#Edmara Melbray

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A Crash Course in Major OCs

(featuring art by @praise-the-lord-im-dead, @scarvenartist, and @lady-merian)

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4 for any of the adults if it matches! Also, 3, 7, and 8 for Tamett.

4. Do they have any scars or tattoos?

Tietra as a child got a small cut by her eye while playing with her brothers. It's still faintly visible but not especially noticeable.

If Bethira has any particular scars, they are not publicly visible. Maintaining a seemingly flawless appearance has been part of her role for a very long time.

Talfrin has an assortment of minor scars in various places, mostly as a result of dumb things he did as a child and playing sports in school and at university.

Edmara has a few marks on her hands and forearms from where Elystan has bitten her.

Levico got a few minor burn marks on his face and hands from when he worked in a theatre and some special effects went wrong.

Odren has a tattoo. No one living (besides his valet) knows exactly where or what it is because he is very careful to hide it in public and around his family. It's leftover from his days of traveling as a young man--a rash choice and rather an embarrassment.

There's a small mark on Antavia's forehead that she claims comes from Andras shoving her down on gravel when they were children. It's unclear how true this story is.

3. What was their most expensive purchase/where does their disposable income go?

Tamett has a moderate allowance while he's at school, and he mostly uses it on frivolous schoolboy-type purchases. Snacks from the school shop or a popular tea place in the nearby village. Funny papers and magazines with adventures stories. Small toys/amusements. He frequently writes to his parents asking for more money. Probably the largest purchase he's recently made is Christmas gifts for his entire immediate family, which required a lot of difficult saving up.

7. Describe the shoes they’re wearing.

Tamett's typical shoes, like everything else he has worn since living with Josiah's family, are well-made and high quality, although not fancy. They're black lace-up boots. He did not choose them. He is expected to keep them clean himself, which is rather a chore since he tends to be careless about where he wears them. They've been exposed to a lot of mud when he plays outdoors.

8. Describe the place where they sleep.

At the palace, Tamett has a comfortable but small room. He decorates it with photographs of his family and mementoes from home. He is expected to keep it neat and tidy so that the palace staff only have to clean it occasionally, during their monthly deep cleans, but this is very difficult for him. He stashes insects he has collected in unexpected places, and no one much likes going into his room.

At home, his room is larger, with older, shabbier furnishings and a lot more personalization. Even though he's hardly there, it's usually very messy.

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🌨️ - If this oc had a day free from all their responsibilities, how would they spend it? - For the whole Melbray family.

Levico would have a family outing planned.

Edmara would probably get some sleep and generally Do Nothing.

Amarantha would do a lot of drawing.

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Bringing this one back in honor of the day and also because I've revised it a little, mostly for better wording, although there are a few minor additions that don't drastically change the events of the story.

I hadn't reread this one in a while and had forgotten how fun it was--until it isn't. This is Elystan before everything falls apart for him and he becomes more bitter and cynical, but he's struggling here more than he can grasp.

In a Nutshell

(For Elystan’s birthday today, a story flashing back to him as a ten-year-old, taking on a forbidden party, dangerous games, and his relationship with Delclis.)

Keep reading

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Who is Amarantha?

Today, October 4, is my OC Amarantha's birthday.

Bio

Amarantha Margeth Melbray is the daughter of Levico (L. D.) Melbray, author of the popular Morrick Hopeley detective stories, and his wife Edmara, nurse to King Talfrin's son, Elystan. The nature of Edmara's job makes it difficult for her to be at home consistently, so Amarantha has been raised primarily by her father. She developed an interest in art at an early age and has been encouraged to cultivate this talent. Her greatest aspiration is to become a famous artist, specializing in portraiture, and she is given a chance to work toward that future when her mother's employer, Queen Bethira, grants her a scholarship to a distinguished girls' school for the arts.

Upon arriving at this school, however, Amarantha learns that her scholarship has been suddenly and unexpectedly revoked. With nowhere else to go while her father is on a lecture tour, she joins her mother at the palace, where she reencounters her old nemesis Elystan. Amarantha has for a long time been deeply jealous of the boy who monopolizes her mother's attention and affection, and their meeting doesn't go well--she ends up slapping him and incurs the wrath of his mother. That night, Amarantha's mother wakes her up and hurries them onto a train, but she vanishes before she can explain, and Amarantha wakes up in a remote moated castle, lost, confused, and trapped. But she's not alone--Elystan's there too! Can she find answers about what happened and find a way out? Is Elystan worth joining forces with in this adventure? Is there any hope for her scholarship now that she's offended the royal family?

Why I Love Her

This child is intense. Everything is Serious Business, especially art. She has one plan for her life, it's her glorious purpose, and she has no backup plans. At age twelve, she's already got Opinions about what portraiture should and shouldn't be. She's constantly struggling with reality's failure to live up to her grandiose expectations. She's trying so hard to win her mother's attention back (maybe if I accomplish something impressive enough, maybe if I'm accommodating enough, maybe if I'm responsible and undemanding enough...) but she feels as if she can never get more than crumbs, and she's deeply resentful beneath the compliance. She's a judgmental, jealous, petty jerk who thinks she knows and understands other people far more than she actually does--but also a naïve child who hasn't lost her sense of wonder and tendency to get caught up in fancifulness. She needs friends. She's going to get friends. She needs growth. She's going to get that too.

Description

Visitors to the Melbray parlor who encountered Amarantha seated silently on the sofa, her hands folded, typically received the impression that she was a quiet, mannerly child. It usually took a while before they noticed her peering at them with prominent brown eyes like an insect who had weighed them in the balance and found them wanting. The bow at the base of the brown braid wrapped around her head sprung from the back of her neck like a pair of wings. Her round face and small nose and mouth gave her an otherwise doll-like countenance, but nothing could soften the intensity of that gaze.

Further Info

There is a list of random OC facts for her here, newly revised and updated.

Appearances

Prequel scene for Book 2

Short dialogue between Amarantha and her father (before Book 2)

Revised Book 2 Chapter One

Early Morning Tea (set immediately after Book 2 Chapter One)

Revised Book 2 Chapter Two

Revised Book 2 Chapter Three

Revised Book 2 Chapter Four

Revised Book 2 Chapter Five

Revised Book 2 Chapter Six

Picnic in the Clock Tower (later in Book 2)

Tell Me Where You Live (sketch)

Speaking to a Housemaid (sometime in Book 3)

Portrait of the Monarch as a Young Woman (sometime in Book 4)

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✅️🎤

✅—Which character/plot point/etc would be your favorite to see on screen?

...all of them?

But seriously...Rietta would be fun to see on screen. You'd get a full sense of how lively and animated she is. Amarantha and Elystan's conversations would be amusing to watch in performance. Same for Elystan and Josiah, and if they cast them correctly, there's the visual of a tiny, persistently annoying Elystan against a Josiah who's nearly twice his size. And Antavia would probably steal every scene she was in.

🎤—Describe the opening scene

I got asked this one three times! So for you, I'll answer for a Book 2 adaptation.

Personally, I like my opening for Book 2, starting with the dark city street and lampposts and hansom cabs (like a classic Sherlock Holmes story!) and then zeroing in on the Melbray house, panning over the baggage in the hallway (this family has a lot of baggage, both literal and figurative) and then moving to the impatient residents. Conversation between Amarantha and Levico to set up who they are and what's going on, Edmara returns, etc.

But I'm not a screenwriter, so I don't know how effective that would be as an opening scene in this medium. It could open with a flashback to the first slapping incident, but that might be too soon for such information and might feel a bit cliché. I don't know where else you could start it and still have the desired effect. Maybe a scene setting up the political subplots, but I'd rather begin by introducing the audience to Amarantha, because it's her story and we see it through her eyes.

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@fictionadventurer was curious about background for the adult OCs' names, so here it is! Plus Josiah's siblings since they didn't make it into the other post.

Marielle Tietra Valencourt (nee Mariella Philene Gremondi): All the Gremondi sisters, like many Otionovian women, have the first name "Mariella" and use their middle name instead. Philene was named for her great-grandmother. That name didn't translate well into Faysmondian, so she chose "Tietra" as an anagram of her fiancé's name.

Etriat Donatien Odilon Valencourt: As the only son of his parents, ended up with a high-pressure name, in honor of his grandfather, father (named for one of Faysmond's patron saints), and a deceased uncle.

Antavia Edella Ellaset Phemister: Lots of pressure here too! She is named for the descendent of Gearalt III from whom the Phemisters get their claim to the throne, her grandmother (a much-beloved and -respected queen consort who did a lot for Corege), and the arguably greatest reigning queen in Coregean history. Probably went by Tavie in childhood. Since taking a different title after her abdication, she encourages people to refer to her as "the Duchess." Hardly anyone gets to call her Antavia anymore.

Andras Marbert Adrend Phemister: Named for an obscure early king of Corege, the king who founded Hollingham College (his mother, Edella, was of course very interested in education!), and one of Edella's many brothers who died young. As a second son, he didn't have expectations of inheritance placed on him, so his parents could use names with more personal significance for him.

Bethira Catrin Liddick (nee Goswick): The Goswicks gave their daughters names that were stylish among their peers. Bethira's common name has made her seem more approachable to Coregeans.

Talfrin Gearalt Stamwell Liddick: His middle names are for his father and Gearalt III (the common ancestor of the Phemisters and Liddicks), but I have no idea where his first name came from. His mother might have just liked it.

Edmara Nelsie Melbray (nee Delford): The family names were all used by the time she was born (fourth of five), so she has a normal, down-to-earth Coregean middle-class name with no more to it than her parents' preference. As a child, she was Edie to her siblings; Elystan is literally the only person who calls her Mara.

Levico Dermond Melbray: Probably the same goes for him. He was also fourth of five (all brothers!), so who knows where his name came from. I don't think he's ever cared much for it though, hence the use of initials professionally.

Odren Linnaf Norlo Adrend Callon: Named for his father, because the Liennese are big on carrying on tradition. His middle names are for his uncles who died young (yes, that's the same Adrend Andras was named for--Edella was Odren's paternal aunt), a sentimental choice on his father's part. Maybe the association with lost brothers had a subconscious effect on the elder Odren's reluctance to get close to his heir.

Mariele Liane Rosanna Callon (nee Marielle Liane Rosanne Valencourt): Liane, as the youngest of a large family, was given fashionable rather than dynastic names (Faysmondians often use "Marielle" as Otionovians do "Mariella"). When she married, her name was simply translated into Liennese; lee-AHN became LY-uh-nuh.

Nyella Josefa Callon (nee Mellsbach): Her middle name (pronounced yo-ZEH-fa) was chosen for its resemblance to her father's first name, Josia.

Ayra Liane Edonora Callon: Named for her aunt, mother, and great-grandmother. All safe, conventional choices, with dynastic significance in case this child ended up having to inherit.

Ateva Edella Rika Callon: Named for her paternal grandmother, great aunt, and distant cousin Rietta. The first name was an attempt on Liane's part to mend a damaged relationship, and the others were useful for pleasing international connections.

Nyel Mikaiah Tilo Callon: Named for his mother and her two brothers. Nyella and Odren had not chosen names before the birth. Not knowing what his wife would have wanted, Odren chose all names of significance to her. No one has been able to bring themselves to call him Nyel, so he has always been Mikaiah, or Miki.

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Newly revised to condense some passages and tighten the word count a little (more like 15700 now).

A Christmas Chapter: Elystan’s POV

Last year I wrote two versions of this story, from Tamett’s and Josiah’s POVs. I had intended to leave it there, but a friend wanted Elystan’s POV, so after a long struggle of trying to find a story I’d never really planned between the lines of the existing pieces, here is the third and final version.

This one runs very long, nearly 17000 words. It’s not perfect, probably has wording issues right and left, and it feels a bit more like a series of random events than a cohesive whole, but I’m sick of fussing with it for now, and you’re very welcome to tell me (politely) what could be improved.

In case you’re unfamiliar with these characters, Elystan is the thirteen-year-old son of a disgraced former king of Corege (one of several nations in this  Edwardianesque world). After circumstances that have resulted in his having a massive grudge against his mother and his half-brother Delclis (the current King), he has been sent to Hollingham, an elite boarding school, where he rooms with Josiah, Crown Prince of Lienne, and has befriended Josiah’s paid companion Tamett. They’re about to reach the end of their first term, and Elystan is faced with the daunting prospect of having to spend the Christmas holidays with his dearly beloathed family.

Keep reading

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@scarvenartist asked: BEFORE THE BEGINNING for The Blackberry Bushes: Book 2?

Thank you for your patience! Here’s a flashback of vignettes of Amarantha’s first encounter with Elystan and the rest of his family. The dialogue is, I regret, not particularly sparkling, and the whole thing is weepier than usual, but this will have to be forgiven, considering that Amarantha and Elystan are only six at this point. I don’t love the ending, but I’m tired of working on this.

Endean House wasn’t a castle. Even though the Prince lived there, it was only an enormous house with a clock tower and more windows than Amarantha had thought possible. Nothing like where princes lived in the fairy tales Amarantha had assiduously studied in anticipation of this visit, and on the whole, she was rather disappointed—until her mother led her briskly out of the staff quarters in the West Wing and into the Alis story her father had read to her.

The long gallery had a black and white floor like an immense chessboard, stretching so far away she couldn’t see the end of it. A row of windows with honeycomb-shaped panes shone white in the afternoon sun, and between each of them, knights in armor stood at attention, armed with spears. Amarantha shrank back at the sight of them and clung to her mother’s arm.

“It’s all right,” said her mother. “They’re just suits of armor. There’s no one inside. They can’t hurt you.”

Amarantha was not so convinced. Anything could have been hiding behind those visors. Nothing so tall and imposing and alarmingly human-shaped could be entirely safe. She took a tentative step forward onto a white square, but she did not let go of her mother’s sleeve. 

Keeping her eyes on the floor so she didn’t have to see those frightening knights, she stepped carefully from white square to white square. If she had learned anything from Alis, it was that one did not cross a chessboard as if it were a city street. Step on the wrong square and who knew what might happen.

“Amarantha,” said her mother, “they’re expecting us. I know you can walk faster than that.”

“But those are the wrong squares.”

Her mother looked at her as if she somehow had not understood a perfectly straightforward explanation. “It’s the floor. It’s there to walk upon. Quickly, now.” 

Amarantha had no choice. Cringing, she trotted beside her mother across all the squares, even the black ones. Now that she could look up again, she could see that the other gallery wall was covered in paintings, even more than in museums. Men, women, and children of all description in grand costumes peered out at this visitor to their domain. They would have been nearly bad as the knights if the colors and lines had not distracted Amarantha with their glorious effects. These were more than pictures; the people in their glowing scarlets and golds and greens seemed almost ready to climb out of their frames and say good afternoon, and Amarantha would have greeted them with pleasure.

One painting of a lady with a vast skirt and a huge ruffle haloing her head and neck fascinated her the most. Something about her eyes and the set of her mouth wasn’t like the others’.

“Why is she angry?” Amarantha asked her mother.

“Who? I don’t know.”

“Did she not like being in a picture?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps she had a difficult day. Perhaps someone kept her waiting.”

“And he”—Amarantha pointed to a boy posed with a horse—“looks sad. Why did the artist make a picture of somebody sad?”

“I don’t know. But Elystan will be sad if we don’t see him soon. Come on.”

Amarantha tore herself away from the mysterious people and tried to walk a little faster. “I’m going to be an artist like that. Except I don’t want to paint angry people.”

“You won’t have to, dear.”

Amarantha didn’t want to leave the gallery, but she was curious enough about Elystan to follow her mother into a corridor and up a flight of stairs. Reportedly, she had met him before, when they were babies and her mother was permitted to bring her along when she nursed Elystan. But that had had to end as they had grown older, and Amarantha had no memory of her only encounters with a real, live prince. She couldn’t wait to meet him properly. He must be delightful, if her mother wanted to spend so much time with him.

Outside an upstairs door, her mother knelt to smooth Amarantha’s new white frock, adjust her hair ribbon, and arrange her ringlets over her shoulders. Amarantha had never worn her hair in ringlets before, and their odd shape made them nearly impossible for her to stop touching, for she could hardly believe they were real and dangling off her own head.

“Now remember,” said her mother, “you need to be on your best behavior. You need to curtsey, like I showed you, and call him ‘Your Royal Highness’ first and then ‘sir.’ Don’t use his Christian name unless he tells you you can.”

“Yes, Mamma.”

“And be an agreeable little playmate. If he wants to play something, you do it with him. If he wants a toy, you let him have it. Be the nice, sweet little girl I know you can be, and you’ll do just fine. Don’t worry.”

Amarantha wasn’t worried. She never had problems playing with her cousins or children from her neighborhood. And princes in storybooks were always kind.

A sweep of the door revealed the sort of room Amarantha could have only dreamed existed. It was like something out of a shop window. Littering the floor were rocking horses, models houses and castles and ships, a veritable menagerie of plush animals, and rows of tin soldiers. A miniature theater, complete with curtains, stood in one corner, and an automobile, just the right size for a child, waited in another. Books lay in careless stacks on nearly every flat surface and some of the floor, and amid all this ran winding train tracks, on which a model train with carriages full of model people was patiently making its rounds.

Amarantha’s jaw dropped, and she stood in silent, wide-eyed admiration taking in this vision of delights so intently that she almost didn’t notice, in the midst of all these treasures, a dark-haired boy her age in a white sailor suit. He sat cross-legged, casually surveying his kingdom, until at the sight of his visitors he broke out in an overjoyed smile.

“You’re back, Mara!” he said. “I missed you.”

He was little and thin, shorter than Amarantha, but he didn’t look ill, as she had been told he often was. Perhaps he had got over it.

Before Amarantha’s mother could speak, a golden-haired lady swept in in an ordinary dress that somehow seemed as grand as anything in the paintings.

“Is this your little girl, Mrs. Melbray?” she asked.

Amarantha remembered her curtsy just right as her mother introduced her to Elystan and his mother, the Queen. It was rude to stare, but Amarantha stole glances at the Queen whenever she could. She had never seen anyone so much like a fairy-tale princess.

Elystan, however, had no time for further social niceties. He marched up to Amarantha and tugged her sleeve. “You need to see my griffin,” he announced.

And Amarantha gladly followed him to witness this mysterious being of plush with button eyes. She had walked into a fairy tale, and this afternoon would be the most wonderful of her life.

*          *          *

It had gone well. At first. Elystan had flitted from one splendid mechanical toy to the next, displaying their wonders as Amarantha admired. Finally they settled on building a castle together. Amarantha carefully gathered and lined up her blocks before meticulously stacking them into a tower—not just any tower, but one with a special platform on one side for cloud-gazing and stepping off onto balloons.

Elystan had other ideas, if one could call them that. He had no method worth speaking of with block arrangement. He snatched up blocks of all sizes and shapes at random and placed them wherever he felt needed one. The result was so haphazard that Amarantha couldn’t tell what it was meant to be. It looked more like a disaster than anything architectural.

“Is your half in pieces?” she asked politely. It was the only charitable explanation.

“No,” he said. “It’s a castle. See the bear den?”

“Castles don’t have bear dens.”

“Yes, they do. This one does.”

“It doesn’t look like one,” said Amarantha, reaching for another block. 

Cold fingers closed over hers. “I need that.”

“No, I need it. For my tower.”

“Give it to me!”

She handed him another block. “Take this one then.”

“I don’t want that one. I want this one.”

Amarantha clenched the block tighter in her fist and pulled it away to set on her tower. Just as she was about to place it, the tower came toppling down in a hopeless heap at a blow from a bony fist, and Elystan plucked the block from her hand.

“You don’t need that anymore.” He plunked it down haphazardly into the junk heap that he fondly called a castle and grinned triumphantly.

“You can’t do that!” said Amarantha. “That’s mean!”

“No, it’s not. You had my block.”

Amarantha angrily swiped the tears from her eyes. “I’m not playing anymore.” And she trotted over to a stool in a corner and buried herself in a book from the top of a nearby stack. It was a beautiful book full of colored pictures of maidens and knights, but she hardly saw them. The tears were still coming.

“Amarantha!” shouted Elystan. “You come back. I’m not done playing yet.”

She hid deeper behind the book and ignored him.

“I need you to play with me.”

She turned the page. In this illustration, a dragon was billowing fire. She stared at it intently, even though the hideous creature scared her a little.

“Amarantha!” Elystan’s face appeared, looming over her and the book. She averted her eyes and tried to pretend she hadn’t seen him.

He let out an exasperated noise, took a fistful of her ringlets, and yanked. She yowled, sure he was pulling her hair out by the roots, but he only yanked harder. Before she knew what she was doing, she slapped him smartly across the face.

He released her ringlets and took a step back. His face had gone white, except for a red spot on his cheek. He stared at her a moment and then burst into tears.

Prince Elystan had not mastered the art of the quiet, gentle sob that disturbed no one. He wept with volume and vigor, shaking all over and making strange whistling noises with his breath.

Amarantha had never slapped anyone before, and the result horrified her, even if he had been a beast. She had just started to apologize when in charged her mother, followed by the Queen herself. When Her Majesty saw her son in hysterics and he had gasped out the cause of his woes, it didn’t matter whether Amarantha apologized or not. Nothing could absolve her of this terrible crime, and she was sent out into the gardens until her mother could take her home to receive the rest of her punishment from her father.

*          *          *

No one had told Amarantha where the garden door was. They had shoved her out of Elystan’s rooms and left her alone in the corridor. She knew the garden would have to be on the ground floor, so she tiptoed down the stairs and found herself in another corridor, alone. This was a corridor her mother had brought her through earlier, but she couldn’t remember which way led to the long Alis room. If she wandered too far, she might get lost and then would be in even greater disgrace.

And that was when she heard the music.

It drifted from a door somewhere behind her, and she followed it until she found a partially open door. She poked her head in. It was a sort of grand parlor, with a piano and a table set for tea, and in the far corner was a harp, and playing the harp was a big man with a black beard. He pulled strings with his giant hands, and the most beautiful noises came out. Amarantha froze in the doorway, listening.

“There you are, Elystan!” said the man, without looking at her.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “but I’m not Elystan.”

The strings twanged, and the man released the harp. “Why, of course you aren’t! I beg your pardon, miss, I should have known immediately that it was in fact a lovely young lady come to visit me. What brings you here?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know where the door to the gardens is.”

“Well, this isn’t it.”

“Yes, sir.”

He rose and strode toward her. He must have been at least seven feet tall. Amarantha held her breath. He was going to be cross with her too.

“Then allow me to escort you, miss,” he said, offering her his arm.

Amarantha stared in silence, unsure what he wanted her to do. 

He took her hand and crooked it up over his wrist, which was as high as it would go. “Shall we?” And he led her down the corridor. “And whom do I have the pleasure of escorting this afternoon? The Duchess of Arclis? Lady Eda?”

Amarantha giggled through the remaining tears. “No, sir. I’m Amarantha Melbray.”

“A pleasure, Miss Melbray. How do you do?”

She sniffled. “I’m fine.”

“Do you always cry like that when you’re fine? No? Then what’s wrong?”

“His Royal Highness pulled my hair!” she choked out. The man didn’t need to know the rest. He might not show her the door if he did.

They had taken a turn into the long Alis room, and the man stopped next to another portrait of the boy with the horse. “He did what?”

Amarantha showed him the smashed ringlets. “It still hurts too.”

The man made some smothered noise, with the oddest expression on his face. He didn’t speak for a little while, and when he did, his voice sounded different from before. “Well, that was quite ungentlemanly of him. I’ll have to speak to him about it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Ah, here we are.” The man stopped in the middle of the long room, beside one of the suits of armor that seemed much less fearsome beside him, and opened a door. “The gardens, miss. And—” He put a hand on her shoulder before she could duck out. “You should know that if a boy pulls your hair like that, it may seem rude, but it’s because he really likes you. So I wouldn’t worry about His Royal Highness.”

“Yes, sir,” said Amarantha. “My hair still hurts, though.”

*          *          *

As kind as the man had been, she was still in low spirits as she wandered through the hedges the path from the door had brought her to. The hedges had drawn her in at first with their gentle emerald hues, their swaying branches waving her a hello in the slight breeze. The arched entry, overgrown with a veil of lacy purple flowers, promised a passage to an enchanted garden somewhere beyond. But now that Amarantha had given herself to the hedges, their paths twisted and turned endlessly, leading further and further into nowhere, locking her into a world made of narrow, looming walls of leaves. Amarantha walked and walked and walked, but no matter how far she went, she could not find the way out.

The once beckoning branches now wound in binding loops, reaching for her as if ready to drag her into whatever nightmare world lay beyond those vines. One of them succeeded in catching the hair ribbon dangling behind her head. Untangling something she couldn’t see proved impossible. Pulling away only hurt her already aching scalp further. How long she spent struggling and slapping away further branches she couldn’t guess, but at last a tearing sound behind her set her free. 

She fled further into the maze until, exhausted, she staggered to a stop and flung herself down on the ground. Her mother and father would have to come looking for her, and they might not find her in time. She might end up like the children in the storybook who got lost in the woods and lay down under the trees to die and the birds bedecked their poor bodies with flowers. This mental image so alarmed her that before long she was weeping uncontrollably into the foliage in which her face was planted.

“Excuse me, miss?” said a soft voice.

Amarantha stirred but didn’t dare turn around.

“Miss. I need you to stop crying on my Hedera helix. You are disrupting its water intake.”

A tentative finger poked her arm, and she sat up, hair straggling in her face like water weeds.

A boy in spectacles was frowning down at her. He seemed quite grown-up, probably ten. His hands and clothes and freckled face were smudged with dirt.

“I’m sorry. I’m lost,” she said.

“I don’t care if you’re here. Just don’t do…” He gestured indistinctly at her face. “...that on my plants.” He nodded briskly and turned on his heel to retreat into another twist of the maze.

Amarantha stumbled to her feet, brushed off her frock, leaving smears of dirt and grass stains on the pristine white lawn, and trotted after him. Anyone who navigated the frightful hedges with such casual confidence surely would know where the way out might be.

After several paces, he noticed her.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I have to play in the gardens until Mamma sends for me.”

“Oh.” He kept walking. 

She kept following. 

“Do you like Viola hortensis?” he asked abruptly.

“Who’s that?”

“Not who. What. I’m growing them. You can help if you want. Just no more of…that.”

Amarantha swiped at her tear-stained face, smeared her damp hands on her frock, and agreed. “I’m Amarantha,” she said, extending a still grubby hand.

He didn’t shake it. “Are you named for the genus Amaranthus?”

A genius was a very clever person, Amarantha knew that, but she had never heard of anyone called Amaranthus. “I don’t know. Papa says it’s a flower in poetry.”

“Well, that’s imprecise.”

Amarantha didn’t know what that word meant, so she said nothing.

“I wish I were named after a plant genus,” said the boy. “Perhaps Daucus. It’s almost like my real name. Delclis.”

“What’s a Daucus plant?”

“The one you’d know is the carrot.”

Amarantha giggled.

“You wouldn’t laugh if you knew how Daucus carota are,” said Delclis darkly.

*          *          *

That was only the beginning of a pleasant afternoon. Delclis led her out into an open, sunny garden blazing with flowers in more hues than she could have imagined possible, where Viola hortensis turned out to be a bed of pansies, with gold and violet and burgundy and black petals as smooth as if cut from velvet and markings that gave them funny, disgruntled faces. Delclis put Amarantha to work helping him water them and giving them a nasty-smelling substance that he called their food. Once these tasks were done to his satisfaction, he took out a ruler, a little notebook, and a pencil and set about measuring each flower and examining every leaf and petal and scribbling his findings. She watched him in silence a few moments before speaking up.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

He did not glance up from his task. “You said something about your mother?”

“His Royal Highness is a beast.” And she told him the whole story—well, almost the whole story.

When she had finished, he only shrugged. “That’s Elystan. It’s not worth getting upset about.”

Perhaps he didn’t understand the atrocity committed. “He pulled my hair.”

Delclis sat back on his heels and pushed his cap out of his eyes to look her in the face. “The way I see it is that every organism has a set of traits. Viola hortensis mostly just looks nice. Hedera helix attaches to things. Did you know there’s a plant that smells like a dead body? You see, traits. They can’t help it. They can’t change it. No point getting cross at them about it. You just find a way to handle it. Put it to use if you can. And that’s the way it is with the species Liddicus elistannus, see?”

Amarantha didn’t understand half of that nonsense and felt he had missed a vital point. “But you’re not supposed to pull hair. It’s not allowed. You’re supposed to be in disgrace if you do. And his mamma wasn’t even cross with him.”

Delclis shrugged again. “Oh, look!” He pointed to the earth recently turned by his trowel. “Lumbricina.”

“Worm!” shrieked Amarantha, scrambling to her feet.

He looked insulted. “It isn’t dangerous. It means that the soil is healthy. Touch it. It’s very gentle.”

Amarantha wrinkled her nose at the creature squirming between the boy’s fingers, like a string come to slimy, twitchy life. “No. He’s nasty.”

The boy released the worm, which gratefully burrowed back into the dirt. “It’s not. It has the traits it needs for its environment. That’s just the way it is. You’ll get used to them when you have your own garden.”

“When I have a garden,” said Amarantha, “I won’t have any worms.”

*          *          *

Amarantha’s mother surveyed the packet of seeds clutched in her daughter’s fist. “I see you met Lord Delclis.”

“Yes,” said Amarantha solemnly. They were on the train home, and her disgrace still lingered. There could be no smiling as long as her mother glowered at her like that and her father awaited to deliver the next and greatest phase of her punishment. Even the train itself seemed to chant, “Bad girl, bad girl” as it chugged along. “He said I should try to grow pansies.”

Her mother took the packet away and jailed it in her reticule. “I don’t know where he expects you to plant them. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“I like the gardens Lord Delclis has. When can we go back?”

“You’re not going back there, young lady. Not after you behaved today. If you had just listened to me like you said you would, we wouldn’t be in this mess. You knew it was wrong, and you deliberately disobeyed me. And just look at you! Your frock is ruined. You tore your ribbon. Do you have any idea how much they cost? You won’t have nice new clothes for a long time, young lady. Not if that’s how you treat them. So no, this is your last visit to Endean. You’ve shown me that you’re not ready to behave yourself properly.”

“But I didn’t get to say thank you to the man.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The nice man. He showed me the door to the gardens.”

“Was he a servant?”

Amarantha shook her head. “He was a gentleman. He played a harp”—she demonstrated with her fingers—“in the parlor.”

She couldn’t guess why that simple fact made her mother look so afraid. “Amarantha,” she said in a hushed voice, “that was the King. That was Elystan’s father. Please tell me you minded your manners with him.”

“I think so.”

Her mother sighed. “I’ll have to make my apologies to Their Majesties later tonight. Let’s hope I still have my place tomorrow.”

“Papa said you might be home tonight.”

“Well, your papa was wrong,” said her mother, reddening. “I can hardly stay away now. Thanks to you, Elystan’s been fractious all afternoon, and that means he’ll have another attack and be up all night, and that means I won’t get any sleep either. Believe me, I would love to be home, but clearly we can’t have nice things.”

“I’m sorry,” said Amarantha, as she had a thousand times that afternoon. These were the words that were supposed to make people not so angry.

They did not melt her mother. “Not half as sorry as I am,” she said and turned emphatically away to stare out the window.

Amarantha slumped in her seat. There could be no more discussion with her mother than if the thickest hedge had grown up between them. No matter what happened, her mother could never stay with her, even when they were together. The vines had tangled her in their coils and would always draw her back to Elystan.

Perhaps Amarantha should have let that hedge swallow her after all. It had already taken her mother.

[isfjmel-phleg]

For no other reason than I wanted to do costume research with no point, these are examples by year of what the various mothers in my WIP could have worn to their weddings (not necessarily the actual gowns, but ones rather like them). Not that any of these happen on the page. 

Note the dramatic changes in style over the passage of time!

In reading order:

Liane (1880): Following a bustle trend in the first half of the 1870s, the gowns of the rest of that decade and the early years of the 1880s took on a form-fitted shape with fullness gathered in the back. The long-waisted, curved cuirass bodice was also a hold-over from the 1870s. 

Odren wanted to revive the old Liennese custom of the bride wearing a black dress with a white veil, but Liane put her foot down. The flowers on her gown and in her bouquet were representative of each region of Lienne, a gift from the people.

Bethira (1884, first marriage): By this time, the bustle had returned to fashion, with a more squared and extended silhouette than in the 1870s. Overskirts gathered up over an underskirt were common, and sleeves were fitted.

A currently ruling Coregean monarch had not had a wedding since Andras’s father’s in 1839, so Andras and Bethira’s ceremony was especially magnificent. Bethira’s gown cost more than that of any consort before her. She had very little say in its creation, but the intention was to make her seem like something out of a fairy tale, and the press made much of this.

Tietra (1888): Toward the close of the decade, the silhouette had taken a more angular shape in the bodice. Overskirts were still worn, but skirts had also taken on pleating. The “back shelf” bustle remained but would vanish by the next year.

Otionovian brides wear two gowns: a blue one during the ceremony (for purity) and a green one during the evening celebrations (for fertility). But Faysmondian brides wear white, and any nod to Tietra’s homeland’s customs was out of the question for a ceremony intended to convey the effects of the treaty which had ended the war between Faysmond and Otionovia. Nevertheless, it was difficult for her to shake her associations with white as worn by Otionovian nuns, and she would later confess that she had felt almost as if she weren’t getting married at all.

Bethira (1892, second marriage): I cheated a little; this gown is from 1891 (but this marriage probably was early 1892, so not far off). In the early 1890s, gowns had low-waisted, tight-fitting bodices with close-fitting skirts that were fuller toward the hem. Sleeves remained narrow but had acquired a distinctive point at the top.

There was a minor scandal that the previously-married Bethira wore the white gown and veil of a new bride. This was not her choice (she had originally requested something in pearl-gray); Talfrin was eager to pretend that her wedding to Andras had never happened and that this was the first relationship for both of them. He made a point of planning an even more extravagant wedding than Andras’s, complete with some rather gaudy jewelry for the bride.

Edmara (1893): As the 1890s progressed, skirts flared out further and sleeve puffs increased.

Edmara’s gown would likely have been less elaborate than the one pictured. She purchased it with saved earnings from her nursing job and went to a dressmaker for the first time in her life to have it made to order. Some of the lace on her gown had belonged to her grandmother and was shared among the women of the family for use at weddings.

Nyella (1894): By the middle of the decade, the silhouette had become more bell-like; sleeves would reach their height of puffiness in 1895.

There was never any question of Nyella’s opting for the traditional black dress; the most modern dressmakers in Lienne were at her disposal, and she had plenty of input into the gown’s creation. It was noted for its intricate workings of seed pearls--which more superstitious sorts saw as a bad omen (pearls are for tears, as the saying goes). Nyella laughed at that and retorted that she intended to cry for joy.

[isfjmel-phleg]

I’m supposed to be working on other projects, but this recently occurred to me.

After the events of “A Visit from the Murderess,” Bethira probably frantically writes to Edmara. Not begging her to come back (that’s not an option), but pleading for advice on how to get through to Elystan. She doesn’t know to connect with her son, how to get him to--well, do anything; maybe the woman who more or less raised him does. Edmara is concerned, of course, but she’s not sure what to do either. He’s never been like this before. But she and Bethira keep up a correspondence over the summer, and that might have something to do with why Amarantha ends up going undercover at Elystan’s school.

I can’t write any of these letters yet because spoilers.

[isfjmel-phleg]

OC birthday facts: Edmara

Birthday: June 11

How she usually spends it: Frequently at one of the royal family’s summer residences, guiding Elystan around the medical pitfalls of the seaside or wherever it is. Her family make a point of sending her letters and gifts. Elystan found out when her birthday is years ago and likes to throw her an impromptu party (consisting of the two of them and whoever else he can drag into it), usually whenever and wherever she least expects.

How she would choose to spend it: Quietly at home. She’s the sort of person who, if asked, says she doesn’t want a lot of fuss.

Favorite birthday dessert: Spice marble cake.

Best birthday in her past: Her twenty-fifth birthday, several months before Amarantha was born. Levico took her to the theater in the evening. They haven’t been back since and she remembers it fondly.* 

Worst birthday in her past: The year she tried to leave her position and Elystan contracted typhoid shortly afterward and she had to come back. She spent her entire birthday (thirty-third? thirty-fourth? I don’t remember) in a sickroom.

Best gift: Levico frequently makes her a gift of his latest books, inscribed with very personal notes throughout (the words “she, of course, is you, darling” appear often beside the introduction of his heroines).

Worst gift: No one has ever given her a gift she truly disliked. She is quite gracious about anything one gives her.

What she says she wants: Nothing, really. She’s perfectly happy.

What she actually wants: A long holiday at home.

*By the way, it is not inaccurate for a woman about five months(?) pregnant circa 1895 to have gone out in public. A pregnancy advice book from around that time actually encourages expectant mothers not to “shut [themselves] up from outside pleasures at this time,” provided, of course, that they are “properly dressed.”

[isfjmel-phleg]

In light of the recent discussion of my OCs interacting with @fictionadventurer’s OCs, I got curious what virtue names my OCs might take if they were tephan. Proceeding from the principle of choosing a name that corresponds to a virtue one struggles with, these are the meaning of whatever the tephan names would be:

Rachel: Trust (which examines the good and the bad and makes a conscious choice to love despite the fear of hurt)

Rietta: Patience (specifically patience in emotion, holding back the strong flood of feeling until the ideal moment to act upon it)

Tietra: Courage (a quiet courage that stands firm when a principle or loved one is threatened)

Delclis: Benevolence (a kindness that goes beyond principle or abstraction to demonstrate itself through genuine concern and generosity)

Elystan: Unselfishness (which comes from an ability to empathize with others and realize their needs are greater than one’s wants)

Bethira: Mercy (which loves and forgives rather than criticizes, even after many hurts)

Talfrin: Faithfulness (a commitment to one person deriving from an inextricable blend of love and principle) (not that he’s ever likely to follow through in any continuity, but the name would look good)

Antavia: Service (putting one’s time and talents to good use by sharing them with others who need them) (...or at least until she reframes this with service to herself as the highest priority)

Amarantha: Understanding (not merely knowledge of others, but deep insight and sympathy that lets one see others as they truly are and as who they could be)

Edmara: Strength (not so much physically as morally, a strength that bears all without breaking but that doesn’t allow itself to be trampled either)

Levico: Authenticity (a trueness to one’s principles and ideals without succumbing to pressure, however profitable)

Tamett: Industriousness (not just working hard but taking genuine pleasure in it and finding worth in it)

Josiah: Dutifulness (to one’s parents, one’s nation, one’s role and responsibilities) (this is not the one he should have chosen--humility would have been better)

Odren: Self-discipline (the ultimate control of oneself without succumbing to weakness, corruption, or lack of dignity)

Ayra: Integrity (standing by one’s principles even when it’s hard, without resorting to deceit or other morally questionable actions)

Ateva: Responsibility (putting aside one’s private desires to prioritize the greater good)

Mikaiah: Too young for one, but Josiah thinks it should have something to do with self-control.

[isfjmel-phleg]

OC Crossover Ask: I'm sending Tanza and Auren on a field trip to your world.

I’m going to set aside any shock anyone might have at meeting a tephan, to keep this to the point.

Let’s take them to Faysmond first. Rachel would initially be suspicious, as she tends to be, but Auren’s good at putting people at ease, and she would be deeply impressed at meeting a real prince. She might take longer to warm up to Tanza, but once she discovers their mutual interest in royal history, they would have a lot to talk about, plenty of stories to exchange. Rietta, meanwhile, would be very excited to have foreign visitors and would eagerly welcome them to her home. She’d have a million questions for both of them about the ins and outs of their world. She and Auren would hit it off, and she’d simply ignore any potential prickliness on Tanza’s part. Tietra would be cautiously interested in the visitors and initially rather shy in interacting with them. She’d probably end up in an interesting conversation about virtue names with Auren (and would wonder what hers might be if Faysmond had such a custom--she’s no stranger to choosing a name, albeit for different reasons).

Oh, and since Antavia frequently visits Faysmond, let’s assume she’s there and can be introduced to them. She’d initially find them delightfully novel, but any prolonged interaction would result in her and Auren not getting along at all. They have such different worldviews. She wouldn’t like what he might have to say about her abandoning her people as she did. She might not clash as much with Tanza, but their worldviews are pretty different too. She wouldn’t care for Tanza’s pragmatism.

On to Corege! I’ll send them there at a time when Talfrin is still king so they can meet the whole family. Talfrin would find Tanza’s past as a tomb robber fascinating and want to hear her stories--although he’d try to outdo her with ones of his own, even though he’s never really done anything half as exciting himself. Auren would rub him in the wrong way for the same reasons that Bethira does--strong moral convictions. But Auren and Bethira would get along perfectly (she’d have a lot of sympathy for his mother’s situation, if his parents ever come up in conversation), and she’d be very warm with Tanza, especially after hearing about her background--and her academic interests. Delclis wouldn’t talk to either much beyond questions about science and technology in their world; he and Auren might find some common ground on their love of the outdoors and nature. He would be too shy of Tanza to speak to her, and I doubt she’d bother much with her. Elystan would annoy both of them--not intentionally. He’d find them interesting and amusing, but he’d ask a lot of impertinent questions and be flippant about virtue names and generally try their patience.

Let’s stop over at the Melbrays’. Levico would eagerly interview both of them with the idea of working their tales into a story. I doubt they’d give him permission, and he’d be a bit crestfallen (and trying to think up ways he can work the concept of tomb robbing into a Hopeley mystery without being too obvious about the connection). Amarantha would silently observe them and sketch--mostly Auren. She would approve of Auren. Tanza, not so much. Edmara is home for once, but she’s too exhausted to have much opinion of either. She would be pleasant and kind of concerned about both of them (possibly wondering what medical effects would Auren’s tomb experience have on him).

The last stop is Lienne, where they would be royally welcomed. Odren is always up for a profitable new ally, and this would be really branching out. He’d turn on the graciousness for Auren especially but keep a wary eye on Tanza. Ayra and Tanza probably would get along well; they’d understand each other. She’d connect less with Auren, whom Ateva would be more likely to gravitate to. They’re both warm and emotional in contrast to those around them, and she’d appreciate his genuineness. Josiah would interact with them in very Correct terms, but he’d be quietly judgmental of Tanza. He’d be eager to talk about virtue names and would respect Auren for them, although he’d privately consider Auren too emotionally driven to be fully sensible, and I doubt Auren would think much of him either. As long as Auren and/or Tanza have stories about whatever their world’s version of elephants is, Mikaiah will approve of them both.

Tamett is there lurking, and he’s got questions for Tanza about her techniques. A few too many questions. He finds Auren too intimidating to approach.

If I’ve missed anyone you’re curious about, let me know. This was fun; thank you!

[isfjmel-phleg]

Have I actually finished any writing lately? Goodness no. Is that going to stop me from sharing something unfinished for no reason? Also no.

This is the beginning of an unedited, unfinished short piece featuring a younger Delclis and Elystan (about eleven and six/seven). They’ve never been close, but, for a change, I want to examine a time when things weren’t so strained between them. This bit is mostly Delclis and his tutor; Elystan is so far an off-stage threat (until Delclis gets roped into entertaining him and accidentally finds out that it’s possible for them to have fun together--at least, that’s the plan).

Delclis pressed his nose to the cold windowpane and glowered out at a landscape that had never done him any harm. “Why does it have to rain?”

“Rain” was perhaps not quite the right word in this case. It was too weak. Rain dribbled down from the heavens, drop by glittering drop, to bless the open-armed world with a refreshing taste of dihydrogen monoxide. The meteorological events currently in progress more closely resembled the results of dousing some unsuspecting acquaintance with the contents of a bucket for a lark, with endless encore performances featuring larger and larger vessels. Puddles on the garden paths were forming their own miniature lake district. Oceans roared down the drain pipes. Bleary torrents cast the view from the window in a murky overlay, as if Endean House and its grounds had sunk into the pond like a modern-day Atlantis.

“Well,” said Mr. Davell, Delclis’s tutor, a little too brightly, “remember what we talked about when we studied clouds?”

Delclis raised an eyebrow at him. Of course he remembered. Precipitation was something mere children studied–Elystan was probably learning about it now–and Delclis was a seasoned scholar with more than a decade’s worth of impressive experience behind him. Mr. Davell was missing the point entirely.

“I mean, why does it have to rain today? Are you sure we can’t finish work on the treetop rest? Not even if we bundle up and wear galoshes?”

After a few too many times of being caught perched in precarious positions on tree branches with his books, Delclis had combatted the grownups’ fears for his safety by drawing plans for a wooden platform with a seat in the fork of an oak tree. Mr. Davell had approved the project as not only good exercise but also useful practice of mathematics and engineering, and he had helped Delclis obtain the wood and tools. The two had spent long hours on ladders, hammering and sawing and chattering about geometry, and they had nearly finished. The “treetop rest,” as Delclis had dubbed it, would have been completed this afternoon.

If the weather had not had other ideas.

Delclis thought he had made a perfectly reasonable suggestion for compromise. But Mr. Davell shook his head. “Afraid not. If you had an accident–”

“I would be very careful. I wouldn’t fall.”

“Perhaps not, but I might. And your mother would have my head if you caught your death of cold.”

Delclis slumped deeper into the window seat. “I never catch cold. I think I have immunity.”

Mr. Davell put a hand over his face and said nothing for several minutes. He did this sometimes when Delclis had perfectly reasonable arguments. Delclis had concluded that these sudden silences must be visitations of prayer that had overcome his tutor. Which was commendable, but Delclis wished that these conferences with the Almighty would stop interrupting conversations just when they were becoming interesting.

He picked up the nearest book, something about deciduous trees of Central Western Corege, a topic which ordinarily fascinated him but now seemed to fling the afternoon’s disappointments in his face. Sighing, he set it aside only to find that Mr. Davell was conducting a hurried exchange at the door with Mrs. Melbray, Elystan’s nurse.

“Of course,” he was saying, and Mrs. Melbray flew past him and descended upon Delclis. Her brow was furrowed and her eyes dark-rimmed, but that was a natural result of having to spend any significant length of time with Elystan.

“Would you please be a dear and sit with him for a while?” she asked. “The poor thing has been asking and asking for you, and I haven’t had any–well, it was a long night.”

“But I’m busy,” said Delclis. “Lessons…”

“Have been over for the last hour,” said Mr. Davell.

“Doesn’t he have a bad cold? It’s probably better if I don’t go. You don’t want two of us ill on your hands.”

“Fortunately,” said Mr. Davell, hoisting his pupil off the window seat and shepherding him toward the door, “you have immunity, as you were just saying. Come now, it won’t hurt you to entertain your brother for a little while. You can read to him from your book.”

Before Delclis could argue that one shouldn’t waste the sacred truths of botany on an uncaring heathen like Elystan, Mrs. Melbray was thanking him with the overwhelming profusion of one whose life has been saved as she conveyed him across the gallery and into the other wing, where she ushered him into Elystan’s room and abandoned him there.

[isfjmel-phleg]

Decided to try something different and ended up with 802 words of young(er) Delclis and Elystan fluff, because I need something less dismal and less pressure to work on and want to visit a time when things were much less tense between these two. Actually, I’ve only just got to Elystan’s entrance, but it’s been fun. Small Delclis’s POV has so much opportunity for humor.

A line: 

And before Delclis could argue that one shouldn’t waste the sacred truths of botany on an uncaring heathen like Elystan, Mrs. Melbray was thanking him with the overwhelming profusion of one whose life has been saved as she conveyed him across the gallery and into the other wing, where she ushered him into Elystan’s room and abandoned him there.