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The Foundation’s headquarters is unchanging. Resistant to change, would be a better way to put it. Inside her room, Matilda is narrowing her eyes with such force that the fact that Sonetto is here - yet again! - does not cloud her mind with all those misty fog that are hard to get rid of.
Fog. The headquarters is always sleek, clean; unlike the scattering streets of England with wandering Arcanists and Mankind alike, and rain - there is always rain. She thinks she can smell it sometimes. The unkempt grass, the wet dirt, the sweetened tea, feet swinging and kicking at her pépé’s place. Particularly, this one gazebo in the garden back then, and the stories that just kept on pouring as long as the rain did the same.
She is skeptical right now. Not of the Foundation! Non, non, that is preposterous. Differences do not necessarily mean one is bad, one is good.
“Ça alors, Sonetto!” She removes her hands from where they are hovering props on each side of her crystal ball. Her brows are pushing down harder and she hears her own accent getting thicker. “I am packed, The Great Matilda will always have time for those who need her but not like this!”
All of that, and she is pointing an accusatory finger at Sonetto, and she must look so animated because her papa and maman have never once failed to mention it whenever she gets too caught up in her emotions, even in the long-winded letters that they write to each other. Always a portion of cursive letters on parchment paper: Comme c’est mignonne, Maman peut te voir dans ta lettre.
All Sonetto does is lean back in her seat on instinct, eyes widening a fraction. Her hands are neatly tucked on her lap, curls furling the outlines of her waist. “I want to seek out the future, Matilda.”
Her hair - constant, burning embers. It clashes with how toned down she is, and Matilda thinks about this every now and then.
Matilda had the privilege to catch wafts of embers; the real ones - burnt rubbers, smokes and those sparks on her curious fingertips like stars that have been dyed red. Not the tame caricature through tubes and valves, and incense of frankincense.
It is a curious thing. If she were to lay a delicate hand upon those waves of embers, would it feel like one or the other?
“I do not understand your predicament,” Matilda sighs, crossing her arms. This thought is no longer novel. She relaxes, just a bit. “The board approved Madam Z’s proposal, no? Vertin is back with the unregistered Arcanists, is she not?”
Sonetto smiles then nods. Matilda does not want to let it get to her, she will not even let it get close. “Timekeeper is boding well. What I…wish to find out does not concern the Timekeeper.”
Matilda huffs in annoyance. “But you are not making sense, Sonetto. Quelle mouche t’a piqué?” To prove her point further, “Even the,” it sounds like ze, “orb is not showing me anything!”
As the Bouanich family always say, avoir la tête sur les épaules! Perhaps, this may be the only thing her lineage has in common with the Foundation, and it also happens to be the one thing that gets the best out of Matilda too many times. She glances down at the crystal ball between them. It is wafting with mist, like England’s perpetual skies and Paris’s coldest nights. She will not call this a proper reading, it is an irreversible shame upon the Bouanich family name to do as such.
Divination always has a clear purpose, even though it may not reflect it on its search. Either Sonetto has let it slipped past her itinerant mind, or she actually has no clue whatsoever but that is simply impossible for The Great Matilda’s greatest rival!
But Sonetto does not yield; she is earnest and genuine, and this is what makes her a self-challenged obstacle to overcome in Matilda’s eyes. “You asked me what it is that I saw, I told you what I saw.”
Matilda heaves out some grumbling noises, high-pitched and gone as they arrived. She pinches the ache between her brows. “You said there are potential friends, people you do not expect. But you feel safe going on this path with them.” But then, “You said there is a gazebo. You are not sure where it is, it is blurry. And you want to go there. I could not see what you saw, c’est impossible.” Her brooch and badge gleam with such pride on reflecting glass, she will wear them proud. “If this is your way of telling me to join Vertin in her suitcase then I am sorry, I cannot do that.”
“Matilda,” Sonetto says, quiet as always. But then, as abrupt, she gets up on her feet, leans her body forward across the small table separating them.
It is Matilda’s turn to lean back - as far as she can - she is lightheaded out of the blue, her room feels much more narrow - “Wh-What are you—You cannot cajole me—This is so not right, Sonetto, you are better than this!”
Sonetto does the unthinkable: she laughs, it is a soft-sounding laugh. “I will never ask that of you.” And there is that look in her eyes - one that is golden and Matilda is used to watching it from a distance while Vertin is able to carry it with her everywhere she goes. “If your fight is here, within the SPDM, then it is here.”
Matilda catches her breath, points at Sonetto’s closeup face. “Then what—”
“There are potential friends. I have found a ground I can stand on, thanks to your help.” Her pristine glove is a second skin, pure silk enveloping Matilda’s finger. “There is you, someone who gave me a glimpse of the world outside through her grandfather’s tales, even as I was indifferent to it. Time, Matilda. It is precious, right? I would not want to waste it.”
She can hear her papa’s handwriting as clear as she almost forgets how he sounds like: Matilda, tu es comme à livre ouvert. Ne laissez jamais cela être un l'inconvénient.
She might cower, she might hide in places unworthy of a Bouanich. But never let it be said that she is one to run when the divine says it is a crucial time.
Sonetto’s gloveless hand is unimaginably soft, Matilda has imagined it. Now, it is smooth and slithery when it takes advantage of the gaps between Matilda’s fingers.
This is a very vivid dream; a filthy trick of intense arcanum.
Matilda bites on her inner cheek and it hurts. When she pulls their joint hands closer to her, Sonetto lets her. This is not a bad thing. How can it be a bad thing? Of course, she thinks, albeit wry, The Marvelous Matilda has gotten a grasp on what she has always wanted, yet it still feels like she is not number one.
“Mon dieu,” Matilda gently cries, suddenly worn out. “Sonet—You—” she shakes her head, “zut, this is something you can just tell me to my face. Like what you did just now.”
Sonetto is starry-eyed under humdrum ceilings. “Ah, I know.” This girl does not smell of rain, sweetened tea or flickers of embers. The muted grays and stone walls that are engulfing every corner of this place are just huge pieces of inconvenience when they are presented with the blush on Sonetto’s cheeks and nose, and this makes Matilda feel so unsettled. “I was not as well-prepared as I hoped.”
She has not earned this side of Sonetto like the way that she has earned her papa and maman’s affections. This is not the endgame. Au contraire, this is a leap forward taken.
“Hmph. This does not change anything,” Matilda says, headstrong. She is no longer guarded, shoulders unwinding. “Every time you try to outdo yourself, I will still try to best you.”
There is a squeeze of their hands. This is real, she is here for now. “I do not wish it was any other way, Matilda. I look forward to it, as you should know.”
It is the first time that Sonetto acknowledges this - this undying part of Matilda that is like a wildfire. And it comes with those waves of embers being tangible blurs upon Matilda’s sight. Her fingertips itch.