Introducing the Montoirs “A drumroll please,” as usual, when the whole of the Montoir family was gathered, English was being spoken. It had been their mother and father’s common tongue when they met, and for the early years of their marriage. For a while, French had surpassed it as the language of the household, as their mother settled into Quebecois society and learnt the language. However, since it had been decided to send Dorian to Sonora, everyone had made an effort to revert back to English, although the children frequently descended into rapid code-switching as they talked amongst themselves, and each still spoke each parent’s native language when one to one with them. Mandarin also came in handy for keeping secrets from their father, or insulting each other when he was around, although they hadn’t for some time been able to pull the same trick with French under their mother’s nose.
“Émilie has chosen her birthday treat, and we shall be going… to the theatre for to see Melodie! ” he announced with a smile, naming the recently opened musical which told of a young witch’s discovery that she spoke Parseltongue. It promised to be an ‘uplifting musical journey’ according to the posters, and ‘have you tapping your toes for weeks’ according to the critics. This was met with cheers from Émilie, Dorian and their mother, and gagging noises from Matthieu.
“I hate the theatre,” he complained.
“So?” shrugged Dorian. “It is the birthday of Émilie, and not you.”
“Yeah,” added Émilie, “We go to the stupid Quidditch on your birthday. Regard the men knock each other unconscious in the name of glory and sportsmanship.”
“We go on Friday,” continued his father, cutting off any further bickering. “And Émi can choose also where we go to dinner before.”
*
Matthieu was on his way to the kitchen for a snack when he passed the living room. He had steered well clear all morning, knowing exactly what would be going on. The door was ajar though, and he couldn’t resist a few passing shots, as he saw his two siblings, rolled up newspapers in hand, serenading each other.
They say I’m evil, But it’s hard to see. When I look in the mirror, I still see me.
“Ahh, regarde la petite fille. Oh, et Émilie aussie.”
“Ta gueule, meathead!” glared Dorian.
“Ta gueule, yourself - chochotte! You’re the one who does not stop singing.”
It was Saturday, the morning after Émilie’s birthday treat. Her actual birthday would fall on the Monday, but she had come away from the show with a record of the soundtrack, and the lyric book, which she and Dorian were enthusiastically working their way through for the umpeenth time.
“I just oblige the birthday princess,” Dorian grinned, twirling his little sister. Matthieu glared. Dorian was a constant disappointment to him. For the first two years of his life, he had been inanely boring because he was a baby, and all babies were inanely boring. But as Dorian had begun to develop a personality, it had left a lot to be desired. Then Émilie had come along, and Dorian had doted constantly on her, helping their mother to bathe and dress her, acting like the important big brother. As she grew older, Dorian happily indulged Émilie’s every wish to have a stupid tea party or to sing and prance around the living room, instead of playing Quidditch with Matthieu like he was supposed to. Apart from his innate dislike of Dorian’s behaviour, there was the added sour sting of jealousy that he was the one who was always left out.
“Pff, you love this stuff as much as she does, freak of nature.”
“Get lost, cerveau de fromage,” Dorian snapped, though he kept well away from his brother. Matthieu was fond of giving him dead arms, friction burns or any other physical punishment minor enough to be written off as ‘rough housing’ or ‘boys being boys.’ “Emi, dictionaire, s’il te plaît?”
“What for do you need that?” grumbled Matthieu, “You translate it so you can annoy me in three languages? No need, Fifi, you manage well already.”
“I must study. I start at Sonora in September.”
“This is not studying. This is being a pain in the ass!”
“If you want true command of a language, you must understand its poetry.”
This was the final straw for Matthius who with a loud “Maugris, preserve moi!” finally tired of baiting his siblings and strode off towards the kitchen.
“Oh, pauvre Dorian,” sighed Emilie. “How will you be, at Sonora?”
“At least I get away from Meathead,” shrugged Dorian. Father had decided that one of his younger children had to be destined for the American school, since now so many prominent French families attended. Either they would improve ties with America or with Europe. Originally, he had destined Emilie for this fate, on the grounds that she had the longest to improve her English - although it was used often at home, it was no one’s first language, and it would be a big step up for any of them to attend full time school in it. But she had protested with so many tears that Dorian had volunteered instead. Initially, he had been anxious, and had done it only for love of his sister, however he was now seeing increased advantages. Matthieu had always been antagonistic ever since he could remember, but since starting Beauxsang and making the position as Beater for his house, he was worse. He had come home from school with a whole new range of ways to call Dorian defective, and increased punching power. At this point, a seven year sentence to join his brother would have sounded far worse than being sent abroad.
“But from me also,” she sighed. For all that she was grateful to Dorian for taking the bullet for her, it grieved her to lose him. “No forgetting me.”
“Bien sûr que non,” he promised, “Tu sera toujours ma meillure Émi.” It was a silly joke, one that they had had since childhood, but he was pleased to see that it still made her smile. “Now, I find the meaning of this, and then we sing again.”