Eren stole himself into your room before he departed at dawn. He woke you with a brush on the shoulder and a pat on the cheek. "I'm leaving," he said. "Am I going to see you later today, or must I wait until I'm more worthy of your time than your precious Mr. Arlert?"
Your voice creaked and cracked as you attempted to push air between the sleep cords, "You're always worthy, but I can't promise anything. There's no telling what nonsense French boar will put me through."
"He looks more like a horse than a boar, sleepyhead," Eren quipped. "You know what we should do?"
"What?"
"We'll give him a nickname: Horseface. He may be able to hide his dickish behavior under his French, but we can hide, too."
Before bed, you had told Eren of the rude things Mr. Kirstein said during your trip to his cabin. Fury filled the heart of your closest friend, and he nearly descended to the waterfront to assault the artist himself. A fistfight would have ensued if you had not pleaded for the matter to be put to bed. In truth, you did not concern yourself with Mr. Kirstein's words after the initial shock subsided. You would treat him like any other rude man and only offer kindness if the situation should necessitate. You also had a bargaining chip now that Niccolo would toss the brute from the house should you give the word.
"That is a terrible thing to do." Your eyes smoldered in wicked joy.
"Well, I learned how to be terrible from you." Eren ruffled your hair and slipped into the shadows of the hall.
Already fully awake, thanks to Eren's departure, you began your morning preparations earlier than usual. When you reached the kitchen, you were entirely alone. Looking out the window, morning dew collected on the greenery, and mist rose from the water. Niccolo came down when he smelled your fire smoke through the house. You worked alongside each other in perfect harmony to prepare a light breakfast.
"You can leave Jean's cup here with me," he told you. "If he's still anything like the boy I once knew, he is even more ill-tempered after he wakes."
You almost considered following his directions but decided to take the other teacup and saucer anyway. You placed the set, a full teapot, and a sugar bowl onto your tray and moseyed through the morning dew to the cabins. You squinted the entirety of the short walk down as the sun blinded every creature it blazed into. Stopping at Mr. Arlert's door, you knocked with the tip of your toes, seeing as your hands were full.
"Mr. Arlert! Tea!"
The door opened, and the author greeted you with a warm smile. "Good morning, my dear. I hope you slept well," he said, stepping aside for you to place the tray on his table.
"As well as I could hope. Niccolo is still finishing breakfast inside, but I can leave an extra cup with you should Mr. Kirstein want something to drink before heading up."
Mr. Arlert sat in front of your tray as he prepared his cup with three spoonfuls of sugar. "Thank you. I'm sure he will appreciate your thoughtfulness. Please, sit." Taking one of the three available seats, you sat across from the author. "I do hope you can forgive Jean's behavior last night. He truly is a kind man when his spirits are good. This last year... it has not been easy on his soul."
You leaned in, your nosiness feeding your words. "Not to stick my nose where it doesn't belong, but may I ask what has made him so bitter?"
"He may tell you himself if he feels the need, but discussing his affairs is not my place. Just know that he is not as cruel as he pretends to be. I'm sure you know that Sasha would not have befriended him if he was always so unpleasant."
"Oh, yes, I'm sure you're right." Sasha was the last thing you wanted to consider early in the morning. "So, Mr. Arlert, any progress on the book?"
"Not much, I'm afraid. Mostly just note-writing. I have a decent amount of time before I have to meet with my publisher, so I'm sure I can produce something worthwhile before–"
The door flew open to break up the conversation, and Mr. Kirstein appeared, still in his clothes from the day before. His hair was ruffled like a wild beast, and his shirt had the top three buttons undone, exposing his wispy chest hair to the open air. You might have swooned over his rugged appearance if he had not sullied his reputation the previous night. Instead, your eyes hardened, and your lips pursed into a firm, straight line.
"Armin, when are we..." his voice cut off when his vision fell on you. The painter's expression reflected yours like glass. "Why is the maid at the table? Does she not have somewhere to be?"
"I invited her, and she is not a maid. Miss Y/n is a friend. She has been my guest each morning since you took so long to arrive."
Mr. Arlert gestured for his friend to sit, but the Frenchman glued his back against the wall with his arms crossed. "There is no space for me."
"I see two open chairs," you retorted, "So there is more than enough space for both you and the stick planted firmly in your rear."
Mr. Arlert snorted at your remark while you sent an ingenious smile to the artist. Your grin only bloomed wider as Mr. Kirstein's face twitched in anger. "You would be wise to watch your tongue, boudin," Mr. Kirstein's voice was full of malice as he stepped closer. "I am not a spineless man that allows a child to run her mouth."
"Mr. Arlert?" you asked, "Boudin–what does it mean? Is it as rude as yesterday's language?"
"No, but it is still most unkind. I believe he means to say you are ugly, which I would say is categorically untrue." Mr. Arlert reclined in his chair. "There is no need to sling insults at a girl you have only just met, Jean."
Mr. Kirstein's expression fell with betrayal. "De quel côté es-tu?"
Mr. Arlert shifted to you and lowered his voice to a hush. "Do you know how I would answer that?" You shook your head, interested in his answer. "I would say 'le mien.' I believe that means 'my own,' but my French isn't as refined as Jean's. Maybe he can teach you some things once he's calmed himself."
You raised your eyebrows to the painter as a challenge. He clenched his jaw and burnt angry holes in your clothes. Rising from your chair, you stepped towards the exit, only to stop right in front of Mr. Kirstein.
"I will leave you to it so you can have your precious space. Breakfast is almost ready if you wish to join. And one more thing." You smiled politely–your speech dripping in mockery, "You would be wise to watch your attitude. I am no weak woman that allows a fool to run his mouth."
After shutting the cabin door behind you, echoes of Mr. Arlert's muffled laughter filled the air, and you barely controlled the urge to cackle yourself. Maybe it was wrong, but knocking the already insufferable man down a few marks felt fabulous. You breathed away your inflated ego so that Niccolo would not ask what had stirred your change in attitude when you stepped inside. Once in the kitchen beside the chef, you began plating eggs, sausages, and fruit for him.
"I forgot to tell you," Niccolo said as he worked, "Mrs. Freudenberg dropped a dress she needs to be finished by Thursday evening while you were gone yesterday. She wants those little floral patterns she loves so much but also wants to keep the dress 'effortlessly simple.' I left it in the sewing room with your needles."
"I'll see to it later today. And her payment?"
"Exceptional. That new husband of hers must give her a hefty allowance. She also wants you to pay her a longer visit once you drop it off. She seemed irked that she hadn't seen you much since the wedding."
"Then Miss Hitch will receive something grand yet simple."
"Mrs. Freudenberg," Mr. Niccolo corrected.
"Until I see the ring on her finger and her husband by her side, she is as untethered as I."
The front door creaked open, and your two guests entered the dining room. Mr. Arlert seemed chipper, while Mr. Kirstein sulked like yesterday's storm clouds. Niccolo set breakfast on the table, so you stole a sausage, a fistful of figs, and a buttered scone before rushing off to your sewing room to start your work.
Hitch Dreyse, now Freudenberg, always had a flair for beautiful things. She loved your father's work and always dreamed of wearing his patterns when you were little girls. Unfortunately, he passed before her body had reached full maturity, so she had to settle for your inferior stitches instead. You were a much better seamstress than anyone else in town but a novice compared to your father. Skill, however, was irrelevant when good money was involved. You would become the most outstanding designer the world had ever seen for the coin she had left for you in the small velvet purse beside the viridian dress.
Until the late afternoon, you stitched beads and flowers into the bodice of the expensive fabric until your fingers ached. Although you had plenty of work to do with trailing the pale flowers and vines down towards the skirt and fading them softly into the center, you were pleased with the detail thus far. Even now, you could picture how your friend would trace the lines tomorrow with perfectly polished fingers and giggle in excitement as she spun around the room in the garment.
Needing a break and some sustenance after so much work, you returned downstairs and prayed that the men left some scraps from breakfast. You found the Frenchman already sipping liquor on the veranda connected to the kitchen. He left the back door wide open, and three flies he had let into your home buzzed over the counters.
"Isn't it too early in the day to be drinking?" you lectured him as you swatted bugs away from a bowl of berries. Mr. Kirstein craned his neck to see you and made a complete pass at your body. His scrutinizing gaze sickened you as it lingered on the skirt of your dress much longer than was comfortable.
"I am not to speak to you," he eventually said.
"And why is that?"
"I will say something rude, and Niccolo will slit my throat."
"Feel free to say it, Mr. Kirstein. I promise I won't snitch unless it's particularly hurtful."
A slight smirk ghosted onto the man's lips. "Then, is it not late in the day to still be in your nightgown?"
As your eyes flew to your plain, brown dress, anger bubbled in your throat, "This is my working dress."
"You had me fooled." Mr. Kirstein whispered the following words under his breath, but your ears were sharp enough to catch them, "Tu as l'air d'un garçon."
"And what does that mean?"
Mr. Kirstein did not answer. Instead, he stood up to join you in the kitchen, stole the ripest strawberry from your bowl, and disappeared towards the parlor before you could swat him away. He left a whiskey trail in his wake, causing your nose to crinkle and your stomach to turn.
Reclaiming your berries, you took them outside, along with the apples you had purchased a few days ago. You refused to let the rude giant disrupt your enjoyment of the lovely weather, so you reached your perfect dock and rested on the farthest wooden beam. Basking in the summer sun, you plopped the sweet, succulent berries onto your tongue and crushed them between your teeth. Fresh juice covered your palate and purged the poor taste Mr. Kirstein had left behind. You swung your feet along the ledge as frogs, cicadas, and finches sang for you, and the pleasant burbling of the rushing water cooled your ankles.
When sweat began to saturate your brows and upper lip, you fled your spot to visit the horses. Each mare would receive an apple before you refilled their troughs, but you were surprised to find an additional horse in the only usually empty stall. A new stallion waited there, and it was dark as midnight. You assumed it was Mr. Kirstein's steed that he rode in on so late last night, which explained why he was so thoroughly soaked.
You sliced your two apples in half with your pocket knife, offered each mare their share, and both girls happily snacked on their treat. Niccolo regularly reprimanded you for spoiling them, but you loved your two sweet ladies. After all the sunsets they had carried you on in the spring and summer, they deserved as many treats as their stomachs could safely handle.
You approached the third horse, but the massive beast lingered in the back of his stall. Regardless of what you offered, he did not trust you enough to step to the front. "Here, take it," you implored, "I won't bite. I'm nice, I swear." You've found that the more gently you spoke, the less apprehensive the horse became. "Oh, come on, sweet boy. It's an apple! It's delicious, see?" You took a bite from the edge of the juicy, red fruit. "Mhhhh, scrumptious. Come on! Step forward! I know you can!"
After a few minutes of soft coaxing, he edged closer to grasp the apple. He stole the furthest corner and began chewing as your face glittered joyfully. You even offered him the extra half of the apple, which he readily took once he realized you had no intention of hurting him.
You would tell anyone that listened of your love of animals and their fondness for you. Father told you growing up that it was because animals could sense evil, and although you were mischievous, your heart was pure enough for any creature to love. Animals did not gossip, bully, or lie; you appreciated their perpetual honesty.
You released all three horses into the pasture while you refilled their hay and water, mucked out their pens, and fought off gnats and horseflies. However, the poor stallion never drifted far from you as you worked. You supposed the gift of an apple was a treat he had never experienced before. When you finished cleaning, he walked straight up to you and bent his neck for you to scratch behind his ears.
"Sweet boy, does your rider not treat you well? He treats women like dogs, so I can only imagine how he treats you." Placing your forehead between his eyes, you caressed the gentle giant's cheek. "I doubt he gives you even half of the love you deserve. Do you have a name, sweet boy?" When the horse did not answer, you answered in his place, "Then your name will be Knight. Will you protect my dear Lady should the need arise? I'm sure you would, my gallant guard. But be careful not to bother Miss Carrot. She is too old to play anymore."
When Knight had been sufficiently turned and petted, you collected your things and returned to your needlework in the house. Wiping your hands before they sullied the expensive silk, you stood back to see what still needed to be done.
Like Hitch, you were a firm believer in beauty's simplicity. While extravagant garments were nice enough, true beauty was subtle. As you turned the fabric to see where it needed further embellishments, you were careful not to oversaturate any one spot with designs. A finger glossed over the vines you had stitched into the bodice, and you noted how the whole dress could be finished by the night's end.
By the time the sun had set, you were nearly halfway complete with Hitch's alterations. Satisfied with your work, you tossed your head back and stretched your hunched spine. Each of your vertebrae cracked into place after being scrunched together for so many hours.
After a few minutes of quiet resting, Niccolo yelled for you from the hall, "Y/n! Dinner's ready! Come eat before it gets cold!"
You put away your extra needles and string and took the stairs slowly to join the men for dinner. To your dismay, the only available chair was between Niccolo and Mr. Kirstein at the head of the table, so you planned to take the supper back upstairs.
"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" Niccolo asked when you reached over his shoulder to whisk away your plate. "You've been missing all day."
"To finish the dress. That way, I can take it to town early on Thursday and still have time for Hitch to scold me the rest of the afternoon for desiring to die a lonely hag rather than a despondent housewife with resentful children."
Mr. Kirstein caught you off-guard when he chuckled at your remark, but he cleared his throat to play off his laugh as a cough.
"So, you are going into town again?" Mr. Arlert asked, his eyes bright with excitement. "Jean and I could escort you. You can even join us for drinks in the pub. Or tavern, I suppose. Eren should come, too, if he's interested."
Mr. Kirstein inhaled to speak, but a soft blow from the author found his ribs before any words could come out. You smiled as he grimaced.
"Eren is nearly always working in the clinic during the week, so I'm afraid he will have to pass, but be ready Thursday morning to leave right after breakfast." Before Niccolo could criticize your abrupt departure, you turned your heel and bolted back up the stairs.
Everyone should have been resting snuggly in their beds when Hitch's dress was finally finished. Its magic only became apparent when one was close enough to appreciate its glory fully, but something about the lines reminded you of Father's stitches instead of your own. Hitch would be pleased, but the familiarity stabbed a hole in your heart.
Finding a suitcase in the closet where you kept extra fabric and thread, you pulled out the trunk and rested the dress safely on top. You blew out all the extra candles lighting your desk and left one flickering to carry to your room. As you settled the candle on your windowsill, you noticed a lantern flicker from the edge of your dock, and a tall silhouette sat beside its flame. You received no wave from the figure–only a stiff shadow. Too tired to concern yourself, you extinguished your candle and slipped into sleep.
French Translations:
Boudin = Sausage (Also used as an insult to call a woman ugly)
De quel côté es-tu? = Whose side are you on?
Tu as l'air d'un garçon = You look like a boy