Chapter Text
Nightshade had never understood why everyone was so content with being a sinner.
That was probably an odd thought to have in the grocery store, but was it really? Everywhere she looked, Nightshade saw people go about their lives in blissful ignorance. They all professed to follow the same god, of course—or, more correctly, the one and only God—but that didn't make them faithful followers. No one would dare think not to go to church, of course, but their behavior in public was more than telling. Clothing with skin-crawlingly short sleeves and hemlines creeping upward year by year, the indulgence of base instincts like open displays of affection, children who cried and whined in the lines when parents didn’t teach them how to act. Every time she saw that ridiculous pack of greasers outside the shop, smoking and always looking for trouble, she couldn’t turn up her nose enough.
It was all so disgusting.
She didn’t think about this all the time, but the current moment called for it. Nightshade clicked her tongue at a couple her age pushing their way down the narrow, blocking it by walking beside one another rather than in single file. The girl clung to the boy like she hoped to absorb his life force through skin-to-skin contact, and gave her the usual dirty look as she passed. Her penny loafers scraped the cheap tile floor. They needed to be polished.
If you don’t want to be judged, control yourself in public, Nightshade thought at her. Young people her age were so determined to rebel, they never stopped to think if they should, if there was a point. She was better than gracing them with her time, however. Turning away sharply now that the aisle was accessible again, she dusted her gloved hands off on her long skirt, adjusted her braid, and studied the shelf of cans before her. Now, where were the tomatoes?
Just as she found and reached for them, someone bumped into her. Forcefully, if you had to ask Nightshade. She jumped, bumping her elbow against the shelf and knocking a few cans to the floor. She cringed, listening to them clatter against the dirty tile.
Nightshade dropped to her knees immediately, picking up the cans before staff could hear, and glared up at the other person. It was a blonde girl her age, clad in a frilly dress and a hint of makeup on her square face, which looked about as surprised as she had been.
“Oh, I'm terribly sorry.” The girl crouched elegantly to help her, picking up the various cans she'd spilled. Her dress was short even for the fifties, and Shadowheart rolled her eyes as it exposed her knees and a few centimeters above. “Let me help you with that.”
You should, Nightshade thought, huffing. You're the one who bumped into me. There’s plenty of room across the aisle.
The stranger pinned the cans against her chest as she stood returned them, one by one, back to the shelf. She was surprisingly short—Nightshade towered over her by maybe five or six inches. She paused, then, to study Nightshade, eyes twinkling with sudden curiosity. And recognition. “Now say, don't I know you?” She asked.
Nightshade frowned. “I don't think so.”
“No, no, I think I do.” The girl waggled a slender, gloved finger, smile growing to a grin. Great. “You go to that church school down on Rutledge, don't you? Near that public school?”
Nightshade tensed, warm despite the air conditioner’s unending battle against the dewy spring heat outside. “How would you even know that?”
“I didn't. I guessed.” She looked as if she had just cracked a very funny joke, but Nightshade didn't laugh. “...Just kidding. I go to the school just down the other way. Ashley Hall?”
“The private school?” Even Nightshade had heard of it. Something about it being someone’s old house the local aristocracy wanted to turn into a girl’s school.
“That's the one.”
Great. A rich girl. “Lovely,” Nightshade huffed. She turned back to the shelf, grabbing one of the tomato cans that the stranger hadn’t touched. “Now can you explain how you know me, if we go to different schools?”
“I've seen you walking sometimes, of course.” The girl smoothed out the front of her dress, which had wrinkled some from its brief use as a can shelf. “You're very distinctive, you know. You pass by our gate when I wait for my ride.”
Well, she supposed that made sense. She did pass that way sometimes, and it wasn’t unreasonable to assume the schools finished at similar times. Still, surely she didn’t walk that ways enough for it to become noticeable? The thought filled her with unease.
“Well, much as I'd love to chat, I need to get going.” Nightshade brushed past her, looking for the fastest way to another aisle. She followed.
“Already? You haven't even asked my name.”
“Am I supposed to?”
“Why, you're awful rude. You really don't recognise me?”
Nightshade paused, looking her up and down. She certainly looked and sounded posh. Her accent was local, airy and twangy, but with a hint of something foreign that she couldn’t quite place. The clothes didn’t strike her either: they were clearly quality, the dress made of flower-pink silk and puffed out at the sides, perfectly ironed and fitted around a plump body with the narrow waist that was the fashion these days. Plenty of expensive-looking jewelry. Hair? Blonde and pinned elegantly. She wore silk gloves, and her hands looked almost eerily thin and delicate even with them. Definitely not the type who normally frequently this quaint little grocery store.
She did look familiar, but Nightshade couldn't pinpoint where. She wasn’t sure if it was because of her own mental failings even for people she’d met, or because she had just seen her somewhere by chance. She knew for a fact, however, that she wasn’t from the church.
“My memory’s not great.” Nightshade finally said.
“You poor thing,” The stranger said, sounding genuinely, horrifyingly concerned. “You've really never looked at the cover of any magazine? It's practically a pastime for girls our age—here.”
She reached into a dress pocket, and produced a neatly-folded, thin magazine. The stranger showed it to her, and Nightshade noted the very nuisance that was her was on the front cover. “Just picked up the newest edition.”
“So you're a fashion model, Miss…” Nightshade glanced back at the paper for a name. “Viola.”
“Kennaway.” Viola smiled. “Viola Kennaway.”
Wait… Kennaway? As in Viola Kennaway? Hell, she was in the presence of a celebrity. A local one, anyway. She wasn’t sharp on the details, but she’d heard enough to know they were a whole lot of foreigners—Australian, she thought—with a great deal of money and attitude problems that went hand in hand. Though, people rich enough to buy the Blacklock House tended to be like that anyway.
Don't swear, she reminded herself afterwards.
“Please, no need to be so formal.” Viola offered the leaflet to Nightshade, who couldn't have wanted it less. “And you are?”
“... Nightshade.”
“Nightshade?” Viola cocked her head. “Now that's an odd name, isn't it?”
“And Viola isn't?”
“Of course it's not. It's Latin,” Viola hummed. “Haven’t you ever read the Twelfth Night?”
“...no.” Nightshade huffed. That seemed a good place to escape the conversation. She turned away.
“Oh, no need to burn rubber.” Viola caught her arm, halting her. Her touch was light, but she didn’t let go even as Nightshade jumped. “I’m just curious. Why Nightshade?”
Nightshade swatted her hand off. She really couldn’t take a hint, could she? Maybe the stereotypes about blondes was true. Sighing, Nightshade said, “My mother is fond of flowers, that's all. I didn't choose it.”
No point in changing it, either. It was what everyone back home, the only people who mattered, had known her as since she was a child, and she didn't exactly get out much.
“Well, strange as it is, I think it's a lovely name, Miss Nightshade.”
“Sure. Got your kick, now?”
“What do you mean?”
Nightshade didn't respond, hoping getting her answer would drive her off, and it even seemed to work. As she continued down the aisle, checking subtly over her shoulder for being followed, Viola dusted off her dress and fiddled with her basket. “Well, I best let you go, then,” She called. “Wouldn't want to hold you up too long. Perhaps I'll see you around?”
“Likely not.” Nightshade shrugged noncommittally. She'd have to find another way home without going past the private school.
That was a problem for figuring out later. For now, she seized her opportunity and disappeared deeper in the supermarket. Mother would kill her if she was late home again.