Week 3

 Day 15

The boys of Summer have an odd mating ritual which consists of hollering at pretty girls on the street. The boys maintain a distance of at least twenty feet, and their efforts do not seem to yield results of any kind, so I can not see that it is a particularly effective wooing mechanism.

For a while, I thought that the boys may have been making noise in order to gain respect from other boys, but I have seen several boys on their own, hollering at girls, so this can not be the case.

In Winter, when a boy wants a girl’s attention, he walks up to her, kisses her hand, hands her his card, and punches out the boy closest to his age. It is a much more calculated ritual, because the boy must be certain to a) be presentable, b) have a boy his age with him in order to punch, and c) either be stronger than the second boy or have paid the other boy enough money that the boy will not attempt to woo the girl, herself.

Winter’s way seems to be more intricate, but much more effective, since at the end of the meeting,, the girl knows exactly who the wooer is, and has had a demonstration of his strength and nerve -- even if the demonstration is staged. (And all the best ones are….)

Day 16

I’ve been here for two weeks and I am dying to move around a bit. I wear this big, cumbersome dress, in order to reassure people that I can’t move freely, and in that way, that they are safer from my Winter wrath. It’s a complete sham, but it’s hot, and I can’t move the way I want to, unless I open up the dress, which I can’t do because it’ll blow my cover. Anyway, I am dying to MOVE. I can’t move a muscle, facial or otherwise, and it is driving. Me. Insane. I can’t imagine another day of this, let alone years -- should I live that long. Do I want to?

The only thing I can really do to escape, is read. I just finished reading this weird book by Sesshu Foster. He’s from Spring, which I don’t even have to say, means that he’s already more than a little insane. The way he writes, only confirms this.

He doesn’t use paragraphs.

He doesn’t use dialogue quotations.

He mixes realities and fantasies and uses these insane, run-on sentences that do nothing except put you directly into the mind of this completely crazy character.

The book is covered in torn (faux) human skin and blood, which is disturbing enough to ensure that no Summerian look inside -- this amuses me because usually, the fiercest or most disgusting books hold pages of the most beautiful poetry ever written.

In this case, though, the cover fits the book -- the story is full of ritualistic murder and the dead-ahead, blinders-on way that most people, Summer, Winter, etc. go about their business. We just kill each other and don’t even feel it anymore, because it’s the Thing To Do. We don’t see each other as human -- admittedly, this is something that Winterians encourage. However, no matter how unworldly as we attempt to appear, we are flesh and blood, hopes and dreams, just like anyone else. 

And the way that all of our countries fight amongst each other Summer against Summer, Winter against Winter, Spring against Spring, Autumn against Autumn -- I wonder if it would matter. Do people realize that what they’re really doing is killing their neighbors, and possibly even kinsfolk?

I don’t think they do. War, murder, etc., once decided upon, becomes this mindless task. Don’t think. Just kill.

Day 17

Tomorrow I have to go pay a visit to my mother-in-law. I’m to take Adora and two ladies-in-waiting with us so that we’ll have a lively party. My husband’s mother lives in a small castle in the country, flanked by a moat, guards, and a hundred servants. Courtiers visit often, back and forth with new and more interesting gossip. 

I don’t think she ever really intended to retire, when her son took over the crown. I think she just didn’t want to share a castle as less than a queen.

Needless to say, I am incredibly intimidated by the prospect, and of course, have to appear unflappably unimpressed at the idea, and indeed, at the reality. My husband watched me closely today, when he showed my invitation. He continues to joke and tease and watch me mercilessly through the haze of foolishness that he wears about him like and invisible barrier. 

Most of the courtiers are fooled by his jokeresque persona, but the majority of his advisors do not share in the illusion. I, myself, sense a heavily-controlled temper -- a violence of mind and spirit. Not a particularly evil one, really, otherwise he wouldn’t be so careful to control it. Rather, like me, he has an illusion to maintain. However, whereas I wear the fearsome mask over softness and sweetness, he wears the mask of buffoonery over eyes marked with cunning and shrewdness. He reminds me of my father, actually.

My father is a gentle man, but not one to be trifled with. And my husband is shrewd enough both to see through my disguise, and to keep it to himself -- though he can not seem to help himself in trying to test and  provoke me at every opportunity. I think that he knows it is a lost cause, but he tests me, every day.

Ah, well. At least there is something to do here that will keep my wits sharp, even as parts of my body begin to sag. I must find a way to exert some energy or my organs will simply burst inside my body from sheer boredom.

Day 18

It is two in the morning and finally cooling off enough that I might be able to fall asleep if it weren’t for the troubles of the day that have burned themselves into my brain. The heat melts my problems into my psyche until I fear that I will never be able to separate them.

I will forever taste the burnt toast I had for breakfast. I will never forget the scowl on my husband’s face when I refused to smile at any of his stupid jokes. The image of Adora being teased by the other maids, and the look of stoic vacancy in her eyes is burned into my brain along with the knowledge that the sun is the one entity of Summer that I can not fool with icy façade. 

I never realized how I used to chip all of  my problems away, and toss them aside to lie shattered beneath my bed, ready to attach themselves to my slippers in the morning.

This dress is so hot! It’s stifling. I can’t breathe. I squirm, trying to pull my skin away from the fabric. I usually need no blanket because my clothes are warm enough, and now the fabric sticks to my hot skin, tormenting me with my own promise to remain icy in the face of Summer’s warmth.

I must take the dress off. But I can’t, because it is so late now that once comfortable, I will sleep deeply, and not wake in time to redress. 

I CAN’T BREATHE!!! I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I have to -- oh. My skin breathes deep, the cool morning air. Let them kill me where I sleep, my dress is crumpled against the wall by the door and there is no incentive sweet or fearful enough to put it on again.

Day 19

Adora found me this morning, more naked than I’ve ever been in my life. (In Winter, everything is so cold, you even bathe partially clothed.)  Her laugh is like a rusty flute; high, and decomposed in places. After she composed herself, she said that we could come up with some frightening underwear for me to sleep in during the summer.

Perhaps it was the act of saving her from the arrow, or maybe after weeks of seeing me every day, she has become accustomed to my costume -- but she no longer sees me as any icy princess of Winter. I am human to her, now. It is a vulnerable, yet hopeful, position to be in. I need a friend -- I am too lonely without one. I suspect that she is, as well.

She told me today, that she is a disinherited bastard orphan of some fancy Lordship’s family. She grew up intermittently taken on as a servant by cruel relatives, and as a street urchin. A few years ago, my husband, a distant cousin, found her, cleaned her up, and brought her to court as a lady’s maid. She served the Queen before my mother-in-law retired. 

Apparently, my mother-in-law was kind enough, but impatient with Adora’s lack of frivolity. The Queen loves to be entertained, and Adora becomes more and more bland, the more attention is paid to her.

I think she told me these things, in recognition of the importance of finding proof that I am merely made of flesh and blood, not ice and snow.

Day 20

I’ve been processing the visit I had with my mother-in-law yesterday. She likes be called Priscilla and wants me to call her Prissy -- which no one else is allowed to call her. I’m not certain if this is meant to be an insult as a compliment, and incidentally, anyone back home with the name “Prissy” would get the crap beaten out of them every day of their life.

Prissy, is anything but. She is smooth talking, fast moving, and watchful. She never turns her back to anyone, literally or figuratively. She speaks with a voice so lilting, it almost sounds as though she’s singing. Her movement are graceful, but never-ending, like one of the hummingbirds I find floating around the palace gardens.

Prissy’s castle is run with an iron hand, and all credit is given to her main lady’s maid Faulte. Faulte is a stout woman with an unfriendly countenance that would be perfectly acceptable in any Winter household. She gives the impression of severity, and her husky, impatient voice certainly enhances that impression, but it is clearly the Queen, with all of her honeyed charm, who runs things. The Queen is praised for her kindness, and Faulte is cursed for her shrewishness.

Prissy’s eyes, when she looks at me, at once sees through and appreciates my disguise. She is an interesting woman. Formidable for certain, and certainly an enemy I do not wish to make. But she is lonely, I am certain of it.

All of us -- Adora is stoniness, my coldness, Prissy’s sweetness -- be we must be invulnerable at all times, at all costs. The mask is different, but the reason for it is the same. To meet someone who sees through the disguise is frightening, to say the least. But it is liberating beyond words, as well.

Day 21

I know why I’m so hot at night. It’s these damn, soft beds. I can’t believe anyone can really sleep in them without smothering to death. Last night, I lay down a sheet on the floor, and slept on top of it, practically naked. 

There’s an enormous mirror in the chambers my mother-in-law has allotted for me. I’ve been taking out my spikes, and cleaning off my make-up before bed. I used to do this at home, but since I moved to Summer, I’ve kept them in at all times. Here, when I taken these things off, I feel and look naked. I could pass for a native.

In Winter tapestries, Summer folk are depicted as having glowing, golden skin. They don’t even look human. In reality, Summer folk are every color of beige, tan, and brown, just like Winter folk. If I covered up the holes from my piercing, I could wear a dress outside, and nobody would recognize me. It’s a titillating thought; one that bounces around the inside of my womb when I think of it.

It’s funny -- before I moved here, the thought never would have occurred to me. Summer folk weren’t human like Winter folk, really, they were basically another species. There was no way one could be confused for the other. I’ve been practicing my smile. There is a tavern that we passed on the way here, a farmer’s tavern. If I could get hold of a common girl’s dress, I could visit and blend in with the crowd -- see what Summer folk are like, when they’re not being observed.