#i mean not a lot of sargust but enough to merit a tag

[bluedalahorse]

fic promotion? sure let’s do it I guess

This thread and its discussion of Sara and the Erikssons’ overall experiences with neurodivergence reminded me of a part of Heart and Homeland I was particularly proud of writing, so I thought I’d share it here on my blog before working on the H & H epilogue chapters today. This was from one of the epistolary chapters early on in the narrative, when everyone is at the very beginning of their character arcs. Sara is thinking about what she did and didn’t inherit from her parents. It was also when I feel like I really hit my stride writing Sara.

Nothing wrong with a little shameless self-promotion, right?

Things to know as far as backstory if you decide to read what’s below the cut:

We’re in an AU set in 1808-1809 with lots of empire/regency vibes.

Sara keeps a diary and sometimes sketches in it.

Simon and Wilhelm have met at Hillerska, which is only for boys at this time period. The Ehrencronas live on an estate not far from Hillerska.

Simon and Sara have lived a lot of places, including for a time Göteborg, because Micke sails with the Swedish East India Company. Micke met Linda on his travels. Micke’s parents (Farfar and Farmor) also played a role in Simon and Sara’s early upbringing.

Felice has a little brother (Viktor) and two little sisters (Sofia and Agata.) Sara is employed as the governess of Felice’s sisters, and they torment her often. Felice and Sara have become secret friends, though.

Felice was at one point reluctantly engaged to August, but she’s broken it off at this point in the story. August at one point attempted A Scheme where he wrote Sara a poem and told her to leave it out where Felice would see it and become jealous. August as always is an absolute rake who lacks self-awareness.

Wilhelm has been getting threats from a mysterious Society, and Sara is worried about Simon’s safety.

The Ehrencronas are about to host the ball of the year, and Wilhelm is going to be their guest of honor. There are rumors, of course, that the mysterious society will show up to the ball to cause trouble.

Content note for ableism, references to Micke’s abuse of Linda and his kids, Micke’s parents’ ethnic prejudice against Linda, August being August, and a bit of Sara’s (protestant) religious trauma, which is more of a thing in 1808 I suppose.

March 24, 1809

I lose so much sleep worrying for Simon of late. I must write of it, for there is nothing else safe to do if I am lying awake. My thoughts are not safe. I will write in Mamma’s Spanish, for it would upset Felice greatly if she read this.

Always Simon writes me with an air of confidence and reassurance, as if the Crown Prince of Sweden’s life had not been threatened. As if he were not His Highness’s most intimate friend at school. Surely it does not escape Simon’s notice that he could become a target himself. On the other hand, he should also know that the speed at which he and the crown prince befriended one another will raise suspicion. I routinely fear that some high-ranking instructor or noble will label Simon a potential future assassin and take him away, never to be seen again. Simon would remind me that this did not happen to Farfar a generation ago when the previous king dissolved the Riksdag, abolished the freedoms of the press, and made himself an absolute monarch. Yet it happened to some of Farfar’s friends, and that is always the part people leave out around me.

Must I always be protected? Felice is gathering information about what is happening at Hillerska, but she is holding details back from me. What is she not saying? What does she know of my brother’s fate? Does she want me to read into her silences and make guesses from the way she arranges her face? I cannot do that. I am forced to imagine the worst possible horrors, because no one will tell me anything.

Then there would be the damage to Simon’s name. I would hate it if Simon were killed gone and people only remembered him as someone who threatened His Highness Prince Wilhelm. I can think of no greater injustice than the entire world thinking Simon wicked. For you see, of the two of us, he was born good. I was born the opposite.

Farmor said it to Mamma herself, when I was seven years old. I have never told Simon. I keep thinking of that day when she said it. I distract myself from awful thoughts with the next battalion of awful thoughts.

It was the first Tuesday after Pentecost, and I am not sure why I remember that. At that age I used to run from room to room in our house in Göteborg, leaping over one item of furniture or the next, rocking and shouting and laughing and tapping everything and spinning and flailing my arms and legs everywhere. That day there were red flowers sitting in a china vase that Pappa had brought back to Mamma from one of his journeys. For the past six months all had been peaceful between them; he had brought Mamma flowers every week since the beginning of spring. I was running about the parlor that day, and in my exuberance I jostled the side table where the vase was. The vase tumbled to the ground and shattered. I can feel the clattering noise it made in my bones even now, and the way it made my stomach crumple in on itself. I must have frozen for minutes on the spot, watching the water from the vase crawl across the floor. Farmor’s long, fortepiano-perfect fingers suddenly pinched at my shoulder, and she pushed me out of the parlor as quickly as she could.

As Farmor and Mamma picked up the broken pieces of the vase, debating what to tell Pappa about what had happened, I listened at the door. They didn’t know I was still there. I know nothing good can come of listening at doors and yet I was so curious. Listening in, I could be truly still and quiet for once.

Farmor said, making her voice slow like she always did while talking to Mamma, We love her very much, and it pains me to realize this. But something is wrong. I do not think Sara is touched by God’s grace. 

Mamma said, Sara is only a child, she will learn. 

Farmor replied, Mikael was the same way as a boy. I thought he would grow out of it, and perhaps he grew out of the noise and running, but there is something missing in him, something that would stop his worst impulses. I think Sara may be like her pappa. 

She is young, said Mamma. And she is good when she is with Simon, you have seen them play together. 

Simon is very good, said Farmor. He is a blessing to us every day. I am afraid you will see the opposite with Sara, however. I will hope and pray that I am wrong. But I am warning you, to prepare you for the future. Sara will break our hearts. 

It was silent for a long while. Mamma did not protest against Farmor a third time, so she must have agreed with her. The stillness and quiet I had taken on before, that had allowed me to eavesdrop on Mamma and Farmor, soaked into me like a damp autumn chill. I did not speak or run around the house for the rest of the week. It was then that I first learned how stillness and quiet—how “thank you” and “excuse me” and the “look at me when I’m speaking, Sara” and the “hands in your lap, Sara” and all of those other rules—kept my wickedness inside. For a time. The effort of those rules exhausts me. I am not even certain who the real Sara inside is, anymore. Is it that destructive little girl who runs like a horse? Or someone worse?

Now all of these rules may not be enough. I try, but—I am restless and pacing and impatient in the schoolroom. I want to join in on the little girls’ quarrels and win every argument. I burned with jealousy today when a parcel arrived with Felice’s new dancing slippers for the ball. I want to snap at her parents for laughing when the children make up lies about me. I am angry at Pappa for making us poor and disgraced and for hitting Mamma. I am angry at Mamma for not taking us away from him when he hit her the first time. I am angry at Simon for hiding me away here, for the part where I need to hide away at all. I am more than grateful for Felice’s friendship, but I wish I could enjoy her company the way Fröken Eld and the other girls do. That I didn’t have to worry so much about losing everything when she is not by my side to reassure me. She can only protect me for so long.

One last bit of wickedness: I did not burn August Horn’s poem like I said.

I did not lie about the poem being awful. Truly, it was a marvel of poor composition. And yet I cannot help taking the folded paper out from where I’ve stowed it in my needle book. I don’t unfold it, but I turn it back and forth in my hands, testing the weight of the paper, wondering.

He should not have written the poem. Felice says he should not have approached me in such a manner at all. And yet, late at night—when I can no longer bear to think about Simon in danger and Mamma’s silence and Farmor’s judgement and every last terror related to Pappa—my thoughts gallop away, clinging to the word if.

If Greve August Horn had been kind, or even pretended to be kind, and made overtures toward me not to provoke some jealousy in Felice, but rather just because he wished to have my attention and sympathy, I might have given him encouragement.

If I had been rich and carefree and appropriately titled, I would have asked Simon to formally introduce us.

If August could offer me a way out of all this tomorrow, would I take it?

What would he want in exchange?

He must want something. If… if… if… 

I will burn the poem. I will do it now, in the middle of the night. Some thoughts must be tossed into the flames and reduced to ash. I must try at least. I must.

I do not think I can burn away the part of me that is Pappa’s daughter.