*TW: Sexism being used to explain the trans experience, period-typical child abuse. This is the 18th Century, not the one we live in. Don't do this.
*Me: I'm going to write this chapter quite fast :D
Writer's block: hi
My older-than-me computer, which only works if plugged into a charging port: hey
University open days: heey
My unfinished personal statement: heeey
My mum's mental health crisis: helloo
The 1-2 hours worth of homework my school decided to give me every day: GOOD MORNING
Rip Van Winkle is a 19th century fairytale, not an 18th century one.
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White, white, white. More white. 'Tis like the snow. There is no snow now, because 'tis too hot, and the snow would melt into water. Maybe, then, 'tis white as daisy petals. Daisy petals, daisy petals- but the fresh ones, not the old ones. The older ones turn into a dull grey, or sometimes a rotting yellow. So, maybe, the white is like the clouds. Fluffy, like sheep. But clouds also turn grey, so that is also not too correct.
But then there's grey here, as well. Wait. There wasn't there before! There is white, white, then there is grey. It's not really grey, it's just a darker white, but it's not like the previous white! So where does it change?
"Are you finished, dear?"
"No, stay still."
A chuckle- why is there laughing? This is very serious business! "Alright."
Alright, there must be a change somewhere. It's obvious in everyone else, but there still has to be something here!
"There!" Angelica exclaims, finally seeing it. A thin line, thinner than a spider's web, separates Uncle Solomon's inner eye from his outer eye. "You have it! There it is!"
Philip is wrong, after all! Uncle Solomon flinches for some reason, but laughs moments later.
"You're shouting right beside my ear, my dear," he says, slightly shifting her in his arms. The line in his eyes disappears.
"No, 'tis gone now!" His shoulders seem to be good leverage to look up again, but Uncle pulls her away before she tries. Unfair.
"It is still there, I just moved my pupil, and now it's in a different place."
"Pupil?"
"The middle eye," he says with a hum and a sigh. "The one that allows us to see."
"Oh. Okay!" 'Tis silly that 'tis so not visible. Why did God think that such eyes would be alright to give to a person? If Angelica cannot follow where Uncle's Layden's eyes go, how does he know where he is looking?
"Shall we continue our walk, my dear?"
"Aye!" She says. Can Cassandra see her pupils? They're entirely black. So how does she know where she looks? Mr Layden offers her his hand, and the thought vanishes like a bubble. His hands are big, bigger than Mama's, and maybe even Papa's.
"Why are your hands so big? Are they bigger than Papa's?" She asks, her hand only managing to hold two fingers. "Is it like your eyes? Did they slowly get bigger over time?"
His eyes, white like boiled eggs, crinkled in the sides. "Well, yes and no. My eyes are an... an illness, so to say. My hands are bigger than yours because I'm older than you. You grow as you age."
Well, Grandpa is much older than Mr Laurens, and he is shorter than him. Adults and their logic.
"They're bigger than Papa's, and he is an adult."
"Well, my fingers are very long, because my mother's were. I also have brown hair, like my mother. And you have red hair, like your father."
"And Philip has Mama's hair, and her eyes." She laughs. She swings Uncle Layden's hand as they walk. "He does not like it, not at all! He does not want to be pretty, like Mama, he wants to be handsome, like Papa."
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