The Librarian & His Falconer

My dress flows gently with every turn I take in front of the mirror. I like the way it takes its time to flutter back down and rest against my ankle. The colour is a pleasing light blue and contrasts nicely with my auburn hair that is flowing freely down my shoulders.

The bodice is snug but not too tight. The skirt length is appropriate but not so long it would make me trip over myself.

All in all, it seems like a pretty good choice my Mother made.

However, as soon as I slide my palms down my bodice I cringe. My hands fist tightly, only to open as I shake them out as if trying to shake away the feeling of the thin, gauzy material and the light scrape that itches against my skin.

I scrunch my eyes closed for a moment and take a deep, shaky breath.

I’ve been trying to find positives to wearing the dress my Mother asked me to wear today. Although asked is putting it nicely. It was more of a demand and I don’t think I have much of a choice.

Apart from being very impractical for me to do my job after the luncheon I have to attend as a Lady of the Mirror Lands court, the texture of this dress is making me want to rip it off my body.

There are so many fabrics that I enjoy, that ground me, help me stay composed and, in turn, allow me to blend in. That’s all I need to do.

Blend in. Be more like them.

It seems my Mother has disregarded all of those other perfectly good dresses. I attempt another deep breath to temper my feelings.

I just won’t touch it. There’s no point getting myself worked up now when I still have a whole luncheon to sit through. I close my eyes at the thought of having to interact with the other young people at court. Listen to them mostly gossiping, attempt to find responses, watch them chew their food, all while chatter and noises resound around me.

Making an effort to be liked while most likely being ignored, mocked or looked at with apprehension.

A violent shiver rakes through me when I accidentally grasp the skirts of the dress, touching the fabric again. I shake my hands out.

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against the majority of the young people of the court. But sitting through all of that, wearing this dress that isn’t rough but also not soft, like a maddening blend of the two textures, has me dreading leaving my room.

I shake out my hands again for good measure and glance longingly at my soft, suede trousers and loose, soft cotton shirts hanging neatly in the wardrobe. Now those are two smooth textures that ease me and I like to wear.

I frown at my reflection.

My sister is always wearing pretty, flowy, albeit gauzy dresses like this and attending all, and then some, social gatherings at court. She talks, laughs, dances, eats and touches freely.

Why can’t I be more like that? I know it would make my life easier, I’m an intelligent woman, yet I lack the ability to adapt to what is considered the social norm. It’s not like I haven’t tried, but something inside me gets disturbed with certain touches or sounds. And no matter how hard I try, how hard I force myself to get through it, that disturbance inside only grows until it becomes unbearable. And then everything just stops. I stop.

When that disturbance reaches a point of no return, I get rooted to the spot, unable to voice what lies at the tip of my tongue. Unable to move, speak or change anything in my surroundings to make me feel better again. It’s like my mind and body disconnect.

Over the years, I’ve found little ways to soothe myself and prevent this from happening but I avoid getting to that place as much as possible. Which leads me to shy away from people and large gatherings in general.

None of it is their fault, I am aware. Blatantly, I cringe, flinch, look away or am unable to talk back, making me look unfriendly or daft. I know the whispers behind my back. The crazy girl, the rude girl, she thinks she’s better than everyone, the weird girl. My personal favourite, bird girl.

So, before I throw a shoe at my mirror, I turn and walk out of my room to meet my sister in the living room.

Rebecca is the social butterfly of our family. My Mother’s greatest pride and another tool for her to attempt to push our family up the social ranks at court. She’s pretty, approachable, nice and befriends everyone she meets. At least superficially. I’ve heard her and her close-knit group of friends bad-mouthing others behind their backs. She can be as vicious as my Mother when it comes to getting what she wants. And what she wants is to marry a rich, powerful man, preferably one of the princes.

Unfortunately for her, they are both going to marry their Untethereds, given their affinity magic, once they’ve found them. All magical folk gifted with affinity magic have Untethereds, their soulmates in a way, but also just a way for the magic to find the perfect match to continue the powerful bloodline. There aren’t a lot of magi with affinity magic, only those who descend from the original four magi who helped create our mirror realm.

That doesn’t stop Rebecca from trying though, especially prince Xavier. Prince Max is too intimidating or maybe just too smart to fall for the charms of the young Ladies of his court.

I sidle up to my sister and adopt the same posture as her like I’ve been doing most of my life. I found that it’s easier to navigate these situations if I behave more like my sister. Shoulders back, kind smile, soft eyes, hands neatly pressed together in front. She smiles back at me.

“Ready to go?”

My sister threads her arm through mine. I let her. I don’t mind my sister touching me. Her skin is soft and silky.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” My tone is flat, the opposite of what my fake expression is conveying.

She huffs out an amused breath and leads me through the door. Thankfully, our Mother is nowhere to be seen. The argument we had this morning over the dress was enough for her, it seems, and she scurried off to wherever the older Ladies of the court go during the day.

While my sister might be somewhat two-faced to others at court and a horrible gossip, she’s never been unkind to me. Sometimes, it feels like she’s the only one who has my back and accepts me as I am.

Over time, she’s come to understand that I rely on her to guide me in social situations. We’ve never talked about it, but she’s seen how I struggle and end up saying or doing the wrong things.

I’m glad I have my sister. It does get lonely sometimes, not being able to understand and properly connect with another human. Constantly wearing this mask I need to be seen as acceptable. Not to mention how exhausting it is too.

Luckily, I also have my Falcons. It’s easier to be around them than other people. They don’t constrain themselves with social expectations or the need to be liked.

We walk in companionable silence down the mostly empty hallways of the castle, our slippered feet echoing around us. Well, my sister’s slippered feet. I’m wearing my sturdy boots and hoping no one looks down at them. I thought I could get away with wearing them if I sit at the table the whole time and hide them behind the tablecloth.

I’m only wearing them because I need to go to the royal mews right after the luncheon. This whole event is already putting a massive dent in my carefully scheduled training sessions with my Falcons. Another reason for my current restless disposition. I like my schedule.

I can already sense the vibrations that only a large, loud crowd can create in a confined space as we approach the grand hall, unease heavy like lead in my gut.

I screw my eyes shut before we round the final corner and open them again to take in the massive doors that are wide open, letting me see the bustling room. There is a long, large central table with a myriad of platters, cake stands, bowls and pitchers containing food that would be more useful if distributed to the people on the streets instead of given to these privileged children of Lords and Ladies.

As soon as we enter the hall, my sister’s band of vipers, whom she calls her friends, waves her over. I don’t particularly like them, given the snarky comments they throw in my direction whenever I am in close proximity, but what I hate even more are the comments they throw around behind my back, no doubt putting my sister in a position where she has to choose between her friends and defending me.

I decide to give her a reprieve from constantly having to stand up for me.

“Go ahead, I need to grab a lemonade to calm my nerves.”

“You know, Cindy probably has something to spike that lemonade with. It’ll have a more potent impact on your nerves.”

No, it won’t. I know for a fact that strong alcohol makes me feel like I’m completely losing control. It’s the ultimate sensory overload catalyst and not in a good way.

While I have found some sensory overstimulation to be nice, this particular situation would not be conducive to that. Besides, Cindy would probably poison my drink.

“It’s okay, I’ll only be a moment.”

Maybe I’ll find an empty alcove to disappear into. One can only hope.

I make my way to the drinks table, scanning the hall for that empty alcove. I’m not even paying attention to the glasses before me, as I reach out for one.

“Beatrice, how nice to see you for once. You’re always hidden away with your birds.”

I pull my hand back and face the unmistakable voice of Richard beside me. He’s the son of Lord William Rifton who is on the war council with me. As the royal Falconer, I am one of the people allowed to sit at that table.

“Yes, I’ve been busy.”

“As per usual.”

Also as per usual, Richard’s tone is condescending. For a man who talks down to me like that, he’s very persistent in his pursuit of me. Given the excessive amount of times he’s talked to me or touched me and seen my adverse reactions to it, one would think he’d stop by now. Unfortunately, I’ve felt the brush of his clammy hands on both of my arms, my back, my shoulder and even my ankle that one time.

He’s mostly harmless but extremely annoying. Why he keeps trying, is anyone’s guess.

I roll my eyes, making sure that he sees me.

Richard sighs. “Don’t give me that look, Beatrice. Tell me more about your Falcons, if they’re so interesting.”

I hesitate. Richard has never asked me about my Falcons. No one has, for that matter. I only talk about my Falcons at the war council meetings.

I could happily relay details and facts about my beloved birds for hours, but I think that’s exactly why no one has broached the subject before. That one time someone did, was more than enough to prevent anyone else asking. I talked for an hour before my sister kindly stopped me.

Frowning, I turn back to the glasses to give me time to think this through. I know I shouldn’t talk too long about my birds, but what could I say that is short and would interest someone like Richard? Is he actually suddenly interested or is he attempting to woo me again?

As soon as my fingers circle the cool glass, the unmistakable yet familiar feel of his hot, clammy hand makes me recoil. It’s all I can do not to drop the overflowing glass, but a little of the liquid sloshes over the side, splashing my skin.

The muscles in my hand, then my arm tense as I freeze and stare at the offending wet spot on me. A drop of sweat rolls down my back. I shake out my hand, droplets falling onto the tablecloth, but my hand is still damp with lemonade.

“I always love your little gasps when I touch you. I should have done it sooner.”

I don’t move. I can’t move. I barely register the words as the echoing chatter around us seems to grow, making my ears ring. His masculine, hushed tone, spoken too close to my face, makes me fold further into myself and I screw my eyes shut, holding in the scream I know is building. At least that’s one urge I’ve managed to repress when I was a child.

Not even his annoyed cough that follows my silence gets me out of my frozen state.

“Let me help,” another masculine voice interjects.

Someone takes the glass from me, followed by the swipe of a cloth napkin over my damp hand. The cotton does its job, mopping up the lemonade but the fabric has that soft scratching texture that grates against my skin. I pull my hand away and dig my nails to the spot almost painfully, desperately trying to quell that disturbance growing inside me.

“Are you okay?”

I dig my nails in deeper, needing to come back into myself to reply and manage to look up, meeting soft, brown eyes. They study me intently, but I don’t detect any of the frustration that my unusual reactions normally get. It almost looks like concern.

I want to tell him that everything is okay. I want to apologise, but my brain and my mouth are not communicating. My lips don’t seem to understand that I want them to speak. To reassure this kind stranger that there is nothing to worry about. But I only stand, frozen, clutching my now prickling, nail-indented hand.

“Ignore her, she does this sometimes. Too bad, with how pretty she is, she would have already found a husband.”

The man I’m still staring at looks over my shoulder and shoots Richard a slight frown. Not enough to be aggressive, but enough to politely show him dissatisfaction at his words. It’s that reaction, that little show of support from this stranger that finally lulls me out of my state.

I blink, just as the man slides his kind eyes back to me. He offers a soft smile.

“Would you like to go take a seat? I’m happy to escort you.” He extends his arm for me to take. I hear Richard snort behind me.

I would accept the offer, but I don’t want to sit at the table surrounded by triggers that might make me react like this again. I really don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of the whole court. Not again.

Nervously, I glance at the large table in the centre of the room. It’s already half-full with people piling their plates with food. No, I definitely don’t want to sit at the table, but how do I explain this to the kind stranger? I can’t tell him my actual reasons, I know how he’ll react, like everyone else does. So I simply shake my head.

He frowns at me and I have the urge to apologise, but I swallow instead, not knowing what would come out if I allow myself to talk. He takes a small step toward me.

“Would you like to leave?”

Leave? Yes, I would love to leave, but I can’t. I have to stay. I know my Mother will know as soon as the court gossip mills start working but I don’t know how to tell him that, so I stay silent. Staring motionless.

The man scans the room and then looks back at me. He must see something in my eyes because his expression changes to something I can’t identify.

“Come on. Let me get you out of here.”

He gently grips my arm and pulls ever so slightly. His hand is warm over the fabric of my sleeve and when his thumb brushes my arm once, twice, three times, I release the breath I was holding in.

I take a step forward and let him lead me out of the grand hall.