Kings College (Philidosia/Phildosia Fan Fiction)

Chapter 18

Trotting through the snow, snowflakes dashed around my face in tornado-like swirls. My walking caused a light crunching noise every time the two made contact. Noticing this, I walk slower to make a gentle song in my head. When the notes were higher, I barely grazed the ground. When the notes were lower, I really crunched my feet into it. Some notes and tunes I skipped here and there. Just in case some outsider saw me and decided I was a basketcase.

Then they would tell their friends, eventually telling their parents who tell their friends that 'Theodosia Burr Jr was frolicking in the snow,' after that word would get everywhere and Philip will be so disgusted he'd rather marry the fat princess than me; then Papa will find out, banishing me from home and all of America will kick me with the Native Americans; somehow I'll land upon the non-existent cannibalistic tribe who decides I look yummy and I'll die, painfully roasted over the fire!

My quick conclusions quickly cause me to stop, and walk normally. I shudder at the idea of burning to death by savage cannibals. Thankfully, I arrive to the library without seeing a single savage. And yes, I had given myself the unnecessary fear. It's a talent, I know.

The warm air has my frozen ears tingling, feeling a burning sensation and they thaw from their blue state. Bringing my hand to rub at the lobes gently, the fire dies and is left with an almost room temperature.

The library is scarce, any people would be a few men and women reading the news or an elderly woman helping a child get a book from the top. All in all a gentle and relaxed atmosphere, nothing too hectic I need to worry about. Of course, even the small things in life cause stress. Like the walking earlier...

"We don't speak of that." I mutter quietly to myself.

"We never said a word, Theodosia."

A voice snarkily replies in my head, making my lips part and growl in frustration.

"Why you little-"

"Hello ma'am, need any help?" The elderly woman helping the child asks, she appears to be the librarian. Clearly confused by my muttering and angry demeanor, the woman just nervously bounces on the balls of her feet.

Watching. Waiting. Listening.

Awkwardly standing tall and stuttering out a 'no thanks,' I shuffle towards the back in a panic. That was the most embarrassing situation. Atop throwing up behind a bar!

Again, I shudder at the thought. Wow, my shoulders are getting quite the exercise today. As I roll then back, a slight searing feeling is sent, reminding me of my poor sleeping posture are Philip's. I should get a massage soon. Coming into reality, it takes me a moment to entirely remember where I am.

"Ah, trying to find that poetry book. 'Guns and Ships.'" I say aloud to no one in particular, striding off towards the poetry section. Poetry's never been my strong suit, and it can find itself to be rather boring if not written collectly. Sure, some people have immense talent. However others don't sound nearly as good. Shakespeare is a classic, good. Papa writing a cheesy poem to make his daughter fall asleep, bad. Very, very berry bad.

In a thin, flimsy blue paperback case lying amongst the classics such as Hamlet or The Iliad, Guns and Ships proudly awaits it's moment of glory. Sliding the pathetic thing into my hands, I admire the artwork printed atop. A man, his face with not detailed but his skin color, in a jumping postion. His arms out, legs brought in a crouch like position. Curly hair in a ponytail, and an American soilders' uniform. Nothing has detail rather than shading, leaving the tiny things like eyes, facial hair or coat decor up the human imagination. The royal blue of the suit matches the background, ever so slightly brighter. In big, white fancy letters the title 'Guns and Ships', the name Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de La Fayette, Marquis de La Fayette, signed at the bottom. Seriously, who named this kid. Taking a seat a big chair, practically the size of Mars, I open to the first page.