Ironic Eccentricities

Well, I did an interview with the Tainted Witch the other day. Stopped in the middle of it ‘cause we had some stuff to do. Thus far, I’ve only got some details. Her name is Magnes. She had a little sister named Abigail, whom she called “Abby”. Dunno what happened to her. Not important. What is important is something I’m trying to figure out now: whether or not she knew who the Ivory Witch was before the fight, the end result of which she (the Tainted Witch) was sealed away.

I have the four main characters put into MyNovel 4.0 and currently, I’m about to finish this character interview and see what other information she’s hiding from me. Tonight is Wrestling and I’ll be busy all day tomorrow with calling lawyers, doctor visits, library visit, etc. so I probably won’t be able to write until tomorrow night. If the mood strikes me. I’m still stuck on a scene…

Rags to Riches

The Prologue

Mayfaire Aerie was an absolutely stunning sight that could only have been imagined by a person that saw beauty in the ordinary. The buildings were extremely tall giving one the feel that they were insignificant. This was more true for the young gypsy woman that had been living as a street rat all her life. Suitcase in hand, Natayla’s bare feet padded against the cobbled stones of the street. Daylight was fast approaching and she was too excited to think about sleep. The sun broke over the edge of the floating city though it was blocked by the surrounding buildings; this part of Little Gabbenhoff cast a shadow upon her and the street that made her shiver from the morning chill.

From the filthy rag of her loose and tattered petticoat-bodice, she removed the envelope that contained her father’s letter and read it for what seemed the hundredth time. It was not sentiment that drew her green eye to scan the letter again, but necessity: she needed to know where she was going in order to get there. The cat’s eye marble remained motionless in its socket while the other eye moved back and forth to memorize the address of her destination. The young woman folded it up and placed it back in the folds of the white cloth, her mind again reiterating the address. She again set off and searched the buildings for a number remotely close to the one she sought.

A man happened around the corner panting during his light jog. From the looks of his worn outfit and the smudges of oil on his face, he was a laborer. He looked nervous, but slowed to a gradual stop when he saw her staring at him. It was rather disturbing to have someone with a cat’s eye marble staring at you without regard for one’s personal feelings. The man couldn’t seem to make up his mind whether he wanted to keep going or ask her what she wanted. She made the decision for him and approached with that luring smile.

“‘Scoose the eye, Govna. Think ye can poin’ me to tha 500 buil’in’s? Ahm lookin’ for me aunt’s address.”

“Eh? What’s the address, love?”

“Bless ye, Govna. 529 it be.”

“No one there ‘cept an ol’ crone, but help yeself. Iz just round tha’ bend there.” He pointed up ahead where the cobbled street ascended to a hill and made a curve to the left. “Yeh migh’ wanna be careful, dearie. Strange folk ‘bout in the mornin’.”

“Aye, thank ye kindly.”

Off she toddled to leave the man to his morning jog. The man gave her a last look, shook his head, and carried on with his business. Just as she reached the top of the hill, a window overhead burst open and a chamber pot was tossed out. Natayla barely dodged the vile and emitted a sling of curses primarily to herself. The splatter, unfortunately, had reached the hem of her broom skirt. By the time she arrived at 522 Mayfaire Aerie, she was not only filthy and ragged but also, thanks to an absent-minded cog, smelled of foul fecid. She adjusted her skirt the best she could and tried to push the tangled mass of grimy brown hair behind her shoulders in order to look more presentable. Her knuckles rapped lightly on the door labeled 522 before her hand hurried to wipe at some of the dirt from her face, only succeeding in smearing it further. The door opened before she was ready.

Like the gypsy’s father, Gertrude was not the woman she would have predicted to open the door. When he said “keeper”, she had assumed it was a governess or a nanny much like Agnes. Middle aged, maybe portly, with a strong maternal instinct and bossy. The woman that opened the door instead was rather intimidating. Gertrude was several years older than the rag doll standing outside the door to be sure, estimated to be around her mid-thirties. Her jaw was firm, hair held up in a strict bun, gray eyes that hardened upon the image of the suddenly meek redhead, and a thick cigarette held between full lucious lips. Like Natayla, Gertrude had a scar running down her eye yet hers was on the left. There were several more significantly sized scars running in strange directions on her cheeks. The woman was dressed in something akin to what a man would wear: a white men’s blouse under a pinstriped vest with black trousers that flared at the feet. The trousers were held up by a set of buckled black bracers that held the holsters for a pair of dangerous-looking flintlocks.

The woman gave her a once-over, removed the cigarette from her mouth, and smoothly exhaled the smoke to the side. The gypsy had a strong urge to run away, though (with a nervous glance at the flintlocks) she was pretty sure she wouldn’t get far.

“Who’re you?” Gertrude asked with a slightly masculine voice.

“Ahm Natayla R-Ruggle. Ah yooz Gertrude?”

“Depends on how much you got,” the woman took another drag and leaned her right shoulder up against the door frame. “Iz a joke. Come on, then. We got a lotta work ta do.”

She opened the door wider and walked on into the foyer. There was a staircase just to the right not four feet from the doorway, a doorway on the left of the entrance area, and a doorway straight ahead from the entering door. It was a bare apartment with very little furniture and even fewer homely decorations. The gypsy stared at the floor in front of her. It was clean.

“Get used to it,” Gertrude popped up in the doorway again, reached out, and snatched the suitcase from the younger woman’s hand. She left again, disappearing up the staircase.

During the time that she was gone, Natayla managed to get just inside the door. The two-story flat was not something she was accustomed to; it was immaculate and it was odd standing in such a place. Gertrude came down at last without the suitcase and shut the door. Again, she studied the young woman’s appearance, took a drag, and moved towards the staircase.

“Move along, guppy.”

“Guppy?”

Natayla stared in puzzled confusion after the woman who again ascended the staircase. Uncertain whether or not she had been instructed to follow, the raggedy mop of a girl followed her keeper up the stairs to the second floor of her new home. There were four doors that were wide open to expose the contents of each room: three of the doors lead to smaller bedrooms that were scarcely furnished; the fourth was the bathroom where Gertrude masculine figure was moving about.

“In here. Hurry up.”

Just as soon as the gypsy stepped into the bathroom, Gertrude started to remove her clothes. Natayla opened her mouth to protest, but off came the petticoat-bodice over her head. It was tossed, with her broom skirt, to the floor in a pile off to the side. She covered her breasts to try to hide them as the woman jerked the scarf from her head.

“Don’t be modest, guppy,” Gertrude mumbled roughly with her cigarette in her mouth as she picked at some of the thicker clods of dirt in the younger woman’s hair. “I’ve seen ‘em all. No use in hidin’ ‘em.”

“A-ah yoos a sapphist?”

“Why? You scared o’ me if I were?”

She moved around to Natayla’s front and removed her cigarette from her thick lips, blowing smoke to the side again. Her eyes squinted to study the timid girl better. As a self-defense mechanism, the gypsy ducked her chin to make her face seem like it was shrinking into the depths of her hair. She shook her head to answer her superior’s question; Gertrude’s gaze was piercing and made her feel more naked than she already was—if that was possible.

“Get in. We need ta wash yer hair first.”

The bath water was really hot yet it felt like nothing she had experienced before. There were no words to describe how relaxing it was, especially when her hair was being lightly tugged on by the other woman. This all had to be a dream; it was too luxurious. The mismatched eyes closed, a deep breath was inhaled, and she started to really enjoy a bath for the first time in her life. That was until there was a hard yank on her hair.

“Ow!”

Whatever joy was there was gone in an instant. Gertrude didn’t apologize, only continued to pull frequently. More clods of mud floated around in the bath water. Something cold was poured all over the top of her head and Gertrude began scrubbing…[i]hard[/i]. It hurt and before long, the water was just as brown as her hair. A bucket of clean water was dumped on her head only seconds after the other woman warned her to close her eyes. Following the water was more soap. The filth increased in the water. There was more scrubbing and, again, water was dumped. This process repeated three or four more times before Gertrude told her to get out. She couldn’t have been happier to leave the bathtub. Next to the cold winter baths (rare as they were), it had been the worst bath she’d ever experienced.

Gertrude gave her a towel to wrap up in and ordered her to her room. The floorboards of the flat were cold to her bare feet. She crossed from the bathroom to the bedroom decorated in a floral pink wallpaper that was peeling from the walls. There was a bed, a night stand, a vanity with a chair, a tall yet shabby wardrobe, and a small window with mauve curtains. Her suitcase was set in the floor presumably to not dirty up the slightly used linens that covered the mattress. She tugged the towel tighter around her and wiped at some of the water running down her face. The room smelled faintly of burnt onions and the window itself was drafty.

From the bedroom, she could hear Gertrude’s vulgar string of curses as she went about her duty. Natayla felt guilty for having someone wait on her. She stewed about it for nearly half an hour trying to figure out a way to approach the intimidating woman with an offer to help. Unfortunately, she couldn’t work up the nerve and Gertrude finally called for her shortly after she made the decision to not say anything at all. The girl returned to the bathroom obediently and was robbed of her snug towel. The bath water was clean again and lapped against the edge of the tub expectantly. In she went again and this time, she found it a much more pleasant experience. Gertrude began scrubbing at her skin though not as hard as she had scrubbed her hair. The water took its time in acquiring its predictable filth; her skin wasn’t nearly as dirty as her hair. Or perhaps it was. By the time the woman got to the girl’s feet, the water was just as black as it had been when Gertrude ordered her out of the bath the first time. The keeper, a new cigarette in the side of her mouth, was concentrated hard on scrubbing the dirt and dead skin from Natayla’s foot while the gypsy looked on, again feeling guilty.

“Did Govna Ruggle hire yoo?”

“He paid me a goodly sum,” the answer was blunt.

“Ye weren’t su’prised when ye saw me,” she went on cautiously. “Wha’ did he say?”

“He said you’d be a lil lump of a rag at best and I was ta clean ya up, dress ya up pretty, and take ya to the Justice Court.”

Silence settled between them again until Gertrude finished her feet. She was allowed to get out and realized her hair had partially dried. Natayla had been dirty for so long that it was a shock for her to see her hair in its natural deep, copper-red color. The other woman held up a small mirror for Natayla to view herself. Again, she was surprised by her own reflection. She turned her head this way and that, examining her features now that she could see them properly. There were many small scars on her face from the scuffles she’d got into during her lifetime but none were as noticeable as the diagonal scar that had cut out her right eye. The memory of the flash of the blade and the ensuing pain flashed back into her mind. She closed her eyes, unwillingly inviting the image of the river of blood and her eyeball laying off to the side.

“All righ’ there, guppy?”

The present returned fully with the sound of her keeper’s voice. She opened her eye to see the bathroom fully lit up by the morning sun pouring in through the window above the bathtub. Her reflection, haunted and pretty, stared back at her with a green eye that revealed her pain. Gertrude took her silence as confirmation that she was done with the mirror and put it up. The gypsy followed her keeper across the landing back to her pink bedroom; Natayla tugged her towel around her again. She caught the masculine woman picking around in the shabby wardrobe. An expensive deep purple walking suit was removed from the wardrobe and laid upon the bed for Natayla’s inspection. She felt her mouth drop open slightly, her eyes widening at the sight of such a beautiful garment.

“Blimey,” she whispered, “Ah’ve ne’er seen anyfin tha’ shiny afore. Where’d ye gedit?”

“Gov’nor Ruggle paid for everythin’: the dresses, the flat, all of it. Even the tutor.”

“Tooter? Wha’s tha’?”

“She’ll ‘xplain that when she gets here next week. Fer now, put this on.”

Again, she was hesitant about removing the towel under her keeper’s piercing gaze. With an annoyed grunt, Gertrude jerked the towel from the figure of her charge and carelessly chucked it across the room. She pulled the girl (who was covering her chest area once more) towards her and helped dress her. Natayla was new to the Edwardian hoop skirt, the bell sleeves, and the bustle of the ruched jacket. During Gertrude’s overview of the dress’s fitting, the street rat admired the black lace trim on the hems of the sleeves and how it made her neck itch at the collar. Next, her keeper dragged her to the stool at the vanity and experimented with the full tuft of deep copper-red.

Some of the hairstyles she came up with were quite wild in Natayla’s opinion. If she knew the word extravagant, she’d probably use it instead of wild. Eventually, it seemed Gertrude got frustrated with the prospect of fixing the girl’s hair because she grunted, left the room, returned with several bobby pins, and swept the mass of curls into an elegant yet casual coiffure and pinned it to make it stay. To hide her over use of bobby pins, Gertrude added a sassy black hat with a violet plume.

“Why can’ ah wear me wrap?”

“‘Cause it’s not somethin’ the Eggs uhprove of. Take my advice, guppy: wear the hat.”

“Wha’ now, Gertie?”

“[i]Don’t[/i] call me that.” If Gertrude had been intimidating before, her stern manner was more than terrifying.

“Ye call me guppy. Can’ ah call ye somefin’?”

“You can call me a cog or a dollymop if you fancy, but don’t use the name Gertie again.”

“All righ’,” Natayla felt out of place speaking at all. “Trudy then?”

“Not that either.”

The conversation was ended with the keeper’s abrupt exit of the bedroom. The younger woman was left staring at her own reflection wondering how angry she had made her new companion. To her relief, Gertrude returned shortly with a pair of white spatterdash boots with black toes and heels. They were big on her, like the dress, but there was a bigger problem. The fact that she had never worn heels before was swiftly observed by the masculine woman. It took another hour, even with Gertrude’s help, to learn to walk in them somewhat convincingly and she was still wobbly. At last, the chain smoker gave up and ordered her to sit down; she did. Her feet already ached.

It was then that Gertrude took out a box from a drawer in the vanity and placed it carefully before the gypsy. Inside was a magnificent collection of fine jewelry. Cameos, lockets, chokers, earrings, brooches, and rings. Since Gertrude knew more about what she was doing, Natayla allowed her to pick the necklace. The woman chose a locket with a silver trim around the portrait of a woman, accompanied by a tiny key. She sat still as her keeper draped the necklace around her neck and fastened it. Both women admired the transformation from raggedy street rat to a beautiful (and clean) young lady.

“Ahm a bi’ scurred,” Natayla admitted.

“Don’t be. Keep yer head up, that’s the importan’ thing.”

Her keeper returned to the wardrobe and pulled out a parasol. It was tattered in places and the lace trim was coming off. Grunting to herself, she tossed it back in the wardrobe.

“Time ta go, guppy. We got Bolts ta see.”

Gertrude took off from the bedroom at a fast pace; she was out of the room before Natayla had time to get up from her seat properly. By the time she stumbled across the room in her high-heeled boots, there was no sign of her keeper. She got to the stairway and heard a strange clicking sound from the green bedroom across the landing from her own. Natayla started to turn around to try and see what the sound was, but Gertrude emerged looking more intimidating than she had when they first met. Her eyes beheld a hard expression and there was a certain rigidness to her now as though she was prepared for rough business. Natayla, being naturally oblivious to such details, simply looked over the woman’s attire. Other than adding a man’s town coat, she had not changed anything on her outfit.

“Ye go’ me fancied up like a tin egg and yer goin’ in tha’?”

“My garb don’t matter. I’m jus’ yer keeper, remember?”

The younger of the two gave a shrug and hobbled down the stairs, almost tripping once or twice on the way down to the first floor. Finally, they reached steady ground and Gertrude threw open the door to the small bustling world of Little Gabbenhoff. Like a good servant, she gestured for her lady to exit and followed the future Governess through the door. Of course, she locked it behind her and then trailed after the hobbling girl with her own swaggering walk.