Isabella Foster
I like a look of agony
because I know it's true
W
hen I was little my eldest brother snuck me a book of fairytales. Lawrence was always incredibly soft on Ansley and I. We don't typically read such things. My father said that it would get it in our heads that the things in those stories actually happen, that we would confuse fact and fiction. I think part of it was to inspire us to then further our learning and research, but I started to wonder if Fosters were so good at teaching facts, then why would there ever be any fear that we would confuse it. We kept the book in Ansley’s room (there had been much discussion about this, but ultimately she was the oldest and would be willing to make the sacrifice for her ‘baby’ sister.) So I would then sneak into her room at night and we would read. Our eyes arching over each of those beautifully written words, gazing over the illustrations, how long had it been since we had a book with such colorful artwork? (Excluding Terrastellan Art History.) Eventually I knew why my father told us we couldn't read these stories, not because we would not understand, but because as I walked down Terrastella’s streets, moved between rows in the library, and went to my archery lessons, I started looking for fairytales. A lingering glance, my bow being returned to me, the cook’s son insisting on bringing me my meals.
I would never confuse fiction for fact.
But that doesn't stop me from looking for any traces of fiction coming to life.
I do not have guards like she does, maybe that is one of the blessings of living in Terrastella. Most of our dangers reside in the oceans, but on the streets, I have rarely felt unsafe. Besides, no one would harm a Foster—there is a very good chance that one of my grandparents employs them. “Well, you made it here in one piece, so I suppose their work is adept.” I try to hold a polite smile even if I cant stand the way it stretches over my teeth.
She is staring at me, like she wants something and I so desperately want to give it to her, whatever it is. I bite the inside of my lips with my teeth. I pull out my drawings trying to close the space that the silence has left, so gaping, wide. But then she looks at me, before looking to my drawings, eyes cast down, glancing over the pages.
I never knew it were possible to be jealous of parchment.
Look at me.
Please.
Look at me again.
“I am,” I say and I try to sound humble. “Have you ever tried?” I ask her, suddenly imagining me standing beside her, showing her how the string is drawn back, where to aim, right by her shoulder, close, too close to ever be considered polite in any other situation aside from teaching. Too close. I blink grey eyes to clear the thoughts. I cast my gaze away, up towards the sun and I am momentarily blinded by it. Inside I chide myself (and to my displeasure sound so much like my mother) for acting foolish in front of the girl.
The warmth flushes around my cheeks and I am grateful that I can pretend it is from the shop’s heat and not anything else (not a crimson solterran girl.)
Biz.
It is so rare that I receive a nickname, so often just introduced by my formal name that the I am taken aback for a moment, that Foster mask drops as genuine surprise takes over like sunshine finally pushing through the clouds and onto the field. “Me?” I ask her, as if such responsibility seems far fetched. Immediately my steel gaze roams over the jewelry. I am pleased with the task, it gives me an opportunity to keep looking back at her, pretending that I am assessing the information just so, as if I am not painstaking tracing the curve of her chin, or admiring the amber of her eyes.
And then I spot it. It hang on a delicate chain of fine gold. I take it and hold it before placing it across her brow and allow the gemstone to sit across her brow. A large sapphire adorned with smaller diamonds. I hover just a moment, I can feel my warm breath press into her skin before it pushes back towards me, I can almost taste the sand on her skin.
“Sapphire to remember the blue of Terrastella’s oceans.” I say. Have you made your pick, Ms. Foster? The shopkeeper asks. My family frequented here quite often. “Yes,” I respond. “Pass the bill along to my grandfather, will you? Atticus Foster will greatly appreciate you taking care of us today,” I say to him with that strained politeness. I can see the shopkeeper smile back wearily.
“If you wish to pick out something else, please do so, but this, this will be a gift from me to you.” I say. “Take it home with you,” and it sounds something like a command. I feel too bold in that moment, everything in my body recoils and I say even though I shouldn't have to, shouldn't need to. “Please?”
picture colored by Elidhu
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