Chapter 17:
Consist in Shades of Three


Here I stand tranquilized in this little white room of mine,
Here I go on my own in that redifined world inside.

So, why do you take this, conquer and dismay this
Peaceful sanity of mine?
Your attempting to bore me, shatter and destroy me
Is worthless and fuels my gain

There you stand ignorantly, just a monotone pallet you see
If there was a color created for me, it'd consist in shades of three
I see you enjoy this while I exploit this
Brief insanity of mine.

Perceive and understand you
Is far more than I can do.


“Ginevra!”

Ginny practically flew out of her bed, opening the bedroom door in sliper-less haste. Memories of the night before flooded into her mind as she did so, and she felt as if the image of Alex Rostov - tall, handsome, cold - had been burned against her eyelids. Even so, she could not shake off the dream, the feeling of suffocation, the hands that had killed.

Her? Guinevere?

“Aunt Muriel!” she said, glad that she sounded normal, and realizing a second later, as her eyes met Muriel's, that she had nothing to be glad about: she looked a right mess, and the Muriel did not seem impressed.

“One would think there has been a man in here," Muriel said, sniffing the air like a dog sniffing out an intruder, and completely ignoring the colour that had rushed to an embarrassed and outraged Ginny's cheeks. "No, it seems not." Hands on hips, she turned to face her great neice. "Must you close the windows at night, Ginevra? Your room is stuffier than a broomshed and, horror of horrors, it smells like your home. How careless you are, stuns me. Do you not care for yourself, at all? I am sure it is the lack of fresh air that makes your hair this red – almost like a tomato - were the colour to wear off, I would be more satis –”

“What do you want?” Ginny asked curtly.

Aunt Muriel blinked, taken aback. Ginny, she knew, had never liked intruders, but the redhead had learnt to control her tongue around Muriel, and Muriel had been starting to get used to not being cut short. This casual use of her tongue made old Muriel’s eyebrows disappear into her hair in fantastic shock. “A lady, Ginevra,” she sniffed. “Never asks this direct a question. How are you, I wonder, to master the fine art of seduction if you do not learn the usage of subtle hints?”

“The fine art of WHAT?” Ginny asked, her mouth an O of astonishment. “Merlin's socks, isn't that unladylike!”

“Of course it is not,” Muriel glared. “It is how one can obtain a rich partner, even if one resembles a mashed tomato." She drew herself to her full height. “The rule is to be subtle. No one must realize your real intentions. You mu -”

“Right," Ginny said. "I can see know a lot about this.” She sensed Muriel about to break into a torrent of furious denials, and did not give her the chance. "Aunt." She took Muriel's hands in hers, her expression patient. "I told you last night that I breakfast late on Sundays. Why wake me up? It's not even eight yet."

Muriel stared at her, as if undecided how to react to this calm turn of events. She had clearly banked on driving Ginny into a frustrated rage, to make her announcement easier for both parties. She bristled about it, not speaking and then, finally, turned around. “I have been through your mail,” she sniffed and, as Ginny's cheeks turned flame-red in frustration, Muriel's nerve returned and she cackled like a mad ole scientist. "Don't give me that look, Ginevra. I am your Great Aunt and current guardian. You can not tell me I need your permission to scan the contents of your letters. But that, of course, is beside the point.”

“Of course it is," Ginny said sarcastically. She hoped Hermione had not gotten around to responding to her letter about the dream – Muriel getting her hands on something of that sort equalled announcing her problems on the Wizarding Wireless Network: it'd be transported to the ends of Britain, in less than ten minutes. Then Muriel spoke and it became all too apparent to Ginny that her interest lay, not in Ginny's correspondence, but one certain letter that had been brought by a magnificent owl that Muriel had [unfortunately] recognized.

“Lord Rostov!” Muriel cackled, rubbing her hands together like a little child that has stumbled on a mountain of candy. “He's quite the flatterer." She grinned like a maniac. You'd think it's her, not me, he's contacted, Ginny thought dryly. "Quite the flatterer, quite the flatterer." She cackled again, and Ginny contemplated if Muriel might just turn into a bird and hoot like there could be no tomorrow. "It does seem you have caught his eye, Ginevra. I must congratulate you. Did I not tell you that, in the City of Love, even tomatoes can find good fortune? He invites you to have dinner with him, tonight. I have, of course, consented on your account.”

Ginny, having ignored her amazing nickname [Tomato? Some part of her asked incredulously.] to digest the news that Lord Rostov - cold, collected, charming Lord Rostov - had made the effort, more than the effort, to seek a correspondence, suddenly found herself staring. Staring at the cackling, grinning, maniacal Muriel.

I have, of course, consented.

“But why?” The question came out furious. “Who told you I might wish to dine with – with – with that man!”

Muriel raised a perfect eyebrow. “Of course you wish to dine with him, Ginevra,” she said coolly. “Your hair considered, he is a most suitable match, and you must thank your stars that he has not been grabbed a dozen times already. Of course, I have yet to figure out if his interests are genuine, and if marriage between the two of you might be possible, but you can not miss your chance, that much is clear – a sutiable match is, after all, what your poor mother sent you here to find!”

Could she explain to Muriel that no, no, no, her mother had not sent her to Paris to find a man? I can't, Ginny realized. It's useless. She pursed her lips, her silence like speech through gritted teeth, but Muriel took this as a sign that she had prevailed. Cackling, she patted the top of Ginny's head and, looking like she had just found herself a man, left.

The moment she had, Ginny collapsed on her bed, head in hands. Had Muriel's response sounded too eager, she mused. She could hope it did not, she could hope he might be able to tell it had not come from her. But how much did he know her? For that matter, how much did she know him? It seemed absurd that his having left like that, the night before, still infuriated her. But yes, it did, and she'd have sent him a curt “no,” had she been able to, just to make it clear that she could be as indifferent as him.

But now? Muriel had committed her to an evening with him. For a long time, Ginny sat against the bed-post, silent, troubled. She thought of her mother, of the strange dreams, and she felt like Aunt Muriel had dropped another load of bother into the basket of her life.

Like Aunt Muriel had ruined everything.


*

[] Reference:

+ "Here I stand tranquilized -" - Broken Iris, lyrics of the song The Eyes of Tomorrow, from the debut album The Eyes of Tomorrow.