#good foundations

Even as she prepares for bed, she cannot escape the giddiness surrounding it. The knowledge that, for at least tonight, she is not alone in the world. Perhaps this is the reason she lies awake in bed until late into the night, this fluttering, light feeling in her chest.

Or perhaps not. Restless nights have been shadowing Margaret Cavendish for as long as she can remember. Some days she swears she rises with the moon, called awake by its gentle glow. On nights like these, lying restless in her bed feels like torture.

She grabs a shawl she had laid over the desk in her room for this exact purpose and wanders out into the main rooms of her apartment.

She intends to go onto the roof; it is her habit to watch the moon over the harbor when sleep is far out of reach. It is the company she is most used to, and most comfortable with. She nearly forgets about her new company, until she stumbles upon Rose Stratford asleep in the library.

To be honest, Margaret barely understands how she managed to fall asleep like this. Rose is sprawled out on her couch. Her face is planted in a text, her hair fanned around her. Her leg dangles off the couch and onto the floor, leaving her knees bent at awkward angles. It looks remarkably uncomfortable. 

Piles of books are stacked around her, the corners poking divots into her skin. Margaret thinks she can spot her entire collection of astronomy textbooks piled around Rose like statues in a garden. Paper sculptures standing vigil around a sleeping rose bush. 

Margaret supposes she shouldn't be surprised Rose is still in the library at this late hour. Margaret hadn't seen her leave since they entered the library this morning. 

“I think this place is heaven!” Rose had cried and descended onto Margaret’s collection. Rose's admiration had made some kind of heat flutter in her stomach. Looking upon her now, softly snoring, hair reflecting the light like embers, Margaret feels it again. It reminds her of her phantom pain, but in the opposite direction; a joy she hadn't realized she was still capable of feeling.

She's beautiful. 

She is. It is an objective fact, Rose Stratford's beauty. The piercing green eyes, the rosy cheeks, the full pink lips Margaret often finds herself staring at. Margaret could shove the feelings away, hide behind this fact. But... That thought, that attraction...

It doesn't scare her, not like it should. It is just one more aspect that separates her from the upper class, another oddity she has to smooth the wrinkles from. She knows the knowledge should make her heart drop to her stomach, should flood her with nausea. 

But the horror never comes. Instead, it feels like docking on a shore she has been away from for a long, long time. The scenery is different, trees have been cut down, new ones have grown in their place, but it is familiar all the same. It feels like something she hadn’t realized she was missing falling into place, like remembering a song she has always known. It feels like... it feels like...

It feels like coming home. 

Margaret can’t help the giddy chuckle that springs from her. For the first time she can remember, the moon doesn’t feel so far away. Humanity doesn't feel so far away.

Margaret removes her shawl from where it had been draped over her shoulders. She unfolds it, and gently drapes it over Rose's sleeping form. Rose stirs under the weight, and for a moment Margaret fears she roused her. But Rose settles under it, cuddling closer with the books she had tried so hard to read. She turns onto her side, and Margaret could count all the freckles on her nose in the candlelight if she wanted too. They dance across her cheekbones and dip down below her neckline. Margaret traces constellations in them with her eyes.

Beautiful, she thinks again, just because she can.