Part 6

     She begins writing, hesitant at first, but soon settling in as she pieces some memories together. I tap her arm lightly, point to the camera – and I realize it looks nothing like any camera she's seen. I reach for the pencil, and write on a corner of the page “Camera – much different, but will just take a photograph. That okay?”
     Her smile is full of bewilderment and disbelief, but she shrugs and nods. I gesture for her to continue writing, which earns me an even more confused look. I'd forgotten, camera technology is probably still at the stage where people have to hold totally still for like five minutes to get a reasonably sharp image. I turn the camera on – thank goodness I long ago shut off its silly little digitally-faked sound effects. The movement of the lens, as it extends out a bit to its zoom position, and then back to normal, is more than enough sound to make me hold my breath. I make sure to turn off the flash, then lift the camera to my eye, and make small motions to try and find just the right composition...
     I wish like anything there was a beam of sunlight coming in through the window, but no such luck. Still, the afternoon sunlight filters in brightly enough that it shows the red highlights to her carefully sculpted curls, and the shadows of the folds in her voluminous skirt. Though her eyes are slightly narrowed in concentration as she writes, her skin is so smooth and sweet, the light slides across it without a single ripple, as water glides over a time-smoothed stone. There are a few loose tendrils that curl against her neck, and now, as she writes, a long curl falls against her cheek unnoticed. Her lashes seem so long, though it may just be that they're so easily seen against skin as pale as hers is. I take a dozen shots or more, of as much of her as I can fit in the frame, close-ups of her face, details of her dress, the ribbons in her hair, her fingers curled around the pencil and the delicate lettering flowing from them...
     She looks up, finished writing, and I quickly snap a shot of her expectant face. Then I let the camera fall, and I grin at her. Whether the pictures survive the trip back to my time or not, I have them in my mind, and while I may not retain all the details a photo would, I'll have something at least. More than I might have otherwise had – I find myself noticing details I wouldn't otherwise when I take photos of things. I'd had no idea there were tiny pearls clustered at the center of each ribbon tied in her hair, until I took that photo of them.
     She jots a quick note below the longer message she's just finished. “Those photographs can't possibly come out. And I don't believe that's a camera anyway.”
     I bite back a giggle. I wonder, should I turn the screen back on, and show her the photos I just took?
     But a loud scraping sound makes us both jump half a mile. A chair being pushed back on a floor? There's another heavy sigh, and steps crossing the room. Paper being folded, something being set on a table – he must have put the letter in an envelope, and set it down? A snap-hiss, and I get the slightest whiff of sulfur, just as I hear Mr. Mason blow something out. A low thudding sound, like something being stamped? ---no, sealed, I bet he lit a bit of wax, let it drip, then pressed a metal seal into it to securely close up the letter. (I suspect Mr. Mason, had he lived in my time, would find a way to password-protect every email he sent. He's so determined to let the world see no more of him than absolutely necessary.)
     Is he done? Is he leaving? I hear his footsteps... but they stop on the other side of the room. Then they return to the chair he had been sitting in, and stop there. And don't resume. My shoulders slump, and I raise a hopeless gaze to Evelyn, who smiles grimly back, shaking her head. She takes up the pencil again, and makes another note - “Mother ought to be back from her calls soon, perhaps she'll call him away.”
     “We can only hope! I'm so sorry to have gotten you stuck here.”
     She grins, shaking her head, the curls bopping lightly around her face. “Had you not found a hiding place, I would have had an awful scolding, I'm not allowed in here without Father's permission.”
     “Was there something you were looking for in here?”
     “Just something to read. He hasn't bought me any new books in weeks, and I am so tired of my old ones. There are all sorts of interesting ones in here, though it can be hard to find them.”
     I gesture at the impossible-to-read titles of the books nearest us, and she nods, rolling her eyes.
     “Tell me about your family? Anything – I know so little!”
     She furrows her brow. “But the last time I saw you, it seemed like you knew a good deal?”
     I hesitate, not sure how best to explain – but despite her age, she's a pretty bright kid. “The last time you saw me was not the last time I saw you. When I come here it's not always in order. The last time I saw you, you were older than you are now.”
     “Oh! What was I like? Do I grow up to be as pretty as Mother?”
     I grin at her eager, hopeful face. “You're beautiful now, you silly goose. And yes, you continue to be so. But, tell me about everyone? It doesn't matter what, I probably won't know it!”
     She beams at me, pleased at what I suddenly realize must be a rare compliment. Her parents don't deserve any of their children. Granted, I've never met Avery, but for all Evelyn's bouts of mischief, she's such a bright and fun and sweet girl, and Calvin... no-one could help but love the poor little thing.
     But then she takes the pencil in hand, and begins to write – a little less prettily, but much quicker. I'm sure even her worst writing will be better than mine could ever hope to be! It's almost impossible for me to read script upside-down though, so I take a few more photos instead – of Evelyn, of the room. I wish I could crawl back over to the window and take photos of the garden beyond, it looked like an absolute paradise at this time of year, full of so much color. In every garden I've ever been in, the paths were simply utilitarian, nothing more decorative than irregularly-shaped flat stones, or the crushed marble my grandma had. But here, the paths are just as colorful as the flowers, with just as much thought and planning behind them as each tree and flower. I wonder if Mr.--- no, Meres. Meres Mason, I guess? It seems an odd mixture, something so exotic, and something so prosaic. It doesn't feel right to me... But I wonder if Meres planned out things for the winter in the garden, too? I feel like he must have – maybe trees whose branches look especially nice when bare (those dramatic black thorn-trees by the creek come to mind – I ought to look those up, and find out what they are). Obviously the fountains couldn't run when it gets cold, I wonder if the fish get brought inside?
     But what the hell do fish usually do in the wintertime around here?? I feel like such an idiot some days, there are just too damn many weird little things in this world to ever possibly know. And here I am, determined to find out all I can about lives in a time that isn't even my own. Insanity.
     I look back over at Evelyn, seeing her still writing away. The letters are getting more blurred, as the sharp tip of the pencil gets worn away – I suspect I didn't have the foresight to throw a sharpener in my bag. But--- no, it's not just the words, everything's starting to blur around the edges. I grab Evelyn's arm, swallowing back a cry. But she can read in my face what I would have said – am I blurring to her, as she is to me? Something hits me in the stomach – the sketchbook! Oh Evelyn, thank you, she's pressing it against me as best she can, and I clutch it gratefully to my chest, making sure my other hand has a tight hold on my bag, with the camera in it.
     And the bottom falls out of my stomach as I realize I'm falling – but by the time I realize that's what's happening, I'm on the ground, yelling aloud as I hit the solid earth, several parts of me tearing painfully against broken stones.
     I sit very, very still, trying to breathe again, hearing nothing but my heartbeat loud in my ears.
     Gradually, I realize I'm alright. I can move everything. My butt hurts like hell, and there are gravelly scrapes on one ankle, both of my elbows, the heels of my hands. My bag, thank goodness, was basically in my lap, so it didn't hit anything on the way down. I shift my position a little, but don't try getting up for a good five, ten minutes, just catching my breath, letting my mind settle back into this world, and my stomach get over its brief battle with gravity.