She doesn't know when it started.

Truly, she doesn't.

She thinks that it might have been was when she was three- when she saw the troubadours for the first time and a beautiful woman with brown ringlets all piled up high on her forehead leaned down and smiled at her. Her lips were stained red and her cheeks rouged, a slight sheen of sweat glistening on her brow, and when she leaned forward and placed the slightest peck on her cheek Felicity tingled.

She remembers it being the oddest feeling.

But then, that could be put down to a child's fancy and really, it most probably started when she was twelve and visited the museums- and those terrible, wonderful Sapphist sculptures that seared unholy images into her mind.

Of course, it might have been a form of protection- of anger, of rebellion against those nights when her father knocked against the bedroom door. After all, she knew that the mind had ways to cope with tragedy- and wouldn't this be the most amusing answer?

But really- if she was completely and utterly honest with herself, she knew when it started.

It started the day she saw Pippa for the first time- a wonderful, terrible day that she can recall with perfect clarity. Pip was stunning, even at eleven, with bright violet eyes and thick, curly hair that hung heavily to frame her pale cheeks and Felicity remembers thinking that she was the most beautiful thing in the world.

Her voice was high and clear and she had a slight tendency towards whining- but it was no matter, because she was dear and close and they were friends of the sort that nothing could break apart.

But Pippa was also forbidden, an apple from the tree of knowledge, a fruit that once bitten and tasted would cast her out from Eden into the world beyond.

But Felicity was tempted, oh, she was tempted like Adam and his sin by her sweet words and bow-shaped lips and tender looks. But Felicity refused to show weakness and temptation defined that so she hid herself behind a mask of men and daring and dark-eyed gypsy boys.

The day Gemma Doyle saw her behind a tree, half draped over a wild man's chest with her lips stinging, was the worst day of her life.

It had nothing to do with propriety- heavens, she cared little about that.

It had to do with the look that Pippa might give her- the idea that Pippa might know, that she might cry or break or weep that caused her to run half-crazed to Gemma Doyle and pledge an immediate friendship.

And even though she knew that the most Pip would do was toss her hair and snub her for keeping secrets, Felicity hoped- and continued to hope, though she tried harder and harder to kill that germinating bud, that seed that took root and spread, unfurling it's leaves in a dying winter sun.

So she kept secrets and stole moments and lied, all to keep Pippa close and near and hers.

But then she went and chose that idiotic knight and decided to die and Felicity thought that was that and her unnatural affections would finally come to an end.

But she still found herself noticing things- like the soft curve of a woman's chest, the gentle planes of a waist, the rising flesh that led to a creamy thigh- and she knew that it wasn't over, that it wouldn't end and the knowledge was like lead in her stomach, weighing her down with every step and forbidden glance.

And the worst part of it all- the worst, worst part- was that she never knew if Pippa cared. She was fanciful- flitting from one idea to the next- from the knight to the factory girls to the promise of mad power and Felicity couldn't know if she herself was one of those fancies, or if Pippa's sweet words and soft caresses meant more than a way to pass the time.

But Pippa loved her, she told herself.

Or was that a lie too?

Did she love her, truly love her, or did she simply pretend as she had with so many others, eager to leave the realms and those godforsaken berries, feeding on Fee's emotions until she had nothing left but that kiss?

It took her years- years after the war, years after the castle came crashing down and that Indian boy gave up his life and Gemma Doyle moved on past the Pacific- that she decided that it didn't matter.

It was as she was lying tangled between bed sheets, her legs draped over a girl with soft brown hair and eyes that were closed in slumber that she came to peace with herself.

In their school days it had been Fee and Pip, chums and comrades and best friends, but now Pip was gone and it was just Fee but that was okay sometimes.

It really was.

Sometimes it was all just okay.

Fin.

Please R&R! This is my first Gemma Doyle ficlet, so reviews would be great :)

-Fanta Faerie