Elodie's Lament

Chapter One

It's a bright, humid day. Sunlight flickers through the windows of the car, and Elodie stares down at her hands. They look so pale against her blue Wife's cloak, she can see veins just beneath her flesh. Like a tree's twisting branches trapped under her skin, she wonders idly what it would feel like for a tree to burst from under her skin. Twigs and leaves twisting up, roots circling around her heart, till there's nothing left at all.

"Miss?"

Eloide looks up, rubbing her hands together distractedly.

The Guardian isn't looking at her, but the car has stopped. "Thank you," Elodie murmurs, tugging at her cloak. The Guardian opens the door, and she steps out. It's brighter than it looked from inside the car, sunlight reflecting off the pale stone walls of the buildings all around. She can feel heat coming up from the concrete beneath her shoes, and she takes a moment to catch a breath.

The house that looms over her is a familiar one. It's hard to tell if it was always a house, or if it used to serve some other purpose. With all of the rebuilding it's impossible to tell now. She holds her gift in both hands, gliding across the cracked sidewalk to stand in front of the door. She holds herself exactly the way she's always been taught, with elegance and grace, dignity. That was something her mother used to talk about all the time. Dignity.

Elodie tends to wonder how much dignity really matters anymore.

She lifts the heavy brass knocker, letting it fall. She returns her gloved hand, holding the gift with both hands again. Symmetry, that's another thing her mother loved. It's terribly hot, and Elodie can feel sweat dripping down the back of her neck. She wants to be home again, she wants to take a bath. She wants to be alone. Except, she doesn't. That's why she's here after all.

The door opens after only a few moments. Elodie nods to the man who opens it, she's careful to not look him in the eye. Men like him, Guardian's, they're not permitted to look someone of her status in the eye. She glances over her shoulder only once, as if to assure herself that the car is still there, parked along the sidewalk. It sits, an overgrown beetle, the Guardian leaning against it. He looks bored.

She doesn't look back again. The hall is familiar. Not because she's been to this house all that often, just because most of the Wives houses look like this. The high ceiling, the white walls, paint peeling a little in the corner. The hooks along the wall, blue cloaks in a neat row. It looks like the hall in Elodie's house. She hangs her own cloak along in the line, she must be late.

The other wives are gathered in the foyer, and Elodie sees tea and biscuits already set up. There's even a small bowl of sugar on the table.

"Lady Elodie," One of the wives, Sylvia, looks up. Her thin blond hair hangs around her face, falls down over her shoulders. She narrows her eyes faintly. "So good of you to make it."

"Lady Sylvia," Elodie answers, she nods her head. She glances around briefly, eyes scanning the other woman sitting in the small room. "I brought a gift," she says, setting the small bag down on the table. "I do hope you recover from your illness soon."

Sylvia tilts her head slightly in a nod, bringing her hand to her thin mouth. She does look sickly as Eldoie studies the older woman, there are lines in her face that weren't there before, a haunted look caught in her dull eyes. Elodie takes a teacup offered by one of the other wives, sitting down. Sylvia doesn't look at the gift again, that's its point. Its point is to be given, to receive a gift at these gatherings is nothing more than a formality. They're likely to sit in the corner of this room for several days before one of Sylvia's Martha's tidy them away.

The tea is cold against Elodie's lips, if she had arrived on time, it would have been warm.

"How is the baby?" The quiet talk continues, just as it always does. Fiona, a redhead, thick fiery hair only just starting to turn grey near her scalp looks up.