Mother’s Day
Sunday morning at the House of Winds. Eol, perched on the mantelpiece, "accidentally" dropped a blueberry onto the whiskers of Mistral, who was dozing curled up on the rug.
— Pssst!
— I think you’ve grown tired of having teeth in your mouth, you impudent rodent! Mistral grumbled without even opening his eyes.
— It’s Mother’s Day! We have to do something!
— Do I look like your mother to you, little one? Calm down, I was just dreaming... never mind of what, go bother someone else!
Sirocco, also on the rug in the middle of the living room, shifted his gaze from one to the other as if watching a tennis match.
— Mother’s Day! So that means Lady Mother, uh, Mrs. Aura Gale has... or hasn't? Tell me, Eol, what does Mrs. Gale have?
— It’s Mother’s Day and our scatterbrain has no clue! After he dismissed her so rudely last time... I’m just saying, a recon... that is, a reconciliation wouldn't hurt. Don't you think?
Anemo was completely in his own world, cooking—if massacring some fried eggs can be called cooking.
— We have to get his attention somehow! the mouse said.
— Got it, I know! Sirocco jumped onto the TV remote, which "completely by chance and unexpectedly" turned on. From the immense black frame, now animated, a voice rang out: "...teemed Remi Storm, the author..."
— Nooo! Not that, change it immediately! Mistral barked, jumping as if burned.
Panicked, the ginger kitten lunged at the remote again, and this time he hit something useful. A cheerful, elegant reporter in the middle of a group of children was asking them what they had prepared for their mothers.
— Bravo! Turn it up! Eol breathed a sigh of relief. Let’s hope Anemo hears and "wakes up."
Meanwhile, Anemo Gale wasn't just massacring eggs; he was executing all sorts of fencing maneuvers with a spoon and a pan. The kitchen was a battlefield, but something finally reached his ear... "Mother’s Day."
"Mooother’s Day? I wonder how courtly I should be for Lad—Mother to forgive me?"
This Sunday had settled over the city like a thin layer of powdered sugar. It was a day of benevolent silence, where even the wind seemed to have taken a break from its duties as a courier of chaos. Anemo looked at himself in the hallway mirror, adjusting the collar of his ivory linen shirt. He looked implausibly normal. Elegant, with that studied negligence of a man who reads poetry at breakfast but also knows how to repair a pigeon's wing when needed.
He was handsome and he knew it, but today he didn't want to conquer; he wanted to reconcile. In his hand, he clutched a giant bouquet of white peonies and hydrangeas—a floral explosion meant to bury the hatchet under a heavy, late-spring fragrance.
"It’s her day. A day for forgiveness," he told himself, stepping onto the path leading to Aura Gale’s house.
However, as soon as the heavy oak door opened, the childhood scent of cinnamon and vanilla was replaced by a cloud of modern, sharp French perfume. From the living room came not the silence of solitary reading, but the clinking of fine porcelain cups and a murmur of female voices vibrating with enthusiasm.
Anemo froze in the doorway. In the large armchair, under the grandfather's portrait, was not just Mrs. Gale. Beside her, in an emerald green dress that seemed to absorb all the light in the room, sat Remi Storm. And next to her, another distinguished presence—a faithful but more mature copy of his rival: Remi’s mother.
— Oh, Anemo! Mrs. Gale exclaimed, rising with theatrical grace. What superb flowers! Put them in the hallway vase, please. Our dear Remi was just telling us the big news. The Club meeting on Wednesday... it will be televised! Isn't that a colossal success for our little literary circle?
Remi threw him a glance over the rim of her cup, a mix of surface politeness and a discreet triumph that told him clearly: "The wind has turned, Anemo. And it’s blowing in my direction."
Anemo managed a flustered smile, fixing his gaze somewhere between the bouquet and Remi's patent leather shoes.
— Oh, what ra—radiant, uh, ravishing news, he stammered, feeling his linen collar suddenly grow too tight. — Televised, then...
Instead of retreating strategically toward the exit, Anemo made the mistake of trying to appear in control. He sat at the low crystal table, a bohemian intruder among three ladies radiating intimidating perfection.
— Don't trouble yourself, Mother, I’ll make my own tea... or coffee. You need... space, he said, standing up abruptly.
But his arm, used to the broad gestures of his recently practiced fencing, miscalculated the distances in that museum-like decor. In a fraction of a second, the silver spoon struck the edge of the porcelain cup, and the black, hot liquid described an unfortunate arc, landing right on the emerald green silk of Remi Storm’s dress.
The silence that followed was heavier than a death sentence. Remi let out a sharp sound, somewhere between a gasp and a martyr's sigh.
— Oh, Anemo! Mrs. Gale jumped up, desperately searching for a napkin. — The dress is from...
— It’s fine, Mother, it’s just... an organic accident, he stuttered, trying to clean the stain with a brocaded napkin, only succeeding in spreading it further across his rival’s precious dress.
Feeling the icy stare of Remi’s mother and the mute disappointment of his own, Anemo backed away, hitting the chair.
— Sorry... so many apologies. I have to... I left something on the stove. I mean, at the House of Winds. A manuscript... is boiling. I’ll call you!
He left the house almost at a run, feeling the freshness of the Sunday turn into a cold sweat. On the way home, he passed the newsstand at the corner. There, placed ostentatiously on a rotating stand, the cover of Remi’s book smirked at him: "Women Cannot Be Tamed."
Without thinking, he pulled out his wallet.
— One of those, please. And a black bag. So the... title doesn't show.
Back in his garden, he collapsed onto the swing next to Mistral and pulled out the book with still-trembling fingers.
— Let’s see what you’ve written here, "Honorary President."
Anemo read with a vehemence that almost made the pages shake, fiercely searching for that wrong adjective or a limping metaphor to feed his jealousy. But as Remi’s words flowed, his voice grew warmer, and the rhythm of his reading slowed into a silent admiration, betrayed only by a raised eyebrow.
Fleur listened with her mouth agape, swinging her scraped legs from the edge of the swing. When Anemo closed the book with a heavy sigh, she placed a small hand on his knee.
— Mr. Anemo, why are you frowning like that? It’s a beautiful story, not a war. Don't be a grumpy misogynist; it doesn't suit you!
Anemo huffed, surprised by the word the girl had chosen.
— I’m not, Fleur. Do you even know what a misogynist is? Honestly, kiddo, if you really knew what that meant, do you think someone like that would be sitting here chatting with a tufted thing like you? She’s a writer, I’m a writer; we’re both part of this community, we’re close in age, we even played together as children... We’re rivals and I’m jealous! Don't tell anyone!
— No, you aren't rivals! she said with solar certainty. — She is indeed wonderful and beautiful, but...
Anemo swallowed hard every time a compliment for his rival escaped the girl's mouth.
— On the other hand, you are very special. You’re handsome, tall, you can be elegant when you want to, and you’re so... sophisticated in your own way, with your pink salt coffee. You’re a good man, Mr. Anemo; a bad one wouldn't allow these furry ones in his life, and you’re right, not even me—and I’m a woman in the making. You see, Mommy explained to me that we women have a swarm of bees—I mean, our thoughts are like... a swarm—that’s why we cannot be tamed. Remi Storm? You saw how beautifully she writes... but you, uh, with your scatterbrained way of being, are much closer to understanding our swarms than any other man.
Anemo looked at her for a long time, feeling the knot in his throat loosen. The little tufted girl had offered him the most honest literary prize: the acceptance of his own nature.
— So you’re saying I shouldn't hate Remi Storm?
— Nope! Fleur said, jumping off the swing. — You just shouldn't act stiffer than you are; you should write exactly as you are...
Anemo watched Fleur as she headed back toward the fence, hopping on one leg, and felt for the first time that the "wind" in his head was no longer a gale that knocked over cups, but a force that could finally carry a story. He opened his notebook and, under the title written with a trembling hand, added a first note, inspired by the "tufted one":
“Women cannot be tamed because they carry a swarm in their minds. And I... I am the only fool who wants to learn the language of the bees.”
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