𝑰𝑵𝑲 • 𝑻𝒆𝒘𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒚 / 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆

Acquaintance

Flowers. Florence suddenly decided that what the room needed was a colorful array of flowers. Remembering the vibrant gardens she saw along the entrance to Basilwether, she was determined to get out of the room and pick a selection of them before the days end, or rather, as soon as possible.

Bidding the anonymous maid a polite farewell, she raced out of the room and in the direction of the gardens. She panted lightly as she ran, slightly winded but way too set on the prize to convince her legs to stop moving at an impressive pace towards the lands entrance. The still, cool air of spring hit Florence just as she exited the building, weaving her way through perfectly trimmed hedges and decorative bushes, making her way towards the bright yellow dandelions she had been eyeing since her arrival.

She began picking the flowers, firmly from the stem, as not to unnecessarily damage or ruin their beauty in any way.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing child!"

Florence froze mid tug, grasping tightly into the flowers she had already murdered and once again, breaking into a sprint. She only turned back to see who had scolded her once she thought she was at a safe distance, and saw a man around 20 years her senior, with a poorly grown, and trimmed mustache taking up most of the space in his face. His steady walk in her direction startled her, leading her to run to the safety that the shade of the forest would provide her with.

Looking down at her hand, and the flowers which they held, she smiled mischievously, patting herself on the back for managing to get them. Following the tree line back towards the manor, she suddenly stopped when she noticed an out of place rope hanging down from one of the branches. Following it up the tree trunk with her eyes, to her amazement, she was lead to a quaint little tree house resting between the branches of an old and sturdy oak tree.

Tempted by her own curiosity, she couldn't help herself, and struggled her way up the rope and into the cozy, elevated structure. She ran her dainty fingers across a chest she found resting in the corner. Lifting her fingers up to see that no dust was present, she deduced that whoever owned the tree house must visit it frequently. Looking around her once more to ensure that she was alone, she carefully opened the chest and gasped in excitement at what she saw. Books.

Enough books to last her at least another year, right in front of her, at her disposal. She reached towards one book in particular, about botany, and just as she made contact, she could hear someone making their way up the tree.
Florence snatched the book, tucking it discreetly behind her back, and waiting for the figure to emerge from beneath the floor level.

The first thing she saw was a mop of hair, shaggy and unkempt, and yet it looked softer than anything she had seen previously and had to resist the urge to reach out and graze is with her hand. His eyes appeared next, a deep dark brown in color, and shocked in expression. He swung the rest of himself up onto the creaky floor of the abode and walked towards Florence.

She jumped slightly as he walked right past her and slammed the chest shut, the noise of wood hitting wood making her jump once again. He stared at her quizzically, as if trying to figure something out, read her, before speaking.

"You have my book"

"What?" She played, trying to hide the fact that she was indeed frazzled by the encounter.

"You've hidden it somewhere, around here or under something..." he began twisting his head in search of a misplaced book before stopping abruptly and looking directly at Florence.

"Unless..." he reached behind her and grabbed the book right out of her hands.

"Hey! You can't just-" she struggled as she tried reaching for the book which was now being held above her head and out of reach by the boy.

"Who are you?" He looked down at her, confused by her need for the writing he himself saw no unusual or outstanding quality in.

"Florence Clarke, I'm a housekeeper's daughter. Now can I please have that bo-"

"Well Florence, My name is Tewkesbury and I just so happen to own this estate."

Florence froze, letting his words set in. Embarrassed and fearful of sever repercussions, she slowly moved from her toes, back onto her heels and lowered her arms back to her sides. All of a sudden unaware of what to do and how to act, she awkwardly descended into a wobbly curtsy and winced when she came back up and looked up to his face once again.

She was surprised to see the boy looking down at her with a toothy grin, lowering the book down to be held with both his hands. He looked at what she held in her hands and an idea sparked in his creative mind.

"I'll lend you the book, but I want the flowers."

"Deal!" She almost shouted, so overjoyed with the worth while agreement.

Handing over the flowers and once again taking the book into her hands, she smiled down at it and tucked it under her arm, making her way towards the rope to return to solid ground.

"Wait, um- you, you could read the book up here if you want." He offered shyly, awaiting her response with impatience and hope for her to accept his offer, despite being 2 years older than her.

"And you could, read the other books aswell. If you'd like to that is." He added after an unnerving amount of silence.

Looking back at him, Florence thought about her time and nodded faintly.

"Okay." She said, it coming out almost as a whisper. She took a seat in the floor, her back leaning against the chest, slammed mere moments ago, and open the book to page one. Tewkesbury tentatively took a seat next to her on the floor and peered over her should to follow her reading, being careful not to distract her and sometimes losing himself In her loosely curly hair. He smiled to himself, out of her eye-line, excited to have a new friend, and someone to share a common interest with. He gently picked up of the flowers he had traded her the book for and delicately placed it into her hair, stunned by its failure to shine in comparison to its wearer. Florence, oblivious to anything happening around her, so invested and enveloped in what he had given her.

a/n
So I personally despise writing 'children' or really just anybody under the age of fifteen, since that's around the age that I think one begins to articulate more freely and without the constraints of a limited vocabulary. I won't be returning to 8 year old Florence and 10 year old Tewkesbury but I feel this was necessary to provide just a brief recount of their first meeting.