Journal of impossible things
Journal of Impossible Things, Part I, Nine/Rose, Adult
Double AU: Human Nature meets Beauty and the Beast. Rose is sent to work for the odd new doctor to pay off her mother's debt.
“No, I do not know what it is like when a star dies. How on earth would I know that?”
“How on earth indeed,” he grinned. “One day, I will show you.” 8084 words, this part 4208
(A/N: I do not claim any of this is even close to historically correct, but it's supposed to take place around the late 1700's, so it could be a real bodice-ripper)
Halfway into the woods, her lantern flickered out. Momentarily panicked, Rose felt around in her bodice for the spare matches she'd nicked from the tavern, but came up empty handed. It took her a moment to realize the path was lit just enough by the moon. She hadn't been out this late on her own since she was a girl, and she found herself grinning. Sparing a glance around, she stooped to remove her shoes, and started running. Her bag bounced on her back and her breasts bounced in her bodice- this was why her mother didn't let her run about anymore. But the night was crisp and she was free, at least for a few moments.
Her hair fell from their careful braids as she ran, blood springing from small cuts on her feet as her run turned to a jog - it felt good. Maybe she'd keep going, like her mum had said, get out of this town altogether. The thought spurred her on even as she started to tire, but it felt too good to stop, and she had to be close to her destination.
She closed her eyes for one moment and that was all it took- a pair of firm arms caught her by the middle and she nearly tumbled over, screaming in shock. A hand slapped over her mouth.
“Quiet, girl,” the oddly familiar Northern burr stuck in her ears and she instantly quieted, her chest heaving. “What's wrong? What on earth are you running from?”
-
“Absolutely not- you are not trading your life for my debt! This is my problem to deal with, Rose. And that man isn't right.”
“Like it would be any different here in this house!” Rose shouted back, shaking out her only other skirt and thrusting it into a bag. “And the men that come 'round here are so right, are they?”
“I do what I have to do!” Jackie wailed, throwing herself onto the bed in the sort of dramatics she usually saved for those same men. Nonplussed, Rose attempted to straighten her hair in front of the mirror, unaccountably nervous despite what she would tell her mother.
“Don't be dramatic. It's not my life. And you know I'm rubbish at peddling my body, so I might as well do something useful. He wants me - I need a job.”
Jackie started crying and Rose sighed, sinking onto the bed beside her in their small home, a basement below the barbers'. “You shouldn't have to do this.”
“Well, you should have thought of that before you borrowed money from him. I told you that it-”
“Oh, don't start with your 'I told you so's,” Jackie said tearfully. “Why don't you just get out of here, like you always talk about? I'm sure Mickey would take you on his next trip.”
“Micky wants to take me on more than his next trip, Mother. I'm not leaving you to deal with this on your own. It's just for the year and your debt is paid. I just have to help him keep that bleedin' huge estate in order.” She sighed and tried to quell her own tears. Her mum's crying always got the best of her. “He doesn't seem so bad. Don't make this into something it's not.”
She didn't judge her mother for prostituting, not when it was what kept her in bread and books. She was already getting so old to be living with her mum still- eighteen and not married! She'd take the job with the mad doctor and be thankful that she had the opportunity. She'd be an old maid or a prostitute within the year if it weren't for him.
“You got us into this, Mother, but it is ultimately my choice,” she stood again, resolute as always. “I leave tonight.”
“He's not going to let me visit you,” Jackie whispered from the bed.
“Just... take care of yourself. I'll write,” she said, sharing a secret smile with her mum who had made sure she knew how to read and write against all odds. “Even if you have to get Mickey to read it to you. I'll code it, tell you everything, our little secret.”
She knew her mum would keep on wailing until she left, so she kissed her once, and slipped up the stairs and out of the salon, desperately glad to be away from it.
The walk was long and it was getting dark, the night falling around the little town like an oppressive blanket, forcing children and merchants alike indoors. Some people waved to her as she hurried along, unaware that they wouldn't see her again for at least a year. They'd be glad to be rid of her, the most of them. She was odd. Intimidated the men- quick on her feet and with her wit, she was the only young woman in the town that was both unmarried and could read better than most of them. For months she'd been at odds with what to do with herself. All she wanted was to travel, find adventure, but there was no room for that in this town. Not with her status and income - or lack thereof.
As warped as it was, being an indentured servant to the creepy, rich doctor outside of town was about as exciting as her life would probably get.
-
“Running to,” she gasped, trying to smile as she righted herself. Dr. Smith let her go, assessing her with steely eyes. “You startled me. I was just... running.”
“I noticed,” he drawled. “Catch your breath.”
“I'm workin' on it,” she bit back, breathing in deeply. She ought to feel scared, she supposed, that he appeared like a specter in the middle of the woods, but she didn't. It just seemed like something he'd do. Creeping about his grounds at night.
“You shouldn't run much out here. The hounds think it's a game.”
He would have hounds. It took her a moment but she recognized the threat.
No running away.
She nodded, biting back her instinctive sarcastic retort. If he was anything like the others, he'd slap her one, and she wasn't looking to set that precedent so early.
“All right now?” he asked, almost gently. She nodded and took his arm, which he had not offered. His blue-gray eyes were glowing in the dark, surprised and uncomfortable, but he led her to the gate anyway.
Dr. Smith was quiet and so was the house, eerily cavernous and dark. “It looks even bigger on the inside,” she said, for something to say, as they crossed the threshold. “So, am I to wake you with breakfast?”
“No.” He dropping her arm, leaving her standing cold in the doorway. “Your room is in the back, behind the kitchen. We will speak about my expectations in the morning. I do not like to be bothered at night.”
She stared at him. She could see in this moment what she hadn't before, why the townspeople were so intimidated by him, hiding it in derision and suspicion. His strong features were not kind, loss and anger somehow etched into his cheeks and the thin line of his mouth. He practically towered over her, staring back.
“Good night,” he finally said, turning in a perfect about-face and marching up the stairs. She recognized his posture from her late father - a veteran. She waited until she heard a door creak shut at least two floors up, and found her way in the dark to the kitchen, where there was a single candle burning for her benefit.
Rose realized she was still holding her shoes and pushed them awkwardly under one arm to retrieve the candle and find her way to bed. Not bothering to change, exhausted from the emotions and her run, she fell asleep as soon as she lay upon the soft blankets, with the candle still burning.
She was up before dawn, her stomach a pile of nerves and excitement. She'd dreamt of him, a strange, quiet sort of dream that meant he was the first thing she thought about upon waking.
For as early as she woke, Dr. Smith had been up earlier. There was a plate of oats and sausage beside her bed with some strong coffee, smelling gorgeous, and in the dim morning light, she had a look around.
The room was more extravagant than any she'd ever slept in before. Heavy brocade curtains framed the morning light and dusted the polished wood floor. Her bed was wide and soft with all the dressings, and a large mirror faced her from the bed, showing her how dirty and straggly she looked in comparison.
There was a dress laid across the foot of her bed that probably cost more than her mother's apartment, and a sink in the corner ready for her use.
Suddenly, Rose was questioning her assumption that Dr. Smith hadn't wanted her here as a sexual companion.
“You made your bed,” Rose sighed, running her hands over the silky duvet. At least it was a bloody comfortable one. Determined not to make too many assumptions, Rose ate her breakfast and attempted to clean herself up. By the time she was done, the rosewater leaving her smelling fresh and feminine, she felt cleaner and fuller than she had in months, and it gave her a strange surge of affection for this doctor. He hadn't left her shoes, so she slipped into her brown work shoes, smirking at the way they got the bottom of her blue dress dirty.
“Good morning,” Dr. Smith greeted her. “Won't you sit and have tea?”
She did as she was asked, serving herself from the tray. The kitchen was ample but more humble than the rest of the quarters, a small wooden table tucked into the corner. In any other home it would be used for servants, but Dr. Smith sat comfortably there, one long leg crossed over the other, newspaper on his lap.
Rose sat, quiet, waiting.
“Why do you think you are here?”
“Mum said-”
“I know what your mother told you,” he interrupted gruffly.
“Well, I assume you need some... company.” She took a sip of tea, aiming for prim, but failing miserably - the innuendo was automatic. His eyes widened and his mouth opened and closed twice, and she smiled behind her tea, feeling in charge for the first time since her mum told her what the doctor had requested.
“I do not need company,” he said, lowly. “I do not need anyone. I am doing this as a favor to your stupid mother, who promised she would pay me back months ago.”
Rose prickled at the insult. “Well, what is it then? Am I to air out your laundry? Sit about in your expensive dresses and look pretty?”
“You are to watch your tone!” he smacked his hand on the table, making her jump and her tea slosh out onto her dress. “I want assistance with a project I am working on. I heard you know how to write.”
“Yeah, so do plenty of men in the town that are looking for work,” she said automatically. “Why me?”
“Because I don't think you'll talk.” She dabbed at the tea on her decolletage with a cloth napkin, satisfied after watching his eyes drift to her neckline. “I don't trust most of the people in town.”
Rose didn't bother to ask why he trusted her:
When Dr. Smith was new in town, he'd angered some of the locals with his frankly blasphemous attitude. Rose had watched from her spot in the salon, trimming beards and listening to gossip, and had been fairly amused by it all. She tended to err on the side of atheism as well (her mother had been so dismayed she'd let her read those science books), but knew better than to speak up around these parts like the doctor had. He'd arrived into town like a storm, all anger and patronizing words.
As such, he'd incited a bit of a brawl at the pub one night and slipped out the back, past Rose's home. She remembered that night clearly- watching (admiring) the set of his shoulders underneath his black coat, as he walked surely along, not noticing the group of drunken, angry men that set off after him. Without thinking, she'd darted out the door, taking a back alley to intercept him before the men could.
Whatever he said, he likely didn't deserve them ganging up on him like they did. She timed it perfectly and grabbed his hand as he ambled by, jerking him into the alley. He stumbled into her, having imbibed a bit as well, and laughed, clutching onto her waist. “Hello, my lady,” he said, sweeter than she'd ever heard him speak.
“Shut up and run!” she giggled, tugging him down the alley, away from the men, before he could see her blushing. They ran and ended up on the other side, where they turned to watch the men walking by, with lanterns and bats.
“They may be dim but you don't want to mess with mob mentality, Dr. Smith,” she admonished, and his expression was inscrutable. “Take this shortcut home.”
Before he could reply, she'd ran back to her house, not wanting to be seen alone with him in the dark night.
“I've decided to write a novel,” Dr. Smith said at the breakfast table. “But I've no patience for penmanship. I need you to take my dictation.”
“That's it?” Rose asked, a smile spreading over her face. “Why do I have to live here for that?”
“Because I don't want people asking questions about what you are doing here. And also, because … well, I can never seem to keep servants around for very long.”
“So I am to do your laundry!” she laughed.
“You are infuriating, Miss Tyler. How is it that you are the only one in this god forsaken town that freely laughs at me?”
“I find you humorous,” she answered seriously, and finally, he cracked a grin as well. “This is a big house. When am I to find time to tend it all and dictate your novel?”
“I'll do the cooking,” he said. “I like to cook.”
“Isn't that a bit feminine?”
“It's just like chemistry.”
“Is that what you learned in school?”
He didn't answer. “You can do the cleaning. I only use about four rooms in this entire house, shouldn't keep you too long. We'll do my dictation in the mornings, when it's fresh for me.”
“Shall we begin today?” Rose asked, sitting up straighter. As weird as it all was, she was thrilled. She was going to write!
“No, my mind is not fresh enough. Tomorrow. I will wake you early.”
It turned out that he was right- the cleaning did not take up much of Rose's time. The worst was the laundry, as she feared. She hated laundry. But most days she found herself with hours free every evening. She'd spend the time tending his rose garden, or reading in his generous library. She decided that the library might be her favorite place in the whole town, with its walls full of shelves, shelves laid with books and the most fascinating trinkets. Some of them could have been from another world.
She was dusting in the library when she discovered it, tucked between a few heavy tomes. The watch. It was a beautiful fob watch that could not be opened, no matter what she tried. She asked him about it once and he dismissed it, saying she could have it if she liked it so much. He wasn't one for jewelry, it seemed, but still- she could probably have sold it and paid off her mum's debt then and there. She felt her fingers curling around it tightly at the thought, somehow attracted to it. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever given her, nonchalantly or otherwise.
She felt herself slowly relaxing, too, as she worked on the house and Dr. Smith's novel. The grounds were quiet and green, and the house was bright and full of secret corners. The guard she'd put in place years ago when her father died - the guard that kept her able to hand out slow grins like candy to the gents but never follow up, the guard that kept her just a bit prickly, shoulders tense and hair tight, that allowed her to work a string of demeaning, low-paying jobs to keep from selling herself - started to fade away. Dr. Smith was jumpy and mean most of the time, which wouldn't normally put a girl at ease, but she saw through it. He was just hurting. He'd lost... everything.
That is, if his novel was to be believed.
Every morning, he spoke to her by candlelight as the sun rose, pausing now and then for her to catch up- his northern lilt rising and falling over the words that meant nothing and everything and so obviously caused him pain.
It was … intimate. Rose could swear he was speaking directly to her sometimes, could feel those eyes on her, but he spoke so quickly she could rarely look up lest she miss a word or two.
He spoke of the most wondrous things- space, the stars, new planets. Strange races hellbent on destroying and protecting time, respectively. His voice was reverent when he spoke of the protectors, gone forever, he said. She was a bright girl, saw in his story the metaphor for the war, his tacit disapproval even though he'd had to fight it anyway, even though he was the last one standing.
“Do you know what it's like when a star dies?” he asked one morning as Rose scribbled furiously. She always rewrote the morning dictations after she'd eaten, making sure it was legible and looked as beautiful as the words should. By the time this novel was over, she would have the best penmanship in the town.
“I'm asking you, Rose,” he clarified, and she started to write that, and then laughed suddenly when she realized she'd written her own name into the book. She scratched it out and looked up at him slowly. She sometimes felt as though she were in a trance when she furiously copied his words, unaware of her hand cramping or the hard wooden seat beneath her, just needing to make sure it was all on paper. She heard nothing else.
“You like this, don't you?” She nodded quickly, and then blushed.
“No -” she grinned a little, trying to cover, and referenced her paper to reread his question. “I do not know what it is like when a star dies. How on earth would I know that?”
“How on earth indeed,” he grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes, intense and still focused on her. “One day, I will show you.”
She felt her insides twisting at his words, excitement crawling into her, slow as honey in her tea, even as she had no idea what he meant. She never did, really.
“The blue box was burning from within,” he prompted her and she started, wrenching her eyes away from where they'd drifted to his wiry chest. She fell back into his story again, easily, like slipping under the water of her bath.
One morning, about two months into her stay, she woke before him, excited to begin their day together. She made the coffee like he liked it, strong and bitter. In the dark, Rose watched the flames on the stove lick the bottom of the pot and smiled to herself, thinking about John. He was so... inscrutable. So creative, yet haunted. Caring, but brusque. And for how odd he looked, there was something almost magnetic about his sharp features and strong body. She knew it was dangerous to admit it to herself, but she wanted him. She fingered the watch in her pocket, tracing the designs as she thought idly of his manic grin.
“What do you think I should call the book?” he asked, having approached silently. She gasped, a hand flying to her mouth, and turned to admonish him for sneaking up on her. But he was closer than she thought- his chest inches from her own.
“Good morning,” she said instead, her voice embarrassingly breathy.
“That's not a very good name for a book.” He reached around her and then tapped her on the shoulder when she didn't move. “Budge over, you're going to burn the coffee.”
She slipped away from him with regret, her cheeks flushed like they always were whenever he touched her or got too close. Which was increasingly often. Rose grumbled and went to fetch some mugs to distract herself. “Well, I always call it 'The Journal of Impossible Things' in my head,” she said. “It started to feel irreverent to always refer to it as The Book.”
“I like that! Good one, Rose. It'll do for now. How many pages are we on?”
“About … sixty-five, last time I counted, I think.”
“Not bad. I bet we'll only have five-hundred more.”
“John!” she cried out. “My hand will fall off before then!”
“Maybe you should become ambidextrous,” he teased. “No, I think we might be about a third of the way through.”
They settled in with their coffee and Rose knew something was different about this morning- he didn't bring her paper, for one, but mostly because he was not usually chatty in the morning. He wanted to get it all out while it was fresh, and that usually meant brusquely greeting her, allowing her thirty seconds to get set up, and launching into his story.
“Do you dream of this story?” she asked. She always suspected, but hadn't dared to ask. This morning, though, he seemed different.
“Nearly every night,” John said quietly, into his mug of coffee. She watched his eyes drift from her eyes to rest on her mouth.
“Not last night?”
“How did you guess?” he asked darkly. She rolled her eyes at him and sat back, licking the creamy coffee from her lips just to see if he'd watch. He did.
“So what did you dream of, last night?”
“Isn't that a personal question, Miss Tyler?” he admonished. “And so early in the morning. I'll just say it was something much more pleasant.”
“Hmm, what a trade-off. 'Pleasant' dreams for writer's block,” she teased, bluffing, trying to ignore the way her body certainly noticed how he looked at her bodice around the word 'pleasant.'
“I do not know why I put up with you, insolent girl,” he said, but was grinning a little. He blocked her view of his face with the newspaper, and she was relieved for a moment, her nerves a mess of knots. Stupid man. He wanted her too- why wouldn't he do anything?
Because you're but his indentured servant, she reminded herself firmly. “I'm hungry, would you like some eggs?” she asked, standing up quickly, her tone proper.
“Yes, that would be nice. Thank you.”
She felt his eyes linger on her as she bustled around the kitchen, trying to remind herself what she was really here for.
Rose continued on like that for some weeks - writing in the morning, avoiding John during the day by keeping his house in better shape than it had ever been, and alternately reading or fantasizing in the library in the evenings after his dinner.
One night she dozed off in there, and dreamed that she and John were inside the blue box of his dreams, floating suspended among the stars. “I am the watch, I will keep you safe from there,” he said nonsensically, giving her that manic grin from the open doors, and held out his hand to show her space. She stepped over to him, about to take his hand, and was jostled awake. It wasn't the first time dream John had talked to her about the watch. She felt it, warm in her pocket, and felt safe, just like he said.
“You fell asleep here, wouldn't want you hurting your back. Let's get you to bed.” He said, looming over her. She nodded sleepily, and took the waking John's proffered hand instead. He held it as they walked back to her bedroom.
“I am going into town tomorrow, to stock up on groceries and make a few house calls. I thought you might like to visit your mother. Would you like to come with?”
“Oh, yes! John, thank you, that would be wonderful.”
“Fantastic,” he said, and kissed her forehead before she sank into her bed. “I will probably return before you, but you know the way. I will cook us a nice dinner.”
“Thank you, John,” she mumbled, and fell asleep again. She did not dream this time.
Double AU: Human Nature meets Beauty and the Beast. Rose is sent to work for the odd new doctor to pay off her mother's debt.
“No, I do not know what it is like when a star dies. How on earth would I know that?”
“How on earth indeed,” he grinned. “One day, I will show you.” 8084 words, this part 4208
(A/N: I do not claim any of this is even close to historically correct, but it's supposed to take place around the late 1700's, so it could be a real bodice-ripper)
Halfway into the woods, her lantern flickered out. Momentarily panicked, Rose felt around in her bodice for the spare matches she'd nicked from the tavern, but came up empty handed. It took her a moment to realize the path was lit just enough by the moon. She hadn't been out this late on her own since she was a girl, and she found herself grinning. Sparing a glance around, she stooped to remove her shoes, and started running. Her bag bounced on her back and her breasts bounced in her bodice- this was why her mother didn't let her run about anymore. But the night was crisp and she was free, at least for a few moments.
Her hair fell from their careful braids as she ran, blood springing from small cuts on her feet as her run turned to a jog - it felt good. Maybe she'd keep going, like her mum had said, get out of this town altogether. The thought spurred her on even as she started to tire, but it felt too good to stop, and she had to be close to her destination.
She closed her eyes for one moment and that was all it took- a pair of firm arms caught her by the middle and she nearly tumbled over, screaming in shock. A hand slapped over her mouth.
“Quiet, girl,” the oddly familiar Northern burr stuck in her ears and she instantly quieted, her chest heaving. “What's wrong? What on earth are you running from?”
-
“Absolutely not- you are not trading your life for my debt! This is my problem to deal with, Rose. And that man isn't right.”
“Like it would be any different here in this house!” Rose shouted back, shaking out her only other skirt and thrusting it into a bag. “And the men that come 'round here are so right, are they?”
“I do what I have to do!” Jackie wailed, throwing herself onto the bed in the sort of dramatics she usually saved for those same men. Nonplussed, Rose attempted to straighten her hair in front of the mirror, unaccountably nervous despite what she would tell her mother.
“Don't be dramatic. It's not my life. And you know I'm rubbish at peddling my body, so I might as well do something useful. He wants me - I need a job.”
Jackie started crying and Rose sighed, sinking onto the bed beside her in their small home, a basement below the barbers'. “You shouldn't have to do this.”
“Well, you should have thought of that before you borrowed money from him. I told you that it-”
“Oh, don't start with your 'I told you so's,” Jackie said tearfully. “Why don't you just get out of here, like you always talk about? I'm sure Mickey would take you on his next trip.”
“Micky wants to take me on more than his next trip, Mother. I'm not leaving you to deal with this on your own. It's just for the year and your debt is paid. I just have to help him keep that bleedin' huge estate in order.” She sighed and tried to quell her own tears. Her mum's crying always got the best of her. “He doesn't seem so bad. Don't make this into something it's not.”
She didn't judge her mother for prostituting, not when it was what kept her in bread and books. She was already getting so old to be living with her mum still- eighteen and not married! She'd take the job with the mad doctor and be thankful that she had the opportunity. She'd be an old maid or a prostitute within the year if it weren't for him.
“You got us into this, Mother, but it is ultimately my choice,” she stood again, resolute as always. “I leave tonight.”
“He's not going to let me visit you,” Jackie whispered from the bed.
“Just... take care of yourself. I'll write,” she said, sharing a secret smile with her mum who had made sure she knew how to read and write against all odds. “Even if you have to get Mickey to read it to you. I'll code it, tell you everything, our little secret.”
She knew her mum would keep on wailing until she left, so she kissed her once, and slipped up the stairs and out of the salon, desperately glad to be away from it.
The walk was long and it was getting dark, the night falling around the little town like an oppressive blanket, forcing children and merchants alike indoors. Some people waved to her as she hurried along, unaware that they wouldn't see her again for at least a year. They'd be glad to be rid of her, the most of them. She was odd. Intimidated the men- quick on her feet and with her wit, she was the only young woman in the town that was both unmarried and could read better than most of them. For months she'd been at odds with what to do with herself. All she wanted was to travel, find adventure, but there was no room for that in this town. Not with her status and income - or lack thereof.
As warped as it was, being an indentured servant to the creepy, rich doctor outside of town was about as exciting as her life would probably get.
-
“Running to,” she gasped, trying to smile as she righted herself. Dr. Smith let her go, assessing her with steely eyes. “You startled me. I was just... running.”
“I noticed,” he drawled. “Catch your breath.”
“I'm workin' on it,” she bit back, breathing in deeply. She ought to feel scared, she supposed, that he appeared like a specter in the middle of the woods, but she didn't. It just seemed like something he'd do. Creeping about his grounds at night.
“You shouldn't run much out here. The hounds think it's a game.”
He would have hounds. It took her a moment but she recognized the threat.
No running away.
She nodded, biting back her instinctive sarcastic retort. If he was anything like the others, he'd slap her one, and she wasn't looking to set that precedent so early.
“All right now?” he asked, almost gently. She nodded and took his arm, which he had not offered. His blue-gray eyes were glowing in the dark, surprised and uncomfortable, but he led her to the gate anyway.
Dr. Smith was quiet and so was the house, eerily cavernous and dark. “It looks even bigger on the inside,” she said, for something to say, as they crossed the threshold. “So, am I to wake you with breakfast?”
“No.” He dropping her arm, leaving her standing cold in the doorway. “Your room is in the back, behind the kitchen. We will speak about my expectations in the morning. I do not like to be bothered at night.”
She stared at him. She could see in this moment what she hadn't before, why the townspeople were so intimidated by him, hiding it in derision and suspicion. His strong features were not kind, loss and anger somehow etched into his cheeks and the thin line of his mouth. He practically towered over her, staring back.
“Good night,” he finally said, turning in a perfect about-face and marching up the stairs. She recognized his posture from her late father - a veteran. She waited until she heard a door creak shut at least two floors up, and found her way in the dark to the kitchen, where there was a single candle burning for her benefit.
Rose realized she was still holding her shoes and pushed them awkwardly under one arm to retrieve the candle and find her way to bed. Not bothering to change, exhausted from the emotions and her run, she fell asleep as soon as she lay upon the soft blankets, with the candle still burning.
She was up before dawn, her stomach a pile of nerves and excitement. She'd dreamt of him, a strange, quiet sort of dream that meant he was the first thing she thought about upon waking.
For as early as she woke, Dr. Smith had been up earlier. There was a plate of oats and sausage beside her bed with some strong coffee, smelling gorgeous, and in the dim morning light, she had a look around.
The room was more extravagant than any she'd ever slept in before. Heavy brocade curtains framed the morning light and dusted the polished wood floor. Her bed was wide and soft with all the dressings, and a large mirror faced her from the bed, showing her how dirty and straggly she looked in comparison.
There was a dress laid across the foot of her bed that probably cost more than her mother's apartment, and a sink in the corner ready for her use.
Suddenly, Rose was questioning her assumption that Dr. Smith hadn't wanted her here as a sexual companion.
“You made your bed,” Rose sighed, running her hands over the silky duvet. At least it was a bloody comfortable one. Determined not to make too many assumptions, Rose ate her breakfast and attempted to clean herself up. By the time she was done, the rosewater leaving her smelling fresh and feminine, she felt cleaner and fuller than she had in months, and it gave her a strange surge of affection for this doctor. He hadn't left her shoes, so she slipped into her brown work shoes, smirking at the way they got the bottom of her blue dress dirty.
“Good morning,” Dr. Smith greeted her. “Won't you sit and have tea?”
She did as she was asked, serving herself from the tray. The kitchen was ample but more humble than the rest of the quarters, a small wooden table tucked into the corner. In any other home it would be used for servants, but Dr. Smith sat comfortably there, one long leg crossed over the other, newspaper on his lap.
Rose sat, quiet, waiting.
“Why do you think you are here?”
“Mum said-”
“I know what your mother told you,” he interrupted gruffly.
“Well, I assume you need some... company.” She took a sip of tea, aiming for prim, but failing miserably - the innuendo was automatic. His eyes widened and his mouth opened and closed twice, and she smiled behind her tea, feeling in charge for the first time since her mum told her what the doctor had requested.
“I do not need company,” he said, lowly. “I do not need anyone. I am doing this as a favor to your stupid mother, who promised she would pay me back months ago.”
Rose prickled at the insult. “Well, what is it then? Am I to air out your laundry? Sit about in your expensive dresses and look pretty?”
“You are to watch your tone!” he smacked his hand on the table, making her jump and her tea slosh out onto her dress. “I want assistance with a project I am working on. I heard you know how to write.”
“Yeah, so do plenty of men in the town that are looking for work,” she said automatically. “Why me?”
“Because I don't think you'll talk.” She dabbed at the tea on her decolletage with a cloth napkin, satisfied after watching his eyes drift to her neckline. “I don't trust most of the people in town.”
Rose didn't bother to ask why he trusted her:
When Dr. Smith was new in town, he'd angered some of the locals with his frankly blasphemous attitude. Rose had watched from her spot in the salon, trimming beards and listening to gossip, and had been fairly amused by it all. She tended to err on the side of atheism as well (her mother had been so dismayed she'd let her read those science books), but knew better than to speak up around these parts like the doctor had. He'd arrived into town like a storm, all anger and patronizing words.
As such, he'd incited a bit of a brawl at the pub one night and slipped out the back, past Rose's home. She remembered that night clearly- watching (admiring) the set of his shoulders underneath his black coat, as he walked surely along, not noticing the group of drunken, angry men that set off after him. Without thinking, she'd darted out the door, taking a back alley to intercept him before the men could.
Whatever he said, he likely didn't deserve them ganging up on him like they did. She timed it perfectly and grabbed his hand as he ambled by, jerking him into the alley. He stumbled into her, having imbibed a bit as well, and laughed, clutching onto her waist. “Hello, my lady,” he said, sweeter than she'd ever heard him speak.
“Shut up and run!” she giggled, tugging him down the alley, away from the men, before he could see her blushing. They ran and ended up on the other side, where they turned to watch the men walking by, with lanterns and bats.
“They may be dim but you don't want to mess with mob mentality, Dr. Smith,” she admonished, and his expression was inscrutable. “Take this shortcut home.”
Before he could reply, she'd ran back to her house, not wanting to be seen alone with him in the dark night.
“I've decided to write a novel,” Dr. Smith said at the breakfast table. “But I've no patience for penmanship. I need you to take my dictation.”
“That's it?” Rose asked, a smile spreading over her face. “Why do I have to live here for that?”
“Because I don't want people asking questions about what you are doing here. And also, because … well, I can never seem to keep servants around for very long.”
“So I am to do your laundry!” she laughed.
“You are infuriating, Miss Tyler. How is it that you are the only one in this god forsaken town that freely laughs at me?”
“I find you humorous,” she answered seriously, and finally, he cracked a grin as well. “This is a big house. When am I to find time to tend it all and dictate your novel?”
“I'll do the cooking,” he said. “I like to cook.”
“Isn't that a bit feminine?”
“It's just like chemistry.”
“Is that what you learned in school?”
He didn't answer. “You can do the cleaning. I only use about four rooms in this entire house, shouldn't keep you too long. We'll do my dictation in the mornings, when it's fresh for me.”
“Shall we begin today?” Rose asked, sitting up straighter. As weird as it all was, she was thrilled. She was going to write!
“No, my mind is not fresh enough. Tomorrow. I will wake you early.”
It turned out that he was right- the cleaning did not take up much of Rose's time. The worst was the laundry, as she feared. She hated laundry. But most days she found herself with hours free every evening. She'd spend the time tending his rose garden, or reading in his generous library. She decided that the library might be her favorite place in the whole town, with its walls full of shelves, shelves laid with books and the most fascinating trinkets. Some of them could have been from another world.
She was dusting in the library when she discovered it, tucked between a few heavy tomes. The watch. It was a beautiful fob watch that could not be opened, no matter what she tried. She asked him about it once and he dismissed it, saying she could have it if she liked it so much. He wasn't one for jewelry, it seemed, but still- she could probably have sold it and paid off her mum's debt then and there. She felt her fingers curling around it tightly at the thought, somehow attracted to it. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever given her, nonchalantly or otherwise.
She felt herself slowly relaxing, too, as she worked on the house and Dr. Smith's novel. The grounds were quiet and green, and the house was bright and full of secret corners. The guard she'd put in place years ago when her father died - the guard that kept her able to hand out slow grins like candy to the gents but never follow up, the guard that kept her just a bit prickly, shoulders tense and hair tight, that allowed her to work a string of demeaning, low-paying jobs to keep from selling herself - started to fade away. Dr. Smith was jumpy and mean most of the time, which wouldn't normally put a girl at ease, but she saw through it. He was just hurting. He'd lost... everything.
That is, if his novel was to be believed.
Every morning, he spoke to her by candlelight as the sun rose, pausing now and then for her to catch up- his northern lilt rising and falling over the words that meant nothing and everything and so obviously caused him pain.
It was … intimate. Rose could swear he was speaking directly to her sometimes, could feel those eyes on her, but he spoke so quickly she could rarely look up lest she miss a word or two.
He spoke of the most wondrous things- space, the stars, new planets. Strange races hellbent on destroying and protecting time, respectively. His voice was reverent when he spoke of the protectors, gone forever, he said. She was a bright girl, saw in his story the metaphor for the war, his tacit disapproval even though he'd had to fight it anyway, even though he was the last one standing.
“Do you know what it's like when a star dies?” he asked one morning as Rose scribbled furiously. She always rewrote the morning dictations after she'd eaten, making sure it was legible and looked as beautiful as the words should. By the time this novel was over, she would have the best penmanship in the town.
“I'm asking you, Rose,” he clarified, and she started to write that, and then laughed suddenly when she realized she'd written her own name into the book. She scratched it out and looked up at him slowly. She sometimes felt as though she were in a trance when she furiously copied his words, unaware of her hand cramping or the hard wooden seat beneath her, just needing to make sure it was all on paper. She heard nothing else.
“You like this, don't you?” She nodded quickly, and then blushed.
“No -” she grinned a little, trying to cover, and referenced her paper to reread his question. “I do not know what it is like when a star dies. How on earth would I know that?”
“How on earth indeed,” he grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes, intense and still focused on her. “One day, I will show you.”
She felt her insides twisting at his words, excitement crawling into her, slow as honey in her tea, even as she had no idea what he meant. She never did, really.
“The blue box was burning from within,” he prompted her and she started, wrenching her eyes away from where they'd drifted to his wiry chest. She fell back into his story again, easily, like slipping under the water of her bath.
One morning, about two months into her stay, she woke before him, excited to begin their day together. She made the coffee like he liked it, strong and bitter. In the dark, Rose watched the flames on the stove lick the bottom of the pot and smiled to herself, thinking about John. He was so... inscrutable. So creative, yet haunted. Caring, but brusque. And for how odd he looked, there was something almost magnetic about his sharp features and strong body. She knew it was dangerous to admit it to herself, but she wanted him. She fingered the watch in her pocket, tracing the designs as she thought idly of his manic grin.
“What do you think I should call the book?” he asked, having approached silently. She gasped, a hand flying to her mouth, and turned to admonish him for sneaking up on her. But he was closer than she thought- his chest inches from her own.
“Good morning,” she said instead, her voice embarrassingly breathy.
“That's not a very good name for a book.” He reached around her and then tapped her on the shoulder when she didn't move. “Budge over, you're going to burn the coffee.”
She slipped away from him with regret, her cheeks flushed like they always were whenever he touched her or got too close. Which was increasingly often. Rose grumbled and went to fetch some mugs to distract herself. “Well, I always call it 'The Journal of Impossible Things' in my head,” she said. “It started to feel irreverent to always refer to it as The Book.”
“I like that! Good one, Rose. It'll do for now. How many pages are we on?”
“About … sixty-five, last time I counted, I think.”
“Not bad. I bet we'll only have five-hundred more.”
“John!” she cried out. “My hand will fall off before then!”
“Maybe you should become ambidextrous,” he teased. “No, I think we might be about a third of the way through.”
They settled in with their coffee and Rose knew something was different about this morning- he didn't bring her paper, for one, but mostly because he was not usually chatty in the morning. He wanted to get it all out while it was fresh, and that usually meant brusquely greeting her, allowing her thirty seconds to get set up, and launching into his story.
“Do you dream of this story?” she asked. She always suspected, but hadn't dared to ask. This morning, though, he seemed different.
“Nearly every night,” John said quietly, into his mug of coffee. She watched his eyes drift from her eyes to rest on her mouth.
“Not last night?”
“How did you guess?” he asked darkly. She rolled her eyes at him and sat back, licking the creamy coffee from her lips just to see if he'd watch. He did.
“So what did you dream of, last night?”
“Isn't that a personal question, Miss Tyler?” he admonished. “And so early in the morning. I'll just say it was something much more pleasant.”
“Hmm, what a trade-off. 'Pleasant' dreams for writer's block,” she teased, bluffing, trying to ignore the way her body certainly noticed how he looked at her bodice around the word 'pleasant.'
“I do not know why I put up with you, insolent girl,” he said, but was grinning a little. He blocked her view of his face with the newspaper, and she was relieved for a moment, her nerves a mess of knots. Stupid man. He wanted her too- why wouldn't he do anything?
Because you're but his indentured servant, she reminded herself firmly. “I'm hungry, would you like some eggs?” she asked, standing up quickly, her tone proper.
“Yes, that would be nice. Thank you.”
She felt his eyes linger on her as she bustled around the kitchen, trying to remind herself what she was really here for.
Rose continued on like that for some weeks - writing in the morning, avoiding John during the day by keeping his house in better shape than it had ever been, and alternately reading or fantasizing in the library in the evenings after his dinner.
One night she dozed off in there, and dreamed that she and John were inside the blue box of his dreams, floating suspended among the stars. “I am the watch, I will keep you safe from there,” he said nonsensically, giving her that manic grin from the open doors, and held out his hand to show her space. She stepped over to him, about to take his hand, and was jostled awake. It wasn't the first time dream John had talked to her about the watch. She felt it, warm in her pocket, and felt safe, just like he said.
“You fell asleep here, wouldn't want you hurting your back. Let's get you to bed.” He said, looming over her. She nodded sleepily, and took the waking John's proffered hand instead. He held it as they walked back to her bedroom.
“I am going into town tomorrow, to stock up on groceries and make a few house calls. I thought you might like to visit your mother. Would you like to come with?”
“Oh, yes! John, thank you, that would be wonderful.”
“Fantastic,” he said, and kissed her forehead before she sank into her bed. “I will probably return before you, but you know the way. I will cook us a nice dinner.”
“Thank you, John,” she mumbled, and fell asleep again. She did not dream this time.