Look Beyond What You See

The Storm

 Thunder rattles the glass in the windowpanes. Lightning bursts in wicked, twisted spears of light across the tempestuous rolling clouds. A howling wind buffets the Berkeley mansion, yowling in the chimneys to douse the fires in the fireplaces, rampaging at the walls and gates, penetrating through every crevice. I love this sort of weather and simply draw my cloak close around me and laugh as the maids squawk and flutter about affectedly. 'Tis no small storm, raging now between Zinaida, Dmitri, and Wesley. If their tempers run high enough to affect the weather like this, and after so seemingly small an issue as what Wesley walked in on earlier, I would hate to see them all truly angry. Mayhap Zinaida also rages about what happened last night. But so far no evidence of Dmitri's rage has surfaced outside. It could be that he is better at self-control than his parents, or perhaps he has been sidelined, or perchance he is simply waiting for the best time to interrupt them.

No matter what the cause of the row or what goes on between them now, I am confined to my chamber, stuck doing embroidery--embroidery, of all things!--with half a dozen ladies, Malina among them, while a particularly snooty maid reads from the platitudes in an irritating nasal drone similar to the whine of a horsefly. I truly hate this pointless feminine pastime, the occupation of all women of noble birth since the Middle Ages. Of course I was taught to do it, once upon a time, but Grandmother did not insist that I spend much time at it, claiming (and rightfully so) that my other studies were of greater importance. As such, my proficiency is nothing compared to that of my companions, and some of the maids whom I exasperated during yesterday's tasks of making me look like a proper lady or princess or whatever I'm meant to be have taken to taunting me about it. They can say whatever they want. They can hardly make me ashamed of not being excellent in such a meaningless, absurd pastime.

"What are they quarrelling about downstairs?" Malina asks me, voice low enough to go unnoticed beneath the reader's obnoxious voice.

"Wesley found Dmitri in my bed this morning and automatically assumed that we--" I breathe, praying that no one else can hear me.

"But Juniper and others kept watch all night! You didn't, did you?"

"No. We just slept. But Wesley was not inclined to believe us. At any rate, I think it too trivial a cause for the clash below. My only guess is that Zinaida is quite cross about last night and is squalling about that."

"Squalling! I'll say. I don't think I've ever heard her winds so fierce."

"Doubtless now that I know their secret, she sees no reason to control her temper."

"A lucky thing neither of them bends water, else we'd be flooded out by now."

"Dmitri's down there. I fear a firestorm if it goes on much longer."

"Don't trouble your head about that. He's a sensible lad, and more patient than either of his parents."

"But 'twould take the patience of God Himself to endure too much more of their fight in person."

"Ladies! Mind your stitchery and elevate your minds to the plain truths I read! Decorum better befits ladies than idle chatter," the reader scolds.

"Oh, Sibyl, really, who can concentrate on higher things with such a row going on below and such a storm raging outside? Certainly not I, and you yourself instructed me in all things of virtue from my girlhood!" Malina argues. Other ladies around me murmur similar things. A startling crash and roar outside make me leap from my chair and fly to the nearest window, embroidery forgotten. As I'd feared, flames have begun swirling in the air, threatening the mansion and its gardens. This must stop! ALL of this must stop! Focus, Aerys. Find the water in the clouds. Use it. Acionna, guide my power. The other ladies have joined me at the window, staring in horror.