Ceramic Pursuit

Citronella stood in her attic bedroom, facing the window to her balcony as always. It was a cloudy day outside, and Citronella found herself feeling almost jealous of the lazy way the clouds rolled over the horizon, blocking the daylight in wide fluffy swathes as they passed by. She wished she could be half as lazy, doing nothing but taking the hours to roll along the hills and over the rural grasses of Burrowgatory… and yet, here she was, pacing her room in her slippers and fidgeting creases into the thin fabric of her dressing gown while she waited for Blanche to return from downstairs with her hair powder, brush, and a fresh mixed drink. Even when he returned, guided her to her vanity chair, and gave her her treat while he proceeded to powder and brush her hair - her legs still bounced, her fingers tapped the side of her glass, and she turned her head to watch the rolling sky and passing avia. 

After one time too many of Citronella turning their head away from the direction of his brushing, Blanche carefully puts the brush down on her vanity, places his gloved fingertips on the sides of her chin, and turns her head toward her mirror to meet his gaze in the reflection. His eyes are flat and his mouth unamused - for just a moment, he looks almost identical to his littermate. Citronella’s eyes are as distracted and distant as expected when she meets his. 

Blanche raises an eyebrow. “You’re restless,” he comments. 

They scrunch their nose, twisting their head to remove Blanche’s grip. Blanche squeezes harder, determined to not let them get distracted while he continues grooming their hair. Citronella accepts this defeat - just this once.

“I’m plagued with that feeling again…” she explains, slowly. “I can think of nothing more relaxing than staying within my walls - or perhaps venturing out to the field now that the sun has calmed itself. I want not to think, not to ponder on the gaps in my mind today, only to stand in the warmth and feel it against my joints… and yet every time I try I get the sensation of pulling teeth instead.” 

Blanche does the motion he does when he’s silently prompting her to give more information, simply tilting his head to the side while he holds her gaze. She is often quite annoyed with his gesture, more often than not attempting to explain further leaves her more frustrated than simply dealing with the confusing emotions to begin with. After a short huff, she attempts to explain again. “My chest hurts. My legs ache. My knee joints twitch and turn like someone is jabbing them. I’m…”

“Anxious,” Blanche finishes. Citronella’s eye contact breaks as she turns around in the chair to look up at him directly, Blanche allows her to.

“Anxious?” she repeats. “What have I to be anxious about?”

Blanche shrugs. “I’d say you haven’t been yourself since you returned home from tea with Dove. You’ve been out of sorts since that day. Did something happen?”

“Nothing overt…” she mutters. “Beyond the fact that I seem to have made an enemy simply by daring to breathe. No one thus far has been so offended merely by my existence. Primrose seems unable to understand anything beyond his own cherubic sphere… I did nothing beyond observe, and I would not have ‘ruined’ his garden were he not insistent that I make amends for the crime of standing in one place. It’s frustrating knowing an image of myself exists in his mind that I cannot change - and that exists so separately from my understanding of myself.”

“Until recently,” Blanche offers,” you were insistent that there was nothing to speak of of a self within you. Being able to make that distinction is an impressive step in the right direction - even if it comes with the consequence of dealing with Primrose.”

“You’ve met him?”

“I’ve only heard vague stories of his attitude. Mercy is quite willing to talk when they visit if you give them the correct nudge in the right direction.” Carats. He means carats. “Regardless.. Have you considered an attempt at amends?” 

Citronella shakes her head.

“Will you consider an attempt at amends?” he prods again.

Citronella would whine if it were not, perhaps, one of the most undignified sounds she could make. 

-- 

Thus she found herself once again stepping through the massive doors of the greenhouse. The scent of damp soil and greenery greeted her, and where there had been empty beds of dirt before was now several perfectly measured and manicured sprouts of sage green. They reached up for the light filtering in through the glass windows like two eager, childish arms. Her frustration aside, the sight was… cute.

Less so was Primrose, in the usual spot, not a speck of dirt on his apron as though the substance itself refused to cling to him out of fear of being scrubbed into oblivion in his next load of laundry. That same tooth pulling anxiety bloomed in her chest just seeing the repeated turn of his head and recognition of her presence. The tsk he let through his teeth was loud enough that he could have whispered it into a microphone right against her ear. 

“You’re back,” he announces, the phrase devoid of joy. “And here I thought I would have the joy of never seeing your face again.”

She quells her temper. “I’m here to see the flowers. I wanted to check on their growth.”

“Oh? After trampling them near to death, you care enough about them to see if they’re growing despite your disturbance?”

“I…” she starts, her voice gets caught. They will it out again with a straightening of their neck and spine. “I do. Yes.”

“Hmph…” he breathes through his mouth. “Well, your row is right over here. Against all your efforts, they do seem to be coming up well. Proper maintenance and a devoted caretaker will do that, of course.”

She walks to his side, hands folded in front of her dress, and bends only enough to bring her eye-level with the new sprouts. They’re just as charming and small up close, and here she can see the fresh yellow beads of new stems waiting to shoot from the main growing body. “I’m amazed at how well they’re growing…”

“Yes,” Primrose nods. “But they won’t thrive without the proper care. They still need their next watering. That’s what I’ll be overseeing toda-”

“I’ll do it,” she interrupts.

Primrose audibly closes his mouth. He raises one lip at the same time as he raises an eyebrow. Before he can find his next retort, Citronella fills the space.

“I’m perfectly capable of following simple instructions. I will water them.”

Primrose mutters something under his breath that she doesn’t care to pay attention to, turns, and places the handle of the watering can into her jointed hand. She turns carefully, tips the can, and allows the delicate shower of water to cascade down upon the budding sprouts. As she walks down the planted row, Primrose follows close at her heels. His breath is held, looking for the moment he needs to step in with critique or snatch the water from her, but finds naught the moment he’s wishing to occur. 

“You thought I would flood them…” she says, matter-of-factly.

“Well. The only reputation you’ve made for yourself thus far is a nuisance, after all.”

Citronella bites their tongue from the sharp retort that immediately snaps into place in it. “I enjoy the process of delicate care and life as much as you, Primrose. We met each other at odd times. Your first impression of me was marred by your impatience, and mine from my inexperience. I’ve proved twice over now that I am no slovenly succubun. I may not be your equal, Primrose, but I am far from your inferior.” 

Primrose blinks at her. It’s clear they both have much more they would like to say to one another - and not enough energy to have this fight over the baby seedlings beneath their feet. He turns for a second watering can, points his nose toward the ceiling, and waves his hand in the direction of another bed of sprouts.

“Fine. Continue to make yourself useful and I’ll consider our debts even.”

Our debts, Citronella notices he said. She’s… satisfied with this. She holds the watering can in front of her with two hands, sweeps an foot behind her, and bends at the knee in his direction before turning off to the other side of the greenhouse to water the next section.

The sound of gentle pattering mist fills the glassy garden for several long minutes before Primrose finally adds:

“And that was a magnificently executed curtsy.”

Citronella hums a note of appreciation.