The Historian’s Novel

   Operation ‘Get Havoc to stop drinking before he kills himself off somehow’ underwent multiple iterations in both conception, and planning. And while the maids were more than enthusiastic in their roles of moving furniture to-and-fro round the manor thanks to a sizable bonus dropped into each of their pockets, Amelia felt it was only a matter of time before Heimdall confronted her on what on earth she was doing.

   At least, that’s how she took the strange looks he would send her way whenever their paths would cross, and Amelia would stammer out a half-cooked reason for why the maids behind her were carrying a full set of cutleries, along with a twenty foot long rolled up carpet that had been taken from storage.

   “You’re not planning a yard sale, are you?” had been the only question asked by Heimdall so far. And after telling him no, she most certainly was not, he had shrugged his shoulders and went on his way. A good sign, since the last thing Amelia wanted was for Heimdall to report her activity to her father (Who she hadn’t seen since their outing together).

   Meanwhile, Grace took charge of the kitchen, in addition to everything else. Which somehow ended up including lessons on acting.

   Or, as the princess put it: How to wear the mask of a liar.

   Goodness, Amelia thought, keeping her eyes fixed upon Grace who was now showing her the ropes on how to maintain attention, workaholics certainly took everything to the next level…

   “…And that’s when I accidentally ‘trip’,” Grace explained from the floor of Amelia’s boudoir, which they were using for privacy reasons, “See how I fall? The dress covers my legs so my knees don’t get hurt, however there’s still enough skin showing to really make the target start sweating. Which helps push them into feeling responsible for a collision that was never their fault. Of course, you can’t forget to embellish…”

   Amelia then bore witness to a princess who began softly crying. A heart-wrenching spectacle that nearly caused her to forget what it was they were doing.

   From here,” Grace continued, effortlessly cancelling the waterworks, “you diverge depending on their personality. If they’re prideful, go with something that feeds into their ego. ‘It’s my fault for not paying attention, please forgive me,’ is a good one. Or, if they’re the studious type, go for a hand-on-hand contact approach by returning whatever they’ve dropped. Remember it’s important to know what type of person they are, because while empathy can be effective, relying too heavily on it can set you for failure.”

   “What you describe doing seems impossible,” Amelia said, her brow furrowed in concentration, “how can I know their wants or desires without having first gotten to know them?”

   Grace didn’t get angry that her student was hopeless. “That’s just a matter of getting good at identifying social cues. We’re practicing using strangers because it only gets easier the better you know them. For now, remember this… If you can understand even a fraction of a person, then inside of yourself there will be a shred that reflects. Uncover that sliver, focus until it grows large enough to be worn as a mask. The best liars are those who can trick themselves into temporarily becoming whoever their opponent wants them to be.”

   “I see,” Amelia said, concluding she should stick to using onions if ever the need to cry raised its head again in the future. “But how does any of this help me make conversation with my father over food?”

   “It probably won’t, I’m really just trying to keep you distracted,” Grace said, getting up from the floor to dust off, “Either way, I think it’s useful stuff to know. But time’s running short. You’d best get yourself seated so we can start on your make-up.”

   Shocked, for she had never considered the possibility Grace would trick her in such a way, Amelia obediently fell into the princess’s rhythm, moving to sit down in front of a vanity desk while Grace began delving through drawers. Secretly thankful to have such an ally, who could magically reduce the number of nervous butterflies which fluttered in her stomach with ease.          

   To think she had taken the initiative to invite her father for dinner… Amelia felt quite proud of herself, even if she had ended up asking Heimdall to deliver the request.

   “Let’s see…” Grace mused as she got to work, talking while sentencing Amelia’s skin to death by moisturization, “the dining hall is all set, the food is ready for serving, your outfit is picked… The hairstyle might be a bit tricky, but I’ve practiced with the maids enough to have the look we’re going for down … Any last minute changes?”

   Amelia, feeling ever so relaxed, struggled against the urge to fall fast asleep. She yawned, having not gotten much shut-eye last night. “You’ve done more than enough,” she said, having recognized in the vanity mirror’s reflection the face Grace tended to make when looking for additional work.

   Grace stuck her tongue out upon having her intentions unmasked. Though she only expressed her displeasure in patting Amelia’s face with primer for longer than needed. When the gentle scolding had finished, Amelia eagerly pointed to the hair pin she wanted to wear.

“Remember, it’s that one. It needs to be that one,” she said, only for Grace to patiently push down her arm.

   “We’re not even done with your foundation.”

   “Don’t people usually do their hair before applying make-up?”

   “Not when heat-styling you don’t,” Grace said, lifting her hand to, with a snap of her fingers, conjure up fire.

   Startled, Amelia stared at the princess’s magic.

   How long had it been since she’d seen a flame dance…

   “Shoot, are you pyrophobic?” Grace asked, quickly crushing the flame.

   Amelia pinched her leg to snap herself out of the memories that came rushing back.

   “I love fire,” Amelia said, “My…. My mother, before she became a Strightsworth, was Ophelia Winchester. The Winchesters being a very powerful household with a bloodline that runs hotter than the flames they control. She would distract me with tricks when I was little… I guess I just didn’t realise how much I’d missed seeing it.”

   The princess’s demeanor turned a joyful crescent. “God that is cute,” she said, reigniting a flame to begin styling, “though I doubt I’m a secret love child to the Winchesters, since my magic isn’t technically fire.”

   Amelia felt a small bubble of whimsical hope pop. She would never have admitted it, but the idea they might be distantly related certainly had been an appealing thought for fostering friendship for however long it did last.

   “How is it different?” she asked, focusing on more important questions.

   “Its not really a flame. I’m making you see something, and because you believe in it, that’s how it is. Except for anything bigger than my hand, I need time to prepare. Like for my drinks, those needed a full twenty-four hours to set their taste to be ‘wonderful’ and even then, I had to start a rumor to really cement the magic.”

   “That seems complicated,” Amelia found herself saying with closed eyes, while internally, she felt a tad outclassed by the princess. Who could permanently alter the ‘state’ of an object! What happened if the princess looked at the sun for a year and decided that light shouldn’t glow? Couldn’t she turn the very air into poison? In how many seconds? Amelia wanted to scream out in fright! The Historian had never mentioned any of this! Until she remembered that so long as they were friends, there wasn’t really anything to worry about.

   “That's fine,” Grace said, showing no sign she doubted Amelia. “Its the type of magic that sounds incredible, until you find out you’ve got to accurately envision the process. Changing the state of something super abstract for instance, would take decades by my estimates.”

   “Neat,” Amelia said, hoping such a dangerous topic would die. “Do you really think this will work?” she asked, already wanting to change her choice for a conversation switch-out, since in retrospect, it screamed of bad luck. 

   Grace, expertly tying Amelia’s hair, gave a sincere answer to an impossible question. “Are you trying to psych yourself out an hour before showtime?”

   The princess leaned in to blow a warm puff of air onto the back of Amelia’s neck. “You can open your eyes now,” Grace said, and Amelia’s fluttered wide, to see the results of her new friend’s hard work; a lovely hairstyle secured with a flowery pin that elegantly tied things together.

   More than satisfied, Amelia went behind her room’s standing wooden privacy divider to change into an old-fashioned dress she had found in storage, beneath a mountain of boxes. Holding it up to her neck, Amelia admired the freshly transformed dress. “I’m surprised you know how to refit clothing.”

   “Not having a hundred dresses growing up was good motivation,” Grace said, “you sure you don’t need any help getting it on?”

   “It’s a step into dress,” Amelia said, blushing furiously, “I’m not a child who needs her mother’s help anymore.”

   “Anymore, huh?” Grace replied, in such a friendly, what-a-nice-day voice Amelia sincerely hoped their amical relationship might continue to grow even after their social positions would flip upside down.

   Letting loose a sigh with nothing to be done about the unknown, Amelia carefully pulled her dress on, to step from behind the dividers for a final assessment in the vanity’s mirror. The sight sent her spiralling down a trail of memories. Often were the times she used to watch her mother doll herself up. And Amelia would always end up with the same conclusion after witnessing the scented baths, the application of make-up, and the multiple hand-maidens who served as her mother’s hands madly rushing about.

   Scary! High society is scary! A young Amelia would think, while watching from a distance with a stuffed toy in her arms. For Ophelia Strightsworth, as she prepared, would wear on her face the same look Havoc’s knights would make when setting off to do battle. As a child, it was hard to understand what might have been going on in her mother’s head. But now, Amelia understood there existed different kinds of armor in life.

   And the one she had chosen today, filled her with hope.

   “I knew it,” Grace said, moving in to begin circling, “your hand is still hurting, isn’t it. Those are the same gloves you’ve been wearing all week.”

   Amelia hid her injured hand behind the other. She had thought the basic first-aid she had done would have cured the hand-saw wound by now, but clearly it would take more time for the injury to finish healing completely.

   “After this you’re letting me call for a doctor,” Grace said, while pinching at Amelia’s dress to make minute adjustments.

   “Okay…” Amelia said, having only wanted the princess to tell her she looked pretty for a self-confidence boost. Instead of a reminder that past mistakes couldn’t be changed. 

   When three even knocks marked a visitor at the door, Amelia set aside her childish wants for another time.

   “Shall I answer?” Grace asked, already one step from doing just that.

   “If you would,” Amelia said, having a good idea of who might have come.

   Her guess, that it was Heimdall, turned out correct. Although the man took not a step into her room. Nor did he look any further inside than where Grace had opened the door. Anyone unfamiliar with Heimdall, might think he were enthralled by Grace. But Amelia knew the man only held a strange obsession with emulating how servants ought to serve high ranking nobles.

   Not with her father of course. With Havoc, Heimdall had no patience. But with herself, and in the past, with Ophelia Strightsworth, the Baron’s aid always did his best. Which for some reason included refusing to enter a woman’s quarters, unless during emergencies.

   “I’ve come to inform you the Baron of Strightsworth might be... indisposed come this evening,” Heimdall said with regret, his careful choice in words enough to hint at Havoc’s actual condition.

   “That’s quite alright,” Grace said stiffly, switching to what Amelia nicknamed ‘her serious mode’, “My lady’s request included only an invitation for dinner. And dinner can be pushed back.”

   Dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief, Heimdall’s voice wavered, “that might be a problem,” he said, which Amelia simply couldn’t allow.

   “Are you sure my father will be unavailable?” she asked stepping forwards, “Although I cannot go into detail, please know that meeting him today is very important.”

   “Today?” Heimdall repeated, his professionalism almost cracking upon seeing how Amelia looked.

   “It’s urgent.”

   The length of time Heimdall stood without speaking caused Amelia to worry they might have broken him somehow. Until, like a toy soldier, did Heimdall turn about-face.

   “Then I will ensure your father attends,” Heimdall said, his departing long strides taken with such purpose you might think he were heading to war.

   With Heimdall gone, Grace dropped her ‘serious mode’. “God, I know your dad is off limits, but Heimdall’s a hottie…”

   “I don’t think you’re his type,” Amelia said, hoping the princess was joking. For to her the idea of Heimdall ending up with the princess, was an inconceivable notion. Even her mother had failed to pair the man with a partner. 

   “Oh, I didn’t mean anything bad,” Grace said, the ghost of a smile hiding itself behind how sincere she sounded. “Heimdall spends most of his time looking after your father, I wouldn’t have a chance to begin with. He feels like the type of guy who would be married to his work, do you know what I mean?”

   Turning her chin away from the princess, Amelia tried to keep a straight face while dealing with Grace, who knew little restraint when it came to the subject of love.

   “Don’t be silly. Now come along, I want to rehearse before dinner,” Amelia said, leading the way towards where the dining hall waited. Together they walked, until Amelia decided to confide in Grace when an arrant thought made itself known.

   “I wonder if life would have been easier if I had been born a man like my father,” she whispered. “Then I could challenge him to a duel and let our fists do the talking, instead of all this deception.”

   Grace’s crisp laughter filled the hallway to its ceiling. “I’ll say,” she said, brushing against Amelia, “then rather than become a handmaiden, I could have seduced you and become your wife instead.”

   That earned Grace a scolding pinch to her waist. Amelia moved away from the natural seductress while inwardly venting. Clearly, The Historian must have made a few mistakes in the characterization of Grace. The man might have presented the princess as being a woman approached by a bevy of suitors, but Amelia now knew for certain they were all being led on by an unrepentant flirt who would spare not a mite of self-control when it came to teasing her friends.

   At least it gave Amelia more chances to practice her acting.

   “Why, Grace,” she said, delaying her steps to force the princess look back, “are you saying that I’m not good enough as I am?”

   Grace blinked, gobsmacked. Seeing her speechless, Amelia discovered the joy of giving others a taste of their own medicine. She couldn’t help it. Having someone her own age to freely play with had her feet walking on clouds.

   Until Grace cat-walked to stand directly in front of her to throw out a “and who says I’m not?”

   Amelia almost believed it. Only for the illusion cast upon her to be shattered when the princess stuck out her tongue; sashaying to escort them both to the dining hall’s entrance. Where Grace somehow managed to say exactly what Amelia needed to gather the courage to enter.

   “Take it easy, I think you look gorgeous.”