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[ The small, well-kept pony cart rolls happily down the field tracks and she keeps her reins light, trying not to disturb George's mouth unnecessarily. He can be somewhat slow on the uptake, however, and she's long since learned to strike a careful balance between treating him with as much politeness and respect as you'd afford any regular unicorn - and keeping him on track, so to speak, because George is the type of pony who'd fail to pay attention, even if there's a gigantic tree standing in his way.

Next to her sits Claude Legrand. Katarina glances sideways at her, expression neutral - she's been a terrible hostess this weekend, leaving the other woman more or less to fend for herself against Mrs. Cornfoot who'd asked so politely about another visit, just for the chance to speak to the poetess - bless her, if she'd said goddess instead, Katarina would not have batted an eye. The girl's absolutely besotted and who can blame her, really? She shifts slightly in her seat. In a cart like this, they're really seated rather close and it's a nice change from this weekend, from how she's been so thoroughly away.

She's slept in today, has Katarina, for poor Penelope still sticks to her conscience like they all do in the days after her intervention and her sleep has been difficult as a consequence, has kept her wandering at night, talking to her spiders and feeling utterly out of sorts. Today's proving better. Her company's better, too. ]

You must have patience with old George. He doesn't go very fast even at his best - and these days, I believe he's eating too much.

[ The pony flicks one ear backwards in a silent comment. She ignores him, her attention focused on Claude. ]

[ She has enjoyed all parts of Brightlake Estate thus far, having mainly wandered the indoors, the grand kitchens, the living rooms, tea rooms, the grander still library and the terraces that are like little glimpses into a greener, more flourishing reality. What she hasn't familiarized herself with at all are the aspects of Brightlake which make it a farm in the workings. Claude was born and has been brought up within the city borders of Paris, she knows little of cattle and sheep, even of horses, although they are more often seen in the street scene, of course. She has most certainly never been close enough to one to touch it and won't start now, so much is given. When Katarina had the cart pulled out and the stable lads harnessed the fat, little pony, Claude had stayed at a wholly safe distance, watching in equal parts fascination and horror at the thought that she would have to sit in that thing. While it drove. By gods!

Now that she is sitting here, however, it isn't altogether bad. Her proximity to Katarina has increased noticeably, their thighs touching through the thick blankets they are wrapped in, their shoulders bumping every now and then when they move over an unevenness in the... ah, road might not be the correct term, but a trail, then. Leading somewhere only Katarina knows. Again, this assertiveness, the leadership. Claude finds it very attractive. As if the way the other woman is holding the reins between her fingers is a physical image of it, something potent and meaningful. Symbolic. Claude looks at her out the corner of her eye, the dark hair, the porcelain skin, the doll-like features only emphasized by those big eyes she has. How her Queen has been able to stay unmarried, looking so perfectly woman - with no parents to...

Mrs. Cornfoot returned to Katarina's manor in order to speak with Claude again. Katarina herself was unable to attend, so it had only been the two of them and the girl had wanted to know from where the poetess knew her? Claude had replied, truthfully, that she still didn't feel she knew her very well, to which the girl had replied: She is a name to so many, a story, surely you know the story? And Claude had been forced to admit that she knew no stories about Katarina. Only her name. As well as her face. ]

Watching you steer him forward, My Queen. [ A slight pause, time to breathe as they run across another bump. ] One shouldn't wonder as to how you have governed all this on your own.

Edited 2018-07-23 18:26 (UTC)

[ The pony waddles on, the wheels of the cart whining now and then, nothing concerning. Around them, the trees along the field stand quietly, leaves rustling now and then in the wake of the occasional breeze. Claude's question carries across the small distance between them easily but Katarina takes a moment to reflect all the same, something inside her chest curling up on itself. It's always been like that, when it comes to the accident. To everything associated with it. She's never quite been able to identify the feeling, except for its visceral echoes; the chill down her spine, the tightening all too close to her heart. Supposedly, it might be sorrow - but from what she knows, sorrow should not be so easily discarded again. ]

That's kind of you. [ It's mostly an automatic answer, a brief touch of politeness and she's certain Claude will recognise it just as that and little more. She looks straight ahead for a few seconds before continuing, her voice blank. Untouched. ] It would have been a harsh task indeed, if my dear uncle had not stepped in and helped. He managed the practical and economical aspects of the estate for many years, leaving me to grow and develop in peace.

[ She pulls the right rein, urging George down a narrower path through the forrest area. With an audible snort, he complies. Around them, the air darkens as trees block out most of the the sunlight. Instead, it falls across the trail in patches of light, wild and seemingly random. ]

It's no trouble, though. [ She gives Claude a small smile, neither cold nor distant. ] If you couldn't tell, I'm quite happy, taking charge.

Amidst everything else that I imagine it must be, it is impressive. That you have grown from it.

[ Orphaned children don't make for a subject matter Claude knows a terrible lot about, not in theory and not in practice. She knows of the horror stories the newspapers can sometimes report, little boys and girls fallen into the altogether wrong hands, grown-ups with no sense of moral or, more importantly, pity. However, it sounds like Katarina was fortunate. Her dear uncle was not unfair in his dealings of her wealth - and someone must have taken care of her on the more practical level. Helped her dress in the mornings, tugged her in at night. There is much to tell that the other woman doesn't touch upon at all and her even tone of voice dictates that neither is it something to be touched upon, necessarily. She doesn't come off as reserved, not as such, but there is a -- how can she put it, her Queen seems to only skirt the surface. Her Queen seems happy to stay there and venture no deeper. Claude accepts the unspoken request, ah, no, it is more of an order when rolling off Katarina's tongue like that, isn't it? As she says herself, she is quite happy, taking charge.

Claude focuses her attentions on the nature around them, the forest thickening and the light thinning into patches across the trail ahead, criss-crossing in a pattern not unlike fine, thin lace. The cuffs, perhaps, on a woman's dress. Or a collar piece. The most delicate places on a garment and on a woman, close to the pulse points, where the blood runs close to the surface. The invitation in those last few words hangs between them for a long moment while the cart and the little, fat pony in front of it move further into the woods where all is shade and chill. Then she accepts it for what it is, a diversion. She lets herself be led away from the original subject matter and down a different path, less invasive, less private, if not less personal. Their bodies are still pushed rather closely together, Her Majesty's and Claude's, the trail having grown increasingly uneven now and the whole cart with them inside it jumping up and down and to the sides, merrily.

Responding to the smile she is given with one of her own, softer than her usual expression, Claude follows, but slowly. After all, she cannot let go of Katarina's story so easily. ]

Your assertiveness is one of your most prominent traits, of course. Though, it was not the first thing I noticed about you.

[ She raises one eyebrow slightly, clucking her tongue at George just for the sake of it, seeing as he's clearly beginning to eye the vegetation along the sides of the path. It stretches onwards throughout the small bit of forest and by the end, it opens up into a large, grassy meadow surrounding the lake. For now, however, they remain amongst the shadows, just as Claude remains on the subject of her, though she's been gracious enough to move forward in time. Still in the past, yes, but closer to the present and that's how she prefers it, Katarina, for the present is where she keeps her focus.

The first thing I noticed about you. She thinks back on a few nights ago; Claude, reading her poetry aloud and causing a right stir in her social circle. Its echoes remain even today, like the aftermath of a small earthquake, shuddering underneath an otherwise safe, nearly untouchable foundation. Mrs. Cornfoot, no doubt, has experienced a true, honest epiphany, though the girl doesn't know it yet. Katarina wouldn't begrudge her a respite, if only of the mental kind, from that husband of hers, though such things are never simple, either. They knew it then, in their own ways, the English ladies - that Claude had brought something with her into the room, something that would touch them with all its complicated promises. Whispers of more.

Katarina, perhaps, even more than the others. ]

You leave me curious now, my dear. What did you notice?

[ They are moving through nature that borders mainly on the brightness of the lake, undoubtedly the geographical feature which has given the estate its name, the forest path brief and ending, up ahead, in meadow - shadow and heavy tree crowns giving way to lightness and cloud-splattered blue skies. There is a symbolic value to it that Claude couldn't overlook, even if she wanted to, even if she were not so deeply immersed in the Symbolist movement, bathing in its rivers, basking in its sunset glow.

Although Mrs. Cornfoot has lifted a corner of the blanket hiding the Queen's no less fascinating figure, telling Claude of her deceased parents, giving away little snippets of information along the vein of she has insisted on staying unmarried, no one knows for certain why, as you can tell, she could have anyone, with her looks and her riches or she is always hosting some party or meeting or other, one can be certain that during any given week, there is an invitation waiting, a majority of what constitutes the One Katarina everyone around here speaks of lies shrouded in darkness still. She retains her mystery, adding question to question for every layer that is peeled away from the one underneath.

It isn't that she seems in any way dishonest or that she lacks authenticity, nothing so unattractive, rather she only puts on display the pieces she deems necessary - and there is a great self-control to it, a great strength that Claude admires endlessly. It is British, yes, naturally, but it is also so very personal, regal with an almost magical draw. Claude feels not unlike the moths and the bees from their first meeting, buzzing around the other woman and being gently wafted to the side, again and again.

For the time being, she remains in her seat in the cart, looking to the side and considering how best to explain to Katarina the image that comes to her mind first, when she thinks of her. That initial moment of contact between them. The mask held up, then dropping slightly. Another symbol, surely. ]

The first time you looked at me, it was through the holes of your mask, but you soon let it drop ever so slightly, enough that your gaze that had lain in shadow suddenly shone. [ Claude shifts in her seat, turns her attention from their surrounding tapestry to the stage between them, a long stretch of politenesses and appertaining reactions. The distance is minimal, yet their closeness never exceeds what is appropriate. She frowns, twists her fingers in the blankets, just once. ] Your eyes, then, carried over from anonymity to acquaintance. They have become your most focal point to me, those eyes, that look, the one aspect of yourself that you never hold back.

[ As they move onwards, the meadow stretched out in front of them and George's ears turning with a suspicious frequency (listening in, the rascal!), Claude's particular sense of directness carries through in her voice, word for word. As such, there's no mistaking the truth in what she says, the earnest nature of it, which Katarina can't help but appreciate. Amongst her circle of social butterflies - such fragile insects, aren't they - things are rarely what they seem, always wrapped and re-wrapped in layers to protect the status quo from anything that might overwhelm it. Claude, however, seems to have few concerns in that regard. Though she's by no means uncouth or rude, there's something about the way she speaks that feels, well, yes. Liberating, is the word.

As if for just a moment, what you see truly is what you get.

There's a bit of irony to it, too, considering her chosen occupation. ]

It is difficult, holding anything back around you. [ Katarina's tone of voice is quiet, completely at ease, though her gaze does waver slightly when she continues. Speaking so frankly about others isn't in itself foreign but something about this context - about how close they are, not just in the physical sense - makes her feel... strangely exposed. Liberty, it seems, is as double-edged as everything else. ] You looked at me, Claude, with such an honest demeanour - talk to me, it said, engage with me - this is how I've come to know you, too. A person who asks for tangibles, even as you live and breathe that symbolism of yours.

[ She pulls the reins, steering left around the lake. Completely by habit, she adds a please, George, we go left today beneath her breath and the pony snorts, shaking its head lightly and upping the pace. Easily, she ignores the many small voices rising up from the grasses by the lakeside, her focus very much on Claude, even if her gaze isn't. ]

You are the enigma, my Queen, not I.

[ The lake stretches out on their left, as the cart turns to one side, following the shore and the fat, little pony dutifully pulls its weight. Claude watches the animal, its ellipses for ears, its bushy mane and constantly moving tail while listening to Katarina putting her own self into words. Very few of her nearest friends, whether they work in writing or not, have been able to pin her down so effortlessly and so beautifully, too. If nothing else - after all, it is rather fear-inducing to be seen so thoroughly, dear gods, she could as well be naked - Claude always appreciates people who have a way with words and when it is Katarina who takes the lead down some path of speech, she appreciates it doubly, doesn't she?

It is difficult, holding anything back around you, she began and Claude smiles, perhaps rather sillily, letting her eyes follow the surface of the lake out to where the sun, which has been shining only on special occasions while she has been here and today is obviously one such, casts its rays out across the water, creating a special shine of gold and shimmer. Magical, Claude has often thought of Brightlake Estate and of its (Fairy) Queen as well, pure magic and all enchantments. She knows what she is bringing with her from France, a manner that is much less restricted and uptight than the English equivalent. In this way, they are contrasts, Her Majesty and Claude - but what they bring out in one another runs in parallels, still, like reflections, like the elongated shade that the cart casts across the lake surface now. They are contrasting and they are alike, as Claude wants honesty and forwardness while hiding her words in symbols. One does not negate the other. It strengthens.

They could truly strengthen one another, she feels, she knows. Their shoulders bump as the cart moves over an unevenness, perhaps a stone. ]

But I do appreciate your mysteries. To be very forward, I adore what you do not show as much as that which you let me see.

[ I adore what you do not show. She swallows against an almost startled intake of breath, caught off guard for a moment. The other woman can't possibly know how well she's aimed with that particular phrasing. Though it's not new for Katarina to be perceived as a mysterious person, someone not quite within the boundaries of what's normal and expected, usually, people shy away from that side of her. They hardly embrace it like this. She's known from the beginning, of course, that Claude would be different - why else would she feel so oddly connected to her, still an acquaintance if not exactly a stranger? Katarina doesn't feel connected, usually. She even takes a certain care not to. All her relations - to people, ordinary people, humans - tend to be at least somewhat superficial. Out of necessity, granted, more than will or want.

Blinking a couple of times, her heart beating fast enough that she can feel it thundering about in her chest, she hurries George onwards sharply, reins snapping through the air. For a long moment, she doesn't reply, the landscape trailing past beneath the weels of the small cart while all she can think about is how close they're seated - how, only a few layers of clothing away, Claude is a warm, breathing, altogether living person, someone who's perfectly content adoring the sides of her she doesn't even know or understand.

Perhaps, a small voice inside of her adds, she'd even like them more if she knew. Lips thinning at the mere idea, she leans back slightly against the back of her seat, squashing her wings purposefully underneath the corset. Ouch. There, be quiet. ]

Thank you. [ She chances a glance, sideways. ] This is how I feel about your poetry, you realise. We seem to be a perfect, if not completely straightforward, match.

[ We seem to be a perfect, if not completely straightforward, match.

All Claude's silliness, her throbbing heartbeats, her rushing blood along with her small, victorious smile fly with the winds and disappear behind them as Katarina hurries the horse onwards, the cart picking up speed and the air slapping in gusts against her face. She gasps sharply, unable to fully appreciate the compliment it was a part of - how the Fairy Queen sees the same mysteries and magical reveals in her work as Claude sees in her. Because her first thought at hearing those words is of Isabelle. It is not any sort of guilt, she has not (yet) done anything to merit such, but her attraction to Katarina, Her Majesty, she can't deny. Shan't. Still, she hasn't told her lover of it, she has not mentioned the other woman with a word to stir suspicion, Isabelle thinking her time at Brightlake Estate a writing refuge. May your little trip to the islands leave your pen singing, she had said upon their parting. Isabelle thinking the good lady Green a mere patron of the arts, a helper, a friend.

A friend.

Yet, they are so obviously a match. A match in how she can tell Katarina sneaks a glance to the side at her, as she herself sneaks glances at Katarina ever so often. A match in their silences, a match in their speech. They are a match in all but the crude physicals. Slowly, Claude turns her head and looks at the other woman directly, eyes dropping down over her features, her sharp chin, her rounded cheekbones, her fine nose. Her eyes. Her eyes. She doesn't look away, even as another bump in the road shakes her bearings. ]

We are still a road not taken and what lovelier road is there? Than the one not trodden underfoot.

[ The feeling passes quickly - that longing for closure, for transparency - and in its wake, there's a lingering sense of warmth, the notion that Claude is absolutely correct: there's no better path, no better way to proceed than towards and beyond the unexplored. Particularly when you're in good company. The cart rolls along, poor George getting snippy in her head ("Hooves hurting, lady. Next time, clear the path for rocks, will you?") and far out near the middle of the lake, a large heron passes by, casting fleeting shadows across the water. She meets Claude's gaze, as Claude meets hers, and for a moment, the end is simply well and truly out of sight. The one that approaches fast, once Claude travels back to the continent - and the next one, the one that comes from prolonged distance, a slow but gradual death. No, she refuses to think about it. There's much ground they need to cover first. ]

Small but certain steps, my dear.

[ She straightens up a bit in her seat, feeling the pressure on her wings decrease, a none-too-small sense of relief following quickly after. Up front, the path curves - and curves - but the estate remains nicely out of sight, the sky a comfortable, fresh stretch of blue. ]

And we'll breathe as freely as ever.

[ The last words spoken almost to herself, a multiple of meanings associated with them - liberty, as she feels it and sees it in Claude Legrand; the luxury of the cool, clean air, the freedom to do with it as you wish, share it with whom you wish. Choose. She doesn't vocalise any of them, however, for she's certain that the other woman will understand with perfect clarity - isn't it wonderful? Isn't it perfect? ]

Edited 2018-07-25 17:18 (UTC)

We will be freer than ever before.

[ Well aware of the many implications hidden within the Queen's remark, for the woman is as gifted with words as Claude is herself, Claude chooses but one, carrying it to the forefront and putting it well and truly on display. Like something wanted and like something claimed, it hangs between them while they simply watch each other across the remnants of a distance existing still between them. She could have chosen the weather as her reference, beautiful and clear, the fresh air soothing their lungs or she could have delved into this bond that binds them, together, for it fills their lungs too with something thicker than air, yes, something that vitalizes them as well as drowns, but she takes neither path. She chooses the one not taken before, for their freedom is the only thing, the only space they need in order to realize themselves and to truly know one another. It is also the one thing, the one space that is still denied them, whether one lives in England or in France. The difference is by degrees.

And could they just free each other, Claude knows, as all women should ideally help set one another free, they would have all of themselves to give. To the thereafter.

To each other.

Claude looks away from the other woman finally, smiling slightly as she lets her eyes roam the meadowy landscape that they're moving through. The lake is on their one side, the fields on the other and it stretches beyond the horizon, like a beginning carrying through to the end. ]

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