm grey eyes. She’s stunning. I wonder if she knows this. “I’ll go with you.” And I take a page from her book, this stranger, I don't ask, I tell.
picture colored by Elidhu
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