Welcome to Charming, where swirling petticoats, the language of flowers, and old-fashioned duels are only the beginning of what is lying underneath…
After a magical attempt on her life in 1877, Queen Victoria launched a crusade against magic that, while tidied up by the Ministry of Magic, saw the Wizarding community exiled to Hogsmeade, previously little more than a crossroad near the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In the years that have passed since, Hogsmeade has suffered plagues, fires, and Victorian hypocrisy but is still standing firm.
Thethe year is now 1895. It’s time to join us and immerse yourself in scandal and drama interlaced with magic both light and dark.
Complete a thread started and set every month for twelve consecutive months. Each thread must have at least ten posts, and at least three must be your own.
Did You Know?
Did you know? Jewelry of jet was the haute jewelry of the Victorian era. — Fallin
Afterwards Verity lied to herself that the pain was only incidental. She told herself it was no more than a familiar ache like the pain of one’s monthly course or the disappointment of a parent, but the feeling of her bones moulding from one shape to another was a pain so ineffable there was nothing she could do but pretend it was otherwise. This was the pain she had to endure, so she would.
She kissed the master on the cheek sweetly, sending him off to his own bedroom with no indication that he would see her again before the mid-morning - though really he might see her before that and not even realise - and opened the door to her mistress’ room. The change had not quite begun yet but she could feel it brewing: she was more than used to the signs now.
“It’s safe to come out,” Verity said in a voice that was decidedly not her own. She estimated another few moments of being in this body at the very least and wondered if she could save the dress before her curves made it swell?
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She lounged on the chaise in her nightclothes, closed book beside her as she stared at the ceiling, rather than the text she had brought to keep herself occupied. Though Evelyn was relieved she had not had to attend the function, her inability—temporary, she hoped!—to sleep rendering her decidedly bored in this self-imposed isolation.
A Persian tapestry and several concealment charms hid this small, second dressing room from those who did not know of its existence—a list that encompassed everyone but Evelyn herself, Travers, and the charmsmith employed to do the work while her husband had been abroad on business some years before. For as much time as she spent in here, Evey thought wryly, she really ought to keep it better provisioned for the sake of her sanity.
After what seemed like eons, Evelyn heard the words she had long been waiting for, called out quietly in her own voice. With little more ado, the witch emerged from behind the tapestry, moving to sit instead upon her bed. Seeing Verity wearing her form had long since ceased to cause her unease; just as her reflection was never quite herself, neither was this.
"How was the evening?" she asked casually, a hand moving to toy with a loose ringlet. This was their usual rhythm, a necessity in order for their arrangement to continue.
Mrs Abercrombie didn’t look much better rested than she had when Verity had gone out wearing her entire being earlier but her casual gestures either meant she was genuinely calm or trying so hard to be so that she had convinced herself it was true. It had seemed such a trivial thing the first time Verity had noticed the tension in her employer’s body and the strain in her eyes; after a youth of hardwork and the promise of decades yet to come that thought that one’s nerves might give out even though you had everything had been a foreign one to Verity.
Fortunately she had nerve enough for both of them. At least she hoped she did.
“Dull. Mostly just men talking business while their wives stood about being bored,” Verity replied, her own quirks of speech coming out in Mrs Abercombie’s voice as she gently slipped off her shoes and padded behind the screen. Reaching behind herself Verity pulled at the first of the ties and began the irritatingly nervy task of getting out of Mrs Abercrombie’s dress before she split the seam. “A few of them asked after the children and the school but they listened as well as they ever do to the replies I gave.”
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Dull. Dull was good. Dull made Evelyn feel like less of a failure for not attending, and meant—generally speaking—that there would be less for Travers to report, and less for Evey herself to remember at the next function, the one afterwards.
"And who was present?" the witch asked, after giving a wry smile at Travers' description of the others' attentions. Society, so hypocritical, each thinking the world revolved around them and their decisions, their troubles, while paying so little mind to those around them.
Unless they erred. Then society would slaughter them like a pack of wolves.
"No," she corrected. "First, Elwin. I shouldn't very well greet him in the morning without any inkling of how his evening transpired!"
"He chatted to Mulciber for a fair bit of the night," she replied immediately, having anticipated this very question after last time when she had completely failed to notice what her "husband" had been doing for most of the night. Which had been manageable in the end but she certainly didn't want to disappoint this time so she nursed a single glass of champagne and watched anybody relevant like a hawk.
"You were with Mrs M. Her eldest is graduating from Hogwarts in the summer so next time you should ask her if he's decided what he wants to do after school. What else was there..?" Verity mused aloud as she slipped the dress from her shoulders, and not a moment too soon she realised quickly as the sharp pain of her transformation began to spread through her muscles.
"Here we go," she mumbled quietly, leaning one hand against the wall as her body reformed painfully from the mould of another woman's. She felt a bead of sweat on her forehead as an almost euphoric relief engulfed her as it always did - the calm after the storm that made her weak at the knees and glad she was still propping herself up, even if her arms were just as shaky as the rest of her.
She wobbled on her legs despite her best efforts and lowered herself onto the dressing table chair, taking deep lungfuls of air. It wasn't getting any fucking easier.
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Evelyn's expression clearly showed what she thought of Rufina Mulciber. Rufina was, in many ways, all that Evelyn pretended to be—in essence, a more liberal incarnation of the late Olivia Pendergast. But where Evey herself struggled to meet the mark, Rufina seemed to embody it to a tee. It was a frustrating acquaintance to maintain, to be sure.
"He's not her eldest," the witch remarked dryly, decidedly averting her eyes as Travers began the uncomfortably drawn-out transformation back to her own form. While Evelyn could handle seeing herself before her eyes, this was altogether more grotesque, and probably the only part of their arrangement she genuinely disliked.
"But I shall make a note to ask after him nonetheless. I believe She will be at the Hospital Luncheon on Thursday; at least this will give us something to discuss other than the texture of the doilies."
Her mistress had a tendency to rattle on while she got used to being in her own skin again and while it was far from being helpful Verity found she didn’t mind overmuch. What was Mrs Abercrombie supposed to do? Mop her brow?
It wasn’t as though she wasn’t well-compensated for her pain and if she had to endure it she would rather do it without being pitied. Beside – it didn’t last long.
“Better you than me ma’am,” Verity muttered as she rolled her shoulders experimentally and assessed how she felt. Slight headache. Bit sore. Distinctly wobbly, but mostly serviceable.
She ran a hand through her hair as she got to her feet, smoothing down the curls that were more of a challenge for the tortoise shell pin than Mrs Abercrombie’s silky smooth locks.
“Assuming you wouldn’t prefer…?” Verity asked carefully, lingering by the Chinese screen she usually got changed behind long enough that her question could not be ignored.
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"No, Travers," Evelyn said with a dismissive wave of her hand, "I've organized the flowers; I really out to attend myself."
At least, that would remain Evey's intention. She had always had the best intentions, but as with this evening, sometimes they did not prove to be enough.
"Besides," she pointed out with forced levity, "it must be so tedious, spending so much time with those with whom you have so little in common!"
Schooling her face into neutrality was a skill Verity had learnt quicker than any other whilst working for Mrs Abercrombie, this strange, curious woman who was happy to have her maid wear her skin but would recoil if Verity allowed that intimacy to spill over into honesty.
“Of course madam,” Verity offered as politely as one could when partially dressed and feeling as though her body had been put through a mangle, which was to say with a hint of gritted teeth. Thankfully she doubted the other woman would look at her long enough to notice. “Utterly tedious.”
Verity didn't need telling twice to get the hint. She was more than ready for her own bed - one she was always quite glad on nights she already felt sore she wasn't going to have to share with anybody. Mrs Abercrombie had never asked her to that and Verity knew she never would: the woman was odd, not perverse.
"I'll say goodnight then, if there's nothing else," she replied politely, pulling her dressing gown tighter around herself as she moved through the baize door that would take her to her own room, never more grateful that she wasn't required to tackle stairs.
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