Living Or Otherwise - Because That Is How Time Works

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Her mother owned seven pairs of gloves. Isabeau has counted them twice. Six lie scattered across the floor beside her, while the seventh pair rests in her lap, soft and worn around the fingers. She runs her thumb along the stitching.

She does not know why she opened the drawer.

A weak gust of wind blows through the curtains and a chill goes through her, prompting her to get up from the cold floor. Collecting the gloves carefully, she stows them away back in their drawer and stands, brushing off her skirts.

The desk is cluttered. Her mother's hair comb still lies beside the looking glass, a couple dark strands caught between the teeth. A small dish holds two pins and a button. The miniature bottle of scent sits beside it, half-full with the stopper crooked. A half-rolled length of ribbon hangs listlessly off the side of the table, the edge brushing against a slightly open drawer at the bottom of the chest.

Isabeau frowns slightly, nudging at the drawer to shut it. When it refuses to give, she kneels down and pushes, before pulling it open and peering inside. She reaches in, dislodging the obstacle and pulling it out.

A pretty vial sits in her palm, with a bit of purple string wrapped and tied in a bow around the neck. A short lock of dark hair lies inside, and she squints. Was that her mother's? No, the curls were too loose. And what reason would she have to keep her own hair in a jar? This must be... her own.

She hesitates, turning it over in her hand. Her mother had kept a ringlet of her hair, presumably from when she was much younger. Her throat suddenly feels tight, and Isabeau forces back her tears as she sets down the little jar, opening the drawer fully. She has a fleeting vision of her mother's annoyance if she caught her snooping into her things like this, but she tamps it down quickly. Before she has the chance to think too hard about it.

The drawer is almost full to the brim, items precariously piled atop one another. No wonder the vial had fallen out. Her eyes flit over the jumble. A small pair of shoes sit in a corner, scuffed at the toes, and a blank-faced cloth doll lounges over them. A tiny, wooden rosary is strewn across a small sheet of fabric, on which a crudely-embroidered flower looks back at her. Or was it a sun? Isabeau could barely tell, even as she lifted it to the light. This must have been from when she was very little... or it could have easily been from last week. She was never particularly good at embroidery, despite her poor mother's efforts.

Half of a wooden train lies forlornly on its side, despite her distinctly remembering her mother telling her she had thrown it away. An old scrap of paper sporting Isabeau's messy handwriting is there, full of crossing-outs and misspellings. A crumpled handkerchief by the side looks rather out of place, until Isabeau investigates it and finds a small milk tooth nestled inside. She stares, slowly covering it again. Her mother had really kept everything.

A folded paper draws her attention and she retrieves it, careful not to dislodge the wooden train atop it. Inside is a drawing. At first she cannot recognise what it is of, only seeing two bizarrely drawn circles, before it dawns on her. No thanks to the barely legible scribbles above the figures.

Now that she looks harder, having to squint behind her glasses, she can make out the letters above the larger circle. 'Maman'. Maman and Isabeau, standing together in the emptiness of the blank yellowed page.

Where was he?

She must have been three, maybe four when she drew this. Her gaze drifts from the drawing to the milk tooth, the lock of hair, the tiny pair of shoes. Where was he the whole time? Had he ever seen her this small? Had he even known she was born?

She slowly sets down the paper, suddenly feeling quite sick. Where would he be now? Did he know Maman was dead? Who even was he?

She remembers asking once. She could not have been more than seven or eight. Her mother had been lying beside her, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, her hair loose and spilling between them.

"Maman?"

"Mm?"

"Where is my father?"

Her mother's eyes opened.

Isabeau had been tracing one of the embroidered flowers on the blanket. "Everyone has one."

"Everyone?"

"Margot has one. And Elise. And Marie has--"

"Yes, I know who has fathers."

Isabeau frowned at the flower beneath her finger.

"Do I have one?"

"...Of course you do."

"Where is he?"

A pause.

"He is... far away."

"How far?"

"Very far."

"Farther than... Lyon?"

"Yes."

"Farther than Italy?"

Her mother's mouth twitched.

"Go to sleep, Isabeau."

That was as far as any conversation about her father had gotten. Her mother would redirect her, and she would never push it any further. She had not cared to.

She cautiously starts to sift through the drawer, before shutting it. She is unsure what she is looking for, exactly. But if her mother had kept so much of her as a baby... surely she must have kept something of just before that.

Before long she has looked through drawers, cupboards, above the cupboards, underneath the bed, everywhere. She has not found much. There are several timeworn letters scattered around her in a crude semicircle, some from enthusiastic clients, others from far-off friends, but none mention the man she is searching for. One letter is dated dangerously close to her birth date, but all she can find in it is how much her mother had charged for a particularly intricately decorated dress several years ago.

"What are you doing?"

Isabeau nearly jumps out of her skin, her hand still feeling under the bed like a child with her hand in the macaron jar. Henri is standing in the doorway, one hand still curled around the handle. His red-rimmed eyes move from her to the letters spread across the floor.

"...How long have you been standing there?" She withdraws her hand, facing him.

"Long enough."

"How long?"

"I just told you."

She glares at him, but he doesn't return it. Instead, his gaze has dropped to the letters scattered around her. He squints faintly, before crouching down and picking one up.

Isabeau blinks, drawing the rest of the letters closer to her. "Stop that."

"Why? You have read it." His eyes are already scanning the faded words, holding it just out of her reach. "What are you looking for?"

"Put it down. Just because I read it does not mean you can."

"They are my mother's too."

"She was not your--"

Silence. His gaze pauses on the word he is reading, and a pang of regret instantly shoots through her. She watches as he slowly replaces the paper alongside the rest of them. From downstairs comes the faint scrape of a chair against the floor, where her father is probably eating dinner alone.

"...That was-- I did not mean that."

"You did not say anything."

"What? Henri, I--"

"I said you did not say anything."

He refuses to meet her gaze, instead looking down at the papers. His fingers tap spiritlessly against the floor, before he speaks again.

"So what were you looking for?"

She hesitates. "...My father."

Henri languidly cracks his neck, making a show of peering under the bed. "He must be small."

"...Shut up. Something about him, I mean."

"What for?"

"I just want to know. Maman never told me."

He looks at her for a moment, as if he is about to say something, before shaking his head lightly and rolling up his sleeves. "Fine. If you insist."

"What? I never asked you to--"

"God, look at this. Practically forcing my hand. I am doing it, there is no need to keep nagging me," he sighs, already sliding an arm under the bed. He makes a face, but continues.

Isabeau falls silent, watching him, before she relents and stands up, checking the cupboards again.

They do not find much at all. Several more scattered letters, a few small boxes of random trinkets, an old receipt Henri insists on reading despite Isabeau telling him twice that it is useless. After some time, even he seems to lose interest.

"Perhaps she did not keep anything."

Isabeau looks up sharply. "She kept my tooth."

"Sorry?"

"Nothing."

"...Well. How about this?" He is sitting cross-legged beside an old sewing box, its lid hanging open.

"I already checked that. Nothing useful."

"Mm."

"What? There is no point in--"

His fingers hook beneath a shallow tray inside and lift it. Isabeau stops.

Inside is a bundle of letters, tied with a length of frayed string. The knot looks especially dull in contrast to the pale paper. The two of them stare at it for a moment, before Henri gingerly picks it up.

"Heavy," he grunts, dumping the pile on the floor and deftly untying the string. "Do you think this is it?"

"Maybe. It was hidden." Isabeau takes a sheet of the paper, blinking as she unfolds it. "...This is huge?"

"Oh, fancy. Big paper, wow." He rolls his eyes, bringing one of them into the candlelight. He squints, before dropping it back down and standing up. "I can hardly read it. Tell me if you find anything."

She hums, waving him off as he moves to search in the cupboard again.

The letter is hard to read. The writing is slanted and overly complex, but she can make out a date in the upper corner. It is dated sixteen years ago.

She pauses, looking at the rest of the letters, before pushing them to scatter around her. Moving the string out of the way, she starts to sort through them.

Henri glances back, still halfway inside the cupboard. "What are you doing?"

"Putting them in order."

"Okay. Why?"

"Because that is how time works."

He rolls his eyes, turning away from her again.

After a couple minutes, she finishes and picks up the earliest dated one. Her eyes skim over the writing, and she squints with the effort. It begins simply with her mother's name.

Valaire,

Isabeau adjusts her glasses and brings the page closer.

I received your letter on Tuesday last. I had hoped my silence might have been answer enough, but it appears I was mistaken.

She frowns. Her eyes skip over the next few lines, catching little beyond mentions of travel and something about earlier correspondence. Whoever had written it seemed rather irritated.

You cannot expect me to accept such a claim merely on your word.

What claim? There was no earlier letter from him. She reads on. The handwriting gets worse towards the bottom, the letters cramped together despite the size of the page, as though the write had grown impatient with the act of putting them there.

Whatever certainty you may feel concerning the child, I cannot share it.

...Well, that could be any child. The letter is signed off with a simple E. at the bottom. She sets it aside, reaching for the next.

This one is dated several months later, with the same ornate handwriting.

Valaire,

Your most recent letter has reached me. I am pleased to hear that you remain in good health, but I am afraid there is little else I can say that I have not said already.

Isabeau's eyes move faster down the page.

The circumstances of your pregnancy do not--

Her gaze flies to the date, then down to the lone initial signed at the bottom, before back at the word.

Pregnancy.

Her mouth has gone dry. She drops the letter, snatching up the rest.

...cannot offer the assurances you seek...

Another.

...no certainty that she is mine...

Another.

...regarding the girl...

The last.

...and I must ask you, for the last time, not to write again.

Isabeau stares at that line. There is more beneath it, but the words swim together before she can make sense of them. She blinks hard and lowers the page.

The neat line of letters she had spent so long rearranging is ruined. Some lie open across her skirts, others upside-down on the floor, their corners overlapping.

He had known.

The thought comes strangely, without any of the satisfaction she had thought it might bring.

He had known she was coming. He had known when she was born. Her mother had written to him again and again, and each time he had answered.

Just never for her.

She picks up one of the letters. A curved E. at the bottom. She checks another. E.

"What kind of name is E?" she mutters.

"A very short one."

She had almost forgotten Henri was there. He comes over and sits, apparently done looking through the cupboard. A bit of thread sticks to his shirt.

"Did you find anything?"

At her lack of reply, he reaches across her and takes a letter. This time, she lets him. He furrows his brow, squinting.

"So this is him?"

"I think so."

"E?"

"Apparently."

"Stupid name." He turns the letter over in his hand, briefly glancing at the back, before flicking it at her as he reads another.

Isabeau catches the paper, blinking. She had been so caught up in the words on the front that she forgot to check the back. She reads it now, and there his name is.

"...Edward," she mutters.

"Edward what?"

She shrugs.

"Oh, what a little bastard." He tosses the letter aside, taking another.

She looks at him briefly. "Do not."

He looks back at her. "What?"

"Do not say that?"

"Well, why not?"

She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. His gaze lingers on her for a second, almost bordering on sympathetic, before focusing on the letter again.

"...My point stands. He is a bastard." Henri puts the letter aside, having finished reading it. "What now?"

"...I do not know. Nothing."

"Nothing? Are you serious?"

She weakly glares at him. "What am I meant to do?"

"You are the one who turned the whole room upside-down looking for him."

"I was looking for something about him, and I found it."

"His name. Half of it."

She cannot deny that. One name is barely enough for anything. Isabeau gathers the letters up in her lap again, scanning the pages for anything she might have missed. There are mentions of journeys, people she does not know, places written as though he mother should already understand their significance. Nothing useful.

"There has to be something." Despite her words, she does not read more. What else is there to read?

"We already looked." Almost as if he has read her mind. Or used his common sense.

"We can look again."

A groan. "Isabeau."

"Come on. Maman knew who he was. Maybe--"

"Maybe Papa knows."

She stops, staring at him. "Are you silly? I am not asking him."

"Then who are you asking?"

Again, she has no reply.

"...Edward is a very English name. And--" she sifts through the papers suddenly, picking one out. "Here. It says he was in England!"

"Oh, yes. Edward from England. How could I have forgotten him?" He takes the letter, skimming it again. "Isabeau, half the men there are probably named Edward. And this was fifteen years ago."

"But he was there."

"Fifteen years ago."

"I heard the first time." She gathers the letters, retying the string around them.

He sits up, watching. "Why?"

"I want to keep them."

"I know that. Why on earth would you want letters from that bastard?"

Isabeau tightens the knot. "Maman kept them."

"...Alright, then." He glances away, before opening the closest drawer and reaching inside. "...Is this your tooth?"

"What? Hey--" She snatches the handker off him, cradling it in her hands. "Do not touch."

"Why did she keep your tooth?"

"None of your business."

"That is disgusting."

"You are disgusting. Shut up."

"Fine, keep it. Your precious little incisor."

"I will."

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