The Girls of North Town #3
Helen was... perfect. Graceful, dainty, effortlessly lovely. The kind of girl Auntie would describe as "symmetrical," like a porcelain figure come to life. That famous North Town look—golden hair, deep sapphire eyes—ran strong in her family line, and Helen had inherited every bit of it.
She had just come of age, but she looked so much more grown. Her figure had already bloomed, soft curves in all the right places, her waist cinched tight with those laced-up bodices she wore so confidently. It wasn’t hard to see why Nic looked at her the way he did.
Dragonfly tried not to feel it. The tug.
The ache. She wished she could wear dresses like that too—silk chemises, fine embroidery, stays with delicate lace.
But what good would lace do when she spent half her days foraging through briars or scrubbing soot from hearthstones?
Even if she had such things, they’d be hidden under her pinafore before anyone saw them.
She was filling out—slowly. Auntie kept saying her shape would come in time, but Dragonfly was tired of waiting. Her hips had begun to round, her chest no longer flat, but it still felt like an awkward in-between. Not quite girl, not quite woman.
Would she ever really catch up?
After a while, when Helen still hadn’t spoken, Dragonfly asked gently, “Nic didn’t pressure you... did he?”
Helen blinked, confused.
“I mean,” she fumbled, “you wanted to go with him—into the bushes?”
Helen’s cheeks turned scarlet. “Oh—no! I mean, yes—I did want to. But Nic isn’t like that. He never pushes. I went willingly. We’ve never even—well, you know...” She trailed off, mortified. “I’m sorry you had to see us. I hope you don’t think I’m—”
She stopped herself, visibly flustered. Then quieter, “Nic is... kind. And thoughtful. I know he comes off a little tactless around certain people, but that’s not who he is with me. He’s... different.”
Dragonfly nodded. Hadria had said something similar about Aries once—that boys acted differently in front of their friends to protect their egos. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said. “I’d never judge you. Or Nic.”
Helen’s posture softened, her eyes brightening. “He makes me feel happy. He makes me feel... good about myself.”
“He does?” Dragonfly asked, surprised at the gentleness in her own voice.
Helen nodded, her expression turning dreamy.
“Before Nic, it was all rules—dancing, studying, trying to be perfect. I love dancing, but my mother made it a punishment. She was furious when I didn’t get lead dancer again this term.
But Nic... he doesn’t just tell me I’m beautiful.
He makes me feel it. Not just on the outside, either.
It’s like...” She searched for words. “Like I’ve always been carrying stones in my pockets, and with him, I float. ”
Dragonfly gave a soft laugh. “He’s always had that carefree air. I think it’s contagious.”
“I wish I’d known him when we were younger.” Helen smiled to herself. Then glanced over. “But you’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?”
“Yes. A long time,” Dragonfly said. Then added, “But not the way you know him.”
Helen laughed, a merry, unguarded sound.
“But truly,” Dragonfly added, “I think being with you has changed him. He seems... softer. More mature. Though I doubt his naughty streak will ever be fully tamed. Did you know we call him Naughty Nic of Stargazer Creek?”
Helen blushed, grinning. “I like his naughty ways. But I think that’s how love works, doesn’t it? You bring out the best in each other.”
“Are you in love with him?”
The question slipped out before Dragonfly could stop herself. Immediately, she regretted it—too personal, too pointed. Helen’s expression shifted.
“I’m sorry,” Dragonfly rushed to add. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“No, it’s alright,” Helen said after a pause. “It’s just... I thought I’d been in love before. But this feels different. I don’t know how to explain it.”
Dragonfly tilted her head. She was curious—more than she should be. Maybe Helen hadn’t told Nic about whoever came before. Maybe he was jealous. The thought was... strangely interesting.
Helen let out a sigh, heavy and hesitant. “There was a young Blue Isle sailor. He did some business with my father. Flirted with me. Wrote letters. I thought it meant something. I imagined it did. But then he sailed off last year and never came back.”
She hesitated. “I’ll tell Nic eventually, but not yet. He can be a little... possessive.”
Dragonfly offered a soft, sincere reply. “Nic won’t hear it from me.”
Helen looked over at her, then said, almost shyly, “Are you in love with anyone?”
Dragonfly’s cheeks burned. Her neck prickled with heat, and for a ridiculous second, she thought about hiding her face in the blackberry pan.
“I don’t think so,” she said quickly. “Not really.”
Helen, mercifully, didn’t press.
She pointed at the pan instead. “What are you going to do with those?”
Grateful for the change, Dragonfly exhaled. “I was thinking preserves. Maybe a dozen tarts for Collin and Aries.”
Just saying his name made her stomach flutter. She should probably eat something herself.
“I love making preserves,” Helen said wistfully. “But I haven’t in ages.”
“There’s plenty here—and more for the picking. You could take some if you want, or maybe we could...”
She stopped herself. She’d almost invited Helen to her place, but she lived in a cramped loft over her aunt’s shop. It wasn’t exactly a parlor for guests.
But Helen’s face lit up. “Come to my house! We can cook the preserves together. I’m free all morning tomorrow—dance class isn’t until three.”
Dragonfly perked up. “I have studies in the afternoon, but morning works.”
“I’ll take these then?” Helen gestured to the pan.
“Sure. I’ll pick more on the way.”
As they reached a fork in the road, Helen gave her directions to the house—detailed and precise. Then the girls parted, one toward the stream and bridge, the other toward the circle.
As soon as she got home, Dragonfly set to work with a sharp, restless energy. She’d planned to leave some of the chores for morning, but now that tomorrow held a sweeter promise—a plan with her new friend—she needed everything just so.
She pushed the cots and chairs aside and swept the floors until they shone, then mopped to chase off the dust. The clatter of jars echoed softly as she washed and stacked them in tidy rows, lids clinking like a rhythm to her thoughts.
Clothes were already dry from earlier, so she folded them with crisp precision, setting each stack aside as she turned to the stove.
Oh, that dreadful stove. It never failed to bake the loft like a kiln in summer, and tonight was no exception. But it was the only way to warm supper. The heat pressed against her skin, made her limbs heavy, her hair stick to the back of her neck.
By the time Auntie closed the shop below and her sister returned home, the sweat was clinging beneath her arms, her dress damp along the spine. And still—needles, thread, hems to mend. She worked on, even as her muscles threatened mutiny.
It was well past midnight when she finally collapsed into her cot. Her mind spun in feverish loops even as her body gave out.
And when sleep found her, it wasn’t restful. She dreamt of the forest hollow—of Collin’s hands, his mouth, the way his nearness made her whole body tremble and spark. She woke more breathless than before, unsure if it was desire or confusion that clung to her like heat.
Dragonfly stood in Helen’s sprawling kitchen with her sleeves rolled high and a thin sheen of sweat clinging to her neck.
Steam curled up from the heavy pots where blackberries bubbled and spat, staining the air with their rich, almost-wine scent.
She and Helen hovered like nervous bees, spoons in hand, stirring steadily so the jam wouldn’t catch and burn on the bottom.
It was hot, sticky work—demanding hours of patience and sore arms—but the perfume of fruit and honey made it feel worth it.
Every so often, Dragonfly had to step back, pressing a damp cloth to her brow and breathing deeply.
The whole house smelled like a sweet dream.
Helen’s kitchen—no, Helen’s entire house—was a world apart.
It sat nestled in a bright little clearing, tucked amongst North Town’s oldest trees, but it didn’t belong to the forest the way the other cabins did.
From the outside, it looked humble, a wide log villa, soft with moss and age.
But inside, it gleamed with extravagant wealth.
Matching antique furniture. Upholstery so fine it caught the light like silk.
Even the floors shimmered—stone squares laced with flecks of gold, pink, and green, like someone had scattered sunrise dust and locked it in place.
The countertops stretched on and on, and the pantry was large enough to sleep in.
Dragonfly didn’t envy it—exactly. But there was something dizzying about being in a place where nothing had ever had to be repurposed.
Helen let out a soft gasp and hopped down from her little footstool. She needed it to stir the bottom of the tallest pot. Wiping her face on her apron, she groaned, “I’m going to be smelling blackberries in my pores for days.”
Dragonfly laughed and wiped her own cheek with the cloth. She laid her stirring spoon aside and reached for the silver one—small, elegant, perfect for tasting. That was always her favorite part. She dipped it into the pot, watching the thick purple mixture cling to the metal.
“Is it sweet enough?” she asked aloud. “I didn’t add much honey. I thought the berries had enough sweetness on their own.”
Helen leaned over and dipped in a spoon of her own. She blew gently before tasting. “Mm! I think it’s perfect!”