Mist clung to the glass canopy of the Ambrose Conservatory, nestled at the edge of Ethsington Gardens.
The gardens, frequented by those with ample coin and scant imagination, offered little beyond curated beauty.
Approaching the conservatory, one might catch the sight of orange blossoms and peonies, meticulously planted around its base.
Beneath trailing ivy, chairs scraped softly against marble tiles as servants replenished lemon-water for guests lingering over their tea.
At a secluded table beside a swan-shaped fountain, Marie adjusted the collar of her faded brown coat and turned slightly.
"You're staring. Is something on my face?" she inquired in a low voice.
"Am I?" came the reply, tinged with the careless amusement of someone well aware of her allure.
Marie did not smile. She folded her gloved hands in her lap.
"You breathe differently when focused. Given you're seated beside a wall, I doubt you're admiring the flowers."
Irene's laughter was a delicate, indulgent sound, slightly louder than the room's present volume.
Several older women glanced over.
Yet Irene neither looked away nor altered the gaze that beheld something luminous.
"You're cruel," Irene said warmly. "And terribly perceptive. One day, I might learn to lie to you convincingly."
Marie's mouth twitched, but she said nothing further. She turned her face toward the sound of a tea trolley.
Irene leaned across the table, and Marie caught a whiff of her perfume.
'Hyacinth and tobacco.'
With her impaired vision, her other senses had grown more acute.
"You don't seem inclined to converse today," Irene observed.
"Shall I carry the conversation? Perhaps describe the dress I wore to the Marquess' gala last week? There was a small mirror at the base of the staircase. I rather hoped you'd been hiding in it."
"I didn't attend," Marie murmured.
"Pity."
Marie reached for her cup, fingertips brushing the saucer's edge. Irene, already rising, intercepted smoothly, guiding it to her.
"I can pour it myself," Marie said, frowning.
"I am aware," Irene replied, adding, "but I rather like doing things for you."
From a distance, they appeared as any pair of young women meeting over tea.
One appeared modest, while the other more radiant.
The truth, of course, was folded neatly into the silk ribbon in Irene's bodice and the thin leather book Marie kept tucked in her coat.
For now, they sat as a waltz played softly in the conservatory's adjoining parlour, and Irene spoke idly, merely to watch Marie without concern for anything else.
"If I had your eyes," Irene whispered after a pause, "I wouldn't let them go to waste. Even if I couldn't see you, I'd know in my chest the treasure they beheld."
Marie's hands stilled around the cup, and she bowed her head before clearing her throat.
"You're trouble," she said quietly.
Irene smiled. "Perhaps… but I can also be quite charming."
After another hour of idle chatter, Irene observed that, despite it being only just past noon, the sun had already begun to dull behind greyish clouds.
Noting the impending rain, she informed Marie, prompting both women to depart the Ambrose Conservatory.
Unfortunately, the drizzle swiftly transformed into a proper English downpour, with wind sharp enough to send well-dressed patrons fleeing to their carriages.
Irene did not hurry; however, she voiced her displeasure aloud, "Tsk, what a shame. The sun was so bright this morning; I thought it would have been the perfect day to go out with my Marie."
Marie sighed and suggested, "You could easily hail a carriage. Why have you not done so yet?"
"I am walking," Irene declared immediately, lifting her borrowed parasol like a banner. "You may accompany me if you promise not to scold."
Marie furrowed her eyebrows before inquiring, "When have I ever scolded?"
She pulled her coat tighter with one hand while the other found Irene's sleeve by memory.
"I suppose you haven't," Irene said, amused. "Strange, you seem so serious all the time, yet you only ever scrunch your nose like you've eaten something bitter."
The street lamps were lit early that day, their glow blurred against the mist.
Marie kept one step behind Irene as they walked, though it was she who led.
Her fingers continuously brushed the crook of Irene's elbow.
They moved synchronously, accustomed to navigating their own patterns on the pavement.
Irene tilted the parasol so it covered Marie more than herself. "Do you dislike the rain?"
"I do not mind it," Marie said. "It tends to soften my overbearing senses at times."
Irene hummed a noise. "You sound just like a poet."
"You sound like someone who does not own walking boots."
Irene's eyes widened before she glanced down at her shoes.
Indeed, they were glossy leather, already drenched at the toes. She laughed quietly. "I own many things, and yet I feel almost none of them are practical."
They stopped at a corner where the road dipped, and puddles formed in the indentations of carriage wheels.
A hansom cab rattled by, the driver huddled under an oilskin.
Marie reached out and skimmed the air with her hand until her fingertips touched the edge of Irene's sleeve again. "Turn left," she said. "There are fewer ruts in the road for water to collect."
"See? You do look after me."
"No, I just believe that you would complain if your hem were ruined."
Irene stepped closer. "That's fair, but you—"
She abruptly faltered.
Marie turned her face slightly. Her clouded eyes steadily stared at the space beside her. "Irene?"
Irene's voice returned, quieter. "Do you always move through the world like this? So gently I almost don't notice how certain you are."
Marie shrugged, then smiled just a little. "I must know the form of things before I trust them."
There was a few seconds of silence before Irene posed another inquiry.
"Is that so? Do I have a form yet?"
The question lingered between the mist.
Marie did not offer an immediate answer.
She stepped forward from behind so that they stood nearly shoulder to shoulder beneath the parasol.
"You move too often; I haven't had the opportunity to trace you out yet," she said softly.
Irene's laugh was more reverent this time. "Then, tell me how I can stop moving for you."
Marie's breath hitched, and she pressed her lips into a thin line.
Eventually, she exhaled as the rain continued to patter on the edge of the parasol, growing into a quickening rhythm like a heartbeat on silk.
"Stand still," she said, barely above the sound of the storm.
The two stood together in the street for a moment longer under the glum clouds.
. . .
By the time they reached the threshold of Marie's modest flat, their garments were sodden, and Irene's curls had begun to unfurl at the nape.
The parasol, having served its purpose valiantly, now rested folded and dripping upon the doorstep.
"Do not anticipate grandeur," Marie remarked as she turned the key in the lock. "My abode is no Ambrose Conservatory."
"Fear not," Irene replied with a wry smile. "In our current state, I seek only warmth, and perhaps a chair in which to lament my plight."
Stepping inside, Irene blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior.
The room smelled faintly of yesterday's tea.
The walls pressed close, and the ceiling hung low, giving the space an intimate, attic-like feel.
A cold kettle sat upon the stove, and books lined the mantelpiece, their spines worn and secured with twine.
Irene slowly turned in place, her fingertips grazing the surface of a wooden writing desk.
"Your arrangements suit you well," she observed.
"Because it is quiet?" Marie inquired, taking Irene's coat and hanging it near the stove.
"Because it is orderly and scholarly," Irene responded.
A faint smile touched Marie's lips as she moved to relight the stove with practiced ease.
Irene watched her, finally settling into a secondhand armchair near the desk, carefully folding her dress beneath her.
"Do you reside here alone?" she asked softly.
Marie nodded. "I prefer knowing whose footsteps traverse the floorboards."
Outside, the rain intensified, striking the windows with a rhythmic patter, reminiscent of a grand clock ticking behind thick glass.
Irene glanced toward the window, then back at Marie, who was now crouched by a low cabinet, retrieving something from between folded blankets.
"Do I pass the test?" Irene inquired.
"What test?"
"The floorboards."
Marie hesitated, then replied without looking up, "I recognize your steps now, if that is what you mean."
She stood again, a small tin in hand.
"Would you care for some tea?"
Irene did not answer immediately. Instead, she rose and walked over, her heels softly scuffing against the rug, stopping just behind Marie.
Her voice was near Marie's ear when she spoke:
"You always offer me something—be it tea, directions, or clever retorts."
Marie straightened but did not turn around.
"Allow me to offer you something this time."
There was a pause before Irene's fingers lightly touched Marie's wrist, a gesture seeking permission.
"There is no need; you owe me nothing," Marie murmured.
"I am aware," Irene said simply. "That is precisely why I wish to."
Marie turned her head slightly.
Though her eyes were a greyish-blue and sightless, she seemed to be looking through and around Irene simultaneously.
Irene gently lifted the tin from Marie's hand and set it down. Then, with care, she reached up and tucked a damp strand of red hair behind Marie's ear.
No more than a reverent gesture.
"You are not quite what I expected when I learned you had been outpacing me in deceiving clients," Irene whispered.
Marie tilted her head. "You anticipated someone more formidable in appearance."
"Not at all. I anticipated someone I would relish exposing."
The kettle began to whistle softly, yet neither of them seemed startled.
"Let us dry ourselves before you concern yourself with entertaining me," Irene suggested.
. . .
Marie lit two candles, placing them on either side of the room. The teardrop flames turned everything they touched to gold.
Irene, having borrowed a slightly frayed plaid blanket, draped it across her shoulders with an exaggerated sigh.
Marie sat cross-legged on the floor near the stove, sorting slips of paper by touch.
There were stacks of thin cards, labels, and small pages from ledgers that each bore her careful script.
"You catalogue them?" Irene inquired from her seat, curled in a secondhand armchair.
"Only the names that matter," Marie replied. "Men who believe themselves unnoticed often repeat their mannerisms."
She held up a small slip with one finger. "Mister Wrottesley invariably boasts about shipping routes in Argentina after two glasses of elderflower cordial."
Irene grinned. "That borders on romantic."
"It is more useful than romantic," Marie said.
From the armchair, Irene leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. "Do you not fear," she asked slowly, "that by learning everyone, there shall be no mystery left?"
Marie did not look up. "No. Most people are quite ordinary."
"Except for myself, of course," Irene quipped.
A smile tugged at Marie's mouth. "You are merely a louder kind of difficult."
Irene's laughter was full of fondness. She pressed into the armrest to stand, then walked over and knelt beside Marie.
"It nearly slipped my mind, having spent the day with you, but I have something," she said.
She flattened her skirt before reaching into the front pocket and retrieving a small velvet ribbon. Inside, folded in thirds, was a receipt.
"From Lord Crother's tailor," she said triumphantly. "He maintains a secret account for his mistress. The mistress is married to a magistrate. There are at least three laws entangled in this one slip."
Marie's features softened with surprise as she took it delicately. "How did you acquire it?"
"I smiled," Irene said, "and allowed him to tell me about his waistcoat while I leaned against the counter and feigned ignorance of what wool is."
"A most cunning method you employ," Marie remarked. "No wonder I often find myself a step ahead. I make no pretence of heeding their self-aggrandisement."
She tapped her gloved fingers upon the fabric of her skirt before leaning towards Marie without hesitation.
"It's scarcely surprising that Detective Darwin required such time to apprehend you," she jested. "Being as inconspicuous as a church mouse, and blind to boot, who would suspect a woman of your station of duplicity? You've chosen your vocation with remarkable thought."
Marie shook her head gently.
"I daresay the same applies to you," she replied. "Who would suspect a celebrated actress of engaging in such subterfuge?"
"Indeed," Irene conceded. "Though I am well-compensated by both family name and profession, I indulge in theft out of sheer ennui."
She clicked her tongue, allowing her hair to cascade further down Marie's back.
"Yet, it's the exhilaration of envisioning their avarice catching up with them that I find most delightful."
Marie clenched the fabric of her skirt.
"Therein lies our divergence. I embarked upon this path out of necessity. Few are inclined to employ a young blind woman of modest lineage."
They sat in contemplative silence, shoulder to shoulder on the floor, papers strewn about them.
The candlelight danced upon Irene's hair, casting a warm glow on Marie's cheeks.
"Then you mustn't fret over lost opportunities," Irene murmured. "I understand the fortitude required to persevere, especially with Darwin's scrutiny. I, too, have faced similar trials."
Marie's posture stiffened as Irene continued, "At this juncture, I would find joy in sharing my fortune with you, and perhaps more, should you permit it."
When Marie remained silent, Irene lifted her head from Marie's shoulder to observe her.
A subtle smirk played upon her lips as she noted Marie's expression.
"You've taken on a rosy hue, my dear. Has the stove warmed you so?"
Marie shook her head swiftly, prompting a soft chuckle from Irene as she gently rested her weight back onto Marie.
She extended her hand, palm upward, and lightly tapped her knuckles on the floor between them.
Marie appeared momentarily surprised, glancing downward, before her shoulders relaxed. Slowly, she placed her hand atop Irene's.
"Even my eyes," Irene added softly.
Marie exhaled a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding, and her fingers tightened ever so slightly around Irene's.
. . .
The hour stretched long, and the fire within the stove had dwindled to a gentle murmur.
Marie sat with her knees drawn close, one hand still nestled in Irene's, the other cradling a cup whose warmth had long since faded.
At some point after the third candle had been lit, Irene had slouched further into Marie's side.
Her head tilted, allowing curls to spill across her face like golden threads unraveling from the seams of Marie's garments.
Marie discerned her slumber by the relaxation of her hand.
Though still loosely entwined with her own, Irene's fingers no longer held their poised tension.
Her commentary on the scattered papers had ceased, and she had not voiced complaint about the encroaching chill.
Even her breathing had settled into a steady rhythm.
Marie remained motionless, choosing not to disturb her.
It was Irene's breathing that Marie now followed, noting the occasional hitch when she sighed in her sleep.
She knew she would recognize this sound again, should it ever reach her unexpectedly.
Irene shifted slightly, turning her face toward the fire. The candlelight caught the edge of her collarbone and the slope of her temple.
Without touching her, Marie leaned in just enough to rid the space between them.
"From this point, you're all the fortune there is," she whispered so softly that, even in close proximity, it might seem she merely mouthed the words.
A few streets away, a carriage rattled over the slick cobblestones.
A dog barked once, then silence resumed.
Within the attic room, the final candle burned low, and the night pressed in gently.
Marie, still awake, allowed herself to trace the form of being near someone she possibly trusted more than the very home she resided in.
. . .
Happy Pride Month!!
Yours Dearly,
Hjkoiro & KoSprout