Nearly a year later, Pickett was still not accustomed to finding other people in the library on a regular basis. She had thought, perhaps, that Eleanor’s presence would not take her by so much surprise if the girl was given her own chair to use regularly, but even showing her the desk areas and the advisors’ usual chairs, which generally went unused during the day, had had no effect. Eleanor, it seemed, was only comfortable sprawled on the floor nearest whatever section of books she was currently pulling from. Sometimes, Patricia would join her, pulling a chair around from some other section to be close to her sister and also sit in a comfortable way, but more often than not Eleanor would be on her own, working quietly and diligently on notes that took her a very long time to copy.
Pickett had noticed almost at once that Eleanor struggled to write. The girl had no trouble with reading, nor with using her hands to weave intricate and delicate spells, so this hardship surprised Pickett. At first, she assumed that, perhaps, Eleanor had not been given opportunity to practice her penmanship as a child, but Patricia displayed no similar difficulties, and was quite comfortable with any writing instrument she was given. Eleanor had better penmanship with finger-paints. Pickett had asked Henry if he knew any other magic users to struggle with fine motor skills, but Henry, who was trying to decipher the girl’s notes at the time, swore he’d never encountered a case like this before. The poor man spent more time deciphering his young assistant’s notes than continuing the research the notes were for these days. On the plus side, with Eleanor’s immense capability for magic, Henry’s actual research was progressing faster than ever. The other day, Pickett had walked into a full room of singing books, and had turned around and left again before realizing that it had been the room she had intended to visit. Eleanor, not that she needed to, had apologized profusely for practicing in there.
That was the thing about Eleanor, though. For all that she was well-mannered, sweet and energetic as a little girl could possibly be, she was constantly apologizing for everything she did. She was absurdly quiet, too, if she thought that she was being watched. Pickett had caught her alone, or with her sister and Malik, laughing merrily and chatting away, but among the adults of the palace, she froze and the word “sorry” took up a full quarter of whatever conversations she was having. Pickett felt no shame in blaming the girl’s parents for this.
So it was that afternoon, when Pickett had retreated to do some after-lunch Saturday reading, that she encountered Eleanor quite methodically copying out her own notes in the neatest hand she could manage. Pickett watched quietly for a moment from the aisle. Eleanor had not yet noticed her, crouched as she was over the pair of notebooks and dull pencils she was using. Her forehead was creased, and her hair kept falling into her face as she worked, and every couple of words she would sigh quietly, reposition the pencil in her right hand to try again. Pickett concentrated on the pencil. Although Eleanor’s hold on it was technically correct, her grip kept slipping down and the tip of the pencil shook badly where she pressed it to paper. Her writing angle was too steep and she could not figure out how to hold her page steady while keeping her hand out of the way. And suddenly, Pickett had a rather strange idea.
“Eleanor, dear?”
Eleanor started dramatically, and Pickett winced as her pencil slid up across the page, streaking through all her carefully wrought letters.
“Sorry,” Eleanor moaned. “I was only—”
“You’re not in trouble, dear,” Pickett reassured her. “I wanted to ask a favor of you, actually. Could you hand me that pencil you’re using?”
Eleanor worked to hide her confusion, and likely would have succeeded had Pickett not been watching so closely. She stood up, still holding the pencil in her right hand and held it out to Pickett uncertainly.
“Thank you. Now, if you could take a few steps back? Bear with me. I have a point, I promise,” Pickett told her. Eleanor bit down on her lower lip, but nodded and took the requested steps backwards, stepping awkwardly over her notebooks to do so. “Ready?” Pickett asked.
“Ready for what?” Eleanor said anxiously.
“I’m going to toss this to you and I want you to catch it. I won’t hit you, I promise.”
“All respect, Miss Pickett, I don’t know that you’ll have control over that,” Eleanor replied. Pickett smiled, but tossed the pencil in the air anyway, letting it fly high and not far, so that Eleanor had to lean forward to catch it. She did so with her left hand.
“As I thought. Toss it here again, if you will,” Pickett said.
“Er—“ Eleanor started.
“Please?” Pickett tried. Eleanor stopped, closed her mouth with a determined expression, and tossed the pencil easily back to Pickett, using the same arch so that Pickett leaned forward to catch it, too. Once more, without warning, Pickett tossed it, a bit to Eleanor’s right this time, just in case. Eleanor took a step right and forward to catch it in her left hand again.
“Good, thank you,” Pickett nodded. Eleanor looked from her to the pencil in her hand, confusion now clear on her face, as Pickett settled herself onto the ground. “Now the only question I have left is why do you write with your right hand?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Eleanor asked.
“Well, most people do to be sure,” answered Pickett, “but not everyone, no. Most people are what we call ‘right-handed’ or ‘right hand dominant’, you see. They perform automatic tasks with their right hands, and have finer motor function there for the things that need delicate work, like handwriting, for instance. But there are others who do better with their left hands.” Pickett grinned as Eleanor got the idea and looked wonderingly at the pencil in her fist.
“You think… you think that might help?” Eleanor whispered.
“You’ve just proven to me that you react automatically with your left hand,” Pickett said. “I think it can’t possibly hurt. Have you never tried before?”
“I don’t think so,” Eleanor told her. “I’ve always had trouble. I thought it was just… part of me. I took forever learning other things, too, walking and jumping and holding things. I thought it had to do with the magic.”
“It may have, at one point. But for today, let’s try with your left hand on a fresh sheet and see if we can’t improve that way. I’ll help.” Pickett gave a warm smile as she pulled one of the notebooks over to her. Eleanor blushed brightly, but returned the smile and scuttled around to crouch on the floor next to her again, this time gripping the pencil with her left hand. She bit down on her lip as she wrote. The letters looked about the same, honestly, all lines that barely connected and over which Eleanor seemed to have little control, but her grip on the pencil was steadier and she held the paper underneath with sturdy confidence. Eleanor experimentally drew out a rune under her notes, and gasped in delight as she looked down at it.
“That’s close to how it really looks!” she said. “Oh, that’s much better! I think I could get the hang of this. I’m going to need more paper.”
“That will be easy,” agreed Pickett. “Why don’t I grab you a practice notebook? I have a few in my study. Let’s see, you’re fond of blue, aren’t you? A dark blue notebook all your own?”
“Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!” Eleanor cried. “I can’t believe I never thought of this before. Triss is going to laugh so hard, Malik, too. Ooh, I’m not going to live this down for a long time.”
“They might not notice if you don’t say anything,” Pickett winked. “It took me a year to notice what might be going on there. Just show them the notebook and say you’ve been practicing, Eleanor.”
“Oh, I couldn’t keep something that funny from Triss,” Eleanor laughed. “I’ll end up telling her just to make her laugh, even if I wanted to keep it a secret. She’ll be nice about it. She always is.” Eleanor’s laughter trailed down into a quiet giggle and she looked hesitantly up at Pickett. “Has Triss talked to you about… about our names?”
“Not specifically,” said Pickett. “Is there something I should know?”
“Well, it’s not important — it’s a little silly, really, but… I’d like it if you called me Nora.” Eleanor’s voice dropped back down to a hesitant whisper as she spoke, and blushing red crept back into her cheeks, but she looked Pickett in the eye and smiled. “Before, last year you know, when it was just us and our mom and whoever we met on the road, Nora and Triss were our names for each other. They were special, and we gave them out to the people we liked, so it felt more like having close friends. Only our mom called us Eleanor and Patricia. And they’re fine names, and I should probably get used to being called Eleanor again one day, but for now… Nora’s happier. I like it better. And I’d like you to… to…”
“Count as a friend?” Pickett finished gently. Nora’s smile went crooked and she nodded as words failed her. Pickett draped an arm around her shoulders and hugged her close. “I would be honored, Nora, dear.”