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rainbowfic2019-10-06 05:54 pm
thisbluespirit) wrote in rainbowfic2019-10-06 05:54 pm
Entry tags:
Acanthus #8 [Divide & Rule]
Name: Tightly Woven
Story: Divide & Rule
Colors: Acanthus #8 (silk cord)
Supplies and Styles:
Word Count: 701
Rating: PG
Warnings: Brief references to death/loss.
Notes: 1930, 1947, 1949 Julia Graves, Christy Graves, Edward Iveson. (I thought I'd use this colour for some character studies, which might help as introductions, too, maybe.)
Summary Julia, and the ties that bind . . . and unravel.
***
1930
Julia unfastens the curtain cord, lets it fall over the window before slipping through to sit in the window seat and watch the street below, sounds from within the house now muffled and safely distant. She’s sat here and watched many times before – there have been parties, with men in evening dress and women in long silk or satin frocks; other days there have been stern men in suits at the door, followed by vans to take things away.
Today the street is empty save for one large black car outside and angry voices inside. Uncle Lionel has come to call.
“He’s going to take you now, I bet. He’s given up on me,” says Christy of their uncle as he joins her, the curtain falling softly closed again behind him. He presses hands and nose up against the glass and whistles, craning his head to get a better look, despite the old nursery bars. “Is that a Rolls?”
Julia, at eight, has learned (mostly) never to believe any of Christy’s horror stories, and she isn’t interested in cars, so she ignores him. Mother isn’t going to let Uncle Lionel carry her off, not to his house or to the Aunts’ or anywhere else. “Are we in trouble again?”
“Must be,” he says. “He never comes here otherwise.”
Julia stares down at the street. Somewhere she feels threads are unravelling; the threads that bind and stifle. She pictures the household emptying out of all its unnecessary parts again.
“Good,” she says, her gaze still fixed down below. “I like it better when it’s just us.”
1947
“It’s what your brother would have wanted,” they say, talking of Rudy in the past tense. Julia’s arrived in Berlin too late to know if it’s true. Maybe it isn’t – they want something from her, after all, this so-called peace group. They’re after another willing pair of hands, or perhaps another sacrifice to the cause.
It could be true, though, and that possibility gives her something when she has nothing. It binds her to them, letting her feel that there’s something left of Rudy, of the rest of her family. Maybe they’ve not entirely come undone yet.
1949
The first thing she changes once she’s sure that Edward won’t mind (it’s not as if she’s a proper wife) are the curtains. Red in the dining room in place of the awful things that were presumably once deep green and have faded almost to a dingy brown, light green for the study, and yellow for the spare room, after she’s painted it to match.
The window sill is wide enough to sit on, so she does, the curtains closed behind her, and she watches the street outside as the last daylight fades first into the grey of dusk and then into night, navy broken by orange street lamps. Edward’s late again.
When he does arrive, he pulls back the curtains. “What is this? Hide and seek?”
“No,” said Julia. “Just admiring my handiwork from the other side. Don’t worry. Dinner is being kept warm in the oven.” She glances at her watch. “And no doubt dry as dust by now. Sorry.”
He perches on the edge of the window sill next to her. “I didn’t ask about dinner.”
“No,” said Julia and smiles at him as she sits up, leaning forward to brush a speck of dirt from his jacket, and straighten his tie; small possessive acts. She won’t quite be his, not yet, but she must have him be hers. “I’m sure you would have, though, darling.” (Look what she’s caught at the end of her line, except it’s not quite what she expected, and it’s alive and alarming. She hasn’t prepared herself for this.)
Edward tilts his head fractionally, eyeing her with amused wariness. “Julia. Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes,” she says, pulling herself up with a shake. “Now you’re home, of course.”
His brow furrows, wondering how to take her jokes, as ever. Julia laughs, letting go of her odd mood, and holds out a hand to him to pull her up.
If she makes the house hers, room by room, she’ll get its owner, too, curtains and all.
***
Story: Divide & Rule
Colors: Acanthus #8 (silk cord)
Supplies and Styles:
Word Count: 701
Rating: PG
Warnings: Brief references to death/loss.
Notes: 1930, 1947, 1949 Julia Graves, Christy Graves, Edward Iveson. (I thought I'd use this colour for some character studies, which might help as introductions, too, maybe.)
Summary Julia, and the ties that bind . . . and unravel.
***
1930
Julia unfastens the curtain cord, lets it fall over the window before slipping through to sit in the window seat and watch the street below, sounds from within the house now muffled and safely distant. She’s sat here and watched many times before – there have been parties, with men in evening dress and women in long silk or satin frocks; other days there have been stern men in suits at the door, followed by vans to take things away.
Today the street is empty save for one large black car outside and angry voices inside. Uncle Lionel has come to call.
“He’s going to take you now, I bet. He’s given up on me,” says Christy of their uncle as he joins her, the curtain falling softly closed again behind him. He presses hands and nose up against the glass and whistles, craning his head to get a better look, despite the old nursery bars. “Is that a Rolls?”
Julia, at eight, has learned (mostly) never to believe any of Christy’s horror stories, and she isn’t interested in cars, so she ignores him. Mother isn’t going to let Uncle Lionel carry her off, not to his house or to the Aunts’ or anywhere else. “Are we in trouble again?”
“Must be,” he says. “He never comes here otherwise.”
Julia stares down at the street. Somewhere she feels threads are unravelling; the threads that bind and stifle. She pictures the household emptying out of all its unnecessary parts again.
“Good,” she says, her gaze still fixed down below. “I like it better when it’s just us.”
1947
“It’s what your brother would have wanted,” they say, talking of Rudy in the past tense. Julia’s arrived in Berlin too late to know if it’s true. Maybe it isn’t – they want something from her, after all, this so-called peace group. They’re after another willing pair of hands, or perhaps another sacrifice to the cause.
It could be true, though, and that possibility gives her something when she has nothing. It binds her to them, letting her feel that there’s something left of Rudy, of the rest of her family. Maybe they’ve not entirely come undone yet.
1949
The first thing she changes once she’s sure that Edward won’t mind (it’s not as if she’s a proper wife) are the curtains. Red in the dining room in place of the awful things that were presumably once deep green and have faded almost to a dingy brown, light green for the study, and yellow for the spare room, after she’s painted it to match.
The window sill is wide enough to sit on, so she does, the curtains closed behind her, and she watches the street outside as the last daylight fades first into the grey of dusk and then into night, navy broken by orange street lamps. Edward’s late again.
When he does arrive, he pulls back the curtains. “What is this? Hide and seek?”
“No,” said Julia. “Just admiring my handiwork from the other side. Don’t worry. Dinner is being kept warm in the oven.” She glances at her watch. “And no doubt dry as dust by now. Sorry.”
He perches on the edge of the window sill next to her. “I didn’t ask about dinner.”
“No,” said Julia and smiles at him as she sits up, leaning forward to brush a speck of dirt from his jacket, and straighten his tie; small possessive acts. She won’t quite be his, not yet, but she must have him be hers. “I’m sure you would have, though, darling.” (Look what she’s caught at the end of her line, except it’s not quite what she expected, and it’s alive and alarming. She hasn’t prepared herself for this.)
Edward tilts his head fractionally, eyeing her with amused wariness. “Julia. Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes,” she says, pulling herself up with a shake. “Now you’re home, of course.”
His brow furrows, wondering how to take her jokes, as ever. Julia laughs, letting go of her odd mood, and holds out a hand to him to pull her up.
If she makes the house hers, room by room, she’ll get its owner, too, curtains and all.
***
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