Rosie Wilson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
forthsofar) wrote2019-04-13 10:48 pm
forthsofar) wrote2019-04-13 10:48 pm
Entry tags:
in this world of ordinary people, extraordinary people
It felt as though they'd been planning this for months, and in a way they had; the idea of it born from scattered conversations through the winter as they rebuilt their friendship, vague we should dos and have you ever been tos laying out the bones of the idea. It had just been their will to actually carry out said plans that had faded a little as the winter bled into early spring, their time and energy subsumed into more immediate concerns: exams at school, Rosie's preparations for the choir concert, the unsettling strain of all that had happened with (and to) Tim.
With some of that strain now past and the rest of it on its way out, Rosie had begun considering it again, going up to Eponine after dinner a few nights ago with a bright flier in one hand and an oddly nervous flutter in her stomach that she couldn't quite explain. "There's a new exhibit at the museum," she'd said, holding the advertisement out, "if you still wanted to go?"
They'd settled on Saturday afternoon, the forecast having called for rain and a bit of chill. It seemed the perfect sort of weather for staying all day long within the cozy stone walls of the Darrow Art Museum, or huddled inside a booth at Phoenix Records. When the day itself arrived, bright and warm and summerlike, Rosie had to laugh--even as she was determined not to postpone their plans yet again.
Inspired by the delightful surprise and the new lightness in the air, it's easy for Rosie to succumb to the turn of the season and the sense of something beginning; to pull a dress to suit the weather from the back of her closet, to slip her feet into a pair of summery sandals, to fuss with her hair a little more and slick on a new shade of lipstick before admiring herself in the bathroom mirror. And while it's a bit silly given the nearness of Eponine's room to her own, once she's finished getting ready she knocks on her friend's door, just the same as she might if they lived down the street from each other rather than merely across the hall.
"Ready to go?"
With some of that strain now past and the rest of it on its way out, Rosie had begun considering it again, going up to Eponine after dinner a few nights ago with a bright flier in one hand and an oddly nervous flutter in her stomach that she couldn't quite explain. "There's a new exhibit at the museum," she'd said, holding the advertisement out, "if you still wanted to go?"
They'd settled on Saturday afternoon, the forecast having called for rain and a bit of chill. It seemed the perfect sort of weather for staying all day long within the cozy stone walls of the Darrow Art Museum, or huddled inside a booth at Phoenix Records. When the day itself arrived, bright and warm and summerlike, Rosie had to laugh--even as she was determined not to postpone their plans yet again.
Inspired by the delightful surprise and the new lightness in the air, it's easy for Rosie to succumb to the turn of the season and the sense of something beginning; to pull a dress to suit the weather from the back of her closet, to slip her feet into a pair of summery sandals, to fuss with her hair a little more and slick on a new shade of lipstick before admiring herself in the bathroom mirror. And while it's a bit silly given the nearness of Eponine's room to her own, once she's finished getting ready she knocks on her friend's door, just the same as she might if they lived down the street from each other rather than merely across the hall.
"Ready to go?"
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Rosie thinks about Anterwold, of being treated as a grand lady or honored guest when she'd known the truth of her presence there was something more accidental. It had felt as though the space she'd inhabited had already been carved out, that all she'd needed to do was step into it and let everything happen as it would. Given what she knew Anterwold to be, perhaps it had been; something sketched out by the Professor during an afternoon at the pub with his friends.
Not that she wanted to dwell on the implications of that for longer than necessary.
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Maybe she'd like her own life to be a little more unexciting, honestly, but she doesn't think of Rosie that way at all. To her, the things she talks about back home or even here are novel, delightful. Even just having a life with parents -- or terrible aunts -- who worry about who you're going to marry sounds terribly romantic and far-off, even at its most annoying.
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Why the question--so softly delivered, with a gentle press of Eponine's shoulder to Rosie's own--makes her stomach do a little flip, she doesn't know. She was unexciting, or had been so until she'd wandered down Lytten's cellar stairs and made the most thrilling discovery of her young life. All she'd ever wanted was to live a life that was a little more interesting, full of strange sights and fascinating, glamorous people. Something that would make her interesting too, reflected in its glow.
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"This place is mad," she declares. "That doesn't mean the madder it gets the better it is. Sure, there are people with magic and powers, or that came from the end of the world, but that doesn't make your life boring. You are interesting and you should feel it."
"Besides, it's not always a good thing," she points out. "My life wasn't boring, back home, but it was only because I was too afraid to be bored, most of the time."
That's a dark turn for a sunny conversation, and one a little more vulnerable than she intended to be, but thankfully they're nearing the museum, and she laughs at herself wryly. "Here we are: this is a better sort of interesting."
no subject
There isn't much time to say anything, about that or the darker, more curious mention of Eponine's life before Darrow; they turn the corner, and the fine grey stone of the art museum looms before them. "A much better sort of interesting," she echoes, turning her head to grin brightly at her friend. "Let's go in."