Bad Prophecies (draft 1)

XV

I kept on having these life-ruining headaches for months, and by the time they stopped, it was early spring. Late March.
I found it rather unfortunate that I was rendered an invalid on International Pi Appreciation Day, March thirteenth.
Effie took me to the Horniman Museum for compensation later on in March. Horniman's was still a relatively new Museum back then, only fourteen years old.
We'd begun to go there routinely. During the Great War, the staff consisted of a team of religiously devoted gardeners and a group of elderly folk volunteers.
We mostly hung around the botanical gardens, hiding in the butterfly house and snogging.
That had been Valentine's Day and all the days that I wasn't bedridden by migraines in the past four months.
On this particular day, we sat on the floor in the butterfly house, and Effie chuckled lowly while I stroked a rather furry butterfly.
"You know, Pumpkin."
"Hmm?" I perked up to listen.
She laughed again, "God, you're adorable when you do that. Like a little kitten. Anyhow, you do remember the chain of letters I exchanged with your husband?"
"How could I forget?"
"Right, well, I've kept in touch with him, and he informed me he would soon be on rest in France. You were so ill that night, I didn't want to bother you, so I took the train and met him."
"Mhm."
"He's not quite as awful as I imagined him. He's very clumsy, is he not?"
I nodded, smiling gently.
"You didn't choose the worst man, but you could've done better."
Giggling, I said, "I highly doubt it, Effie, dear."

/

April came, and so did my birthday. I wonder to this day why I call April the twelfth my 'birthday', but I digress. Alexander sent me a wonderful letter with his regards, and also a letter thanking me for my regards on his birthday due to writing paper rations.
Effie took me to the botanical gardens as per usual.
"Kohl, my dear."
"What's wrong? You never call me that."
"I'm only just now realising that I don't know your full name."
"Oh yeah, that's rather on purpose, isn't it, though?
"What d'you mean?"
"Well, I think I lied," I said, placing down the monarch butterfly that was perched on my hand, onto a milkweed.
"About what?"
"My name. You asked me if I had any strange extravagance to my full name, I told no, but it was a lie. My full name is rather more extravagant than yours."
"What's more extravagant than 'Miss Euphemia Penelope Elizabeth Morris-Baxter-Abbott'?" she had put on a funny posh accent for the name bit.
"How's 'Mrs Katherine 'Kohl' Hope Crowley, Alexander Abbadon Black-Baranov' for extravagant?"
"Jesus Fu -"
"Language, darling."
"Mary, Mother of God, that's - that is a rather extravagant name. You win this one, Pumpkin."

/

Effie was a very colourful person. Our room was filled to the brim with paintings and trophies from her various talents. By nineteen-fifteen, she'd left her work at the auxiliary corps and instead took up company with the suffragettes, selling the Votes For Women newsletter. I'd met Mrs Pankhurts before and kept company with the suffragettes in the nineteen-tens, but after Davidson threw herself before a horse, I'd been too scared to continue.
Less than two years later, Effie pulled me back into the Suffrage Circle.
Before long, she'd talked me into standing on the streetside near the Tate Museum of Modern Art with her to sell the papers.
By miracling them to have forgotten me, I was able to re-acquaint myself with my former protest comrades.
It wasn't so bad. It gave Effie and I something to do other than going to opium dens and getting high off our tits, lounging in our bedroom while I read stories to her, making love or painstakingly waiting for the damned war to be over.
Contrary to popular belief, the Black Hand (the group formed to assassinate Duke Ferdinand) was not influenced in the slightest by my mother, although both heaven and hell credit him for starting both of the world wars.
Whenever I spent time with either of my parents, which was rarely those days, as I was busy wallowing in my newly-found teenage misery, they made sure to remind me that it was Not Mum's Fault that the Great War had begun.
The teen years in the nineteenth century were a smorgasbord of rebellion and stunts, the teen years in the twentieth century were mostly spent writing angsty poetry and letters to my husband, being high off my tits on opium or other drugs, or getting it on with my girlfriend, and the teen years in the twenty-first century are yet to be spoken of.
As much as I like to pretend it was all botanical garden dates, Museum outings and the Suffrage movement when I was with Effie, in actuality, it mostly consisted of her having to drag me out of The Petunia a minimum of once a week to prevent me from going mad, because I never left our home of my free volition, instead opting to write endlessly on whatever happened to cross my mind.
The opium dens, the gardens, the newsletter selling, and the museums were all ploys to get me to leave the Inn for some fresh air.
She was kind about it, though, never explicitly telling me off for my melancholic idiocy, only constant suggestions of where we could visit and why.
Effie Morris worked in mysterious ways. Eccentric and effervescent on the outside, but soft and lighthearted once you got to know her. Forming a relationship with her was a little bit like biting into a French pastry, it appeared at first like it would be bright and tiresome from its colourful and artistic appearance, but proved itself over time to be gentle and luscious, not overpowering at all.

/

Okay, fine, I admit, I tell you all the time about how Alexander was the only love I had, and we were just two lovers against the world, which, in its own way, was true enough, but I have loved others along the way, and so has he.
In case you are an ageless immortal yourself, never try to attempt a centuries-long marriage with total fidelity because you will find it impossible. Things come up all the time, wars, irresponsible decisions, long voyages, boredom. Truly, what you need to do is just need to lay out a few ground rules and Stick To The Plan.
And I loved Effie. I did. I don't try to hide it because that would be pointless when I recall to myself everything she ever did for me. It was a shame she was human. I like to imagine that wherever she resides now in the afterlife, she is as incredible as she was in life.
But now is not the time for reminiscing! Currently, in the story, she is alive and has several decades of excellence to go on!
In the summer of nineteen-fifteen, Effie was twenty-two. June seventh. She was still none the wiser of my immortality, as I hadn't had the heart to tell her yet.
Her birthday was celebrated with an invitation to tea with her mother and father.
She had agreed with them to bring her latest 'companion' as a plus one, which of course would be me.
She advised me to dress according to a strict code of order to bring me as much approval from Morris-Baxter-Abbotts as I could.
I put on a white summer dress, about midway to my calves, with bishop sleeves and a fine lace stitching along the hem. This, paired with a new pair of black leather flats I had purchased to replace my old shoes and a fine pair of wrist-length white gloves.
Effie wore a powder-blue tea gown, white, upper arm-length gloves, and white, slightly heeled shoes to emphasise her height as always.
We arrived at the estate by cab and were let in by staff. She seemed very unimpressed by the ordeal, while I was internally panicking, and held onto her arm for fear of tripping over something and embarrassing myself.
Mr and Mrs Morris-Baxter-Abbott looked about as any rich, nepotism couple did in the early twentieth century. The only thing that shocked me was the significant height difference between the Morrises and their daughter. They were about as short as myself, if not less, hidden by height-boosting shoes. How such small people produced such a tall daughter, I to this day wonder.
"Euphemia," Her mother spoke first out of everyone, "I take it this is your companion?"
"Yes, mother." she gave an almost unnoticeable smirk.
"Is this more exhibition of your-" Mrs Morris lowered her voice - "Blasphemy?"
Effie made a mock-up of an offended expression. "No, dear mother, I'm frankly rather offended you would think so. She's married to a soldier, and I am simply keeping her company during these trying times."
"Oh. Well, I'm so sorry to assume the worst. What is her name?"
I immediately realised why Effie had asked for my full name on my own birthday.
"Her name is Mrs Katherine Hope Crowley, Alexander Abbadon Black-Baranov."
"Darling, please." I held my hand to my temple. "That is my legal name, but I am known simply as Kohl Crowley."
"Well, Mrs Crowley, it is pleasant meeting you." Mr Morris extended his hand to me, and I shook hands with him. "Shall we get on with tea, ladies?"

The tea wasn't nearly as bad as I had imagined. The summer sun lit the tearoom nicely, her parents were more reserved and polite than I had imagined, and her mother complimented my dress. It took the performance of a miracle to avoid having to eat the biscuits, although I did end up having a few, none of the chocolate ones, though, as chocolate makes me incredibly nauseous.
Having had tea with Effie's parents without having a stress-fit, I considered the evening a success.