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author's note: lydia, her love for poetry, and that rakish fiend gilbert all belong to me. do not touch, or you will find yourself dragged by your hair through a thicket of thorn bushes and the wrath of all originally minded, self-respecting authors from past and future. you have been warned.
The problem was that Lydia didn’t quite know what word rhymed properly with “murder”.
She held her quill above the paper, watching as the ink splattered like puddles of rain onto the worn road of parchment. It was a satisfying sight, but it would be more delightful - in her opinion at least - if the drab black were instead bright scarlet, drops wrought not from a well of liquid coal, but the neck of a man.
A certain irksome, handsome, utterly frustrating man.
There was no denying that Mister Gilbert Fairfax (of the Middleton Fairfaxes, mind you, not the scandalous Fairfax-Yorks of Edmonton who were tied up in the unpleasant coop against the governor not a decade ago) was handsome. And irksome. And, at least to poor Lydia, quite frustrating.
It had all started over a line of poetry.
Not just any line of poetry, to be sure. It was a line of Wordsworth, the type of perfectly balanced, nature-ornamented delicacy that Lydia would mentally balance on her tongue like a cube of sugar and savor slowly, closing her eyes for every single syllable. Poetry was Lydia’s first love, right after the smell of fresh soap on her newly washed fingers, and Mother’s hot biscuits for dinner on a cold winter night.
Her mother once said that it was a pity that all the good poets in England were either married, of a distasteful status or political party affiliation, or dying of lack of recognition for their greatness. Lydia, the twelfth daughter of fourteen, seemed destined to remain bound to the words that captured her soul and wither away slowly - but in a delicate, beautiful manner - beside the fireplace without her absence ever being noticed. Because she was always so quiet, you see.
Of course, Mr. Fairfax had taken it upon himself to change that.
There was a sickening snap, and Lydia looked down, bewildered, to find her reddened, and until that moment wonderfully scented, fingers coated in ink. It was just as well. Lydia was quite sure that the Muses who smiled down on all great poets had turned a blind eye when her name was mentioned in the Great Book of Inspiration Seekers. Any other worthy weaver of words would have refrained from alliterating “silent suffering screams” and added a little more drama to “bloodied hands fumbling in rope”.
Gilbert Fairfax deserved retribution in a way that a poem could not deliver - or, at the very least, a poem written at Lydia’s hands. Like all girls of her age, you see, Lydia had the zeal of youth on her side, and the female’s long-lasting ability to hold a grudge. He had ruined Lydia’s private sessions of poetry with the masters, and, come Hell or high water, he would pay.
And, like the snap of her quill, inspiration struck Lydia with all the passion of a knife sliding deep into flesh. She snatched up a new sheet of parchment, readied her weapon, and laid her trap with great fervour.
The problem was that Lydia didn’t quite know what word rhymed properly with “murder”.
She held her quill above the paper, watching as the ink splattered like puddles of rain onto the worn road of parchment. It was a satisfying sight, but it would be more delightful - in her opinion at least - if the drab black were instead bright scarlet, drops wrought not from a well of liquid coal, but the neck of a man.
A certain irksome, handsome, utterly frustrating man.
There was no denying that Mister Gilbert Fairfax (of the Middleton Fairfaxes, mind you, not the scandalous Fairfax-Yorks of Edmonton who were tied up in the unpleasant coop against the governor not a decade ago) was handsome. And irksome. And, at least to poor Lydia, quite frustrating.
It had all started over a line of poetry.
Not just any line of poetry, to be sure. It was a line of Wordsworth, the type of perfectly balanced, nature-ornamented delicacy that Lydia would mentally balance on her tongue like a cube of sugar and savor slowly, closing her eyes for every single syllable. Poetry was Lydia’s first love, right after the smell of fresh soap on her newly washed fingers, and Mother’s hot biscuits for dinner on a cold winter night.
Her mother once said that it was a pity that all the good poets in England were either married, of a distasteful status or political party affiliation, or dying of lack of recognition for their greatness. Lydia, the twelfth daughter of fourteen, seemed destined to remain bound to the words that captured her soul and wither away slowly - but in a delicate, beautiful manner - beside the fireplace without her absence ever being noticed. Because she was always so quiet, you see.
Of course, Mr. Fairfax had taken it upon himself to change that.
There was a sickening snap, and Lydia looked down, bewildered, to find her reddened, and until that moment wonderfully scented, fingers coated in ink. It was just as well. Lydia was quite sure that the Muses who smiled down on all great poets had turned a blind eye when her name was mentioned in the Great Book of Inspiration Seekers. Any other worthy weaver of words would have refrained from alliterating “silent suffering screams” and added a little more drama to “bloodied hands fumbling in rope”.
Gilbert Fairfax deserved retribution in a way that a poem could not deliver - or, at the very least, a poem written at Lydia’s hands. Like all girls of her age, you see, Lydia had the zeal of youth on her side, and the female’s long-lasting ability to hold a grudge. He had ruined Lydia’s private sessions of poetry with the masters, and, come Hell or high water, he would pay.
And, like the snap of her quill, inspiration struck Lydia with all the passion of a knife sliding deep into flesh. She snatched up a new sheet of parchment, readied her weapon, and laid her trap with great fervour.
Current Mood: irritated
Current Music: Eurythmics - Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)
Current Location: Home, home on the range...
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