March 30th, 1888 — Fort Lestrange
She and Elwin had retired early after dinner, and Evey had fallen asleep on his chest, her nightdress still hiked up about her waist, after the two had reaffirmed that they were, indeed, husband and wife. The early night would, she hoped, prepare her for the remainder of the weekend with the extended family who, while not as taxing as strangers, were nonetheless not the warmest bunch, nor the most comfortable to be around.
Or so she thought.
She was woken far earlier than anticipated by the sound of a rather loud don’t touch me in the next room. Gingerly, Evelyn shook Elwin awake, holding a finger to her lips as her ears remained peeled. She knew, of course, that the room was occupied by her cousin Tiberius and his wife, but had always seen him as far too dignified to get into a verbal spar—or far too intimidating for his wife to do so. Clearly, the witch realized, she’d been mistaken.
The walls, thin though they evidently were, muffled much of the conversation. Evey could make out a faint useless, getting rid, and—she flushed at this—harlot, but not the context in which they were spoken. The context that came after, though, she could hear all too well sounds much more…animalistic in nature.
Evelyn Abercrombie had never thought about hearing her cousin fuck his wife, but was forced to think about it now. Such thoughts—coupled with the soundtrack—made her feel decidedly icky. The act that in her own marriage seemed to natural and even beautiful seemed in this to be alien, wrong. She was an interloper here, whether she wanted to be or not.
“Not” was, decidedly, the way she was going on this one.
Feeling entirely squeamish, Evelyn attempted to all but bury her head in her husband to block out the sounds from the next room. Even if she did sleep tonight, she feared they would follow her into her dreams.
— mj is kind of amazing. —