Girl of Iron and Magic

32.

32.
6 YEARS BEFORE THE WAR

When Mr. Henri stopped coming to visit, Lotte sent him letters. He replied to the first few, but the rest fell into the void. She turned ten, and then elven, and had the heavy feeling of being forgotten whenever she thought about him.

It wasn't that she didn't feel content living with Poe. It wasn't as if she wasn't overjoyed by her ability to enchant. But just because she had Poe, didn't mean she had ever wanted to discard Mr. Henri as if he were an old shoe.

He, on the other hand, didn't feel the same.

And Lotte was entering a time in her life when an irritable energy surged inside her and questions began echoing in her mind. For no reason at all she would go from feeling normal to haughty and indignant.

Poe didn't seem to notice the changes in Lotte. He was consistently the same.

"Today, we will not be studying," Poe told her one brilliant spring morning. The windows in their flat had all been thrown open, letting in a fresh, sweet breeze that carried the aroma of bread from a bakery across the street. "Get your shoes."

"Where are we going?"

"To enjoy city life."

They had breakfast at the caffe Balus, browsed through Keden market and happened upon a street performance at the Keden amphitheatre. Next, Poe surprised her with entry tickets to the Kardioll gallery.

She hadn't been able to enjoy art in so long. It was both nostalgic and exhilarating. While she drew enchantments every day, she hadn't dabbled in any serious art in years. Poe told her she could, whenever she wanted. It was she who somehow felt...uncomfortable painting again.

But she still loved art. She still loved to lose herself in someone else's expression. Mr. Henri had once told her that, even more important than the piece, the story behind it had to be inspiring for it to be able to hang on the greatest walls in the land.

But for Lotte, art was what words couldn't capture. A realm where the only language was shape, colour and composition. Most of art couldn't be easily explained. Not even the artist could fathom the deepest reaches of their heart. Art wasn't meant to be explained or interpreted, it was just meant to be appreciated.

Mr. Henri had understood this when she told him. He had said it was a profound thought for a girl her age.

She hadn't, at the time, known what the word 'profound' meant.

"Oh yes, it was a very good showing," a familiar voice disturbed the quiet of the gallery hall accompanied by three sets of walking feet.

"They were just thrilled to see you back in action, Henri," said a woman's voice. "You handled their questions about Poppin very well, dearest."

Lotte turned, heart thumping in her chest. There was Mr. Henri, transported from her thoughts right into the reality before her. He was walking hand in hand with Mrs. Treebald. A teenaged girl older than Lotte walked on Mrs. Treebald's left.

They passed her by, chatting quietly, without seeing her.

"You're nothing to them."
Wysley Pellen had called Lotte his replacement, and now she saw hers. It was a dry kind of ache, one that made her body feel stiff. No wonder Mr. Henri disappeared. He moved on.

And Poppin was dead.

She stormed out of the hall. Poe sat on a bench that had been positioned to view a single painting.

It was Stubborn Spring, Lotte's first drawing sold by Mr. Henri.

She stiffly sat next to him, but said nothing.