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wickedwordsTitle: Even the Roses
Author: Rachael Sabotini (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wickedwords)
Other info: Gormenghast | Steerpike/Fuchsia | Adult | 3230 words
Summary: Anything is possible right now, with the sack in her hand and her dreams on the horizon, and there's a part of her that doesn't want to open it, to know what the sack actually contains.
A/N: Thank you tomarshalmeg, sherrold, and movies_michelle for their wonderful beta work. Written for Curtana curtana/shadow_truths in the 2007 yuletide story exchange.
***
Even the Roses
Morning arrives with the thinnest wisps of grey clouds smeared across it, like someone had taken a towel to a window, wiping up the leftover bits of rain. Gormenghast smells wet, like rain and dirt and moldy old clothing, but it's familiar and inoppressive. The city that grew up around Gormenghast usually smells like people, too many people, and that is one of the reasons Fuchsia doesn't mind staying in the quiet part of the castle.
Today, though, she has to go out. Turning away from the window, Fuchsia catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and sighs. She'll have to get dressed soon; she can't laze around in her nightgown all day. Wrinkling up her nose, she watches herself in the mirror, just to see how it looks. Bitterness flares within her as she realizes her maid will be along with breakfast at any moment, to fuss over her hair and her dress, to make everything just so for today's ceremony.
Fuchsia received a new maid the day after Nanny Slagg died, and she begged her mother to change her apartments, saying she was too old to live in the nursery anymore. She's a woman, with a woman's needs and interests, but Lady Gertrude would hear none of it. "Titus lives in his nursery, and he is the Earl. Do you think you're better than him, girl?"
There had been nothing to say to that. Bringing up her own age just reminds her mother of how quickly time passes, and that is never a pleasant conversation. So Fuchsia merely bowed her head in acceptance, her whole body feeling leaden. There is no role for her in the secretary's book; she will stay a child forever.
So Fuchsia sits in her room and reads her books, write her poems, and talks to the objects around her--unless her presence is required at some ceremony or other, of course. She is so utterly bored at the thought of another ceremony that she thinks she might scream. She wonders how they would react if one day she just...jumped up on the table and danced.
This reminds her of her father, though, and how no one said anything when the Earl thought he was an owl. Better to just sit quietly and be ignored than to act out and be ignored anyway. She wasn't sure she could face that.
"A celebration of youthful innocence, the seventeenth anniversary of the Earl's birth," Fuchsia mutters grimly, gathering her hair to the nape of her neck to see if that looks better. It doesn't, so she shakes her head, letting the dark mass unfurl and cascade down her back. She doesn't know why she fusses so. It isn't like anyone cares. If she's neat and tidy, that's all that's required--that and her obedient silence. "And what, exactly, does youthful innocence mean?" she asks her reflection. "What's so important that I have to sit in the hot sun all day watching Titus hold a cabbage?"
A low laugh echoes around the room, startling her. She thought she was alone.
Whisking around, Fuchsia glares at the dusty room. "Who's there?" she shouts, turning toward the secret entrance to her bedroom. "Come out and show yourself."
With the groan and creak of protesting metal, part of the wall on her right slides back, revealing Steerpike behind it. The shirt he wears under his black suit is quite tight, and his thin chest catches her attention, the way it sort of--ripples in the early morning light. Fuchsia wants to touch it, run her fingers over its expanse. How he manages to look so neat and clean when the rest of the servants look like...like...molding piles of dusty, dirty cloth... It's a mystery.
She catches Steerpike looking at her, his red eyes assessing, yet appreciative, like a snake examining a particularly juicy mouse. Folding her arms across her chest, Fuchsia clamps her lips firmly together, suddenly aware that her favorite cotton nightgown is rather thin. "What are you doing here?"
"I've come to see you, my lady," Steerpike says, stepping into the room and giving a little bow while the door seals shut behind him. "It is a shame that your birth is never celebrated the way your brother's is."
"He turns seventeen today. In another year, he will come into his full birthright."
"Still, I bet you were beautiful when you turned seventeen."
"Are you saying I am not beautiful now?" The thought makes her chest hurt. Steerpike was the only one in the palace who talked to her, and if her looks put him off--
"Nothing of the sort, your ladyship. You are as beautiful as the roses that bloom in the summer garden."
Fuchsia tries to suppress a pleased laugh, which comes out anyway and sounds like a snort, and she can't help the small smile that plays about her lips. Steerpike is always a flatterer, but he sounds so sincere today, she lets herself believe it. His words are the only pleasant attention she ever gets. "Thank you, Steerpike. I am just as glad that I didn't have a ceremony like this when I turned seventeen. I have no desire to hold a cabbage for hours while that...monkey Barquentine reads out of the book." This whole conversation makes her breathing feel labored, and she quickly changes the subject. "Have you brought me a present?"
"Of course." From behind his back, Steerpike pulls forth a small cloth sack, embroidered with silver roses. "Open it."
She snatches it out of his hands, and for a brief moment, their fingers brush. Her mouth feels dry at the touch, and she turns away from him to give her heart time to steady. It's too small and too light for a book, but so many other things are possible. It could be a necklace, or a ring, or a brightly colored handkerchief, or a fan from a faraway land. Maybe it's dried flowers, or bath salts to clear the mind and sooth the senses. Perhaps it's fine writing paper, or a new bottle of ink. Anything is possible right now, with the sack in her hand and her dreams on the horizon, and there's a part of her that doesn't want to open it, to know what the sack actually contains.
But, that's rather silly of her. Childish, even. What is the point of leaving a present unwrapped? Pulling open the ribbon on the sack, she spills the contents into the palm of her hand. Four sour rocks lie there, thick and tempting; now her mouth waters. "Sweets," she says, flicking a quick glance at him. "You're the only one who remembers I like these."
Steerpike raises an eyebrow as she pops the first one into her mouth and lets the delicious flavor melt over her tongue. "Oh! And Titus," she said, her voice distorted from the candy.
"Your pardon?" Steerpike sets his swordcane down next to her desk and leans against it.
Fuchsia swallows the spit in her mouth, and wipes the corners of her lips, trying to ignore the way Steerpike's eyes follow her hands. She forms her words most carefully this time. "Titus remembers that I like sweets, too. But no one else does."
"That's a pity," he says, stalking over to her. "For you should have sweets with every meal. You're much too thin."
"I'm too thin?" Fuchsia gnawed at her lip. "I'm not as thin as Dr. Prune's sister, am I? My face doesn't look like hers, does it?" Swiftly, she turns to the mirror again, to press and pull at her face to make sure it hasn't become as sharp and hatchet-like as the dreaded Ima Prunesqallor's. She presses down on the tip of her nose to make doubly sure that it isn't protruding more than absolutely necessary, and sees Steerpike's eyes rake over her body and linger on her backside as she bends over to look in the mirror.
She knows she should tell him to go away, that he should not be looking at her like that. She is a lady, daughter of the former Earl of Gormenghast, and sister to the current one. And everyone says that a servant should not look above their station. Time and again, Nanny Slagg mentioned that, mentioned that Steerpike was putting on airs and getting above himself. In her mind, Nanny's voice echoes as she criticizes him again and again: "Kitchen boy."
Steerpike is assistant to the secretary now, not a kitchen boy any longer; still, for him to look upon the Earl's sister with lust in his eyes is improper and, no matter how unfair it is, it will get them both in trouble.
It also makes her skin tingle.
As he watches her, something must alert him; he catches her gaze in the mirror. His eyes are sharp, his lips full and red; his tongue slips out to moisten them, making them shine in the morning light. Fuchsia falters, dropping her hand from her nose to the table to steady herself as Steerpike steps in behind her. She can feel the heat of him through the fabric of her thin nightdress.
"Lady Fuchsia," he says softly, his gaze never leaving hers. She hears so many things in his voice, her hero, her rescuer, her knight. She also hears the sounds of the kitchens, and that is something she can never allow herself to forget. She is not a little girl any longer, and she must think of her position and place in the world, as no one else will.
Still, Steerpike is her oldest friend. Perhaps. Perhaps their friendship has changed a bit, too. "Your collar is twisted. May I?"
She watches as his hand hovers over her shoulder, his eyes asking permission. She swallows and nods, and his fingertips ghost over the bare skin at the neck of her gown as he straightens her collar. Fuchsia's legs tremble, and she wonders if this is what Ima felt when she became so manhungry that she gathered all the professors to her house, to pick the one that suited her best.
He doesn't ask permission again, and his hands continue on threading along the back of her neck, pushing her heavy hair to one side. "Let me make sure it's all straight. I would hate for this coarse fabric to rub your fine skin raw, your ladyship. This material is far too coarse for such as you."
Not her rescuer this time, not her knight. What she feels is far more adult than that. She can't stop staring at him as his hands caress her skin, and a small broken sound escapes through her lips, her heart racing. She visited the kitchens once, on the day the new chef was installed, after her father vanished. Despite the way it had been cleaned and polished for the royal visit, it had been a dank and ugly place, hot and sweaty and smelling of death. There were dead rats in traps under the cutting board, a room where pigs hung from hooks in the ceiling to bleed out as they were prepared, and wooden blocks with rusted knives stuck in them where the chickens were slaughtered. And the people! Low and coarse, and the way they looked at her... Fuchsia had nearly thrown up, and had to be escorted back to her rooms as soon as the ceremony was over.
She never wanted to visit that place again, and could not fault Steerpike for wanting to get out. People said he was too ambitious, but she knew she would have done the same to get out of there, if she had been strong enough.
But she's not strong enough, she knows that. She can't even push Steerpike away. His hands brush lower over her skin, and she can feel his breath against the back of her neck. Still, she says nothing, lets him pull her back, sliding his hands around her waist, pressing his form against her, their gazes locked in the mirror.
Gormenghast has taught her to accept what she is given, no matter how it makes her feel, and she bends herself to Steerpike's will, letting him pluck the fabric at her shoulders, sliding it down to expose more skin. There is a small flicker of triumph in her as she watches him, a feeling of finally taking what she wants. She sees how wanton she looks in the mirror, all white skin and dark hair, with Steerpike's hands tracing just at the edge of the fabric, teasing her skin.
His fingers are long and warm, his hands large enough to fill some of the cold places within her, the secret hidden spots she sometimes touches, when she wonders if she will ever wed, if she will go mad the way her father did, or if she will just walk into the lake one day, the way her twin aunts Lady Clarice and Lady Cora did, and never be seen again.
A kind of mad laughter bubbles up in her chest, and she has to press her hands against it to keep the sound trapped inside. Like her, the twins had no roles laid out for them in the secretary's book, no husbands, either, and as the Earl's sisters they spent most of their lives as the trappings of some ceremony or other. At least Steerpike makes her forget how little anyone would care if she simply disappeared. It's likely that he would be the only one who noticed.
The thoughts wrap around her and make her head spin, making her wild, but Steerpike's arms around her are tight, grounding her in his touch. He wants her, he talks to her, he sees her as she truly is. He is her knight, come to rescue her from her duty to the cold stone walls.
Feeling bold, she pushes back against him, only to be shocked by the hardness she feels there. A cold shiver runs through her, and she knows she cannot do this, cannot betray Gormenghast in this manner, no matter how much she wants it. She jerks her eyes away from Steerpike's and twists to the side, trying to slip out of his arms; he tightens his hold around her, pressing her hard against the desk.
"You're hurting me!" She struggles, pushing against him as hard as she can, her gown tangling around her. "Get away!"
"You don't mean that, do you?" He grips her arm and jerks her around so she faces him. "Who else do you have to talk to, other than me?"
She scratches at his hand, her fingernails digging into his skin, leaving long welts behind. "How dare you," she says, her breath coming in hard gasps. "I did not give you permission--"
"Give me permission?" Steerpike laughs and shoves her away; Fuchsia crashes against the side of her desk and slides down onto the floor, her side aching. "I am the secretary's assistant. I tell you where to go, what to do, what to say. I tell you how to dress, and what should be eaten every day." He paces toward her, his movements sleek and graceful, like one of her mother's cats. He crouches on the floor next to her, and the angry rage fades from his tone. "I did not think I needed your permission to save your life."
"What?"
"You stumbled, and fell against the desk--" He pushes her hair out of her face. "You look pale. Should I fetch the doctor?"
"You pushed me." She says it flat out, unable to comprehend what he is saying. He reaches for her, and she shoves his hand away. "I will call the guards on you if I need to."
"Lady Fuchsia, please. You must have hit your head when you fell. I did not push you, your ladyship." He shakes his head gently, ducking down and hiding his eyes. "I would not dare. You stumbled, and I caught your arm as you fell, but was too late to prevent the tumble." He looks up at her through veiled eyes. "I am your friend, your only friend, your ladyship." He places his hand upon his chest. "I swear I would never intentionally hurt you like that."
It's too much. The force of him, the sheer sweetness of his tone, makes her head spin. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps she did misstep and fall. She has been clumsy lately.
"Lady Fuchsia?"
Steerpike glances at the door and stands. "Your maid is coming. I must leave. She mustn't know I have been here or we will both be in trouble."
"Up here." Fuchsia forces the words out of her mouth, her vision wavering. Sitting up, she nods at Steerpike. "Go," she says softly. "I will tell her I fell. No one will know you were here."
He vanishes into the hidden passage, and Fuchsia can hear her maid's footsteps coming near. She hurts everywhere, but she tells herself that it's fine, that the maid can call Dr. Prune for her. And Steerpike didn't hurt her, he was trying to save her. He always came to her rescue.
She tells herself that as the maid finds her and fusses over her; she is taken to bed, and does not have to attend the ceremony that day, a fact that makes her smile. She is given more sweets and a new book, and as she reads, Fuchsia tries to imagine Steerpike as the knight in the story and herself as the princess, but somehow, it doesn't work quite right. Questions spin in her mind all day, and she spends more time than usual reassuring herself that Steerpike is her friend--that he loves her and she loves him, that he is her knight and he will always serve her. He saved her from the fire, didn't her? He would never intentionally hurt her.
The words ring hollow, even in her own mind, and as the moonlight streams into her room, Fuchsia knows that this is the end. If she goes to him, she loses herself--her body, her mind, her will turned to his, to use as he sees fit. He would have her, there is no doubt, and she cannot betray the stones and her heritage.
But in the end, she knows she will see him again, as he is the only one who knows that she's just as trapped by her station as he is by his own.. He sees her not as the Earl's sister or as Lady Gertrude's daughter or as some child living in the nursery, but as the opportunity she presents, a thing to be owned and possessed. No one in all of Gormenghast sees her as a woman with thoughts and feeling and dreams for a future, a woman who wants a life of her own, but at least he see her, and that is better than not being seen at all. She will go to him for that, to see that reflection in his eyes, his want, his desire, his acknowledgement that she exists.
And what frightens her most is how much she already pines for that moment. How much she would give, just to be seen.
The End.
Author: Rachael Sabotini (
wickedwords)Other info: Gormenghast | Steerpike/Fuchsia | Adult | 3230 words
Summary: Anything is possible right now, with the sack in her hand and her dreams on the horizon, and there's a part of her that doesn't want to open it, to know what the sack actually contains.
A/N: Thank you to
marshalmeg, sherrold, and movies_michelle for their wonderful beta work. Written for Curtana curtana/shadow_truths in the 2007 yuletide story exchange.***
Morning arrives with the thinnest wisps of grey clouds smeared across it, like someone had taken a towel to a window, wiping up the leftover bits of rain. Gormenghast smells wet, like rain and dirt and moldy old clothing, but it's familiar and inoppressive. The city that grew up around Gormenghast usually smells like people, too many people, and that is one of the reasons Fuchsia doesn't mind staying in the quiet part of the castle.
Today, though, she has to go out. Turning away from the window, Fuchsia catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and sighs. She'll have to get dressed soon; she can't laze around in her nightgown all day. Wrinkling up her nose, she watches herself in the mirror, just to see how it looks. Bitterness flares within her as she realizes her maid will be along with breakfast at any moment, to fuss over her hair and her dress, to make everything just so for today's ceremony.
Fuchsia received a new maid the day after Nanny Slagg died, and she begged her mother to change her apartments, saying she was too old to live in the nursery anymore. She's a woman, with a woman's needs and interests, but Lady Gertrude would hear none of it. "Titus lives in his nursery, and he is the Earl. Do you think you're better than him, girl?"
There had been nothing to say to that. Bringing up her own age just reminds her mother of how quickly time passes, and that is never a pleasant conversation. So Fuchsia merely bowed her head in acceptance, her whole body feeling leaden. There is no role for her in the secretary's book; she will stay a child forever.
So Fuchsia sits in her room and reads her books, write her poems, and talks to the objects around her--unless her presence is required at some ceremony or other, of course. She is so utterly bored at the thought of another ceremony that she thinks she might scream. She wonders how they would react if one day she just...jumped up on the table and danced.
This reminds her of her father, though, and how no one said anything when the Earl thought he was an owl. Better to just sit quietly and be ignored than to act out and be ignored anyway. She wasn't sure she could face that.
"A celebration of youthful innocence, the seventeenth anniversary of the Earl's birth," Fuchsia mutters grimly, gathering her hair to the nape of her neck to see if that looks better. It doesn't, so she shakes her head, letting the dark mass unfurl and cascade down her back. She doesn't know why she fusses so. It isn't like anyone cares. If she's neat and tidy, that's all that's required--that and her obedient silence. "And what, exactly, does youthful innocence mean?" she asks her reflection. "What's so important that I have to sit in the hot sun all day watching Titus hold a cabbage?"
A low laugh echoes around the room, startling her. She thought she was alone.
Whisking around, Fuchsia glares at the dusty room. "Who's there?" she shouts, turning toward the secret entrance to her bedroom. "Come out and show yourself."
With the groan and creak of protesting metal, part of the wall on her right slides back, revealing Steerpike behind it. The shirt he wears under his black suit is quite tight, and his thin chest catches her attention, the way it sort of--ripples in the early morning light. Fuchsia wants to touch it, run her fingers over its expanse. How he manages to look so neat and clean when the rest of the servants look like...like...molding piles of dusty, dirty cloth... It's a mystery.
She catches Steerpike looking at her, his red eyes assessing, yet appreciative, like a snake examining a particularly juicy mouse. Folding her arms across her chest, Fuchsia clamps her lips firmly together, suddenly aware that her favorite cotton nightgown is rather thin. "What are you doing here?"
"I've come to see you, my lady," Steerpike says, stepping into the room and giving a little bow while the door seals shut behind him. "It is a shame that your birth is never celebrated the way your brother's is."
"He turns seventeen today. In another year, he will come into his full birthright."
"Still, I bet you were beautiful when you turned seventeen."
"Are you saying I am not beautiful now?" The thought makes her chest hurt. Steerpike was the only one in the palace who talked to her, and if her looks put him off--
"Nothing of the sort, your ladyship. You are as beautiful as the roses that bloom in the summer garden."
Fuchsia tries to suppress a pleased laugh, which comes out anyway and sounds like a snort, and she can't help the small smile that plays about her lips. Steerpike is always a flatterer, but he sounds so sincere today, she lets herself believe it. His words are the only pleasant attention she ever gets. "Thank you, Steerpike. I am just as glad that I didn't have a ceremony like this when I turned seventeen. I have no desire to hold a cabbage for hours while that...monkey Barquentine reads out of the book." This whole conversation makes her breathing feel labored, and she quickly changes the subject. "Have you brought me a present?"
"Of course." From behind his back, Steerpike pulls forth a small cloth sack, embroidered with silver roses. "Open it."
She snatches it out of his hands, and for a brief moment, their fingers brush. Her mouth feels dry at the touch, and she turns away from him to give her heart time to steady. It's too small and too light for a book, but so many other things are possible. It could be a necklace, or a ring, or a brightly colored handkerchief, or a fan from a faraway land. Maybe it's dried flowers, or bath salts to clear the mind and sooth the senses. Perhaps it's fine writing paper, or a new bottle of ink. Anything is possible right now, with the sack in her hand and her dreams on the horizon, and there's a part of her that doesn't want to open it, to know what the sack actually contains.
But, that's rather silly of her. Childish, even. What is the point of leaving a present unwrapped? Pulling open the ribbon on the sack, she spills the contents into the palm of her hand. Four sour rocks lie there, thick and tempting; now her mouth waters. "Sweets," she says, flicking a quick glance at him. "You're the only one who remembers I like these."
Steerpike raises an eyebrow as she pops the first one into her mouth and lets the delicious flavor melt over her tongue. "Oh! And Titus," she said, her voice distorted from the candy.
"Your pardon?" Steerpike sets his swordcane down next to her desk and leans against it.
Fuchsia swallows the spit in her mouth, and wipes the corners of her lips, trying to ignore the way Steerpike's eyes follow her hands. She forms her words most carefully this time. "Titus remembers that I like sweets, too. But no one else does."
"That's a pity," he says, stalking over to her. "For you should have sweets with every meal. You're much too thin."
"I'm too thin?" Fuchsia gnawed at her lip. "I'm not as thin as Dr. Prune's sister, am I? My face doesn't look like hers, does it?" Swiftly, she turns to the mirror again, to press and pull at her face to make sure it hasn't become as sharp and hatchet-like as the dreaded Ima Prunesqallor's. She presses down on the tip of her nose to make doubly sure that it isn't protruding more than absolutely necessary, and sees Steerpike's eyes rake over her body and linger on her backside as she bends over to look in the mirror.
She knows she should tell him to go away, that he should not be looking at her like that. She is a lady, daughter of the former Earl of Gormenghast, and sister to the current one. And everyone says that a servant should not look above their station. Time and again, Nanny Slagg mentioned that, mentioned that Steerpike was putting on airs and getting above himself. In her mind, Nanny's voice echoes as she criticizes him again and again: "Kitchen boy."
Steerpike is assistant to the secretary now, not a kitchen boy any longer; still, for him to look upon the Earl's sister with lust in his eyes is improper and, no matter how unfair it is, it will get them both in trouble.
It also makes her skin tingle.
As he watches her, something must alert him; he catches her gaze in the mirror. His eyes are sharp, his lips full and red; his tongue slips out to moisten them, making them shine in the morning light. Fuchsia falters, dropping her hand from her nose to the table to steady herself as Steerpike steps in behind her. She can feel the heat of him through the fabric of her thin nightdress.
"Lady Fuchsia," he says softly, his gaze never leaving hers. She hears so many things in his voice, her hero, her rescuer, her knight. She also hears the sounds of the kitchens, and that is something she can never allow herself to forget. She is not a little girl any longer, and she must think of her position and place in the world, as no one else will.
Still, Steerpike is her oldest friend. Perhaps. Perhaps their friendship has changed a bit, too. "Your collar is twisted. May I?"
She watches as his hand hovers over her shoulder, his eyes asking permission. She swallows and nods, and his fingertips ghost over the bare skin at the neck of her gown as he straightens her collar. Fuchsia's legs tremble, and she wonders if this is what Ima felt when she became so manhungry that she gathered all the professors to her house, to pick the one that suited her best.
He doesn't ask permission again, and his hands continue on threading along the back of her neck, pushing her heavy hair to one side. "Let me make sure it's all straight. I would hate for this coarse fabric to rub your fine skin raw, your ladyship. This material is far too coarse for such as you."
Not her rescuer this time, not her knight. What she feels is far more adult than that. She can't stop staring at him as his hands caress her skin, and a small broken sound escapes through her lips, her heart racing. She visited the kitchens once, on the day the new chef was installed, after her father vanished. Despite the way it had been cleaned and polished for the royal visit, it had been a dank and ugly place, hot and sweaty and smelling of death. There were dead rats in traps under the cutting board, a room where pigs hung from hooks in the ceiling to bleed out as they were prepared, and wooden blocks with rusted knives stuck in them where the chickens were slaughtered. And the people! Low and coarse, and the way they looked at her... Fuchsia had nearly thrown up, and had to be escorted back to her rooms as soon as the ceremony was over.
She never wanted to visit that place again, and could not fault Steerpike for wanting to get out. People said he was too ambitious, but she knew she would have done the same to get out of there, if she had been strong enough.
But she's not strong enough, she knows that. She can't even push Steerpike away. His hands brush lower over her skin, and she can feel his breath against the back of her neck. Still, she says nothing, lets him pull her back, sliding his hands around her waist, pressing his form against her, their gazes locked in the mirror.
Gormenghast has taught her to accept what she is given, no matter how it makes her feel, and she bends herself to Steerpike's will, letting him pluck the fabric at her shoulders, sliding it down to expose more skin. There is a small flicker of triumph in her as she watches him, a feeling of finally taking what she wants. She sees how wanton she looks in the mirror, all white skin and dark hair, with Steerpike's hands tracing just at the edge of the fabric, teasing her skin.
His fingers are long and warm, his hands large enough to fill some of the cold places within her, the secret hidden spots she sometimes touches, when she wonders if she will ever wed, if she will go mad the way her father did, or if she will just walk into the lake one day, the way her twin aunts Lady Clarice and Lady Cora did, and never be seen again.
A kind of mad laughter bubbles up in her chest, and she has to press her hands against it to keep the sound trapped inside. Like her, the twins had no roles laid out for them in the secretary's book, no husbands, either, and as the Earl's sisters they spent most of their lives as the trappings of some ceremony or other. At least Steerpike makes her forget how little anyone would care if she simply disappeared. It's likely that he would be the only one who noticed.
The thoughts wrap around her and make her head spin, making her wild, but Steerpike's arms around her are tight, grounding her in his touch. He wants her, he talks to her, he sees her as she truly is. He is her knight, come to rescue her from her duty to the cold stone walls.
Feeling bold, she pushes back against him, only to be shocked by the hardness she feels there. A cold shiver runs through her, and she knows she cannot do this, cannot betray Gormenghast in this manner, no matter how much she wants it. She jerks her eyes away from Steerpike's and twists to the side, trying to slip out of his arms; he tightens his hold around her, pressing her hard against the desk.
"You're hurting me!" She struggles, pushing against him as hard as she can, her gown tangling around her. "Get away!"
"You don't mean that, do you?" He grips her arm and jerks her around so she faces him. "Who else do you have to talk to, other than me?"
She scratches at his hand, her fingernails digging into his skin, leaving long welts behind. "How dare you," she says, her breath coming in hard gasps. "I did not give you permission--"
"Give me permission?" Steerpike laughs and shoves her away; Fuchsia crashes against the side of her desk and slides down onto the floor, her side aching. "I am the secretary's assistant. I tell you where to go, what to do, what to say. I tell you how to dress, and what should be eaten every day." He paces toward her, his movements sleek and graceful, like one of her mother's cats. He crouches on the floor next to her, and the angry rage fades from his tone. "I did not think I needed your permission to save your life."
"What?"
"You stumbled, and fell against the desk--" He pushes her hair out of her face. "You look pale. Should I fetch the doctor?"
"You pushed me." She says it flat out, unable to comprehend what he is saying. He reaches for her, and she shoves his hand away. "I will call the guards on you if I need to."
"Lady Fuchsia, please. You must have hit your head when you fell. I did not push you, your ladyship." He shakes his head gently, ducking down and hiding his eyes. "I would not dare. You stumbled, and I caught your arm as you fell, but was too late to prevent the tumble." He looks up at her through veiled eyes. "I am your friend, your only friend, your ladyship." He places his hand upon his chest. "I swear I would never intentionally hurt you like that."
It's too much. The force of him, the sheer sweetness of his tone, makes her head spin. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps she did misstep and fall. She has been clumsy lately.
"Lady Fuchsia?"
Steerpike glances at the door and stands. "Your maid is coming. I must leave. She mustn't know I have been here or we will both be in trouble."
"Up here." Fuchsia forces the words out of her mouth, her vision wavering. Sitting up, she nods at Steerpike. "Go," she says softly. "I will tell her I fell. No one will know you were here."
He vanishes into the hidden passage, and Fuchsia can hear her maid's footsteps coming near. She hurts everywhere, but she tells herself that it's fine, that the maid can call Dr. Prune for her. And Steerpike didn't hurt her, he was trying to save her. He always came to her rescue.
She tells herself that as the maid finds her and fusses over her; she is taken to bed, and does not have to attend the ceremony that day, a fact that makes her smile. She is given more sweets and a new book, and as she reads, Fuchsia tries to imagine Steerpike as the knight in the story and herself as the princess, but somehow, it doesn't work quite right. Questions spin in her mind all day, and she spends more time than usual reassuring herself that Steerpike is her friend--that he loves her and she loves him, that he is her knight and he will always serve her. He saved her from the fire, didn't her? He would never intentionally hurt her.
The words ring hollow, even in her own mind, and as the moonlight streams into her room, Fuchsia knows that this is the end. If she goes to him, she loses herself--her body, her mind, her will turned to his, to use as he sees fit. He would have her, there is no doubt, and she cannot betray the stones and her heritage.
But in the end, she knows she will see him again, as he is the only one who knows that she's just as trapped by her station as he is by his own.. He sees her not as the Earl's sister or as Lady Gertrude's daughter or as some child living in the nursery, but as the opportunity she presents, a thing to be owned and possessed. No one in all of Gormenghast sees her as a woman with thoughts and feeling and dreams for a future, a woman who wants a life of her own, but at least he see her, and that is better than not being seen at all. She will go to him for that, to see that reflection in his eyes, his want, his desire, his acknowledgement that she exists.
And what frightens her most is how much she already pines for that moment. How much she would give, just to be seen.
The End.
