Living Or Otherwise - Somewhere Else To Be

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Henri is late.

He has been late for almost an hour now, although Isabeau has already decided after the first fifteen minutes that he would not be coming at all. She sits on the bottom step with her chin resting on her hand, watching her father rearrange the same three bags by the door for what must be the third time.

"Why are we still here?" She whines, sitting up to crack her back.

Her father sighs, glancing at the door. "He will be back."

"You said the same thing half an hour ago."

"And I remain hopeful."

She sighs, flopping back down on the steps. "Well, I do not."

One of the bags by the door is starting to sag at the bottom. Isabeau had packed that one herself, filling it with the unfinished garments from her mother's workroom: two half-trimmed bonnets, several lengths of ribbon, a bundle of lace, and something wrapped in brown paper which her father had asked her not to open. That was the lightest bag, and Henri had promised to carry the heaviest. Naturally, he was nowhere to be seen.

A few minutes pass by in a mildly irritated silence, before Isabeau sits back up.

"That useless lump. I really do not think he is coming."

He does not answer immediately, his fingers drumming lightly against the wall.

"...No," he says eventually. "I suppose he is not."

His voice is slightly heavy, and the tinge of disappointment tugs at Isabeau. She pauses.

"...We can manage fine without him. Do not be like that."

He glances at the largest bag. "...Eh. Can we?"

"Well, you can."

"Ah. Lovely."

Before long the two of them are walking down the street, bags over shoulders. It is a very late afternoon, and the sun is close to disappearing behind the decorated townhouses along the way. They would have left earlier, if Henri had bothered to come on time. The nerve of him.

Her father is carrying the two heaviest bags, and it is hard to miss the way his round cheeks have gone pink with the effort. Isabeau adjusts her bag over her shoulder, before she holds her free arm out.

"Here. Give me that one."

"Non. Absolutely not." His glasses have slipped down his nose a little, and he pushes them up with his palm.

"Why not?"

"I quite enjoy seeing you with a working spine."

"Oh, come on. It is not that heavy."

"Why, you have complained about yours maybe three times now."

"Okay. That is different."

"Oh, of course. Naturally." He nods, and his glasses slip again. A woman is walking the opposite way to them on the cobblestoned street, and Isabeau has to duck behind her father to make room on the narrow path.

As she reappears by his side again, she catches sight of a bit of ribbon sticking out of her bag. She reaches down to fix it as they walk.

"...What will happen to all this, when we drop it off?"

"Well... They will finish it, I imagine."

"Who?"

"Someone who knows how to."

"Maman knew how to."

"Oui."

"I mean, like... properly."

A short silence.

"Oui. I know what you meant." His voice is quiet.

Another silence. Isabeau's mind wanders, though she remains vaguely aware of her father huffing and puffing beside her on the street.

Her father. The words come strangely to her now.

She had not looked at the letters again since tying them back together, though she had thought about them plenty. Edward. England. No certainty that she is mine.

She glances sideways at Edouard. He is still red in the face from the weight of the bags, his moustache slightly damp with sweat as he readjusts one slipping from his arm.

"...Papa?"

"Mm?"

"Did you ever want a daughter?"

He gives her a sideways glance, and the surprise is evident on his face. "I have a daughter."

"Not what I was asking."

"Well, then, I dislike your question."

"Seriously! Papa."

"I am being serious." He shifts the bag higher against his side, grimacing with the effort. "What sort of question is that?"

"It is a simple one."

"It is not."

"Answer it! Did you?"

He sighs through his nose. "I suppose... I never thought much about it."

Her face falls slightly. "Oh."

"Oh, come now. Do not make that face."

"I am not."

"You are. You have your mother's talent for it."

She looks away. They are quiet for a few steps.

"...Well,  I wanted Henri," he says eventually. "Before he was born, as in. A son. I thought about all the things I might teach him. All the things we might do together." He pauses. "Then he arrived and seemed determined to make me regret it."

Isabeau snorts despite herself.

"But a daughter?" He shakes his head lightly. "I do not think I ever particularly wanted one."

Her smile drops.

"Until I had one, that is."

She looks at him. "That is not fair."

"How do you mean?"

"You did not have me. Maman did."

"Well, of course." His expression softens slightly. "I married your mother. You were there."

"Just there. What, like furniture?"

"Very loud furniture," he chuckles, but his face settles again after a moment. "I understood there was no having one without the other. I would not have wanted there to be."

She looks down at the passing cobblestones, adjusting her bag. "Even when I hated you?"

"Why, especially then. You gave me something to do."

Another silence, or as silent as it could be with her father's heavy breathing. She is unsure whether or not that was the answer she wanted, and it sits strangely in her chest, warm and uncomfortable.

"...It all worked out in the end," he smiles under his moustache. "I got you. You got Henri."

"And a fat load of help he is. He promised he would come this time."

"Ah, well. He is a young man."

She huffs. "So?"

"Young men like him have an extraordinary capacity for finding somewhere else to be."

"Were you like that?"

Her father tilts his head to one side. "Er... No."

"Then how would you know?"

"Well, I raised one."

She cannot argue with that.

"Still. This is just plain rude of him."

"Come now, Isabeau. He has always wandered."

"Not this much."

He stays silent, and she glances at him.

"Has he?"

"...No. Not this much." He coughs lightly, shifting his bag. "Ah, he is probably with his friends and such. I will speak to him tonight."

She snorts. "If he even turns up."

Despite her snub, a hint of concern nags at her. Henri had never been particularly gifted at making friends. Enemies, maybe. Isabeau thinks vaguely of a fair years ago, of candied nuts and an apple tucked into a paper cornet, and a boy twice Henri's width driving a fist into his face.

She had never found out what happened there. Not properly, at least. Henri had nearly killed somebody, or so they said, but any attempt to ask him about it afterwards had been met with a grunt, an insult, or a sudden inability to hear her.

Seven years had passed since then. Surely he was not still getting himself beat up by the same four boys. Other boys, perhaps.

That thought does little to reassure her.

By the time they return home, Isabeau's arms feel considerably lighter and her feet feel considerably worse. She is grateful, at least, that nobody at the boutique had tried to make them stay. She waits behind her father as he fumbles with the key, rubbing one aching wrist with her other hand.

"Do you think he is back?" Her voice cracks slightly from weariness, and she clears her throat.

"Who?"

She stares at the back of his head.

"Oh, Henri." Her father finally manages the lock. "Perhaps."

"Mm."

He pushes open the door, and Isabeau smells the food before she sees anything else.

"You took your time."

Henri is standing over the table with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, setting down a steaming dish as if he had been there all afternoon. His hair is tied loosely from his face, and there is a smear of something on his cheek.

Isabeay slowly turns to look at her father. He looks equally unimpressed, but whatever reprimand had been gathering on his face loses some of its force at the sight of the table.

"Henri, where were you?"

He ignores him, reaching for another bowl. "Did you manage everything, then?"

"Where were you?"

"Yes or no?"

"...Yes," her father relents, sitting wearily at the table. Isabeau frowns, stepping forward.

"You said you would come."

His hands still briefly. "I know."

"We waited for you!"

"I know."

"For nearly an hour!"

"Isabeau, I said I know." His voice comes sharper. She huffs, sitting at the table. There was no use trying to get anywhere with him.

At least supper looked nice. The bread was slightly mysterious, but the soup made up for it. She dips a piece in and takes a bite, leaning back.

Henri has turned to retrieve something from the hearth, and the fabric across one shoulder pulls strangely. There is a narrow tear near the seam, poorly hidden beneath his waistcoat.

She frowns. "What happened to your shirt?"

Henri looks down. "What?"

"No, up there. Your shoulder."

"Oh. Caught it on something."

"On what?"

"Something sharp."

"A sharp what?"

He turns to her, putting his bowl on the table. "Look, do you want dinner or not?"

"I will when you tell me--"

"Enough, both of you." Her father cuts in, taking off his glasses. "Sit down."

"I barely even said anything," Henri huffs, obliging and dropping himself in his chair.

"And what an achievement for you. Eat."

Isabeau can practically feel an angry retort just on the tip of her tongue, but she shuts up and stuffs another piece of soggy bread in her mouth. Still, her eyes drift back to her brother.

Perhaps she had been right earlier. Maybe he really had found another collection of idiots to fight with. It would hardly be unlike him. The years had done little to improve his temper, and even less to improve his judgement. She studies his pale face for bruises, but finds none. His bony knuckles, from what she can see around his fork, look fine enough. That should reassure her.

It does not.

"Stop staring at me," Henri grunts, shoving another forkful in his mouth.

"What? I was looking behind you."

He glances over his shoulder, and she takes the chance to snatch a piece of his bread off his plate.

"Wha-- Hey." He kicks her lightly under the table. "Give that back."

"No. Mine now," she grins, taking a bite. She grimaces, before dropping it back on his plate. "Never mind. Yours is wet too."

"It is supposed to be," he huffs, shepherding the bread back on the plate with his fork.

"Mm... With what?" Her father asks. He does not seem too keen on the bread either, but his soup is steadily finishing.

Henri pauses. "...Water."

"...Ah. I will just..." He pushes the plate towards Isabeau softly.

"Oh, come on. I went through all the trouble of making you two dinner, and this is how I am thanked." Henri takes the bread, putting the whole lot on his plate. One rolls away, and he picks it and presses it on top, like a little mountain. "Honestly. Nobody appreciates me here."

"Well. I appreciated you more before the wet bread, if it helps."

"It is not that wet."

Her father reaches out and prods one of the remaining pieces on Isabeau's plate with his fork. A little water seeps out.

Henri stares. "...You left it too long."

"On the plate?"

"Yes."

Isabeau snorts, and he kicks her again under the table. She returns it harder, but narrowly misses and hits her father instead.

"Ow-- Isabeau!"

"That was Henri."

"You little liar."

"Both of you, please."

Henri mutters something under his breath and returns to his mountain of bread. She smiles despite herself, picking up her spoon again.

Several hours later, Isabeau lies awake with one leg outside the covers.

The room is far too warm. She has turned her pillow twice already, kicking the blanket off the bed, opened the window, retrieved the blanket after getting cold, and climbed back beneath it, but still sleep refuses to come.

Somewhere outside, a carriage rattles faintly over the cobblestones before fading into the distance. She shuts her eyes again. Nothing.

Isabeau sighs, rolling onto her side. Perhaps it was the wet bread keeping her up. She can feel it sitting in her stomach. She pulls up the covers, trying again, and a floorboard creaks downstairs. Her eyes open.

She waits.

Another creak. Slightly softer, but definitely there. Then the faint clink of something metallic. She lifts her head off the pillow, reaching blindly for her glasses, before sitting up and slipping them on. The room sharpens around her at the same time as she hears the scrape of the bolt against wood. Someone is opening the front door. She gets up, slipping past her bedroom door and making for the stairs.

By the time she catches sight of him, Henri is halfway out the door.

"Henri?"

He nearly jumps, his hand tightening on the handle as he turns to look at her. She stares at the coat over his shoulders, then at the sliver of dark street visible beyond him.

"...You cannot be serious."

He glances outside, then at her. "Go back to bed."

"No way! What are you--"

"Isabeau..."

"You have been home for, what, four hours?"

"Five."

"Oh, forgive me." She reaches the bottom step, glaring. "What is it outside that makes you want to keep leaving?"

"Nothing. None of your business."

"Do you even like being here?"

He blinks. "Sorry?"

"You are never here. Papa is miserable."

"He was miserable before I went out. He always is."

"That is not the point!"

"Then what is?!"

His voice is louder than usual, and she falls silent. What is she meant to say, without sounding like a baby?

A couple seconds of silence pass, Isabeau staring at him reproachfully. Henri is looking outside, fingers drumming against the doorknob, before he runs a hand through his hair and tugs at the back.

"...Sorry," he mumbles, looking away pointedly, before clearing his throat. "Go to sleep. I will come back soon."

"Then let me come with you."

His fingers still against the doorknob. "No way."

"Why not?"

"I said no."

"Oh, come on. Stop being ridiculous. If you are only going to see your friends, I can--"

"Isabeau." He turns to look at her properly, his hand still fisted in the back of his hair. "No."

She blinks. There is something strange on his face now. Not irritation, exactly. Whatever it is, it wipes the beginnings of her next argument from her tongue.

"...Fine. Be like that."

Henri watches her for another moment. "And do not follow me."

Her eyebrow quirks slightly. "I was not going to."

"Okay. Good."

"Maybe I will now."

"Do not."

She waits for the insult that would usually follow, but it never comes. Henri is simply watching her with that look in his dark eyes, before he turns and steps through the doorway.

"Go to bed."

The door shuts behind him. Isabeau stands at the bottom of the steps, staring at it. She waits until she can no longer hear his footsteps outside, and then a couple more seconds for good measure.

Do not follow me.

What an odd thing to say.

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