The Blind Date

Thorunn’s characterization of Saol Eile, that we are a joyless and partyless country, is not entirely accurate. It is true that we are sadly lacking in true holidays, in part because the Saol Eile state church discourages all forms of gluttony and drunkenness (ironic in light of my father, the head of church and connoisseur of strong brandy) and outlawed all festivals of the primitive local religions. Another factor is the explosive industrial growth in our major cities. The demand for profit has become so ruthless that many trade guilds and factories encourage their workers to stay busy throughout the year, eroding at our last few church-approved holidays.

There is one holiday, however, that the heavy gears of industry and iron fist of the church have failed to crush—that of the new year’s furlough. At the turning of the new year, sloth is the sin of choice. So few Saelic citizens wish to be productive during our harshest month of the year that the country grinds to a halt. What results is a near-total economic shutdown for roughly the whole month of January, where no one goes to work and no one is present to scold them for it, since even the cruelest taskmaster must lower his whip sometimes. Even the working class samples the fine luxury of free time. Shops and restaurants close early to match the shortened days. As the nights are longer, we have more time to sleep and spend time with loved ones. Even Mom, whose grueling job at the washinghouse usually keeps her from dawn until dusk, may return home after only an hour or two of light work.

I am fortunate to catch her on one of those light days. Prince Edgar thinks that I am running to the docks to deliver letters to “Elizabeth,” but in reality, I am heading home to Lavendel Road to spend a little time with my mother. I only have a few hours to prepare her for her blind date, after all.

As soon as she opens the door, I hug her tight. “Oh, Ellie,” she murmurs into my shoulder. “I almost didn’t recognize you. My little girl, all grown up.”

“I was only gone for a couple months, Mama,” I laugh.

“You’re so thin! Aren’t they feeding you in the palace? Ugh. I’ll have to write to your father, give him a good talking-to, tell them to stop starving my baby girl…come on inside, I’ll fix you a snack.”

As I step inside, I am impressed at how clean it is. Housekeeping was never part of Pansy’s job, as I only asked her to keep Mom company and remind her of basic self-care, but she has gone above and beyond in tidying the home. Mom’s craft supplies, once crowding almost the entire house, have been corralled into a little corner desk and bookshelf. The kitchen table has been fixed so that it no longer wobbles when I set my elbows on it. Even the houseplants seem livelier, especially Mom’s beloved pothos, which has moved above the sink where it will get a sliver of sun.

When I set my bags and traveling coat down by the door, Mom notices at once. She is cutting up a handful of winter apples and glances over her shoulder to me. “Pansy headed home for the new year’s,” she mentions. “You can bring those up to your room.”

“I’m afraid I can’t stay overnight, Mama,” I reply.

“What? Why not?”

“I still have some work to do. Not a lot. But I can’t make such a long commute every day, so I booked a hotel room closer to the city center.”

Mom shakes her head. “They’ll work you to the bone, those people.”

There is another, more pertinent reason I cannot stay. But there is only so much of it I can tell her at this time, so I choose my next words carefully. “It’s…probably for the best. I have to ask, Mama…what do you know about my new job?”

Briefly, the chopping sounds stop. Then they resume. “I know what you’ve told me in your letters. You work for your father, now, right? Keeping his records?”

“I am.”

“Pansy gave me your little note.”

“Did she?”

Mom turns with a platter of sliced apples, cheese, and crackers. Her smile is so bright it could light up the whole city. “I told you so,” she says. “Edgar always had such a strange way of showing it. But I never once doubted him—he is watching out for us, he always has. Oh, Ellie. I’m just glad you got to meet him. Well, meet him again , that is, under better circumstances.”

“Heh. Suppose so.” I avert my eyes. “As you probably figured, I haven’t told him who I am. And there’s very little I am allowed to tell you. Confidentiality.”

“Not a surprise,” Mom sighs. “Everything is confidential with him.”

“I suppose I can tell you one thing, though,” I add brightly. “Actually—this might be important, in case anyone asks. N-not that I think anyone will! But just for consistency’s sake, you should know the story too.”

Mom frowns, confused. But she slowly nods. “R…right.”

“Because politics.”

“Of course…politics.”

I explain that Edgar believes his daughter’s name is Elizabeth, that I am a distant relative of Sibelius Odric, and that Elizabeth is nowhere to be found in Saol Eile because she is sailing abroad with Odric. Elizabeth and I are penpals, which is how I know so much about her life. Suspicion is also deflected by the fact that Edgar believes me to be twenty years of age, too old to be his daughter. Mom frowns as she struggles to follow the back-and-forth, often stopping me to ask clarifying questions, but I am patient with her and do not mind. I absolutely must make sure that she commits the story to memory, or else all of my efforts will be for nothing.

By the time I have ensured Mom remembers it, I glance at my pocketwatch and nearly have a heart attack. “Shit! We’re going to be late,” I tell Mom. “Get your coat and purse, we have to go!”

“Go where?” she asks, bewildered. “You just got here.”

“I made reservations for us at L’Magnifique. You know, that fancy seafood place you always wanted to try, over on Candless Street? The reservations aren’t until four, but you don’t have anything to wear! We have to buy you something!”

“And you’re paying, right?” Mom says sarcastically.

To her utter surprise, I reply, “Of course I’m paying. My salary is sixty obols a week. Come on, let’s get going!”

“Sixty? Ellie! You didn’t tell me that. Sixty obols?!”

I finally manage to hurry her along, finally grabbing her hand to pull her out the door. Fortunately, I have planned the day’s itinerary down to the second, so we have just enough time to visit a few different stores. If we had more time and a bigger budget, I would have preferred to fill Mom’s wardrobe the traditional way, at a dressmaker’s shop, where her measurements will be painstakingly taken and the garments tailored to fit her perfectly. Instead, we will have to settle for the mass-manufactured, ready-to-wear clothing which was once solely the province of the working class, but growing in popularity with the merchant class. Where once we would have found only shapeless linen shirts and trousers at such stores, the shiny, new shops closer to the city center now offer gowns, corsets, coats, underpinnings, and anything else a modern middle-class lady needs to appear leagues above her station (though the cheap fabric and coarse stitching rarely holds up under close scrutiny).

Mom looks around at everything with the awestruck grin of a child in a toy factory. I tell her to buy whatever she wants. As she presses a mauve pink gown to her chest to admire it in the mirror, we catch the eye of a young saleswoman.

“What a lovely find!” she crows, clasping her hands. “Would you like to try it on, miss?”

I raise my eyebrow, knowing the strategy. This young woman likely earns commission off of every sale, so she has one goal in this conversation: to sell as many dresses as possible. Mom doesn’t know this, though, and turns to the young woman with a delighted smile.

“Oh, yes!” Mom beams. “I’d like that very much, thank you.”

The saleswoman sets us up with a private dressing room. On the short walk there, she is keen to point out other fabrics and cuts of dress that might look flattering on Mom, and by the time we arrive, my arms are heavy-laden with at least a dozen gowns in a rainbow of colors. I suspect that this may be the only dress shop we have time to visit today. As Mom steps behind the curtain, Rosie, the saleswoman, turns next to me.

“I promise I haven’t forgotten you, miss. Let me fetch another sales girl who can help you while I take care of your sister, alright?”

“Sister?!” Mom hollers from behind the curtain. “Oh, honey! You flatter me. I’m her mother!”

I flinch. In times like these, Mom’s lack of formal manners training really shows. I reckon the whole department store heard her. I wonder if I need to extend my false identity as Eloise Odric into all public spheres, as well; it might not be the best idea to holler out that I am her daughter.

“Goodness, my apologies,” says Rosie. “But I could hardly believe it, madam, I would swear you two are twins. You couldn’t be a day over thirty, and your daughter is at least twenty-five!”

“No, she’s only eighteen,” Mom adds helpfully.

“Mama,” I hiss.

I have never been more embarrassed in my life. We have caught the attention of several other ladies shopping, as well as two other saleswomen, who flock around me while Rosie steps behind the curtain to assist Mom. “Eighteen!” one of the new saleswomen echoes. “Poor dear, you dress like an old spinster. Let’s fix that for you!”

“We’re going to dinner at L’Magnifique,” Mom volunteers. “Ellie, let the ladies help you; I can’t be the only one dressing all fancy.”

This is my nightmare. But it will make Mom happy, so I reluctantly play along (though I stubbornly smack down any suggestion of matching dresses, as I want to look as different from Mom as possible). Mom’s final selections are all in brilliant jewel tones, glimmering against her rich brown skin and shiny hair. My choices are much more subdued, reserved to earthen tones and muted colors; and unlike Mom, whom I have budgeted for five full outfits, including the one she will walk out of the store in, I buy for myself only what I will wear to the restaurant. We end up looking like we are going to entirely different places, to the utter dismay of the saleswomen. My sage-green vest and simple skirt fade into the background next to Mom, who dazzles the room in a brilliant emerald gown, lace-lined petticoat, and embellished velvet cloak.

“Ellie,” Mom breathes, spinning in front of the mirror, “I feel like a princess!”

“Are you sure you don’t want to try the—” Rosie starts to ask me, but I cut her off sharply.

“If you ask me again, I won’t buy anything,” I hiss to Rosie, then call out to my mother, “You’re so beautiful, Mama! It’s perfect!”

We leave the shop with a dozen boxes and half a dozen bags. I pay a porter to have the packages brought back to Lavendel Road, and with our arms lightened, I rush Mom towards our second destination, a beauty shop, where I have already scheduled her hair and makeup to be done. The same song and dance is done there. Mom is amazed by everything in the shop, she tries on a dozen things, and I wait patiently by the side while firmly rejecting the stylists from giving me the same treatment. Then we head to a jeweler’s. Same thing. My wallet is starting to hurt. I had plans to visit a shop for purses and shoes, but now we are really running out of time. The sun is starting to go down, and most stores are closing early today, so we turn and head straight for L’Magnifique.

By now, I am thoroughly exhausted. Mom, on the other hand, is full of vigor. That’s good, at least, because we still have the dinner to get through. I am just glad that she does not seem to have noticed anything amiss; she still seems to think that all of this preparation is just for dinner with her daughter.

“I’m so proud of you, Ellie,” she croons, clasping at my arm as we walk. “My beautiful girl, all grown up, with so much money. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Mama,” I say wearily.

“I know there’s not much you can’t say about your job. But I can’t wait to sit down and hear about everything you can tell me. I’m sure just a little should be fine. Pansy said something about a boy? I noticed you’re still wearing that little bracelet. Is that his? Are you two together?”

We step inside the restaurant. Mom is still asking me questions, but as soon as my eyes adjust to the dim, ambient lighting, I am scanning the tables. Then I see him. A man sitting alone at a table for two, in a corner at the far back of the restaurant. His back is to me, so I cannot see his face, but I can make out what he is wearing. Something bland and middle-class, absolutely unremarkable. Perfect. He already has a glass of wine in front of him, even though I specifically instructed the wait staff not to give him anything. Not as perfect, but it looks like he hasn’t been here for very long and the glass is still partially full.

“Ellie?” Mom tugs at my sleeve. “Did you hear me?”

“Sorry, Mama,” I say, my voice strained and hollow. Suddenly I am petrified. I already know how this will go; there is only one way for it to go; and that is a happy reunion of my parents. But somehow, I am nervous. I find my mother’s hand and give it a squeeze.

“Are you okay?” Mom asks.

“I’m fine, Mama. Can you wait here?” I guide her to the waiting area, where she seems confused, but reluctantly takes a seat. “I’ll be right back.”

Once she is seated, I squeeze her hand one last time and then go to find the hostess. When I do, I hand her a slip of paper, wait for her to read it and nod in confirmation, and then I head off as if looking for a washroom. As it is a small establishment, there are only two. One has a sign reading Out Of Order—Do Not Use. I knock on that door, and after a moment, it opens for me.

“You’re late,” Lucienne frowns.

“You couldn’t have picked a better location?” I ask.

“The staff wouldn’t let us use the banquet room,” Pansy shrugs. “Also, if you use that toilet, the whole building will flood. So…don’t do that.”

I grimace. “Noted.” The washroom is barely large enough for the three of us, including Lucienne’s wheelchair, to fit, particularly as she needs to be square in the middle of the room and facing the mirror. Pansy is already leaning against the counter, so I maneuver awkwardly around Lucienne to crouch by the toilet. “Does it work?”

“Of course it works. I built it,” says Lucienne. Murmuring the incantation under her breath, Lucienne presses her hands together, twists her fingers, and then presses her hands against the bathroom mirror. Slowly, the reflection begins to morph and change. Then, as if we are merely looking through a foggy window, we are staring through the mirror at a slightly-blurred view of the restaurant. The view seems to be from the furthest corner of the building, somewhere on the wall near that lonely table for two. In the background, people mill about in real-time, and though slightly garbled, we can even hear the clinking of cutlery and murmur of conversation. In some places, the detail of the image is so fine that I can see one of our subjects—Edgar—picking anxiously at his fingernails.

“Gods, this is incredible,” I murmur. “Luci, you’re a fucking genius, you know that, right?”

“Well, I didn’t invent the thing,” she chuckles, “but thank you. I definitely made improvements on existing designs. Edgar’s a spellcaster, right?”

“Yes, but nonpracticing nowadays.”

“Even if he was, he can’t sense us spying on him—any basic detect magic spell should catch a charm like this, but not mine. For all he can tell, there’s a shiny little bell hanging from the wall lamp…wait, I see her! She’s coming!”

In the mirror, we see two people approaching Edgar’s table, my mother and a waiter. Even though Edgar’s back is to them, he must hear them, as he freezes at once with his eyes wide. Quickly, he begins to fiddle with his cufflinks, then runs his hand over his hair and face.

“Aww, he’s nervous,” Pansy whispers. Lucienne quickly shushes him.

As they approach, Mom turns to the waiter. “I’m…so sorry to be a bother, sir,” she says, “but I’ve someone else with me.”

“Of course, madam,” says the waiter. “He arrived shortly before you did.”

We all hold our breath. The waiter steps forward to pull out Mom’s chair, but quickly, Edgar stands up and waves him back. Then he stands, pulls a bouquet of roses from under the table, and turns to face Mom.

All is silent. Even the background noise seems to fade away. For a long time, Mom just looks confused. Her brow furrows and she glances briefly at the waiter, then looks back at Edgar. Slowly, the realization dawns on her face. Her hands float up to cover her mouth. Her chest begins to rise and fall rapidly.

And then her shoulders start to shake, she whirls around, and she bolts for the exit, faster than anyone in a petticoat ever ran before.