Droplets from the Inkwell

She stood before the mirror in her gown. A servant ran a stiff brush through her thick brown curls. Occasionally, she’d wince as the servant would snag the brush in a tangle. At those moments, she would breathe deeply and think of her favorite poem, hoping her hair would be sorted out soon enough. She caught a glimpse of her mother’s reflection. “It shouldn’t be much longer, Mother. Melanie is almost done.”

The older woman sighed and glided across the room. “I should hope not. Though, I do love how beautiful your curls look when they’re properly brushed.”

She snorted. “You can have my curls. I would still much prefer to keep my hair shorter and free of their tangles.”

“That style was fine when you were a child, Angelique. But now that you are coming into an adulthood, you need to present yourself as is appropriate for a woman of minor nobility.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, heaven forbid the daughter of the duke of some forgotten plot of land not dress as if she was the princess of the whole realms.”

“Not this argument again, my dear. Your position may seem small to you, but presenting yourself like this is a chance for you to lift yourself to higher status by catching the eyes of a Duke, Lord, or Prince of more importance.”

She snorted and jerked her head, causing Melanie to accidentally tug on her hair. She grimaced at the sudden pain. “I’m sorry m’lady,” the servant said, horrified.

“It’s not our fault, Melanie,” Angelique assured her. “You’re just doing the job you have been set to by my ambitious mother. In reality, she probably wishes that you were her daughter, as you listen to her orders without question.”

Her mother clicked her tongue. “Such insubordination. And yes, I do have ambitions. Do you blame me? My ambitions have kept this family better fed on more than one occasion.”

“Yes Mother, I know that. And I do appreciate it. But, I do not share your ambition, at least not when it comes to climbing the royal ladder.”

I tapped my foot, counting out the beats. My solo was coming up. I took a deep breath and raised my flute to my lips. My cue came.

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I stood still as she adjusted the hem of my robe, sticking pins in as she got each part to the right length. She took care to get it even.

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I knelt beside the creek and cupped my hands together. Plunging them into the cold water, I leaned forward as I drank the refreshing water.

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I methodically ran the sanding block over the wood, carefully following its grain. I listened as the rough paper made a scratching sound.

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I curled my toes into the sand beneath my feet. I could smell the brine in the seawater which came up to my chest. Another wave lifted me.

The wooden double doors creaked as I opened them. I stepped into the dimly lit room and turned to one side. The doors swung shut as I pulled a lantern from its holder to light my way. I walked down this side of the room, looking at the plaques that hung from the ceiling in the middle of each aisle. I finally found the one marked “Histories -- Northern Tribes” and walked underneath it. I glanced at the scrolls that lined the shelves on either side of me, trying to make out the smaller plaques that were spaced every three feet or so. I’d swing my lantern closer, trying to cast more light on the engraved words.

After several minutes, I found a plaque that read “First War between the Hojari and Nothun.” I estimated that there were between fifteen and twenty scrolls on the shelf above the marker. Ancient parchment crackled softly as I picked up each manuscript, read the archivist’s script on the outside, then set it back. On my sixth attempt, I found one that indicated that it was recorded by a monk as dictated by two storytellers of the Nothun tribe. I smiled and tucked the scroll into the carrying case I had attached to my belt. This would surely the information I had been seeking.

Snow and wind whipped my face as I trudged up the hill. I pulled the scarf tighter around my neck, trying to hold in my body's warmth.

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He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me tight. I buried my face in his neck and shoulder as he stroked my hair with his hand. I shivered.

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I breathed deeply, relishing the smell of chocolate chip cookies baking. The last tray was in the oven and I was washing the mixing bowl.

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I stood there in the backyard, letting the cold rain wash over my body. Rivulets ran from my neck and shoulders down my chest and back.

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I sighed as he traced his fingers lightly up my spine. I then grunted as he pressed the heel of his palms between my shoulder blades.

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He took my hand in his and squeezed it firmly. I looked up into his eyes, and he smiled. My cheeks reddened as I leaned forward to kiss him.

We lay in bed together, a sheet and down-filled comforter covering us. He rolled onto his side to face me and propped himself up on an elbow. Our eyes met and I smiled shyly. He caressed my cheek with his hand, and I pressed my lips into wrist. He continued the motion, his hand running down my neck and coming to rest in the middle of my chest. I moaned and he leaned in closely, our lips less than an inch apart. I lifted my head from the pillow and our lips met, melting into a soft, sensuous kiss. I broke the contact off, resting my head again and he lowered his face to my shoulder.

I sat in the darkness on my front stoop, watching as the occasional person or group walked by. The soft rubber of their sneakers’ soles still made a soft padding sound as it came into contact with the sidewalk, creating a sparse rhythm in an otherwise silent night. I pondered what errands or leisure plans would have them wondering along the side street I lived on.

Occasionally, a straggler would glance in my direction and see me. I would smile politely and nod my head. Most moved their lips as if to offer some greeting, but remained silent, apparently having thought better of it.