i’ve been so busy lately but i really wanted to contribtue to the @hwsyuriweek2020! ukraine and hungary are reading through some official correspondence or something...
It’s mail day at Beaumont, and as usual, Linnea awaits a letter from her beloved.
[Written for @hwsyuriweek2020 day one, with the prompt of “letters”.]
“Gretel Beilschmidt.”
A few tables away, Linnea’s loudmouthed classmate stood up and ran for the teacher, grabbing the thin envelope she held out and returning to her table just as swiftly.
“Ludwig Beilschmidt.”
Her second-year brother rose from another table and took his letter far more quietly, much to the delight of her eardrums. Seated next to her, Tino commented, “remember when we all feared for our lives when Ludwig showed up last year?”
“Thank goodness he’s nothing like his sister.” Linnea buttered herself another piece of toast and nibbled on it, careful not to drop any crumbs on her skirt. “Can you imagine a mini Gretel Beilschmidt?”
“Heavens help us all.” He waved back at Antonio, who flicked his head as he passed. “Ludwig’s going to be a Prefect next year, I’m sure of it. You know, he visits Marlene every week in the Prefects’ Room, sometimes with the younger Vargas in tow, and they just like hanging around and chatting.”
Linnea brushed her hands free of crumbs. “He’s not bad, that’s for sure. I caught him helping Harald with his table etiquette homework the other day.”
“Evelina Galante.”
She’d be called out to receive her mail soon. Linnea pushed out her chair, ready to stand up.
“Linnea Grieg.”
She stood up, kicked her chair away, and approached the teacher, receiving her letter with a grateful nod. The address was written in maroon ink, Maren’s favourite, and she noticed that her girlfriend had dotted all the i-s with flowers — surprisingly detailed roses, to be exact. She smiled.
While the rest of her classmates went to take their letters, Linnea wiped her butter-knife clean and used it to ease the envelope open, pulling out the sheets of paper inside. Maren had taken her time drawing the borders of the paper, surrounding her writing with beautiful maroon blossoms. The letter read:
“My dearest Linnea,
“How have you been? It feels like an eternity since I last saw you, though it’s barely been two months. I still have that photograph I cut out from your yearbook last semester; I carry it around every day in my purse. Berwald rolls his eyes every time he sees me take it out, like he hasn’t done the same with Tino’s photograph. Speaking of Tino, tell him I say hello! I hope being a Prefect isn’t too stressful.
“School is Hell, as you may expect. Not the assessments and homework, because that’s all normal, but because you’re not there with me. Imagine if we went together! We could share a dorm, but anyone who walked in might find themself interrupting something. By the way, I wrote a love poem in Literature class the other day and the teacher adored it, she probably thought I was writing it for some fellow in my class. And this might seem a tad surprising, but I wrote it for you. It’s on the third page, if the pages didn’t get mixed up. I hope you like it.
“How is Harald doing? I know he wanted to come to Herlofsholm with me so badly, it’s such a pity he couldn’t. I sent him some of my old test papers in case he wanted to give them a try. I hope he’s made a friend or two, you know how shy he can be.
“But enough about everyone else. I miss you so much, even your photo isn’t enough to quench my longing. Why must I settle for a grainy black-and-white image of you that doesn't even show the exact blue of your eyes and the winter’s sun-gold of your hair? I want to see you in person, cup your cheek and kiss your lips and do other things I’m not sure I can write here, and I can’t believe I have to wait until Christmas to do that.
“I’m sure your classes are going well. You’re brilliant, my love, you can master any skill they teach at Beaumont. I imagine you’re at breakfast now, maybe sipping on coffee with no cream or sugar, just the way you like it, and holding this piece of paper as gently as you hold me. You must look as beautiful as ever. I wish I could see you in person.
“Paper is running low, and I need some to write an essay. I wish I could talk more, in fact I want to write an entire novel about how much I missed you and mail it to you, but I can’t. These biweekly letters will have to do.
“Until next time, I guess. But remember that until then, as I have been before and as I will always be, I am undoubtedly
“Your Maren.
“P.S. I sealed this letter with a kiss. Can you feel it?”
Linnea ran her fingers over her lips, smiling softly as she imagined Maren’s phantom kiss. She folded the letter up tenderly, sliding it back into the envelope. Sweet, silly sentimental Maren, who talked about hundreds of things at once in a single letter, who carried her photo around everywhere and sealed her letters with kisses instead of wax like they did a few decades ago. She patted her blazer pocket, where her own photo of Maren rested.
“Sappy letter?”
Tino had returned with his mail. Linnea placed her envelope on her lap and turned to face her friend, replying, “sweet as sugar.” She sighed. “I love her so much.”
“Guess what Berwald sent me.”
“Something I assume can’t be read here.”
“Right on.” Tino waved his envelope with a grin. “Probably the reply to the letter I sent last Wednesday. Kirkland caught me writing it in the library and the poor guy nearly fainted. In hindsight, I probably should have been in my dorm.”
While he spoke, Linnea glanced down at her letter again. She traced the stiff outline of the envelope, ran her fingers along Maren’s careful handwriting. How she missed her.
If there was one thing Lotte disliked above all else, it was parties. The constant music and chatter, and the hustle and bustle of the people parading about on and off the dance floor overwhelmed her. She would have much preferred to sit at home with her younger brother, but her parents had insisted that she come along. To help the family’s reputation after moving to England from Norway so recently, her mother had said, by showing what a lovely and sociable daughter they had. Perhaps she might even find a nice man to marry.
Lotte crinkled her nose at the thought, and at the stench of the champagne she swirled around in her glass. The bubbles tickled her face as she stared into it rather than watching the other people in the room. She had no interest in them, if she had it her way she would stay at the table in the corner by herself the whole night and not converse with anyone.
“Hello there.” A voice came from over her shoulder, haughty and regal in nature, though there was nothing unkind about the tone.
Lotte started at the sudden noise, almost upsetting her drink as she fumbled to set it down on the table.
“Oh dear, I didn’t mean to startle you. I do apologise.” The speaker glided around the table to stand in front of Lotte. She bowed her head in apology, her long blond hair falling over her face. It fell back as she straightened up to show a gracious smile and kind blue eyes the same azure shade as her dress.
“It’s perfectly alright,” Lotte amended quietly, twirling a lock of her own pale hair around her finger. She glanced away from the other woman, inwardly cursing her own shyness.
The woman pulled out a chair next to Lotte and primly sat down. “I just wanted to check you were alright. It is not often that I see someone seated alone at one of father’s parties.”
Lotte waved a dismissive hand. “There’s nothing wrong. I just prefer to be away from crowds, is all.”
“Ah, I see,” she inclined her head towards the dance floor where Lotte’s friend Magnus was causing a ruckus with two other noblemen’s sons who she knew as Gilbert and Alfred. “I do not blame you.”
The corner of Lotte’s mouth quirked into a small smile, then her brow furrowed. “Sorry, you said this was your father’s party?”
“Yes. Rose Kirkland, at your service.” Rose slid a hand through her blond locks, tossing them over her shoulder.
“Lotte Myhre.” She nodded as she introduced herself, keeping her hands clasped on her lap to avoid a handshake if possible.
Rose seemed to sense her wish, and lowered her own hand to her side, though her expression remained amiable. “Oh, Myhre. You moved to England recently, if I am correct? How are you finding it?”
Lotte shrugged, beginning to play with her hair again. “It’s nice, the countryside is lovely. Though the cities are busier than I was expecting.”
Rose considered this. “I suppose it is rather busy here, though I have grown up with it so I barely notice it now. And I’m afraid London is the worst place for that.” She glanced at something over Lotte’s shoulder, her eyes widening. “Alfred, don’t-” She began to stand, pausing to look back at Lotte. “Excuse me, I must go and deal with this. It has been splendid to make your acquaintance.” She smiled pleasantly before marching towards the refreshments table with a thunderous expression.
----------
Several days passed after the party, in which Lotte would occasionally smile as she recalled her brief interaction with Rose. She had seemed very nice, outwardly what others would describe as the perfect English lady, but she had a sharp wit and sarcastic humour. She could perhaps be a good friend if they ever met again, but Lotte wasn’t expecting that to happen any time soon. She certainly wasn’t expecting Rose to try and contact her.
“A letter for you, miss.” The maid held an envelope to Lotte as she reached the bottom of the stairs one morning at breakfast time.
Still in her silk nightgown, Lotte yawned, blearily taking hold of it. The paper was good quality, enough to indicate that it must be from another noble family, though there was no seal on the back. After she fetched her breakfast, she almost forgot about the letter, and it lay on her desk for a good part of the morning. After all, she wasn’t expecting anything important. It was only when she sat down to do a little writing before lunch that her eyes landed upon it again.
“Just who are you from?” She enquired softly as she opened the envelope. The scent of roses wafted from the paper when she removed it, and grew stronger when it was unfolded.
Dear Lotte Myhre,
It was wonderful to meet you at my father’s party last week. I would be delighted if we could stay in touch.
Regards,
Rose Kirkland
Lotte’s lips parted in surprise as she read through the words. Concise though it was, this was a bold declaration of friendship, perhaps one that was secret from Rose’s parents given the absence of a seal on the back.
She picked up a quill and dipped it in the pot of ink which rested beside a stack of paper on her tidy desk. The quill hovered above the page as she considered how she should begin her reply, for so long that a spot of ink dripped onto the paper. Cursing as she would never do in company, Lotte screwed up the paper and picked up a fresh sheet. Since Rose had used dear, it would be proper for Lotte to do so as well.
Dear Rose Kirkland,
She paused again. It was rare that Lotte wrote to anyone other than Magnus, her childhood friend with whom she could be as informal as she pleased. She had no idea how to word such a letter. Rose’s had been short, so perhaps she wouldn’t mind a reply of a similar length.
It was lovely to meet you. I too would like to converse further.
Yours,
Lotte Myhre
She deliberated over whether or not to add a seal, since Rose had not done. In the end, she opted to go without. The prospect of receiving an unmarked letter, yet knowing exactly who it was from and opening it in secret almost added a romantic air to the situation.
The reply arrived several days later, in an identical envelope.
Dear Lotte,
Many thanks for your response. I am pleased to be able to discuss matters with another lady. I hope it is not too presumptuous for me to state that we could become good friends yet.
Yours,
Rose
From then on, her letters appeared in much the same fashion. Sprayed with the same rose-scented perfume, always starting with dear Lotte, and ending with yours, Rose. They wrote at least once per week, occasionally more often, and over time the letters grew longer, involving more personal details as the two women became closer.
On a September day, the post was delayed by a rainstorm, and Lotte sat in her room to open the most recent letter by candlelight in the evening.
Dear Lotte,
My apologies for my delay in replying. Life has been busy in my household as of late; while Fiona’s wedding is next month, my parents are encouraging me to follow in her footsteps. Needless to say, it is proving difficult to find a suitor, they all seem to think I am too bold and several have privately said that I am impertinent. Life would be so much simpler if the world was filled with only women. While the company of men can be enjoyable, the ones I have courted are severely lacking in romantic aspects in several areas. Though they are prioritised in education, they do not understand the power of the written word as we do. I would be hard pressed to find one who writes as eloquently as you, my dear.
A small smirk graced Lotte’s face as she read the paragraph, replaced by a blush at the last sentence. After reading the letter, she clasped it to her chest as a sigh escaped her lips. Reading Rose’s tender words brought a warmth to her heart that she could neither describe nor understand. She was sure no man could ever make her feel this way. A soft smile on her face, she began to write a reply.
Dear Rose,
There is no need to apologise, my parents have much the same attitude. A girl with your beauty and intellect should have no trouble finding a suitor, and perhaps it is a testament their suitability rather than your own that they would turn you down. Were I a man, I would be able to think of no greater partner.
They continued to exchange similar letters for several months, until one day in December. Lotte opened the letter as she would any other, sliding the knife under the flap and carefully removing the paper. But this time her eyes settled on the first two words.
Dearest Lotte,
She stared at the page, suddenly short of breath. It was such a simple change of tone, yet it struck something in Lotte’s heart. Rose wasn’t one to put such sentiment into a letter. She was formal and straightforward, but a wordsmith nonetheless, and seemed to know the exact implications of each phrase she used. She wondered if Rose could possibly be proclaiming that she, Lotte, was the person dearest to her heart…
After minutes of careful consideration, she picked up a quill and began to scribe a reply.
My dearest Rose…
----------
Lotte felt as if she was holding her breath for a week until a reply was finally delivered to her house. She opened it with slightly trembling fingers, and sighed when she read the first phrase.
My darling Lotte,
Lotte could barely focus as she read over the paragraphs updating her on the events of Rose’s life. When she reached the last one, her heart almost stopped. She sat down on her bed, a hand clasped against her heart.
My dear friend, I am glad that we have become so close. Though we have lived not far from each other for several months, I regret that we did not speak until the party. I often noticed you at church, and occasionally you would take a hiking route which just so happened to pass my window. I should inform you that our friendship is the dearest thing in my life, and I pray that our hearts may remain entwined as they are for the rest of our lives.
A mythology lesson on bunny-eared deities and kingdoms that are only inhabited by women.
[Written for @hwsyuriweek2020 day two, with the prompt of “mythology”.]
It’s one of those rare weekends where neither of them have anything to do. Natalya has her head in Ling’s lap, silvery-blonde hair fanned out over her girlfriend’s dark leggings. She stares up at the painting on their ceiling, trying to commit every piece of it to memory. Ling’s dark hair brushes her forehead as she dips her head down to plant a kiss on Natalya’s lips. For a moment, the ceiling is obscured by her smiling face.
“What are you thinking of?” Natalya asks. That’s the easiest way to start a conversation between them.
“About a myth Yao told me about when I was little.” Ling pokes her nose, saying, “he told me that in a faraway island somewhere in southern China, there was an island where only women lived, and no men were allowed inside. So naturally, the only relationships were between the girls who lived there.”
Natalya snorts. “That just sounds like my school.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was surrounded by long-legged girls wearing skin-tight leotards every day for nine years.” She rolls over to kiss Ling’s belly. “You can’t blame me for coming out of that a raging lesbian.”
Ling giggles, high and sweet. It’s a beautiful sound, and Natalya jolts up to smother it with her lips. “It sounds like a nice island,” she says.
“I thought so, too.” It’s Ling’s turn to flop down onto her lap. “I wanted to go there so that my brothers couldn’t annoy me, but then I came to the conclusion that they wouldn’t be able to manage without their brilliant baby sister, and that was the end of it.”
She runs her fingers through Ling’s puffy brown hair. “Who needs an island full of beautiful women when I’ve got you?”
That sentence makes her flush, and she covers her face. “Yao also told me about the Tù Ér Shén,” she says, voice slightly muffled. “That translates to the ‘bunny-eared deity’. He apparently manages the love between gay men, and there’s a temple honouring him back in Taiwan.”
“And nothing for us lesbians, of course.”
“You could take on the job, you know.” Ling peeks out from behind her fingers, beautiful brown eyes sparkling. “Be the patron goddess of lesbians everywhere. You definitely look pretty enough for it.”
Natalya’s cheeks heat up, and she protests, “then I wouldn’t be able to grow old with you, so what would be the point?”
Ling uncovers her face and reveals a wide, happy smile. “You can be really sweet sometimes, you know that?”
With a smile of her own, Natalya swoops down to kiss her. “Only for you, my darling. Only for you.”
Waking up to the smell of coffee brewing an unusual thing, despite her buying it more than a year ago. At the time it was an impulse buy, she never liked the taste no matter how many ways and places she tried it from. But now it’s being put to use by the one who stirs by Marie-Claire’s side to plant a kiss on her forehead and softly whisper in Marie-Claire's mother tongue.
“Good morning, Eclair.”
“Hm... your accent is finally getting better.” Marie-Claire can’t help a smile, small and tired, but still noticeable when this close, “You knew I was awake?”
“Well of course I did,” Edelle says as she brushes the hair away from Marie-Claire’s eyes. “You always wake up when the birds get loud, and you always make this weird huffing sound when you smell coffee. Here, it’s like this!”
She proceeds to try to demonstrate what it sounds like, restarting every time she messes up until Marie-Claire places a finger on her lips, except that ‘until’ doesn’t serve any purpose in that sentence because it truly doesn’t stop Edelle from stopping or giving that finger a peck.
“Aw, come on, sugar! I almost had it.”
“I know what it sounds like, hon, I know what I sound like.”
“Yeah well maybe you do,” Edelle takes Marie-Claire’s hand in hers as she retracts it from Edelle’s mouth, “But I wanna try to do it anyway.”
Marie-Claire just decides to fix the orientation of her garments until Edelle rejoices and pulls Marie-Claire into her hold.
“I did it!" She doesn't give time for an answer before nodding to herself and running a hand down Marie-Claire's hair.
She knew there was more to what Edelle was saying but she wasn't focusing on her words, only looking back up to her when she's certain Edelle is finished talking.
"Yes, you did. Now," she pauses for a second to brush the bangs up and out of Edelle's face, "Why are you awake?"
“Hm, is it bad to want to be awake to watch you wake up?”
“You're just usually not up this early."
"That's what I let you believe, sugar." Edelle laughs and gives her nose a peck, "Sometimes I like to listen to what you have to say before you think I’m awake."
Edelle watches Marie-Claire grow flustered, though places a finger over her lips before Marie-Claire finds a proper sentence. “Oh hush, I love listening to you, don’t stop.”
“It’s rude of you to feign sleep!”
“Well you seem to do it plenty enough.”
“I have never claimed to be a saint, have I?”
Edelle just laughs again and pulls her closer so her face rests against Marie-Claire’s bosom, enjoying the feeling of running her hands through her hair and Marie-Claire starting to return the favor.
“No, you’re right, you never have, but to be fair I’ve never either.”
The only response is an acknowledging hum and a peck pressed to Edelle’s forehead.
They stay like that for a while, a few more whispers exchanged with each other but those die quickly into a comfortable silence. When Edelle returns from eventually getting her coffee, she finds Marie-Claire back asleep…
...with the love note Edelle was awake working on held loosely in her hand.
