It is a warm, muted evening, and Isabeau sulks at the window, curled up on the bed with her forehead against the glass. A candle on the bedside table flickers, casting eerie shadows over the walls. The voices downstairs are muffled, but the sound of her mother’s carefree laugh is distinctive through the floorboards, along with a man’s gravelly voice. She grimaces, clenching her jaw until it hurts. She did that often now.

Two days have passed since the wedding ceremony. It was much smaller than she had expected, with a few of her mother’s friends and several people she had never met before attending. Isabeau was half-expecting to see her grandfather, a starchy, stiff man, but it was no surprise that he did not come. The sight of two fully-grown adults remarrying, each with a child already, might have stopped his puritan heart once and for all. The ceremony was short, and her mother’s new husband — her new father — had moved in on the same night.

The sound of heels against cobblestone pulls Isabeau from her thoughts, and she watches as a small family emerge from a side-street: a smiling mother and a stoic father, and two small children, much smaller than herself. The girl, barely a toddler, grabs onto her brother’s leg, who laughs and bends down to scoop her up. She watches the four of them move on, her thoughts conflicted. Was that the sort of future her mother had imagined for herself, before she had Isabeau? Was that what she was after now?

A creak of the wooden floorboards snatches her attention, and she turns her head to her bedroom door. A shadow under the door moves, and the wood creaks again, a telltale sign that somebody was standing just outside her door. Isabeau blinks, baffled.

“…You can come in,” she tells the newcomer.

The door opens, and the first thing she notices about the boy is his shock of red hair as he stands awkwardly in the doorway. Henri.

There is an uneasy pause, as the two inspect each other properly for the first time. Looking away from the bright hair, Isabeau notes the narrow eyes, the gangly frame, the constant drumming of his scrawny fingers against the doorframe. Clearly he was far older than she was.

She should probably make at least an effort to make conversation with him. If not to make the next decade of her new life slightly more bearable, then at least for her mother. Isabeau opens her mouth to speak, but she is quickly interrupted.

“Why did you let me inside?” His voice is startlingly loud, and he almost glares at her from the doorway. “You do not know me. Do you let everyone come in like that?”

She stares, mildly surprised. He seems tense, on edge, and is taking it out on her. A flash of indignation goes through her. She feels the same, probably more than he did, but at least she is trying to make an effort. He is being standoffish for the sake of it.

“I let you in,” she grits her teeth, “because you are my brother now, and you are to live with me for as long as my mother will have you. It would be stupid and rude of me to keep you outside.”

His thick eyebrows twitch at that, and she watches him for a long moment, nettled. Eventually, she finds her voice, trying again.

“…I like your hair.”

“Shut your mouth about my hair.”

Isabeau purses her lips. Who on earth did her mother speak to, to come to the conclusion that Henri could in any way resemble a ‘lovely boy’? She huffs, turning her head to absently gaze out of the window again.

She hears Henri exhaling hard through his nose, starting to pace around her room, before the mattress dips as he deposits himself on the edge of her bed. The springs groan under his weight, but it is otherwise silent for a few precious seconds.

“…I like your hair too,” he rasps, as if the words physically pain him to say, and Isabeau turns her eyes to him once more. He is looking away, a pale hand clutching the bright locks at the back of his head, tight. “Does… Does your mother help you with it?”

“…Yes. She does. Every week or so,” she mutters, watching him warily. That was an abrupt change in behaviour, but not unwelcome.

“That is good. That— That is nice.” He nods, still tugging at his hair, before letting go. It looks as if there might be another silence, but he speaks again. “My mother died when I was little.”

“…Ah. I am—“

“Shut up. There is nothing to be sorry for,” he mutters. “She was a witch. A hag.”

Isabeau is not sure what to say to that, so she simply nods, albeit uneasily.

“…Your mother is alright, though. She is.” The darkness in his eyes fades as quickly as it appeared, and he glances at her. “What about your father?”

“My father?” She pauses. She has never paid her father much thought before, never having to. Her mother was all she needed. “He… I never knew him.”

“Mm.” Henri nods, looking away again. His fingers drum against the covers, his long nails brushing against the fabric in a way that made Isabeau slightly nauseous. She looks away, ignoring the unsettling feeling the sight of his nails caused.

“What?” Henri is looking directly at her again, and she swallows as she looks back at him.

“Your… nails.” She gestures weakly to his hand. “Why?”

He takes a moment to look at his nails, turning his hand this way and that, until something in him tightens and he clenches his fist. His knuckles are bruised, a light purplish colour, and the motion makes his sickly blue veins jut out of his skin. “Because I want to.”

“You have bruises,” she points out.

“What? Really? No… I did not notice.” The sarcasm is sharp in his flat voice.

Another short silence. Isabeau glances at the door, wondering what excuse she could give for leaving so abruptly, before he is suddenly snatching her hand off the bed, bringing it close to his face.

“Hey—!” A short yelp leaves her lips, and her eyes widen slightly as his thumb brushes against her skin. His grip is tight, and her throat runs dry, suddenly terrified. “What— What are you…?”

“Calm yourself,” he mutters, positioning his free hand beside hers, comparing them. His hand appears even more deathly pale than usual beside her dark skin, and he stretches his fingers, dwarfing her own. When he is finished scrutinising their hands, he lets go, and Isabeau quickly draws it back.

“What was that for?” Her fear has been replaced with irritation, and she casts a scowl in his direction. “You could have asked, instead of scaring my breakfast out of me.”

“‘Scaring my breakfast out of me.’ Honestly, do you hear yourself?” Henri grunts, before straightening slightly. “I was only looking. You have no idea how lucky you are, do you?”

“…How do you mean?” she huffs, rubbing her knuckles where his thumb had made contact.

“None of your business.”

Isabeau was starting to seriously rethink her attempts at getting close to this boy. She opens her mouth again to deliver an angry retort, but he interrupts her yet again.

“Do you get out much?” When he is met with a blank look, he sneers. “Outside, I mean. You have heard of outside, have you not?”

“Oh. No, not much.” She has finally decided her hand might survive his handling, turning to him properly. “And you do?”

“Yes. And what?” He scowls, looking away. “You think I got these bruises from lying about at home like you?”

“I am confused. Are you proud of them or not?”

“…You would not understand. I did not expect you to, baby that you are.” He smirks at the last part, condescendingly reaching out to ruffle her hair.

She grumbles, trying to pull her head from his reach, before a call from downstairs jerks her attention off him.

“Isabeau! Henri? Come down!” Her mother’s voice rings out clear, as if she was hovering at the foot of the stairs.

Henri gripes under his breath, releasing her and standing up. “Dinner time, I suppose. Are you coming?”

Isabeau sits up, swinging her legs off the bed and pulling at her skirts. “Yes, yes. Go down, I need to fix my hair.”

He gives her a look, before shrugging and turning to leave.

Isabeau stands, facing the tabletop mirror as she presses her hair back into place. She was unsure what to make of this peculiar teenager, one who would be sweet enough one second, but secretive and sarcastic the next. Despite her disconcertment, she was… hopeful. Maybe a new brother was less disastrous than she had made it out to be.

With a final check of her hair, she steps away from the mirror and leaves the room, making her way down to her family waiting below.