inspiration + perspiration = invention :: T. Edison ::
A collection of one-shots based on Northanger Abbey: drabbles, flash fiction, missing scenes, and more. Title from Shakespeare's Othello, as quoted by Jane Austen in Chapter One. Now available as an eBook via Draft2Digital.
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Over a month, almost two, had gone by without Catherine shedding a tear. She was growing too old to weep over her troubles and occupied with too much anticipation for regrets. Her mother even complimented her serenity, which for a girl of Catherine's disposition was praise indeed.
Waking to see frost on the windowpane, of all things, undid her, and Sarah was roused by the sound of strangled sobs as her sister stared forlornly out the glass. In sudden concern she asked, "You are not hurt?"
Catherine said nothing at first. Then she sighed aloud and said, "No, no, I will be well. Only ... I did not think it would be winter again."
With a delicacy born from aging another year, Sarah did not immediately latch on to the stupidity of such a statement, understanding that something else must be meant. "Well it is not snowing yet," she attempted to console, though she knew not the exact nature of the other's distress. "And we do not yet have to change the bedding, that will be another week at least. I am sure it will not be too cold for us to walk over to Mrs. Allen's later, for she said we might yesterday. We could look at that great big book you liked so much!"
The smile produced by these words, though wan, suggested a lifting of the listener's spirits, as did her nod of agreement. "Yes, that would be nice—" But no sooner had Sarah rejoiced in her success than Catherine stopped, gasped, and bunched her fist to her mouth in the vain attempt to pretend she was coughing. This fiction was accepted if not believed, and Catherine quickly dried her eyes. "I should say, I would enjoy the outing, thank you. But we must get ready now."
Their mood lightened as they fell into the everyday habit of dressing. Happy for this return to their usual natures, and without much thought, Sarah observed, "You are so much better at tying strings than the other girls; I hope Mr. Tilney waits at least until Joanna's birthday."
Catherine's startlement was seen in the mirror as well as heard from behind. "That is not until spring!"
"Well, even so," Sarah said with some uncertainty, wondering if she had perhaps wounded the other, all her latent nervousness about their eventual separation coming to fore in a sudden choke of her own. But she received a warm kiss of affection before their contentment could flee.
"I will miss you too."
Title from Chapter 2 of Northanger Abbey: "Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?), must from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante of her sister."