Fiction Friday: what dreams are made of

Genevieve silently slipped into the chair next to Ferdinand. She wasn’t so late that she would be reprimanded, but she detested being late at all, and even more so hated to be the focus of attention.

Her playing was mediocre within this group, which thankfully saved her from both great praise and rebuke. Among some circles she would be considered quite accomplished, but among these peers, these sons and daughters of the aristocracy, she was but adequate. No matter -- she didn’t have hopes of becoming a concert pianist, though she knew that some of her classmates did. It was unlikely at best, even among the best of the boys, but childhood dreams are like that.

Her dreams, in fact, were so outlandish that she could not utter them to anyone, not even her servant-maid, who had been with her for as long as she could remember. For if she did, and it ever got out, she would not only be the laughing stock of the community, but also likely treated with laudanum for hysteria, perhaps even sent away to a sanatorium for a spell.

Keeping her desires secret was hard, although she did find some release in the fictional essays she was required to write for Mr. Temple, her teacher of letters, whom she was lucky to have. Her father, unlike most, saw no harm in her learning the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic in addition to her sewing, piano, and singing. Mr. Temple found her writings “humorous” and “imaginative.” One comment scribbled hastily the top of her paper even read “delightfully preposterous,” which, she decided in an attempt to console herself, was at least better than calling it deranged.