December 23rd, 1894 - London

She doesn’t know why she opened her window at that familiar, beckoning clack of a beak, especially this late in the evening… Maybe it was curiosity – who would be sending her, of all people in magical London, post? – or maybe she’d simply, foolishly assumed Agatha was sneaking her a tiny missive…

But, whatever reason, it was a mistake. (She makes them so often nowadays – everyday – she’s not certain why she’s surprised – or why she even trusts herself to make decisions anymore.)

Huey – her name for Father’s owl, because he thought very little enough of his fellow man, let alone animals – perches on the edge of her desk; his feathers ruffle in the corner of her eye and, when that does not illicit a response, he begins trilling and hooting. The longer she goes without acknowledging him, the louder he goes (and time seems to be slowing down as she comes to grips with what his presence means).

It’s hard to pay him proper mind, however, even though she’s aware he will start nipping soon enough, as she breaks that oh so familiar seal on the envelope.

He’s probably hungry, since you’re not there to feed him regularly anymore. (A tiny, cool voice in the back of her mind also wonders if her mother looks as poorly as Huey, left to Father's care.)

She should hush him, feed him; she should put this letter to the wayside, get to her feet, and devote herself to caring for the scrawny brown owl. She should not read what is inside, not when she's been up for hours trying to find sleep in the midst of journals filled with sketches and musings from school. Unfortunately, she will not - she cannot, because putting the letter down would mean not knowing and the unknown will most assuredly haunt her more than whatever Gilbert Griffith has written down.

She hands quake, the parchment crumpling under her thumbs as she tries to hold it still enough to read past the first few lines. The sight of Father’s familiar scrawl across the page has her curling in on her herself, as if physically preparing herself will negate the emotional pain she knows his words will inflict (because his opinion of her still matters, despite it all); her eyes burn and her throat tightens, but she manages to keeping her stuttering breath quiet.

The last thing she needs is anyone to come in right no—

Talons prick through her sleeves and skin as Huey alights on her arm; the pain wrenches her back into the moment and she gasps, loudly, flinching so violently she sends a full inkwell clattering to the floor; the letter slips free as she jerks - the move, somehow, does not dislodge the old owl - and flutters to the ground.

---

---

It was the day before Christmas and Samuel Griffith was at the house of his family in south London. He expended a great amount of energy on keeping up the appearance that he did not move through these familiar rooms like a ghost coming to haunt these halls. He felt like that; he felt that until he found the strength to go through with his plans, he would be stuck in a mirror dimension of the life he knew, one where everything was coated in a hostile sheen and where the threat of dissolution loomed over him every second of the day. He shook this persistent delusion only when sitting down at the table for meals, or under the watchful eyes of his sister Agatha, whom he could never disappoint. Then he compressed himself back into the man he ought to be, someone solid and in touch with reality, who would hold up the walls of this house and take care of everyone under its roof.

When he heard the loud noise from the guest room upstairs, he discovered that it was not only Agatha who could force him into the wherewithal to be present. It was also Eleanor. He could not disappoint her either. He feared that he already did, because he neglected her. By this time, he should have been able to provide something for her—should have. She lived in the guest room still, that was now "Eleanor's Room." The door was open, and he stepped into the entryway to see what was going on.

The noise was caused by a very ornery owl that clawed at the girl's shoulder and an inkwell that had fallen to the floor in the struggle. Samuel was at her side in a few steps and took hold of the bird. It tried to hack at him, but he pressed its wings to its side and resolutely tucked the owl under his right arm, where it could only ineffectively scratch at his jacket. He knew this ill-tempered bird.

"Gilbert's owl," he said and looked at Eleanor. She looked pale and shaken. "He wrote you a letter," Samuel concluded. His gaze flickered to the floor, where a piece of parchment lay. Spilled ink threatened to soak the paper. He hesitated for a second, then he picked up the letter.

"I don't want to read it without your permission," he said to Eleanor and he offered her the parchment. Looking at her face, and knowing his brother, he hardly would have written to wish his daughter Merry Christmas. "Are you all right?" he asked finally, and even that vague of a question somehow seemed invasive.

---

It took far too long for Nell to realize someone had entered the room (at least, in her opinion); had she left the door open? She blinked once, twice and then shot to her feet – her hands jerked towards Huey as he pecked and flailed under her uncle’s arm, then pulled back when she realized it might look like she was reaching for the letter he’d just picked up.

Instead, she darted down to the floor. Pinching the almost empty glass vial between her fingers, trying to avoid getting too much more ink on her fingers, she rose to her feet—

And found herself in a dilemma: she couldn’t put the vial back on her desk without risking a ring of ink ingrained into the wood, as ink slid down the side and threatened to drip off the bottom. Jerking up her palm, she caught a droplet for the sake of the rug underfoot as she turned to her uncle.

She'd never felt so... lost, before, so uncertain than when faced with the man before her. If possible, she drew into herself even more, pulling her arms in as close as she'd dare without threatening her own clothes with ink, feeling very much like a misbehaving child caught drawing on the walls. What a right mess she'd made - was still making.

“I,” her voice shook as badly as her hands still did and she paused, trying (and failing) to collect herself, “I am sorry—I’ll help, of course, certainly, clean this up…”

Once she found out where to safely store the inkwell in hand; she feinted towards her vanity, but then drew up short as her uncle offered the letter. She froze, then quickly took a half-step back as her vision burned and she blinked furiously as her vision blurred a touch: “No!" Then, looking at the letter again, she reconsidered more softly: "That is—yes?... I'm sorry, you should not have to but—Father, he said... and you should know...”

Her eyes met her uncle's for a heartbeat – as much as she did not want the man before her to know how little her own Father thought of her (like he needed see it put to paper, when he could easily witness it all first hand), Samuel had a right to know of Father's impending arrival – before nodding to emphasize her point. It was the closest she'd ever get to the vulnerability required to give him exact verbal permission.

Sniffling, her red-rimmed gaze skittered down at the owl in his grasp. She steeled herself for what was to come by briefly changing the subject, reaching weakly out towards the messenger bird with her free hand.

“Huey—he didn’t mean—” she swallowed around the lump in her throat, ignoring how her arm stung in several spots, distantly hoping she wasn’t bleeding… at least not noticeably, as that would not help Huey’s case. “…he’s likely, probably just h-hungry…”

---

---