(5am typos and grammatical errors adjusted)
My name is Claire Gabriel Artois, I am fourteen years old, and today is day five hundred and twenty seven of my imprisonment.
Madame Baudelaire is a witch of a woman. The cradle of hair that cushions the tight gray bun is bigger than her face, and the flesh of her skin is stooped off the bone of her cheeks. Disdain for the world around her wore deep lines into the loosening meat that spilled out from a cravat tied too tight. She was a widow who had remarried, and remarried, and remarried; none of them brought her any children but her first, and they had passed along side her husband in a fit of illness in 763. I heard someone murmur once that the Madame Bauldelaire was once very beautiful; but in truth she had died long ago with her children, and what remained was a ghost that puppeted her rotting remains. When she was interviewed for the position of my private tutor, she wore a deep green like foul olive oil and spoke softly. Her voice was low but her as purposeful as a fencer's strokes. I remember I felt mystified by her; I was terrified but also in awe of this threatening creature that masqueraded so convincingly as a delicate old woman. She told my father she loved children, especially girls. She had little girls of herself once, oh, it was a long story and she wouldn't want to digress.
Now this woman sits across from me, her spine straight as a post. The nimble branches of her fingers delicately cradle a fine porcelain tea cup and it's saucer nest. On the other-side, my stiffness is being managed. My elbows are fastened loosely to the back of the chair to allow just enough room, for movement of my forearms and hands. Unlike the metaphorical post of the Madame's spine, mine is a literal one that bound my posture and chin up. Even sitting here motionless is exhausting, but that would be too easy.
Before us was our spread of lunch; happy things like triangular sandwhiches cut for little fingers, cheerful fruit of vibrant colors, fragile cookies sitting on ornate multi-tired displays. Thanks to my seat, they were all out of my reach. But not the Madame's. My Governess so gingerly eased a jade colored pastry off one of the displays with her long manicured nails. Ever so slowly, she brought the cookie to her deflated lips. She watched me all the while with dead fish eyes, patiently waiting for me to eat too. I chanced a glance to my empty plate, and then the spread before me.
This is a test, you see. It's not polite to reach across tables, and it's not polite to pile up food onto your dishware like an Ouvrier waif, that's what the Madame says anyway. If I am careful, I can use tongs to select something to eat from the dishes nearest me. These were things like sandwhiches filled with cream and leafy things, and hard cheeses posed next to grapes. The fruit was not out of question if I was particularly careful not to bump into the lit candles placed about strategically, but they were wet and had funny shapes that made it more difficult to transport them. The sweets were a trap, of course. They were well out of my reach even with my tools. In this situation, you would politely ask or imply you wanted something so out of reach, and whoever shared your table if it was small enough or a waiter if it was bigger, would bring it to you. Madame Baudelaire, I would say. The sugared treasure cookies look very lovely. Are they warm? A normal person would say, why, why don't you have one yourself and see? Or something to that effect.
But Madame Bauldelaire would say, They are lovely as they are warm, yes, mon petite madamoiselle. Lovely things are left better undisturbed. Her smile is yellow from cigarettes and as rail thin as she. I watch as my Governess returns the cookie she had collected back to its spot with effortless precision, like it had never been moved in the first place. My eyes sting with frustration that I try to unwind with my detachment.
A deep rend in the earth wrought from the hateful claws of a dragon most foul, down to where the earth became fire. The only way across was the Narrow Bridge, made entirely of the swords of champions who had fallen to this trial. Sir Gwyndolin looked past the bridge and the wasteland's hills to see the crooked tower of the Enchantress. Somewhere there, in the highest of floors would wait Queen Levine in mourning for the rescue she the believed died in the field.
He could not give up now. The heat of the bridge leaked through his boots, but the knight would not be deterred. But, when a foul wind blew the bridge too far, good Gywndolin fell, clinging to the heat of the bridge with his bare hands. This would be the end of him. As he chanced a final look to the old crooked tower, there, he saw her. Queen Levine in all her radiant beauty, perched on a windowsill on one of the highest floors. She was calling out to him, in a final plea. Her voice sweetened the foul winds, and she said to him...
Madamoiselle, the Madame reminds me of her existence. We have to see to our mathematics at the turn of the hour, you will have be finished your meal by then, she explained patiently. My stomach twists with hunger. I forget my preferences, and begin to imitate the Madame's same effortlessness in graceful manipulation oy my utensils. Eating like this is slow and painstaking. I miss my brother stealing me sweet buns to be passed under the table cloth and into my skirt. Eating was never this hard when we ate under the table. The soft resistance of a mouthful of bread was sweeter when it was freely given. Now I took small bird-sized portions by fork. But this is what it means to be a woman, the Governess said. We are careful, inoffensive, and precise. Present as though we live in a world without unpleasant things, because we must always be pleasant. Hunger is only something the poor feel. To be graceless is to offend the people who starve so you can be fed-- now keep your head back, don't bow into your dishware like a dog to his bowl.
I don't understand what she means by all this. I'm too busy trying to perform surgery on these grapes to pluck one off the bunch without moving too quickly. She's still talking about something I don't care about, so I pop the grape off and --
Zzzzrt.
Electric Jolt is a cantrip from the evocation school of magic. It requires verbal and somatic components. When cast, the spell sends a minor jolt of electric charge to the focused subject. I recite this out loud, very loud, but not too loud, because yelling is impolite. My hand hurts, but I know if I look it will only hurt more. The Madame smiles a yellow smile to me before it is eclipsed by her tea cup. The echoes of distant music drift gently through the room, and out of the corner of my eye I can see the miniature house that looks just like my house framed inside the window panes. The old clock chimes the hour's half finished, and my stomach reminds me of its hunger.
I look past my proctor, and I see Sieur Gywndolin's book waiting for me by my bed. Sometimes I'd like to imagine that Sieur Gywndolin might appear outside my bedroom window upon his fine horse, and we'd meet eyes from our great distance. I'd imagine he'd come in right away, and I would come down just as swiftly to meet him in the foyer. I've been looking everywhere for you, I'd imagine he'd say to me, as he'd take my hand and chastely press his lips to my sore knuckles. We're late for the party, he'd tell me. I would tell him I'm hardly dressed, and I am quite sick, I can't go out. And he would look at me so sincerely, he would put the curve of his hand on my cheek and sweep me around in his arms, and he would say --