Cranky Cleaning Binge
Morning found Susan no less irritable, but she was at least far more rational about it. Fortunately for her, she was not prone to hangovers, and so at least did not have that to add to her annoyance.
Susan, when upset and/or angry, became almost frighteningly businesslike. The house elves made sure her room stayed quite clean, but there was plenty she could rearrange and reorganize, and after a shower and a light breakfast she set about doing so. As she had no immediate plans to go out, she didn’t bother with proper clothes--a pair of worn flannel pants and the blasphemous T-shirt that had so amused Stephen would do. Even if, at this juncture, the shirt made her wince.
“I’m not angry,” she said aloud, as though speaking the words would make them true. Her books were currently being sorted into piles--those she wished to keep, and those she could do without, and though she was doing her best to keep her mind on the task at hand, she was failing. Oh so miserably. “Nymph--Camilla--has every right to go down there. And Stephen has every right to have her down there.” She slammed a heavy astronomy tome on her desk, knocking over a (fortunately empty) vase. “We’re all adults, for gods’ sake.” Even if, at present, Camilla was the only one actually acting like one. That might be because Susan hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to her, though. Not that I want one, Susan thought savagely.
Her books were soon organized by type--arithmancy, logic, astronomy, a book on mechanics she’d just got from the library, and several volumes of this world’s history. Several of them were many owners from new, and the odd scent of old paper only reminded her of Stephen’s office. Dammit. The histories, too--she’d gotten them so she could get some idea of what life in Stephen’s time period had been like, and now they seemed to sit there and mock her. It was all she could do not to pick up the lot and heave it out the window.
She couldn’t lie well enough to convince herself. She was angry, and hurt in a way that only made her more angry, and worse still she didn’t know what to do about it. Her drunken realization had been right--no anti-attraction potion was going to be good enough, because it wasn’t merely physical attraction. Oh, gods no. And, as Shaun had known, that just made it worse. Susan did not give her affection easily, but when she did, it wasn’t by half-measures. And that just made her more miserable. Which, in turn, took her from angry to infuriated.
The shelves didn’t need dusting, of course, but they could stand to be moved to another wall. Strong as Susan was, the shelves were much bigger than her, and she nearly toppled them over as she tried to drag them across flagstones.
Why did this have to happen? She’d been perfectly content before, she thought, as she blew an angry lock of frizz out of her face. Her desk needed cleaning, badly, and she stared blankly at it, as though uncertain just what it was.
That’s the problem. You weren’t content before.
“Yes, I was,” she said aloud, ignoring the desk in favor of re-shelving all the books she was keeping. “I was quite content, actually.”
Content and blind, maybe. Tell me you didn’t know, on some level, that this was inevitable?
And that was the problem, really. She couldn’t. Because, and she’d realized this once the initial shock wore off, that part of her was hardly surprised. Stephen was very dear to her, and this current mess was a logical, if unfortunate, development. There was, she knew, a great difference between loving someone and being in love with them, but knowledge and experience were two very different things, and up till now she’d never had to deal with the latter. No wonder it had taken her so long.
And it was so…so irritating. If she couldn’t control her emotions, what use was anything? This was wrecking her friendship, and until she found some way of obviating these unwanted and unasked-for feelings, it would probably continue to do so.
The last of her books slammed back on the shelves, and she turned to the desk with a glare that should have blistered the varnish. She was neat and orderly when it came to everything but her writing desk, which usually had odd bits of paper secreted in various drawers, and a small commonplace book that she’d filled with odd notes and occasional newspaper clippings. Fortunately for the continuance of her amnesia, she’d never kept a diary, though she did run across a few scathingly vitriolic notes that she tossed, unread, into the fireplace. Even in her agitated state, she had a feeling she didn’t want to know what they said.
She glanced at the corner of the desk, where a bit of parchment was stuck under an inkwell. It was the last owl Stephen had sent her, the note from what seemed like half a lifetime ago, but which was in reality only a few days. Knowing she was being a soppy idiot and not caring in the slightest, she picked it up and stared at it, half unseeing. Such a commonplace little epistle, but written in Stephen’s distinctive hand. Almost without realizing what she was doing she ran her fingers over the words, feeling the tracing of the ink as a very light embossing against the parchment.
Susan scowled, crumpling the letter and tossing it at her rubbish bin. This was soppy, and stupid, and she wasn’t going to think about it anymore. Once she was finished with her room she would get some food, and a cup of tea, and curl up with the very peculiar book about extraterrestrial life she’d found at the back of her shelves. If she couldn’t get rid of this damnable…problem, she could ignore it.
She could. Really. And if she told herself that enough, maybe she could even pretend to believe it.
Susan, when upset and/or angry, became almost frighteningly businesslike. The house elves made sure her room stayed quite clean, but there was plenty she could rearrange and reorganize, and after a shower and a light breakfast she set about doing so. As she had no immediate plans to go out, she didn’t bother with proper clothes--a pair of worn flannel pants and the blasphemous T-shirt that had so amused Stephen would do. Even if, at this juncture, the shirt made her wince.
“I’m not angry,” she said aloud, as though speaking the words would make them true. Her books were currently being sorted into piles--those she wished to keep, and those she could do without, and though she was doing her best to keep her mind on the task at hand, she was failing. Oh so miserably. “Nymph--Camilla--has every right to go down there. And Stephen has every right to have her down there.” She slammed a heavy astronomy tome on her desk, knocking over a (fortunately empty) vase. “We’re all adults, for gods’ sake.” Even if, at present, Camilla was the only one actually acting like one. That might be because Susan hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to her, though. Not that I want one, Susan thought savagely.
Her books were soon organized by type--arithmancy, logic, astronomy, a book on mechanics she’d just got from the library, and several volumes of this world’s history. Several of them were many owners from new, and the odd scent of old paper only reminded her of Stephen’s office. Dammit. The histories, too--she’d gotten them so she could get some idea of what life in Stephen’s time period had been like, and now they seemed to sit there and mock her. It was all she could do not to pick up the lot and heave it out the window.
She couldn’t lie well enough to convince herself. She was angry, and hurt in a way that only made her more angry, and worse still she didn’t know what to do about it. Her drunken realization had been right--no anti-attraction potion was going to be good enough, because it wasn’t merely physical attraction. Oh, gods no. And, as Shaun had known, that just made it worse. Susan did not give her affection easily, but when she did, it wasn’t by half-measures. And that just made her more miserable. Which, in turn, took her from angry to infuriated.
The shelves didn’t need dusting, of course, but they could stand to be moved to another wall. Strong as Susan was, the shelves were much bigger than her, and she nearly toppled them over as she tried to drag them across flagstones.
Why did this have to happen? She’d been perfectly content before, she thought, as she blew an angry lock of frizz out of her face. Her desk needed cleaning, badly, and she stared blankly at it, as though uncertain just what it was.
That’s the problem. You weren’t content before.
“Yes, I was,” she said aloud, ignoring the desk in favor of re-shelving all the books she was keeping. “I was quite content, actually.”
Content and blind, maybe. Tell me you didn’t know, on some level, that this was inevitable?
And that was the problem, really. She couldn’t. Because, and she’d realized this once the initial shock wore off, that part of her was hardly surprised. Stephen was very dear to her, and this current mess was a logical, if unfortunate, development. There was, she knew, a great difference between loving someone and being in love with them, but knowledge and experience were two very different things, and up till now she’d never had to deal with the latter. No wonder it had taken her so long.
And it was so…so irritating. If she couldn’t control her emotions, what use was anything? This was wrecking her friendship, and until she found some way of obviating these unwanted and unasked-for feelings, it would probably continue to do so.
The last of her books slammed back on the shelves, and she turned to the desk with a glare that should have blistered the varnish. She was neat and orderly when it came to everything but her writing desk, which usually had odd bits of paper secreted in various drawers, and a small commonplace book that she’d filled with odd notes and occasional newspaper clippings. Fortunately for the continuance of her amnesia, she’d never kept a diary, though she did run across a few scathingly vitriolic notes that she tossed, unread, into the fireplace. Even in her agitated state, she had a feeling she didn’t want to know what they said.
She glanced at the corner of the desk, where a bit of parchment was stuck under an inkwell. It was the last owl Stephen had sent her, the note from what seemed like half a lifetime ago, but which was in reality only a few days. Knowing she was being a soppy idiot and not caring in the slightest, she picked it up and stared at it, half unseeing. Such a commonplace little epistle, but written in Stephen’s distinctive hand. Almost without realizing what she was doing she ran her fingers over the words, feeling the tracing of the ink as a very light embossing against the parchment.
Susan scowled, crumpling the letter and tossing it at her rubbish bin. This was soppy, and stupid, and she wasn’t going to think about it anymore. Once she was finished with her room she would get some food, and a cup of tea, and curl up with the very peculiar book about extraterrestrial life she’d found at the back of her shelves. If she couldn’t get rid of this damnable…problem, she could ignore it.
She could. Really. And if she told herself that enough, maybe she could even pretend to believe it.