I spent the next few days holed up in my room, staying as quiet and out of the way as I possibly could, and trying to keep myself busy in an attempt to not linger on my unfortunate meeting with the Duke.
I skimmed through the other books I'd borrowed from the library, annotating them mercilessly with a charcoal pencil.
The etiquette book was clearly written for children, but it had a very useful guide on how to curtsy properly, which I practised for hours in front of my broken mirror. I also underlined some helpful sections about table manners, and put some question marks in the portion about partner dancing.
I figured I'd have to learn how to dance eventually, because in the novel the crown prince threw a royal ball for his birthday. For the time being though, I would leave that one to theory, because it required, as written: 'the gentleman to take the lady by the waist, and gently grasp her right hand with his left.'
And I didn't think Margo and I were close enough for that level of physical contact yet.
I briefly skimmed through the introductory magic book that I had swiped from Haydn's desk, but didn't get much further than: 'To understand the arcane arts, one must understand the two pillars from which all arcana is built: Intent and Control.'
It didn't really seem relevant, so I set that one down un-marked.
I was also finally able to read the little book that I'd found among my fallen clothes on my first day in the world of the novel. I retrieved it from its hiding place under my mattress, and took a better look at it.
The thick parchment pages creaked with age as I flicked through them, and I quickly realised two things: The first was that it was some kind of book about plants. There were hand drawn ink sketches of leaves and flowers painted with watercolour.
The second was that every single word was written in a language I couldn't read.
Angular letters, like some kind of runic text, and other marks, like little black 'X's next to certain plants, or check marks or circles. I couldn't understand any of it, but couldn't help smiling as I smoothed my hands over the painted sketches. Clearly someone had put a lot of care and work into making it.
It wasn't really useful for what I needed, but it was beautiful.
"Did you not enjoy the snacks, Miss? Since I don't really know what you like, I brought a little bit of everything..." Margo said offhandedly, on one particularly grey and overcast evening.
I had been trying to sew the buttons back onto my comfiest dress, but was squinting in the low lamplight, stubbornly hunched over my vanity. Learning to sew had always been one of my best investments in my previous life, but was proving challenging without modern lighting.
I briefly glanced at the plate of beautiful cookies, little fruit tarts, and delicious-looking slices of cake that lay untouched on my vanity next to the half-empty pot of herbal tea.
"Oh, thanks, I just...I don't like sweets very much," I lied in a mumble.
"I see..." Margo said quietly, collecting the plate; her reflection in the mirror gave me a sort of sad look, and I flinched as I pricked my finger on my needle. With a short sigh, I held it quickly away from the dress, so the ruby bead of blood that sprung up wouldn't stain; "...I suppose that must be why you never touch your dessert either. Would you prefer something salty? Or savoury?"
Outside, thunder rumbled gently somewhere far away. The patter of rain began to drum against the glass of my bedroom window
"No, thanks," I huffed, wiping my hand off on a handkerchief and unpicking my last couple of distracted stitches, "I'm - I'm not hungry, so don't worry."
"Are you sure, Miss?"
A sudden chill washed over me, a hyper-awareness that made me uncomfortable even just to be sitting in my own skin. Margo's gaze felt harsher than it had a moment earlier. I didn't want to think she would judge me for my appearance, but I couldn't fight off the pinpricks of self-conciousness running down my spine.
I don't remember ever being embarrassed of how I looked as a kid.
My insecurities grew slowly, from the outside, like a strangling weed. Others around me made it clear that my body was...
"Augh -!" I jerked my hand away from the sting of the needle for a second time, throwing my sewing down in a heap and standing up so quickly that my seat toppled over behind me.
I heard Margo's tray clatter in surprise behind me; her reflection still had that pitying frown.
"What?" I snapped too harshly.
"...It's just...sometimes I get frustrated easily, when I haven't eaten enough..." she whispered.
The fist resting against my vanity's tabletop clenched tightly. A flash of lightning lit the both of us in harsh silhouette, then faded with a noncommittal grumble of thunder.
Back in the real world, I had been sick for so long that I never had much of an appetite. Comparatively, Evra's body was always hungry. Maybe Dwarves just needed more calories than humans.
But I couldn't tell Margo that. I was too ashamed to ask for larger portions.
"It's fine...I'm fine. I just stuck myself with the needle. That's all..."
"I see..." Margo finally averted her eyes, "...I'll bring some ointment."
The door closed behind her with a quiet click.
I stared down at my open hand, dark and stained where I had squeezed too hard.
Why did it matter? Why did they care what I looked like? I could still walk, I could still run and climb and swim. I could sing and dance, read and write. I was still a person. I could do everything that everyone else could.
Moving stiffly, I set my vanity stool back on its feet, dropped into it, and lay my head on my arms. The steady whisper of rainfall over the hills in the distance cooled the room and my temper.
Somewhere along the way, the world had become more tolerant. People became kinder and preached self-love.
The modern world had shifted around me, like the seasons change around the base of a mountain. But, stuck at the frozen peak, I could only watch from a cold distance. By then, the damage had already been done.
I squeezed my eyes shut, and tried to focus on the rain.
Maybe things would be better in the morning.
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