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Elise never came back.
She’d seen her leave the festival early with Rozenmarine, of course. Even understood, implicitly, that two intended to make their exit as quietly as possible. The twin expressions of anticipation they’d worn weren’t lost on her. Elise’s nearly giddy steps away from the town square. Rozenmarine’s broad smile, as she’d stared at Elise with the earnest sort of adoration that comes with first love.
Lebkuchen, in the comfort of her own bedroom, is not enough of a liar to say the sight was a welcome one.
Is it prideful of her to say she thought Elise would dance with her?
To say she thought that when Elise said she had something to tell her on the day of the festival, she meant it?
She waited outside with her nightly bread for an extra hour. No one came.
It’s only out of petty anger, then, that she finds herself walking up the trail to Elise’s house the next day. She doesn’t bring any food, nor have the slightest expectation of what to say if she finds that her hunch was right. That Rozenmarine had won from Elise the same love that had long ago eaten a hole in Lebkuchen’s heart.
That this jealousy of hers can’t be put to rest until she’s dispelled all doubts.
Walking up to Elise’s house brings back fond memories, although she hadn’t made the trek as often as she’d have liked in recent years. The clothesline is conspicuously barren when Lebkuchen arrives at the house; an unexpected sight when she’s fully aware of her friend’s tendency to leave it out overnight.
“Ah, Lebkuchen. Is there something I can do for you?”
Ah? That’s it? Lebkuchen falters, and turns on her heel to face Elise. “Yes, as a matter of fact -”
All at once, she loses momentum. Elise...is here. She cocks her head encouragingly. Keeps her eyes attentively on Lebkuchen, waiting for her to finish the sentence. Her clothes are neat and her hair is tamed carefully, her jade brooch is nowhere to be seen and -
“...there is.” She finishes, a bit weakly. Having come here to clear her doubts, she's faced instead with more questions.
Lebkuchen takes a step back.
“Oh, go on, then. Did you and Gretel need more firewood, perhaps?” Elise closes the distance, one step closer. She leans enticingly close to Lebkuchen, a slight challenge in her voice. “Or did you want to see me for more...personal reasons?”
Elise has never looked at her this way.
Lebkuchen forces her head down. “I wanted to ask how Rozenmarine enjoyed the festival.” She says stiffly. “Gustav was considering renovating a house for her.”
“Oh.” She sounds bored, suddenly. “I walked her home last night. She’s not going to visit again. A shame, don’t you think?”
If it is such a shame... Lebkuchen thinks, casting a wary eye upon Elise’s flippant expression, how can you look like that?
“Quite.” She agrees, forcing her words to move past her thoughts. “That must have been quite the journey. You must be hungry, then?” Especially since you never came to see me last night , she leaves unsaid. If there is to be an excuse, she would hear it now.
But the excuse never comes either.
“Far from it!” The other girl chirps. “I have plenty of stew. In fact, you should help yourself!”
She flies to the door, pulling it open with an exaggerated flourish, and indeed, Lebkuchen can smell meat on the boiler. Since when did Elise have enough means to put together a stew? Even yesterday, she was practically entranced just looking at the stuffed turkeys travelers were taking from Wilma’s.
Elise is looking at her. “Well?” Is it paranoia speaking, or has she not blinked in all this time?
Lebkuchen isn’t sure anymore. It’s the first time in all her life she’s flinched when Elise reached out to her. The deft, affectionate touch that she’d pined for isn’t here. Elise’s hand falls roughly onto her shoulder.
“I owe you quite a few meals by now, don’t I, Lebkuchen?”
Their foreheads are close enough to touch. A little bump, and that kiss she’d been biding her time for would come all by itself.
But from who?
Lebkuchen pries the stranger’s hand off her shoulder. It’s cold.
"That was all I came to ask. Good day."
“Lebkuchen?”
...It’s cold.
That afternoon, Freya dithers with her by the altar. She’s wringing a handkerchief nearly to shreds, straining the embroidery close to popping as she fusses with the fabric. “Does Elise seem... cheerier than normal, today?” It’s a measured probing. She must have noticed too.
“I don’t know,” Lebkuchen sighs. She casts a resentful eye towards the impassive glass visage of Saint Walpurga, who hasn’t answered a single prayer in a lifetime of wishes. What’s the use of asking her to look after anyone, anymore? For all the good it did Elise.
For all the good it did her.
“I haven’t seen her today.”