Chapter Text
Brittany, 1980
Marianne finds herself without supervision for the summer.
Her father - who typically worked less during the school holiday period, so that they could spend time together - wore a grieved expression when he had told Marianne that he had to work over the summer. His pained features told her enough about the guilt he felt, about how much he wished he could be around.
Something about overfishing and large-scale vessels exploiting fish stocks. Something about how he needs to be out there for longer just to make up the earnings, and how Marianne's old enough to be home alone now. Something that Marianne could hardly listen to, too focused on the loss of the one thing she had been looking forward to all term.
A summer ritual of walking on the isolated beach, fishing at the pier, afternoon bonfires of their winnings. Cool nights spent in their cramped kitchen, vacuum sealing their excesses to store in the freezer for meals in the winter.
But, more than anything, the feeling of being able to be careless with the time she spent with her father, removed of any fears of exhausting such a finite resource.
Marianne's shoulders had dropped, and she could feel something inside her splitting open, trying and trying to push itself out of her chest. Finding that the only way out was upwards. A burning sensation in her throat that she now recognised as specific to one that only parents could conjure. Or have conjured. She tries not to let it show.
Her father had hugged her so tight that the cracks had almost been squeezed back in place. Almost.
So, for the first week of summer, she walks herself to the beach and sits in the sand. She does the things that occupy her hands without occupying her mind. Skips stones, trying to beat yesterday's record of five skips, then six, then seven. The satisfying plunk when they finally sink. Collects shells and sea glass, arranging them by colour and size before the inevitable feeling of barrenness creeps up and she scatters them back across the sand with one sweep of her arm.
She wades into the water on hot enough days, jeans soaking up to her knees. Kicks aimlessly at the water, runs away from the waves when they chase her. Stands in place and feels her feet slowly burying deeper into the sand as the water rushes back into the sea, a strange sinking feeling that she finds oddly satisfying.
It's a particularly windy summer, the waves somewhat rough and untamed. She sees the faded outline of a few large fishing boats on the horizon. She thinks of her father out there on the waters. The relatively small and worn-down fishing boat that he and his colleagues use.
She silently forgives him for being away.
She's bored by the third week.
She had ventured elsewhere, into the main centre of their small town. To the library. To the park. To the weekend stalls, where her father would sometimes sell fresh-caught fish. Only now, he had no time to be there himself, and instead, there's a woman that Marianne knows to be one of the other fishermen’s wives attending the stall. From what her father mentioned, some of the fish at the stall should be those that he had caught earlier that day, sold for low and marked up high.
There aren't as many people around as usual. Most had opted for a summer in central France or Italy. At least, the few classmates that she would sometimes spend her spare time with had done so.
At lunch time, she would venture back to her home near the edge of the town.
Their house was relatively far from the main streets, compared to those of her other classmates, and somewhat hidden among the trees. It was small, cosy. Plenty of space for two people.
She would pull out the meal that her father had prepared for her early in the morning. Predominantly fish-based. He had purchased a microwave for the house just this year and taught her how to use it. At first, Marianne had been nervous, unsure of the loud buzzing noise and finding it hard to control the stiff turn knob properly. Paranoid she may accidentally leave a fork inside.
Her father comes home most nights in time for dinner. On the few nights he doesn't, she watches television on the couch, flipping through different channels before settling on what she finds most interesting. Sometimes she would read a book she borrowed from the library. She usually finishes these within the day.
So, three weeks in, she finds herself aimlessly walking on a particularly windy day.
It isn't long before she realises she's heading towards the cliffs that overlook the beach. In her head, she thought she had been aiming for the beach, but in her mindless daze, she's suddenly stepping out of the trees and at the bottom of the hill leading up to the clifftop. The greenery is expansive, and she can hear the intense crashing of waves onto rocks even from her distance.
She hasn't come here very often. Her father's concern and warnings about the dangers of the cliffs since she was young had steered her away. Something about someone accidentally falling off once, a long time ago.
She's about to turn back around when she notices a small figure at the top of the hill - a figure that she swears wasn’t there before. It's only the head of the figure that she can see, almost blending in with the yellowed patches of turf that sporadically pattern the broad grassy mound. The rest of the person's body is out of her view, blocked by the rounded mass she knows to be at the peak of the hill, before it tapers slightly downwards towards the rocks bordering the sharp drop.
The person must be close to the cliff's edge.
She deliberates for a second, divided between making sure the person is all right and heeding her father's cautions.
The air whips around her body, blowing wisps of her hair into her face and making her clothes tremble against her. She throws caution to the wind.
Her steps are quiet, or as quiet as she can force herself to be. She doesn't want to accidentally startle this person.
The body comes into view. A teenager. Not one that is familiar to her from her school or neighbourhood.
A girl. Wrapped in a loose brown coat that flails in the wind.
Marianne stands at the peak of the hill, a good few metres away from the edge, observing her. The girl stands still, looking out into the sweeping ocean. Rough waters frame Marianne's view of her.
She isn't as close to the edge as Marianne had initially thought. Still close enough to garner concern.
Marianne slowly walks closer, in an arc shape so that she is approaching somewhat side on. She hopes the girl will notice her in her peripheral vision without taking fright.
However, if she is noticed, there's no indication of it.
She's about a metre away now, standing diagonally to the side of her, still a good distance from the edge. She gains a glimpse of the side of the young face. Expression hard, from what can be seen of her. The girl's hands are buried deep in her coat pockets.
The wind is loud in her ears. Marianne clears her throat a little.
“Aren't you afraid of falling?” She tries to hold a steady voice.
The girl remains still, and Marianne's unsure if her words have been lost to the wind. She waits a moment. Still nothing. The girl's shoulders are tense, drawn up slightly as if bracing against something more than just the wind.
She's about to try again when the girl finally turns her head to look at her. Her face is blank. Not happy, nor upset. Not surprised, nor all that curious.
The only thing Marianne can make out is something in her eyes that reminds her of the way her own reflection had once looked in the bathroom mirror. She doesn't think about that very often anymore. Tries not to.
The girl turns back to face the ocean. Her voice is steady. “There are scarier things.”
A strange response. A strange girl, probably. About her own age, from what Marianne can tell.
Marianne takes a few tentative steps forward, keeping a close eye on the ridged, uneven border. They're side by side now, separated only by an arm's reach.
Marianne tries to peek over the edge from where she stands. Gently lifts herself on the tips of her toes before slowly landing back down. She focuses properly on the ocean, wondering what the girl is thinking, if anything at all. Tries to see what she sees.
Her attention span is quickly exhausted soon after. She attempts to subtly turn her head towards the person that she now realises she has intruded the space of. Probably also simultaneously intruded their peace. She looks at the concentration on the other girl's face. Brows slightly furrowed. Perhaps as a reaction to the wind. Or perhaps not.
Marianne turns back to the ocean for a moment. Turns back to the girl. Back to the ocean.
When she repeats the pattern again, she finds a pair of eyes looking back. Blonde hair blowing in the summer wind.
Marianne can only keep her stare for so long before she turns back to the source of crashing waves. She can still feel eyes on her, but tries to think of something else.
It's been a while since she's seen a new face of someone her age. They rarely get visitors here. Normally, people are either born here, move here to settle down and start a new family, or leave and never return. None of those are conducive to the sudden appearance of strange and quiet teenagers. Especially when someone her age should be now entering their final year of collège. Surely this is interruptive of their studies.
There's only one school in their small town. Marianne finds all these questions - educational concerns, really - are reason enough for her to justify the courage to speak up again.
“Do you go to school?” is what comes out. Perhaps not the most well-thought-out question. Though better than all the scatty ruminating that's going on in her head.
Marianne turns to look at her, maybe to check that she heard the question. Maybe just to look at her again.
There's the smallest hint of amusement in the girl's expression now. The type of hint you receive in class that doesn't actually help you solve the problem.
“Do I look like I don't?” the girl responds.
Marianne's mind scrabbles, eyes blink, as if the winds were singlehandedly turning the cogs and all her brain cells were bouncing around trying to find the brakes.
“No. I mean- no, that's not what I meant to ask. You do. Look like you go to school,” she clarifies. Not that she has any idea what that would even look like. She sighs, grabs at the necklace hanging loose upon her sternum. It's weight enough to avoid blowing in the wind. “I'm not good at double negatives.”
The girl lets out a small huff - a laugh perhaps? - under her breath. She looks down towards her shoes. Marianne notices that they're relatively clean compared to her own sand-crusted trainers.
Finally, the girl looks back up at her. Expression mostly impassive again. And, as if offering some sort of relief, or perhaps out of pity, she says, “I'm Héloïse.”
Marianne gives her a small smile, afraid that anything more will scare her away, or worse, be ignored. “I'm Marianne.”
Héloïse gives her one short nod before turning back to the ocean.
Marianne thinks she sees Héloïse's hands grip tighter inside her coat pockets before they relax again. But maybe that's just the wind.
That night, at the dinner table - which also serves as their breakfast and lunch table - her father asks her about her day.
“Good. I met someone new,” she responds, digging into a piece of fish.
“New?” he questions. Marianne hears the familiar rhythm of his distinct chewing slow down to a pause. “Did the librarian finally give birth?”
Now it's Marianne's turn to be confused. She thinks about the last time she was at the library. She vaguely remembers that the librarian still had a noticeable bump. She briefly wonders what it might look like right after birth. Deflated? Marianne shakes the disturbing thought from her mind.
“No, I don't think so.” Marianne looks up towards her father. “She was my age. At least, I think she was. Her name was Héloïse.”
Something in her father's expression changes, eyebrows slightly lift. “Strange name,” he hums. “Why has she moved here?”
Of course, the only way one would see a new face is if they had freshly moved here. New faces simply aren't common. Except that Marianne had forgotten to ask why. Or, more accurately, she was too nervous and puzzled to ask.
So, Marianne shrugs. “I didn't ask.” She thinks back to their time on the cliff - purposefully omitting that this is where they met. “She was quiet.”
He hums again. Nods, as if understanding something. Something that Marianne didn't know was to be understood. “Well, I'm glad you have a new friend.”
Friend.
That was probably a stretch. But who knows? Maybe they could be friends. Marianne sure needed something to occupy her for the rest of the summer - which seemed to be dragging out longer than usual, without the great adventures her father would normally take her on.
She thinks about how Héloïse had left shortly after they exchanged names. Wrapping her brown coat tightly around herself and attempting to pull the hood down against the wind. She had mumbled something about how her mother was expecting her, but Marianne probably missed most of it in the noise of the wind.
She wonders if she'll see her again soon. But, knowing her small town, it's inevitable. And, at the worst of times, it’s terribly hard to avoid anyone.
Marianne doesn't see Héloïse for another week.
She wanders to the same area of the cliffs around the same time every day, but Héloïse isn't there. There's a strange feeling of disappointment every time she finds the cliffs empty. She stands by the same spot each time, looks out at the ocean for as long as her attention span will allow - which really isn't all that long - then leaves to find something else to do.
By the third day, Marianne starts to wonder if she heard the name correctly. Maybe it wasn't Héloïse. Maybe it was something less unusual, and the wind had garbled the rest. She tries to remember the exact shape of the girl's mouth when she said it, but the memory is already becoming indistinct.
By the fifth day, Marianne starts to think that maybe had imagined it all. That there was no new person. New faces simply aren't common. She tries to remember other details. A brown coat, or had it just looked brown in the afternoon light? Feet standing close to the edge, or perhaps was it a safe distance away?
Either way, she's not sure whether she should be concerned or not that her mind had apparently started to contrive a whole new person. And, each night, she prays her father doesn't bring up the topic at the dinner table. He doesn't; seems quite exhausted this week, or maybe sad. She catches him staring at nothing sometimes, the same way she sometimes finds herself doing.
Exactly one week from the day they had first met, Marianne sees a figure at the clifftop.
She almost sighs with relief, glad that she can cross something off the list of growing concerns this summer. Or, at the very least, not have her father have to worry about her when it eventually comes up again.
She approaches. The brown coat less chaotic in the day's tame winds, the weather having calmed over the past week. So it was brown after all.
Marianne's slow approach is acknowledged this time. Héloïse turns her head when Marianne settles beside her, the same as the first time. There's a small look of surprise on Héloïse's face. As if she is equally unbelieving that Marianne had really existed. The look is quickly extinguished, blinked away, and followed by a small nod. A friendly greeting, Marianne would like to think.
The silence makes Marianne lose her nerve to say what she was, not even a minute ago, all too ready to let out in a bound. “I thought I had imagined you.” She would've given Héloïse a bright smile, too, probably. Maybe.
Instead, she nods back, tries to give a small smile. Something gentle, encouraging. Héloïse's unchanged expression gives no indication of whether it was.
In lieu of any common form of communication - verbal or not - Héloïse sits down. On the grass, she continues her unwavering devotion to looking at the ocean. Perhaps a duty of sorts.
Honestly, Marianne's not sure what she was expecting. So far, this is perfectly in character for what she knows of Héloïse. Which is very, very little.
So, she sits down next to her. Looks at the water.
It's quite peaceful, really. She's grown up here her whole life, but her avoidance of the clifftops meant that she never really got to see the ocean from this angle. A real vantage point.
She wonders if they could see whales. She had first seen them on her father's fishing boat when she was much younger, far in the distance, of course. But it had sparked her interest in marine mammals that summer and still holds even now.
She watches Héloïse from the corner of her eye. The other girl's gaze seems to track something, scanning from left to right along the horizon, then starting again. A pattern. Marianne tries to follow the same path but can't seem to find what Héloïse is looking for. Or perhaps she's not looking for anything at all. Perhaps she's just looking.
She's not sure how much time has passed since she arrived, but she finds herself beginning to understand Héloïse's appeal to staring at the ocean, for what appears to be endlessly. Without limit. Whether Héloïse's mind is also running rampant with different thoughts is beyond her.
Marianne chances a look over, to see whether maybe she could read something of Héloïse's expression. As she probably should've expected, it's mostly inexplicable, slightly concentrated. She traces Héloïse's features for a moment. Surely they're the same age. Perhaps Héloïse is a bit younger. Couldn't be by much. There's something in the set of her mouth, even at rest, that looks sad.
Héloïse suddenly turns to meet her gaze. Marianne can feel her own eyebrows instinctively shoot up just a little, but is quite proud of how she mostly maintains her composure and doesn't look away.
There's an inquisitive look on Héloïse's face, her head tilting slightly. As if asking her a question. The lack of words to present said question doesn't really help.
Marianne just shrugs and looks back towards the ocean. She's not sure she likes this game, but she can sure play it. After a solid moment, the movement in her peripheral vision tells her that Héloïse has likely looked away again.
The sky is mostly clear of clouds, but eventually one does make its way across, briefly engulfing the sun.
It reminds Marianne of one of the many times her father had taken her to the beach in a past summer. They had walked up to the very edge of where the sand ends, up the grassy hill, where there was a small vantage point. A wooden fence guarded the edges for safety, just a bit lower than her eye line at the time, so that she could see above it, at the ocean.
Her father had told her to look closely at the horizon, look for any movement. It was a sunny day, hard to discern movement from the sun's reflection on the water. Marianne remembers complaining about it. Her father had told her that marine mammal watching was all about patience. With the hand that wasn't wrapped over her shoulder, he had pointed at a large cloud moving through the sky, crouching down to her level so they had the same view.
“Wait for this cloud to move in front of the sun.” He smiled at her. “We'll be able to see better.”
So they had waited. The cloud, unhurried, eventually tempered the sun. Moments later, the distinct shape of a tail out in the distance, and Marianne was in awe. Her heart had soared. She had jumped with joy, her father pulling her away from where she was gripping the fence, shaking it in her excitement. Her father had lifted her up, matching grins, as if they had just seen a whale fully emerge from the ocean and do a backflip for their entertainment.
She misses laughing with her father. She misses the memories they could have been making this summer.
She remembers her father's words at the dinner table. Friends.
She looks over at Héloïse again, lost in the ocean. Why has she moved here?
A sudden burst of courage. Or, maybe the onrush of loneliness has quenched her nerves.
“Why have you moved here?” Marianne breaks the silence. Maybe, somewhere, miles away, a whale breaks the surface.
Héloïse turns to her. She looks pensive for a moment. Perhaps herself wondering why she's here. Her hands, which had been resting on the grass beside her, curl slightly, fingers pressing into her palms.
Finally, one shoulder lifts in the smallest of shrugs. “I'm always moving.”
It's not really an answer. But Marianne hears something underneath it. Something tired. She doesn't push any further.
Marianne wonders what it's like to move. She's hardly even travelled much outside of her town. A relative or two scattered around France, visited maybe twice in her life.
She wonders if she would ever leave Brittany. Probably not. Her father has lived here his whole life. What reason would there ever be for her to move?
Paris, 1994
Héloïse moves to Paris.
She was hesitant at first. If anyone had asked her the reason for her reservations, she would've cited that it was because her mother lived there. That they had a complex relationship. That she lived there when she was younger and didn't have fond memories of the place.
No one asked her the reason. Because after all, who wouldn't want to live in Paris?
A small part inside of her tugs at something at the question. She ignores it.
When the opportunity had presented itself, she found that she would be foolish to refuse it. A small lab. A cutting-edge research institute. A good proportion of women performing the research. Or, relatively good, compared to the national average.
An opportunity to do work that actually changes something. Not just treat symptoms but understand causes. Fix things properly.
Regardless, she's in the latter half of her twenties. There's no time like the present. Or whatever people usually say to reassure themselves that they're not about to upend their entire life.
She barely has any time to set up her apartment or even visit her mother to say hello before she finds herself walking through the front doors of the research building. Which is fine. Preferable, actually. The atrium of the building is large, reaching all the way to the glass-covered roof. Natural light floods the multiple levels of hallway balconies that overlook the lobby.
She walks over to the reception desk in the centre of the lobby, her stride purposeful. Years of navigating unfamiliar buildings in unfamiliar cities. A young woman sits at the desk, reading a book. Héloïse waits a moment before the woman looks up.
“Oh! Good morning. How can I help you?” She puts down her book, attempting to lay it open on the table. It shuts close. There's a brief, pained expression on her face before she seems to quickly move on and smiles up at Héloïse.
Héloïse gives her a brief apologetic look - a nicety, really - before getting straight to the point. “Good morning. I'm a new doctoral student. Héloïse,” she supplies, already somewhat displeased by the vague e-mail instructions on how to find the lab. “It was mentioned that reception could show me to the haematology lab.”
The receptionist's eyebrows raise slightly. “Ah, yes, of course.” She nods, grabbing a large set of keys attached to a lanyard and standing from the desk, and begins to move towards the elevators at the far end of the wide lobby. “Professor Péault sent me an e-mail last week.”
Héloïse follows behind, looking at the artwork on the walls. Oil paintings. Old men. Typical. Her hands rest at her sides, relaxed. Another new building, another new start. Change is familiar. It's fine.
The receptionist swipes at the scanner at the elevator and presses the up button before turning to face Héloïse again. “I'm Sophie, by the way. It's nice to meet you.” Her hand is outstretched in front of her.
Héloïse shakes it, firm but gentle, maintaining eye contact through the gesture. “Likewise.” The elevator dings.
Sophie presses for level 7 on the panel and they start to ascend. The glass walls of the elevator provide a good view of the atrium as they move further from the lobby. Héloïse finds that she quite likes the ride up. She's always preferred heights.
The doors open and Sophie leads her along the edge of the building’s interior balcony. Biological labs line the lateral walls, the floor to ceiling glass windows providing a view of the researchers inside, donned in lab coats and blue latex gloves. Some with safety glasses. Héloïse notes the equipment visible through the windows. Standard setup. She mentally recalls the steps of a recent protocol she read.
Sophie looks as if she's searching for someone inside. She perks up when she appears to spot them.
“I would highly recommend not doing this,” she says as she knocks, hard, on the glass window. A handful of faces look up towards her, some annoyed at being distracted from their work, some wave to her before looking back down again. “I just really don't want to get dressed up in PPE to get inside.”
Héloïse just nods at her, turning to look at the person in the lab who is approaching the door.
A moment later, the person steps out, having now degowned - a couple of years older than Héloïse - and turns to Sophie. “Thank you, Sophie. I can take it from here.”
Sophie claps her hands together. “Perfect. I need to finish my book.” She turns to Héloïse. “Welcome to the Institut de recherche médicale en biologie cellulaire fondamentale. Goodness, that's always a mouthful. We, very lovingly, call it fond de mentale. You'll get it one day, Héloïse. See you at lunch, Anne!” She waves to them both and heads back towards the elevator.
Héloïse turns back to the person standing next to her, arms crossed - Anne supposedly - who is shaking her head in amusement as her eyes follow Sophie.
“Don't mind her.” Anne gives her a smile, fond. “She's been here so long that even some of the Directors are afraid to cross her. She knows too much about everything. Everyone.”
Useful to know, perhaps. Héloïse files it away. “She certainly makes an impression.” Héloïse nods. “I take it you're Anne? We spoke on the phone.”
“Yes. Héloïse.” Anne points two fingers at her. Not really a question but Héloïse nods anyway. “Béatrice was very impressed by your application. Your résumé, really. A double doctoral is quite ambitious.”
Héloïse restrains herself from responding to that. She’s certain ambition is not the correct word. But that's not a conversation for a first meeting. Instead, “I had a change of heart.”
“Well, we're happy to have you. Follow me, I'll show you around.”
Anne takes her along the outskirts of the lab spaces, pointing through the window at some people who are part of their lab or work closely with them. She takes Héloïse to an office space with an open plan of rows of desks lined front to front, short dividers in the middle. Most desks have a computer in the corner of them, where the rest of the available space is covered in small stacks of disorganised papers.
Héloïse is assigned the empty desk in the corner, next to a small window that faces the outside world. There are a few scratches on the table, probably from the previous student who sat there. She runs her fingers along one of the grooves. Wonders if they finished their work or left before completing it. Briefly lets her mind wonder which she'll do.
Anne continues the tour, introducing Héloïse to the few people present in the office, likely either reading or writing a manuscript. Héloïse makes an effort to remember names. Offers the appropriate greetings and pleasantries.
She's brought to the tea room on their level, where there's a small kitchen with a microwave and an industrial fridge labelled with the names of different labs. The open shelving above the sink is filled with mugs of all different sorts, printed sticky labels adorn the side of each one - people's names.
Anne tells her how every level basically has a similar layout, except for the administration offices on level 1 and the animal facilities in the basement level.
By the time they make their way back to the office, there's a chunky computer set up at Héloïse's desk.
Anne hands her a couple of printed forms and stapled booklets. WHS, ergonomics, biological and chemical safety pre-training modules. She tells Héloïse that the physical component of the safety training is scheduled for tomorrow; that she now has to run off for a bit to finish a time-sensitive experiment, but she will grab Héloïse before lunchtime to tour the animal facilities in the basement.
Héloïse settles at her new desk. Reads through the printed training modules. Standard procedures. Nothing really that she hasn't seen before. Her eyes start to drift after the first hour. She forces them back to the page, then catches them drifting again. She's been awake since four this morning. Couldn't sleep. The apartment is unfamiliar and her mind wouldn't stop running through protocols.
The desk faces directly towards a wall. Unhelpful.
She turns to the window instead, needing to stand to see anything of substance. The view is of the front lawn of the building, where she had entered from. People mill around far below. Grabbing a coffee or having an impromptu catch-up with a colleague in the middle of one of the multiple pathways that cut through the grass.
She notices a woman sitting alone on one of the benches that line the edges of the lawn. Under the shade of a tree. Dark hair pulled back. Reading a book.
Something tightens in Héloïse's chest. Brief. Sharp. She breathes through it. It's nothing. Simply someone reading.
Just then, the woman looks up from her book and directly at Héloïse's window.
Héloïse shifts away from the glass. Annoyed at herself for the reaction. Annoyed that her pulse has quickened. It's seven floors up. The woman can't possibly see her specifically. Can't know who's watching.
She forces herself to look back a moment later. The bench is empty.
She turns back to the safety manual. Tries to focus on the words. They blur together.
As promised, Anne takes her down to the animal facilities in the basement. It's windowless, as one would expect, and saturated in bright fluorescent lighting. Héloïse has never been one for basements. Too enclosed.
She follows Anne as they peek through the large animal facility, not being able to fully enter the rooms. Anne tells her about how all of the rooms, except the one at the very end, have an airlocked buffer chamber at the entrance for maintaining cleanliness. More importantly, for animal welfare.
When they finally move towards the end of the corridor, Anne receives a call on her mobile phone. She looks at it and curses. “Sorry, normally I would ignore calls, but it's my child's day care.”
“Please.” Héloïse gestures to the phone. She needs a reprieve from all the new information anyway.
Anne gives her a quick thank you before answering the call and shuffling down the hall to the entrance of the animal facility.
Héloïse stares at the door of the final facility. Zebrafish Facility, it reads. There's a cartoon of a poorly drawn zebrafish below the sign. The drawing style is familiar in a way that squeezes something her chest.
She should wait for Anne to return. That would be appropriate.
She waits. Two minutes. Three. Her fingers drum against her thigh once before she forces them to still.
The urge to open the door only escalates. She recognises this feeling. Has felt it before. The pull towards something she knows likely isn’t there.
She pushes down on the door handle.
A rush of warm, humid air. The overhead lights are dim. She closes the door behind her and stands there a moment, letting her senses adjust. Willing her breathing to remain even.
The main source of light comes from the rows of tanks. Tall aisles lined with small fish tanks, giving the room a blue glow. She hears the swish of water and notices a person at the very end of the room, standing on a small footstool and leaning over a large circular tank.
Her breath catches. She forces it to even out. It's just a researcher. There's no reason for her hands to feel cold in such a warm space.
But she already knows. Has known since she saw the drawing on the door. Maybe before that. Maybe since she had peered out of her deskside window. Maybe before that.
She walks towards the person. Her footsteps careful on the epoxy flooring. She passes the rows of fish tanks, their small bodies darting through blue-lit water. The sound of the filters like everbreaking small waves, stuck at the tipping point with nothing to crash into.
She stops a couple of metres away. Close enough to confirm. Far enough to maintain control.
The splashing sound of the water filter from the large tank is louder here, masking one’s senses. Masking the noise of a door carefully opening and closing.
Hair tied up. Different. The same.
The person leans further over the tank, mumbling something under their breath, holding a large net in the water. Too close over the edge. Always pushing too close to edges.
Héloïse takes a slow breath. Shaky on the exhale. She detests that. Dislikes the lack of restraint. But there's no stopping it now. No stopping what she's about to do. What she's apparently been building towards since she entered this institute. Perhaps longer.
She wills her voice to be steady, no matter how juvenile her following words sound.
“Aren't you afraid of falling?”
The person freezes. Head fixed towards the surface of the water. The net is abandoned, handle resting on the edge, as hands grasp the edge of the tank.
A measured intake of breath and the person slowly rises from their bent position.
They turn. Upper body only, legs barely shifting. One hand still gripping the edge of the tank.
Their gazes meet.
Héloïse feels the fourteen years collapse. Every summer spent looking for something she couldn't name. Every new city where she'd see someone with familiar dark hair and her chest would tighten before her head caught up. Every time she stood too close to an edge and heard the wind in her ears.
The blue glow casts wavering shadows. Héloïse can feel her pulse in her throat. She maintains her composure through sheer will. Restrained. Controlled. Adult.
Except she's not. She's fourteen and astray and standing on a cliff waiting for roots to grow over her feet.
She sees the exact moment recognition settles. Doubt. Disbelief. Perhaps a rapid recalculation of what is real.
She knows this face. Has carried it for over a decade. Changed and unchanged.
Neither of them speaks, neither looks away. Establishing something. Proving something. Héloïse isn't sure what.
Finally, the person returns their gaze to the surface of the water, head bowed slightly. A yielding.
Héloïse curls trembling hands into fists. Forces them to still.
“There are scarier things,” Marianne says.