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Okay, guys. So, I'm probably going to stop posting my story about the family, because I was mostly posting that for Zeta since no one else really fell in love with it (except MOI of course). But I'm posting a new one! And I expect y'all to read it now, y'hear? Because it's new, and therefore none of you are behind, and plus I think y'all'll like this story. Yes, I just wrote "y'all'll" and expected you to know what it means.
Comment, please. I know it's a lot to read, but I'd really appreciate it if I could get some feedback! Thank you!



I sat staring out the window. It was the same girl out there as it always was, tall and slender with dark brown eyes and locks of charcoal-black hair. She was dressed in a gorgeous crimson dress laced with vanilla-colored trimmings. It was tight around her waist, so tight it seemed a wonder she could breathe. She did breathe, though, for her teasing amount of cleavage rose and fell, and, of course, she hadn’t dropped over dead. Even from here, her eyes seared me. Such passion, such intensity of purpose. Purpose for what, I knew not, and I yet whatever she had set her sights on, I felt quite sure she would achieve it more precisely than any man I’d ever known. It was that look in her eyes, I believe, that intrigued me so much. That, and my simple curiosity.
For the girl was there, standing outside my window, quite often. Not every day, but rather at random times. Her appearances had grown more and more common, though she never changed her habit. I never saw her come; she was merely standing there when I glanced out the window, and it caught my eye. The first time I saw her it was midday, and the streets were full and bustling. She was surveyed by many folks, but particularly a few shady figures wandering around. When one tried to touch her bottom, she merely whipped her hand out and slapped his hand away, and from the look on the young man’s face, it really stung (he hurried away, disgruntled). She didn’t even spare him a glance, though. She smacked his hand with a combination of indifference and annoyance, as if that sort of thing happened every day. Other than that, her only movements were to occasionally pace slowly back and forth, glancing at her hands every so often. I think her apparel and generally poised demeanor set the common boys off their guard, and very few of them gave her trouble.
Though it was certainly strange, a girl of such an obviously high class poking around these parts. Almost everyone stared at her on that first day, no doubt wondering why in the Lord’s she was spending the day here. She most certainly lived uptown.
The next time she came, it was early in the morning. I wasn’t in my bedroom; I had gone downstairs, just as the sun was rising, to have a glass of water. There’s a large window in the sitting room, and I was walking in there when I saw her looking at me rather curiously from the street. Needless to say, I was surprised, and rather set off my ease. I looked her in the eye for a moment, but couldn’t hold that fiery stare for more than a moment, and soon hurried into the kitchen.
She was a most intriguing figure to me, then. And how could I possibly foresee that she would one day be the most frightening presence in my life?
She came many more times, after that. Different times of day, though never again at noon, and never past sunset. The wind would blow her gown about, and sometimes she would reach up to hold her hat upon her head (always a glorious, brightly colored hat, often with a feather or ribbons). She wore fancy shoes, with heels, not the type of thing one usually sees girls wearing around these parts. All of her clothes seemed to match.
I, growing up with only my Aunt, who sews handkerchiefs and clothing, and my brother Tim, who works for a man who sells stolen goods, had never seen a girl like this one before. I’ve only been uptown once, when my Uncle was dying and my Aunt wanted to sew a really beautiful handkerchief for him. She needed the expensive material; we ended up coming back to our area, though, and bought some nice material here, because we didn’t realize just how much money those uptowners try to get you for.
Anyhow, I saw this girl, and wondered for the thousandth time what she was doing. Was she crazy? Did she want something? Oh, hell, what if she worked for the cops? I hoped Tim wasn’t in trouble for working at that shop…not that I cared over much for Tim. He was a surly, rude brute with a bad temper, ever since our Uncle died. The first moment he ever laid a hand on me, though, my Aunt turned quite defensive. She grabbed his arm, turned him towards her, and set down the rules.
“If you want to break things, boy, break ‘em. If you want to go to the army and beat people up, do it. If you want to learn to box, box ‘til you turn blue in the face, go on ahead and do it!” She whipped the piece of hair that had fallen out of her graying bun out of her face and pointed a finger at him. “But if you even think about touching my girl Anna here again, I’ll knock you black and blue, boy. I will knock you black and blue, ‘til you haven’t got the teeth to even chew on bread. You got that now, boy? You hear me?”
My brother, usually quite aggressive, was stunned by my normally mild Aunt’s change of tone. He merely nodded, taken aback.
“Good then.” And she took my arm, led me upstairs, and cleaned the cut under my eye. That was the day I stopped missing the mother I’d never known.
My mother died when I was born, my father left before Tim was born. I’ve lived with my Aunt my whole life. She’s always protected me, where she can. There are always those dangerous people on the streets that she can’t keep from me, but I can take care of myself just about always. I’m very thin, with long legs and not a lot of body weight, so I can outrun just about anyway.
So I suppose that was why this girl didn’t particularly frighten me. She put me on my guard, but living in this part of town, when am I not on my guard, anyhow?
She was watching me again. She always watched me. I never saw her even really look at anyone else. It made me wonder how often she was there when I didn’t even see her.
She was squinting a tiny bit, for it was dark outside. This was the first time I knew of that she’d ever come at night. I felt irritated, all of the sudden. Who was this girl, this strange one, who thought she thought she could just stand there and watch me whenever she liked? Before I knew what I was doing, I was down the steps and out the door, marching towards her.
I lightened my voice to a polite tone. “Excuse me, may I ask yeh name?” I was irritated, but I’ve often been told that my temper gets the better of me, so I made a conscious effort to pull back.
She took a step toward me, and in these close quarters, her eyes were so much more alarming then they had ever seemed from the distance from the window. “Yes, you may,” she said.
I waited. When she said nothing, I frowned. “Well, wha’ is it, then?”
She raised one eyebrow. It’s amazing how intimidating a little thing like that can be, coming from a girl who radiated such strength. “You could trouble yourself to be a little more polite.”
I was put off by this. She didn’t seem to feel the need to be particularly polite towards me, after all. Of course, she was of a higher class…perhaps that was it. I watched her curiously. “Very well, then,” I said softly. “What do you call yourself, miss, if you don’t mind my askin’?”
“I already told you I don’t mind it.”
Lord, girl! I was trying to be polite, like you told me to!
What a difficult young woman. And strange, too. For who went out so late at night, especially in these parts, dressed in an expensive blood-red dress, with no cloak or other garment? I was at a loss for what to say next.
She saved me the trouble, and with a hint of an un-amused smile let known her identity. “My name is Marguerite Cornell.”
“Marguerite?” She nodded. The street lamp showed her face clearly for a moment, and I finally got a picture of what she looked like. She had delicate features, with high cheekbones and a strong yet feminine jawline. A face as clean as hers was a rare thing around here, and the few freckles that marked her cheeks only seemed to contrast her porcelain white skin. I was surprised to see that she was quite gorgeous. “Isn’t that French?” I was not what you might call cultured, but I knew a British name when I heard one, and hers wasn’t.
She lifted her chin and suddenly looked at me much more intently. “Yes. Why? Is that problematic for you in some way? Do you, perhaps, think a French name unsuitable? Do you presume to believe that I ought to bear a different name?”
I stuttered at her sudden aggression. “I- n-no. I just- well, you’re British-aren’t yeh?”
She became calm again at once. “Well, yes, I am.”
“Then why’re-”
Her eyebrow raised again.
I started again, carefully. “Then may I inquire as to why you bear a French name?” I felt like a fool, standing there talking like I was upper class. The words felt awkward on my tongue, slippery and dysfunctional.
“Yes, you may.”
I was getting frustrated with her. “Why, then?”
“I told you to be polite!”
“Well, would ya jus’ answer the question!”
“You’re working yourself into a fit!” she said, more irritated than angry.
“Ain’t no way for me t’do anythin’ properly wi’ you, is there? Bloody nut job, you are! Bloody crazy!” I glared at her, no doubt easier to do in the darkness than in daylight.
But I could not hold my glare, for at my words, her entire being seemed to flare up. Her face darkened and her chin and chest rose, and her eyes seemed to flicker into life. I was stunned to see that there existed a burn in her eyes more white hot than I had previously seen, and took a step back. She stared at me, and it was all I could do to not back off into my house, let alone look her in the eye. Instead I looked away, down, anywhere else, until I could stand her burning silence no longer and stuttered, “I- look…I…I apologize- for calling you- for wha’ I said.”
I glanced up at her, and after she studied me quite fiercely for a long, frightful moment, saw the worst of her anger slowly leave her face. The pride was certainly still there, but at least I could look at her now. She was quiet for a long moment. “My mother was French,” she said, now perfectly composed. “My father; British.” It was an unusual circumstance that she described, but I merely I nodded, a little uncertain about saying anything myself. She watched me. “My, you’re a curious girl.”
I wondered at what she meant by “curious”. Did she mean I asked a lot of questions, or was she calling me strange? I thought the former, deciding that a girl as peculiar as this Marguerite would have no place calling me odd. “Perhaps,” was all I said, a tad confused.
“Well,” she said, tossing her hair behind her shoulder, “my turn, then. What is your name?”
“Anna Farcroft,” I said, then sighed at my own stupidity. When a stranger asks your name, my aunt had always told me, don’t let slip your real one. Who knows what they might want? And here I was, telling a random girl on the street my name. There are none more foolish than one who knows her error and makes it repeatedly. This was the second time in the last two days; I had told my name to a man on the road who had asked me the other day, idiot that I was to do so. I’d been terrified out of my wits, though, and hadn’t thought about it; who would be able to think who has just been shoved into an alleyway and threatened with a knife? He wanted my money. I had two pence in my shoe, but lied that I had none, and fortunately he didn’t check there. After finding my name, he gave me one last shove and left me alone. Such is life around here.
Marguerite, at least, didn’t seem to realize my regret. She merely nodded slowly and repeated my name to herself under her breath. “Interesting name…I’ve never heard of a Farcroft before.”
“It’s not too common,” I told her. I cursed in my head. Now she knew I was probably the only Anna Farcroft around! What I fool I was being, why was it that I couldn’t stop letting these things out of my mouth? I frowned.
This time, she noticed my expression. “Don’t want me to know your name, hm?” I opened my mouth to protest her assumption despite the truth of it but she cut me off. She seemed quite suddenly angry again. “Think I’m dangerous, is that it?” She started toward me, and I began backing off. The light was back in her eye, that frightening light, and it glared through the darkness, as she stood just on the edge of the pool of light from the street lamp. I swallowed and stepped farther away from her, but my back hit the lamppost and before I could find my way around it, she had swept in close to me, her hand just above my breast, on my shoulder, holding me back.
I felt a shiver as I stuttered, “I d-didn’t say that…!” I tried to keep my voice calm.
She brought her face in close to mine, so close our noses were almost touching, and spoke suddenly in a deadly calm voice, in control yet full of fierceness. “You, foolish girl, shall not call me mad, or be so rash as to find rude words flying out of your mouth at me.” She flicked her words at me, hardly opening her mouth, but breathing such anger into each phrase as to make me flinch. “Your wicked tongue, Anna Farcroft, shall never again hurl insults at me, nor shall your silence yield the same results.” She leaned in the slightest bit more and drew her hand off my shoulder and along my jaw, flicking my head up at the chin. “Do you understand?”
“Y-yes, I understand. I-I do.” My words were choppy from fear. Of what, I’m not quite sure, for she held no weapon, and spoke no threats. Yet something about this girl, about her stingingly sharp power and her scent, that of roses, was rather terrifying. Something about her was dangerous, and she needed no threat for her will to be done, only a command. She required no weapon to force me back against the pole, only the passionate fire in her eyes. I knew then that I should hate to ever anger her again. And yet was glad that I should probably never meet her after this night; I felt that I was sacrificing a great deal of my dignity, cowering as I was. I resolved not to behave so pathetically should I ever be in a similar situation again.
She searched my face for a moment, in a rather peculiar way, as the way in which a man assesses the quality of a steed to determine whether it can be tamed. She then released me and stood back, turning to let the wind blow her hair as if nothing had happened. “Good,” she said quietly. She glanced back at me, and as quickly as she had become angry, she became thoughtful, watching me for a long moment, until she abruptly said, “Goodnight, Miss Farcroft,” and swept away into the night.
I stood, still breathing rather hard, for a minute afterwards. I didn’t care to watch her go, I was only glad that she had. I suppose I would have stayed there at the lamp post all night, thinking, but the night had grown darker, and I saw a shadow or two in a near alleyway. So I quickly headed back to bed, thinking it best to forget the night’s events.