The tour group makes its way into one of the old buildings, as I trail behind, caught up in my own bullshit.
When I get inside, Violet is beaming at me. She’s still wearing the lovely orange dress she had on this morning. But covering her honey-brown hair is what appears to be an old-timey bonnet. I frown.
Violet waves me over excitedly.
And while I can’t exactly muster the enthusiasm, I saunter over to her anyway.
Chapter 15
VIOLET
I TIE THE STRINGS OF the bonnet underneath my chin, grinning from ear to ear. I would have been a theatre kid in another life, I think—if I hadn’t already been branded an outcast or moved around so much. I grab a blue cape-like thing from the basket and throw that over my shoulders as well.
Finn is frowning at me, a look of something akin to disgust written all over his face at the outfit.
What? I ask him, trying hard not to feel embarrassed. This isn’t real for him anyway, so what does it matter if he’s judging me?
Are you taking the piss? Why are you taking part in this?
I pause. Because that’s what we’re supposed to do? That’s literally what we’re here to do Finn—throw ourselves back in time.
He makes another face. He asked for volunteers, Violet. You don’t have to be the one to put your hand up every time, you know.
I flinch a little at the accusation. I like to participate, to be a good student. And I decide I’m going to ham it up as much as possible to rub my quirkiness in his face.
You remember that you invited me to come here today, I say, poking him in the middle of his chest, which is of course as solid as a rock. Are you scared Finn?
He scoffs. Scared of what, dressing up?
I smile now, wondering if I’m on to something. Scared of being uncool. Of people thinking you’re ridiculous. God forbid anyone not find you attractive for a second.
He says nothing and I start pulling through the clothes, looking for the most hideous thing I can find.
Aha! I pull out a white ruffled shirt, something you’d see in Bridgerton or on that one episode of Seinfeld. It’s hideous and I’m delighted.
I’m not wearing that, he says flatly.
Chicken. I smile and then, loudly, start to make clucking noises. Creepily accurate ones—I might add—after years of tending to my grandparents’ chicken coop. Heads turn our way.
He scoffs again, more to himself than me. Violet, he starts. I am not going to get goaded into wearing that ridiculous frock, which, I’m pretty sure is a woman’s shirt by the way, just because you’re making obscene animal noises at me.
It’s not a women’s shirt, I argue. It’s exactly something a rake, such as yourself, would have worn during this time period. So if the shoe fits… I hand the shirt to him.
A rake? You think I’m a rake? He’s pretending to sound outraged, but his smile is a dead giveaway.
A promiscuous boy of old, I guess. I push the shirt towards him again. I look around at the people in our tour group. You will literally never see a single one of these people ever again in your life, Finn. So what’s the problem? I shimmy my shoulders at him, the move definitely more awkward than endearing. Get a little weird with me.
This is a thing I’m used to doing: laying claim to my oddball status, and proudly, before someone else can thrust it upon me as an insult. If I label myself first, then I can’t be hurt by it. And besides, he’s already agreed to fake date me for his own gain, so there’s no real harm in being my most authentic self around him.
He puts on the shirt, begrudgingly, and I beam.
Happy now, darling Violet? He looks like Mr. Darcy in this shirt, or like someone on the cover of a bodice-ripper romance. The accent isn’t helping my daydream. I clear my throat.
Photo time!
He groans as I try to take his picture. He puts his hands up, shaking his head. I am not being photographed alone looking like this, come here please. With his other hand, he gestures for me to come and stand next to him. I do.
He smells incredible, something citrusy with a darker note, maybe tobacco. I try my best not to breathe him in.
