Intelligent Fools~ Christopher Lightwood {1}

Two

The next day was bright and beautiful in a way that reminded Esme of home. She missed the solitary of the French countryside, the way the grass kissed her skin as she read outside.

But London was her home now. Here, she had opportunities she never had in France: the chance to make friends, to socialize with people that weren't her siblings.

Sure, Esme had always been close with Cecelia, but Nick had always been distant. Sometimes, they went days without exchanging a single word. But they loved each other nonetheless. So, naturally, she worried about him. But thankfully, Nick seemed to be adjusting well.

Once Lucie caught sight of Esme, she waved frantically, signaling for her and her siblings to join her.

Christopher looked up from his black notebook, surprised by her sudden appearance. "Esme! What are you doing here?"

Esme heard a chorus of sighs but opted to ignore them. "I—Lucie invited me. I hope that's okay."

"Not at all," Christopher said in a soft tone that didn't match his words. His warm smile contradicted his statement entirely, and it left Esme confused and flustered.

"I—pardon me?"

Thomas spoke up, giving Esme a warm smile and a light laugh. "What he means to say is that we're happy to have you here."

"I'm sorry," said the short-haired woman from the night before. "I don't think we've met."

"Oh, right. Esme Montclaire. And these are my siblings, Nick and Cecelia."

"Anna Lightwood. I saw what you did for Barbara last night, and it was very impressive."

"I agree," said James. "It's lovely to meet you all. I think we are going to become good friends."

"James," Lucie said, "could you please stop acting odd and move over so they can sit?"

James rolled his eyes but did as he was told.

"Thank you for inviting us, Lucie," Esme said, sitting down and adjusting her skirts.

"It was my pleasure," said Lucie. "I do hope we can become friends."

James let out a huff. "Oh, so you can say it but I cannot?"

Once they had sat down, Esme began to unpack her basket. It was nothing big—just some scones and tarts Cecelia had baked— but everyone's eyes widened.

"Please, help yourselves. Lord knows we can't eat it by ourselves," Esme laughed.

"Speak for yourself," Nick muttered, earning an eye roll and groan from Cecelia.

"So," said Anna, "where are you lot from?"

"We just moved from France," Cecelia said, reaching for a scone.

"Where is Matthew?" James asked. "Isn't he meant to be coming?"

"He should be," said Thomas. "Perhaps something came up. Maybe Mr. Oscar Wilde chewed a hole in his waistcoat."

Esme wasn't entirely sure why a dead mundane poet would try to eat a seventeen-year-old's waistcoat, but sometimes it was best not to ask questions.

"Oh, Oscar Wilde is Matthew's dog," Lucie said helpfully.

Cordelia rose to her feet, nearly knocking over a bottle of ginger beer in the process. "James, I would like to speak with you in private for a moment, if you don't mind."

Esme took a moment to observe Cordelia. Her face was flushed and her jaw clenched, her eyes focusing entirely on James, ignoring everything else. She was angry.