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Description
France x Reader
Ochroid

With the thick glass cooling the clammy palm of your hand, you watched through the window as the erose shadows of unseen trees streaked the yellowing grass, the individual shapes blurring together as your train raced through the French countryside. In your lap your other hand held firmly a short letter, which, although you had received it rolled tightly in a scroll, now lay flat. So tempted were you to fling the paper out of the window and watch it be swallowed by the golden haze of the late afternoon, but it had been too long in your possession to relinquish it today.

A sole trio of burly, balding men spoke quietly towards the rear of your carriage, and the groans and clatter on the track of the emerald engine overpowered their distinct words, the sound equivalent to the distorted landscape: vibrant but somehow distanced—and unable to distract you from your own thoughts. How comforting it would be to draw the blinds on them!

The corners of your mouth twitched as you dropped your hand from the window, and you ran your thumb across the edge of the letter, keeping your eyes placidly towards the door of the carriage. Allowing yourself to read those memorised words had been a torture you denied yourself not often, but nowadays, you played a game to see how long you could forestall from reading them.

That was a nice pattern on the walls, really; wasn’t it kind of like carnations—

You flipped the letter over and braced yourself for the detached words that Antonio had written all of those months ago, and your heart shuddered to the same, shaky extent that the carriage did. Antonio had penned these words. His hand had moved across the paper. Had he carefully thought out the message, or had he written out it all on impulse in the heat of the moment?

In a desperate attempt to absorb any lasting trace of him, you held the paper to your face, scrunching your eyes closed and inhaling deeply. As the excruciatingly vivid memory of the night the two of you had spent comet-watching on the hilltop resurfaced, you slumped down in your seat, your hat slipping an inch down your forehead.

You flinched when the carriage door slid open, and you hastily hid the letter in your lap, pulling down the edge of your blouse as you sat upright in your seat again. Keeping your head bowed, you glanced at the man who just entered. He leant halfway into the coach and shoved a battered carpetbag before him as he slowly scanned the cabin, his eyes sticking on you before moving on to the grumpy codgers in the back. He, smiling, paused to crick his back, and he edged his way past plenty of socially suitable seats and sat in the spot across from you, heaving his bag unceremoniously into the seat next to him.

He twisted its stained nametag in your direction: Francis Bo—. The rest of his name had the characteristic blots of water damage covering it. Leaning over your own bag, you flipped the nametag towards him, its thin cursive inked crudely but boldly.

“You could’ve sat anywhere else in this carriage. Why on earth would you sit in the seat directly across from me?” The edge of your mouth twitched up in a smile.

He crossed his arms, tilting his head. “I figured that the girl holding a piece of paper to her face would have a story much more interesting than the work I could be doing.”

“What nerve! You expect me to tell you what’s going on in my life? I’ve known you’ve existed for barely a minute,” you said, letting out a curt laugh, “and you will cease to exist for me once I get off at the Lille station.”

“Maybe I won’t,” Francis said, his eyes glinting, “and you’ve got nerve, too. Or, as some may put it, a severe lack of decorum.”

“I’m—my apologies,” you said, breaking eye contact, “That was uncalled for. I’ve been trying to be less brusque lately—” You clasped your hands together, running your thumb over your palm. “—I’ve been trying to change a lot about my personality lately, and I haven’t exactly been successful. All right. How are you?”

“I’m…I’m fine, thanks.” Francis cracked a grin. “And yourself?”

“Very well, thank you. Is that not less brusque? It sounds prepared, though,” you said, jerking your head to the side, “but it’s better. Nobody really cares about how one truly feels at the moment. It’s only polite.”

“Most of the time, yes, but right now, I am genuinely concerned about what’s going on in your life, considering it’s led to a desolate train ride across the country and your feeling like you’ve got some flaws in the way you act.” He leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Yes, I don’t know you, and you won’t see me again after the train stops. I can’t force you into anything, but feel free to talk. If you want.”

“I, er,” you said, scratching your forehead, “All right. I’ll…” Swallowing, you stared outside at the distant treeline. “Here goes. I, er, I’m a governess. Well, I’m not currently, but I have been for the past few years. I mostly teach languages, along with a few musical instruments.”

“Oh, an academic.” Francis nodded, narrowing his eyes. “Why aren’t you a governess anymore?”

“Earlier this year, I was tutoring a boy at the er, Carriedo estate? Have you heard of it? I was teaching the owner’s ward, and he aged out of a governess. I was dismissed, and I haven’t been able to find work in a while. Simple.” You blinked, and your breath caught in your throat. “Nice landscape.”

Francis sat back up in his seat, crossing his arms again. “You were attached to him?”

You tore your eyes away from the window. “Who?”

“Your student.”

“Oh, him. Yes.”

“Then the letter dismissed you?”

You nodded. “I read it the morning of my departure, and I haven’t had the heart to throw it away. Now here I am, off to my family’s house for holiday before searching extensively for another job,” you said with an air of defeat, “I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’ve never had to have had one. I’ve always lived with my employer or at school.”

Francis pulled a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket. “Why don’t you go back to school, then? I know many universities allow students to stay over Christmas.” He softly blew his nose on it.

“Because I can’t afford it yet. I had to stop going a few years ago, and that’s why I’m a governess—I’m saving up to pay for the rest of my education.” Smiling, you looked down at your hands, shifting the paper over a few centimetres. “I like astronomy. I was going to…” You laughed a little. “It’s going to be smashing when I can return to school.”

“Astronomy? Then you must have been invested in that comet that came around earlier this year,” Francis said, tucking the handkerchief away again, “I was drowning in a project about that time, and I didn’t even have to edit any articles about it.” He slipped off one of his shoes at the heel.

“You must have been immersed in whatever your project was if you didn’t hear about Halley’s comet. Articles?” you asked, pushing your hat further up on your head.

“I work for a newspaper, Le Temps,” he said, hunching over to pull on his shoe again.

“I have to say, I’m impressed with your ability to completely detach yourself from the world. Newspapers were the ones spreading all of the nasty rumours about Halley’s comet colliding with the earth and its tail containing cyanide gases,” you said with a flash of your eyebrows, “Really, I was exhausted by the time the comet passed; I had gotten tired of ignorant remarks made by my peers—or rather, the people in whose presence I was forced to be.”

After a second, Francis slowly closed his hands into loose fists. “Er, so, you watched Halley’s comet pass by, I presume?”

“When it came by, Antonio and I—of course I did,” you said, the corner of your mouth twitching, “It was nice.”

“Come on. The biggest astronomical event of the year, and the girl who wants to be an astronomer says it’s just nice?” Francis grinned. “I bet you were ecstatic.”

“Fine, I was. It was spectacular, and I would give everything I have to go back to that night,” you said, tugging on your ear, “Are you happy? Excellent.” You snapped your fingers. “You know, we’ve been talking about me for while. What about you? You said you were working on a project when Halley’s comet came around? Was it for your newspaper, or…?”

“It wasn’t, actually,” Francis said, stretching out his arms in front of him, a few of his joints popping, “You are aware that The Phantom of the Opera concluded its serialisation in Le Gaulois in January, yes?”

“Oh, I did! I haven’t been able to follow it, though; I was devastated—I wasn’t able to get French newspapers in Spain. I caught it at the very beginning last September, though,” you said, smiling, “I’d fallen in love with it—but I still don’t know how it ended. Don’t tell me,” you said when he opened his mouth.

“Then I won’t,” Francis said, “I’m glad you’re familiar with it. When the comet was here, I was working with Pierre Lafitte and Cie. to combine the serials into volumes. Not the most exciting thing ever, but I admire the text incredibly.” He folded his arms behind his head and leant backwards against the seat. “I was pleased to do it. But now I’m back at Le Temps, and I’ve just finished a piece on the Paris Motor Show. Neon lighting, you know. It’s going to be big; I can feel it.”

“That’s…that’s—what is—?”

“It’s too difficult to explain.”

“Right,” you said, looking behind you at the men in the last row, “So, you’ve finished with the Paris Motor Show. Why are you going to Lille, then?” You faced him again, easing back down in your seat and checking to see if the letter were still safe.

“Eh.” He shook his head, grimacing. “It’s an unusual situation. The current author for our serialisation is a bit of a recluse. He hasn’t been answering any letters for a while, nor has he sent any of the further instalments. I’m taking the holiday to pay him a visit, to make sure he’s all right—or at the very least, not dead. He’s become my friend over the months, you see—I mean, I think we have. He probably thinks very little of me.”

“Pity.”

“I know. But after this, I’m off to the seaside. I’ve been overworking for too long, and I feel like I’ve earned a holiday.”

“Overworking for whom? It sounds like you’ve been swopping—”

“Admittedly,” he said, holding up his hands in from of him, “I haven’t exactly been faithful to any one employer, but I always pull a few strings to get where I want to go.”

You paused and then started to say, “That’s…” Closing your mouth abruptly, you nodded stiffly and smoothed the fabric bunched on your knee, after which you lay your arms rigidly on your lap, leaning forward a little.

Francis glanced to the side and back at you. “Was I out of—”

“It’s nothing,” you said, waving it off with a high-pitched laugh, “I don’t want to talk for a while, okay? I’m tired.”

“Pfft. And you said you were trying to be less brusque,” Francis said, folding his arms again—but he did not persist in attempting conversation. He stared off to the right with a slight smirk, crossing his legs at the ankle.

Shaking off his strangely feminine action, you, flustered, turned towards the window, on which your breath lingered, fogging the view for three seconds. Beyond your dismal reflection in the glass, the rural fields were gradually diminishing; trees grew in abundance more closely to the railroad tracks, and you caught flashes of small, brick houses and livestock between the branches. The fading light of the sun seeped through the trees, just at the ideal angle to blind you.

The train shifted to the left roughly at a junction, and down the line, a small, oblong lake lay in a clearing in the trees. Squinting, you lifted your chin to try to see it more clearly, shifting the letter to hold it in both hands and absentmindedly sliding it between two fingers a couple of times. The lake—or rather, pond—shone like liquid gold, but as you stared at it, mesmerised, you swore it turned mauve. Then orange. Then a sort of deep green when the sun hit it, and then, as it lagged behind, you saw it for what it really was: murky, brown water.

Grimacing, you tore yourself away from the window. “All right. All right,” you said, clicking your tongue, “I lied to you earlier. I’m trying not to lie anymore; I took a look at myself, and I lie entirely too much. I’ve got to tell you the truth.”

Francis lost his staring contest with the wallpaper and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, ho? Lied about what?”

“Take that stupid smirk off of your face right now. No! I mean,” you said, pushing back part of your hair, “I lied about why I was dismissed. I was—oh, it’s mortifying. I am ashamed; I can’t believe—I am a horrible person.”

Francis shook his head. “If it’s so horrible, then you don’t have—”

“No, I have—”

“Then put it as delicately as possible,” he said, shrugging, “No names. No specifics. Just tell me a generalisation. Don’t say anything you don’t want to.” He smiled weakly.

“Blast, Francis. Okay.” You took a deep breath and smoothed the letter across your lap, not that it needed smoothing. “I mentioned my student at the Carriedo estate. What I said about his aging out of a governess, well, that wasn’t true. I was dismissed because of my conduct. It was that Antonio—”

“Careful,” Francis said, tapping his nose, “I thought we agreed on anonymity.”

“Eh, I don’t care anymore. I have to practise telling this story in order not to appear a complete failure to my mother, anyway. She’ll want names.” You stared at his patched knees. “How to phrase this? I…I offered myself to my last employer.”

“Ooh.” Francis closed his eyes, cringing. “That’s not the sort of thing one would tell one’s mother.”

“You need hardly tell me. I’m quite aware; I assure you,” you said as you flipped over the letter, “I was an utter dunce and thought myself in his favour. I attempted to…to seduce him, and, of course, Antonio would have none of it. Well, he might have had some of—”

“You had better refine this before you repeat it to your family,” he said, his voice shaking as the carriage jolted, “I would hate to think—”

“Yes, yes, but the fact is that I was out of hand. The next morning, I awoke and found this letter.” You held it up, but the text faced you still. “It expresses very coldly,” you said, as if you were explaining something that did not affect you, “the exact sentiments of my previous employer. Antonio spared no detail—not one, heartrending detail.” You kept your eyes on the spot just above him; maybe Francis would think you were actually looking at him. In your peripheral vision, the slowly urbanising landscape sharpened as the train decelerated.

“It seems short.”

“Well spotted. That is rather the point.” Your mouth twitching, you lowered the paper. “That’s the nub and gist of it. It was a simple situation, but it ruined my life. I can’t do anything anymore. I think about what I could have done differently all of the time, how one miniscule action could have changed the way the evening ended. I lost the stars that night,” you sighed, “I’m such an imbecile.” You scratched your forehead, ducking your head. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

Francis jerked his head to the side. “Because you are an imbecile.”

You looked up. “What?”

“You’re letting this event that happened, what, over half a year ago regulate every facet of your life, and you’re not accomplishing anything. You complained about that. This Antonio—he was a major part of your life, but now he’s not. You had to leave. He made you leave. When you got off at the station, you ceased to exist to him.” Francis leant forward, his elbows on his knees. “This is a wretched thing to hear, I know, but you are a moron for trying to board that train again when it’s already left. He’s gone. He doesn’t matter anymore. You need to forget about him.”

You let out a laugh. “Do you think it’s that easy?”

Francis inhaled sharply as the train quavered and slowed to a crawl. “You’ve told yourself this already, but does it not help? You can’t let Antonio control your life. Go occupy yourself with something. Become a governess again, and fill your life with what you love. Find the stars again.”

You blinked, lurching forward as the screech of the brakes sounded, and the train eased to a stop. You opened your mouth, closed it, and narrowed your eyes. “What even—”

“No need to thank me,” Francis said as he stood and grappled with the handle of his carpetbag, “This is our stop. Nice talking to you.” He nodded once and strode over to the carriage door, the other three passengers closely behind him.

Not even a glance back.

Rising to your feet, you rushed over to the opposite window and pressed your nose against the glass as Francis walked across the nearly empty platform and out of the swinging door, turning his bag sideways to edge it through it.

You kept your forehead against the chilled window as you watched crumpled newspapers blow across the station platform until your breath fogged up the glass. You sat upright, tucking one of your legs under yourself, and raised your hand to trace an A on the window. How silly.

Crinkling your nose, you moved to wipe it off with your sleeve, but you dropped your hand to your lap and watched the A fade from the glass as the station lamps lighted for the evening, sharpening your reflection in their golden glow. Clarity.

Clearing your throat, you ducked your head to avoid looking at yourself and rubbed your letter between your fingers. You bit your lip and skimmed it, and that one, excruciatingly word stood out at the bottom of the page: querida.

You folded the letter in half.

Description
France x Reader
Ochroid

With the thick glass cooling the clammy palm of your hand, you watched through the window as the erose shadows of unseen trees streaked the yellowing grass, the individual shapes blurring together as your train raced through the French countryside. In your lap your other hand held firmly a short letter, which, although you had received it rolled tightly in a scroll, now lay flat. So tempted were you to fling the paper out of the window and watch it be swallowed by the golden haze of the late afternoon, but it had been too long in your possession to relinquish it today.

A sole trio of burly, balding men spoke quietly towards the rear of your carriage, and the groans and clatter on the track of the emerald engine overpowered their distinct words, the sound equivalent to the distorted landscape: vibrant but somehow distanced—and unable to distract you from your own thoughts. How comforting it would be to draw the blinds on them!

The corners of your mouth twitched as you dropped your hand from the window, and you ran your thumb across the edge of the letter, keeping your eyes placidly towards the door of the carriage. Allowing yourself to read those memorised words had been a torture you denied yourself not often, but nowadays, you played a game to see how long you could forestall from reading them.

That was a nice pattern on the walls, really; wasn’t it kind of like carnations—

You flipped the letter over and braced yourself for the detached words that Antonio had written all of those months ago, and your heart shuddered to the same, shaky extent that the carriage did. Antonio had penned these words. His hand had moved across the paper. Had he carefully thought out the message, or had he written out it all on impulse in the heat of the moment?

In a desperate attempt to absorb any lasting trace of him, you held the paper to your face, scrunching your eyes closed and inhaling deeply. As the excruciatingly vivid memory of the night the two of you had spent comet-watching on the hilltop resurfaced, you slumped down in your seat, your hat slipping an inch down your forehead.

You flinched when the carriage door slid open, and you hastily hid the letter in your lap, pulling down the edge of your blouse as you sat upright in your seat again. Keeping your head bowed, you glanced at the man who just entered. He leant halfway into the coach and shoved a battered carpetbag before him as he slowly scanned the cabin, his eyes sticking on you before moving on to the grumpy codgers in the back. He, smiling, paused to crick his back, and he edged his way past plenty of socially suitable seats and sat in the spot across from you, heaving his bag unceremoniously into the seat next to him.

He twisted its stained nametag in your direction: Francis Bo—. The rest of his name had the characteristic blots of water damage covering it. Leaning over your own bag, you flipped the nametag towards him, its thin cursive inked crudely but boldly.

“You could’ve sat anywhere else in this carriage. Why on earth would you sit in the seat directly across from me?” The edge of your mouth twitched up in a smile.

He crossed his arms, tilting his head. “I figured that the girl holding a piece of paper to her face would have a story much more interesting than the work I could be doing.”

“What nerve! You expect me to tell you what’s going on in my life? I’ve known you’ve existed for barely a minute,” you said, letting out a curt laugh, “and you will cease to exist for me once I get off at the Lille station.”

“Maybe I won’t,” Francis said, his eyes glinting, “and you’ve got nerve, too. Or, as some may put it, a severe lack of decorum.”

“I’m—my apologies,” you said, breaking eye contact, “That was uncalled for. I’ve been trying to be less brusque lately—” You clasped your hands together, running your thumb over your palm. “—I’ve been trying to change a lot about my personality lately, and I haven’t exactly been successful. All right. How are you?”

“I’m…I’m fine, thanks.” Francis cracked a grin. “And yourself?”

“Very well, thank you. Is that not less brusque? It sounds prepared, though,” you said, jerking your head to the side, “but it’s better. Nobody really cares about how one truly feels at the moment. It’s only polite.”

“Most of the time, yes, but right now, I am genuinely concerned about what’s going on in your life, considering it’s led to a desolate train ride across the country and your feeling like you’ve got some flaws in the way you act.” He leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Yes, I don’t know you, and you won’t see me again after the train stops. I can’t force you into anything, but feel free to talk. If you want.”

“I, er,” you said, scratching your forehead, “All right. I’ll…” Swallowing, you stared outside at the distant treeline. “Here goes. I, er, I’m a governess. Well, I’m not currently, but I have been for the past few years. I mostly teach languages, along with a few musical instruments.”

“Oh, an academic.” Francis nodded, narrowing his eyes. “Why aren’t you a governess anymore?”

“Earlier this year, I was tutoring a boy at the er, Carriedo estate? Have you heard of it? I was teaching the owner’s ward, and he aged out of a governess. I was dismissed, and I haven’t been able to find work in a while. Simple.” You blinked, and your breath caught in your throat. “Nice landscape.”

Francis sat back up in his seat, crossing his arms again. “You were attached to him?”

You tore your eyes away from the window. “Who?”

“Your student.”

“Oh, him. Yes.”

“Then the letter dismissed you?”

You nodded. “I read it the morning of my departure, and I haven’t had the heart to throw it away. Now here I am, off to my family’s house for holiday before searching extensively for another job,” you said with an air of defeat, “I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’ve never had to have had one. I’ve always lived with my employer or at school.”

Francis pulled a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket. “Why don’t you go back to school, then? I know many universities allow students to stay over Christmas.” He softly blew his nose on it.

“Because I can’t afford it yet. I had to stop going a few years ago, and that’s why I’m a governess—I’m saving up to pay for the rest of my education.” Smiling, you looked down at your hands, shifting the paper over a few centimetres. “I like astronomy. I was going to…” You laughed a little. “It’s going to be smashing when I can return to school.”

“Astronomy? Then you must have been invested in that comet that came around earlier this year,” Francis said, tucking the handkerchief away again, “I was drowning in a project about that time, and I didn’t even have to edit any articles about it.” He slipped off one of his shoes at the heel.

“You must have been immersed in whatever your project was if you didn’t hear about Halley’s comet. Articles?” you asked, pushing your hat further up on your head.

“I work for a newspaper, Le Temps,” he said, hunching over to pull on his shoe again.

“I have to say, I’m impressed with your ability to completely detach yourself from the world. Newspapers were the ones spreading all of the nasty rumours about Halley’s comet colliding with the earth and its tail containing cyanide gases,” you said with a flash of your eyebrows, “Really, I was exhausted by the time the comet passed; I had gotten tired of ignorant remarks made by my peers—or rather, the people in whose presence I was forced to be.”

After a second, Francis slowly closed his hands into loose fists. “Er, so, you watched Halley’s comet pass by, I presume?”

“When it came by, Antonio and I—of course I did,” you said, the corner of your mouth twitching, “It was nice.”

“Come on. The biggest astronomical event of the year, and the girl who wants to be an astronomer says it’s just nice?” Francis grinned. “I bet you were ecstatic.”

“Fine, I was. It was spectacular, and I would give everything I have to go back to that night,” you said, tugging on your ear, “Are you happy? Excellent.” You snapped your fingers. “You know, we’ve been talking about me for while. What about you? You said you were working on a project when Halley’s comet came around? Was it for your newspaper, or…?”

“It wasn’t, actually,” Francis said, stretching out his arms in front of him, a few of his joints popping, “You are aware that The Phantom of the Opera concluded its serialisation in Le Gaulois in January, yes?”

“Oh, I did! I haven’t been able to follow it, though; I was devastated—I wasn’t able to get French newspapers in Spain. I caught it at the very beginning last September, though,” you said, smiling, “I’d fallen in love with it—but I still don’t know how it ended. Don’t tell me,” you said when he opened his mouth.

“Then I won’t,” Francis said, “I’m glad you’re familiar with it. When the comet was here, I was working with Pierre Lafitte and Cie. to combine the serials into volumes. Not the most exciting thing ever, but I admire the text incredibly.” He folded his arms behind his head and leant backwards against the seat. “I was pleased to do it. But now I’m back at Le Temps, and I’ve just finished a piece on the Paris Motor Show. Neon lighting, you know. It’s going to be big; I can feel it.”

“That’s…that’s—what is—?”

“It’s too difficult to explain.”

“Right,” you said, looking behind you at the men in the last row, “So, you’ve finished with the Paris Motor Show. Why are you going to Lille, then?” You faced him again, easing back down in your seat and checking to see if the letter were still safe.

“Eh.” He shook his head, grimacing. “It’s an unusual situation. The current author for our serialisation is a bit of a recluse. He hasn’t been answering any letters for a while, nor has he sent any of the further instalments. I’m taking the holiday to pay him a visit, to make sure he’s all right—or at the very least, not dead. He’s become my friend over the months, you see—I mean, I think we have. He probably thinks very little of me.”

“Pity.”

“I know. But after this, I’m off to the seaside. I’ve been overworking for too long, and I feel like I’ve earned a holiday.”

“Overworking for whom? It sounds like you’ve been swopping—”

“Admittedly,” he said, holding up his hands in from of him, “I haven’t exactly been faithful to any one employer, but I always pull a few strings to get where I want to go.”

You paused and then started to say, “That’s…” Closing your mouth abruptly, you nodded stiffly and smoothed the fabric bunched on your knee, after which you lay your arms rigidly on your lap, leaning forward a little.

Francis glanced to the side and back at you. “Was I out of—”

“It’s nothing,” you said, waving it off with a high-pitched laugh, “I don’t want to talk for a while, okay? I’m tired.”

“Pfft. And you said you were trying to be less brusque,” Francis said, folding his arms again—but he did not persist in attempting conversation. He stared off to the right with a slight smirk, crossing his legs at the ankle.

Shaking off his strangely feminine action, you, flustered, turned towards the window, on which your breath lingered, fogging the view for three seconds. Beyond your dismal reflection in the glass, the rural fields were gradually diminishing; trees grew in abundance more closely to the railroad tracks, and you caught flashes of small, brick houses and livestock between the branches. The fading light of the sun seeped through the trees, just at the ideal angle to blind you.

The train shifted to the left roughly at a junction, and down the line, a small, oblong lake lay in a clearing in the trees. Squinting, you lifted your chin to try to see it more clearly, shifting the letter to hold it in both hands and absentmindedly sliding it between two fingers a couple of times. The lake—or rather, pond—shone like liquid gold, but as you stared at it, mesmerised, you swore it turned mauve. Then orange. Then a sort of deep green when the sun hit it, and then, as it lagged behind, you saw it for what it really was: murky, brown water.

Grimacing, you tore yourself away from the window. “All right. All right,” you said, clicking your tongue, “I lied to you earlier. I’m trying not to lie anymore; I took a look at myself, and I lie entirely too much. I’ve got to tell you the truth.”

Francis lost his staring contest with the wallpaper and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, ho? Lied about what?”

“Take that stupid smirk off of your face right now. No! I mean,” you said, pushing back part of your hair, “I lied about why I was dismissed. I was—oh, it’s mortifying. I am ashamed; I can’t believe—I am a horrible person.”

Francis shook his head. “If it’s so horrible, then you don’t have—”

“No, I have—”

“Then put it as delicately as possible,” he said, shrugging, “No names. No specifics. Just tell me a generalisation. Don’t say anything you don’t want to.” He smiled weakly.

“Blast, Francis. Okay.” You took a deep breath and smoothed the letter across your lap, not that it needed smoothing. “I mentioned my student at the Carriedo estate. What I said about his aging out of a governess, well, that wasn’t true. I was dismissed because of my conduct. It was that Antonio—”

“Careful,” Francis said, tapping his nose, “I thought we agreed on anonymity.”

“Eh, I don’t care anymore. I have to practise telling this story in order not to appear a complete failure to my mother, anyway. She’ll want names.” You stared at his patched knees. “How to phrase this? I…I offered myself to my last employer.”

“Ooh.” Francis closed his eyes, cringing. “That’s not the sort of thing one would tell one’s mother.”

“You need hardly tell me. I’m quite aware; I assure you,” you said as you flipped over the letter, “I was an utter dunce and thought myself in his favour. I attempted to…to seduce him, and, of course, Antonio would have none of it. Well, he might have had some of—”

“You had better refine this before you repeat it to your family,” he said, his voice shaking as the carriage jolted, “I would hate to think—”

“Yes, yes, but the fact is that I was out of hand. The next morning, I awoke and found this letter.” You held it up, but the text faced you still. “It expresses very coldly,” you said, as if you were explaining something that did not affect you, “the exact sentiments of my previous employer. Antonio spared no detail—not one, heartrending detail.” You kept your eyes on the spot just above him; maybe Francis would think you were actually looking at him. In your peripheral vision, the slowly urbanising landscape sharpened as the train decelerated.

“It seems short.”

“Well spotted. That is rather the point.” Your mouth twitching, you lowered the paper. “That’s the nub and gist of it. It was a simple situation, but it ruined my life. I can’t do anything anymore. I think about what I could have done differently all of the time, how one miniscule action could have changed the way the evening ended. I lost the stars that night,” you sighed, “I’m such an imbecile.” You scratched your forehead, ducking your head. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

Francis jerked his head to the side. “Because you are an imbecile.”

You looked up. “What?”

“You’re letting this event that happened, what, over half a year ago regulate every facet of your life, and you’re not accomplishing anything. You complained about that. This Antonio—he was a major part of your life, but now he’s not. You had to leave. He made you leave. When you got off at the station, you ceased to exist to him.” Francis leant forward, his elbows on his knees. “This is a wretched thing to hear, I know, but you are a moron for trying to board that train again when it’s already left. He’s gone. He doesn’t matter anymore. You need to forget about him.”

You let out a laugh. “Do you think it’s that easy?”

Francis inhaled sharply as the train quavered and slowed to a crawl. “You’ve told yourself this already, but does it not help? You can’t let Antonio control your life. Go occupy yourself with something. Become a governess again, and fill your life with what you love. Find the stars again.”

You blinked, lurching forward as the screech of the brakes sounded, and the train eased to a stop. You opened your mouth, closed it, and narrowed your eyes. “What even—”

“No need to thank me,” Francis said as he stood and grappled with the handle of his carpetbag, “This is our stop. Nice talking to you.” He nodded once and strode over to the carriage door, the other three passengers closely behind him.

Not even a glance back.

Rising to your feet, you rushed over to the opposite window and pressed your nose against the glass as Francis walked across the nearly empty platform and out of the swinging door, turning his bag sideways to edge it through it.

You kept your forehead against the chilled window as you watched crumpled newspapers blow across the station platform until your breath fogged up the glass. You sat upright, tucking one of your legs under yourself, and raised your hand to trace an A on the window. How silly.

Crinkling your nose, you moved to wipe it off with your sleeve, but you dropped your hand to your lap and watched the A fade from the glass as the station lamps lighted for the evening, sharpening your reflection in their golden glow. Clarity.

Clearing your throat, you ducked your head to avoid looking at yourself and rubbed your letter between your fingers. You bit your lip and skimmed it, and that one, excruciatingly word stood out at the bottom of the page: querida.

You folded the letter in half.