September, 29. 1892 - late evening, HOH Room Ravenclaw Tower
Basil was about ready to crack upon picking up the letter from Merlin with caution, and the first words on Atticus' note nearly made him do it.
It hadn't been a great night thus far. Reeling from his conversation with Lissington, Basil's head was anywhere but on courting. Not at least, in the way his family wished it. He felt sick to his stomach and the very thought of Atticus or Mama or even his dear, beloved Tillie, made something twist into a nasty contortion in the brunette's belly. He felt physically ill trying to stomach the reality of everything he was now going to have to face head-on; seeing Merlin tapping against his window looking exasperated had only amplified the sensation.
Family communication.
It was with shaking hands that Basil let the furry little floof in and accepted the letter. Merlin, for having lingered outside the window likely a bit, did not seem altogether as dramatic as usual at being inconvenienced. Instead, he settled on Basil's head and fluffed his wings comfortingly, a sign to the brunette on how dire he must really look for the
owl to feel he needed comfort.
Grateful, and perhaps distracted by this touching sentiment, Basil made the mistake of actually opening his brother's letter. There was no version of this moment in which
anything Atticus could have said would not make him feel worse (forget about better). Basil knew he should have left it to the morning without evening knowing the gist.
Instead, he opened the letter, read it, and nearly incinerated it on sight.
Anger and then more grief roared on a current up and out through the professor's body. Basil could feel it, igniting his every fibre of being in self righteous indignation and then immediately getting snuffed, leaving only smoke in its wake. He had no right to be angry with his brother, even if the
tactless, disrespectful manner in which he'd been informed of the other's betrothal was killing him. What right did he have really to claim any ounce of respect from Atticus? They weren't brothers, not really. Not the way they'd once been anyway. It made sense that he'd
write about the news, as if it were nothing more important than a transaction of business like any other. Basil knew it was not; for better or worse, he
knew Atticus and this was not an announcement made lightly nor a decision that was made in the moment. That thought too dug the knife in deeper.
Was he so hapless not to notice his own brother's interests? Was Atticus so far removed from him to not even deign to mention it? A nasty little voice creeped up into the back of Basil's mind daring him to write to Anthony.
Anthony probably knew all about this sordid affair,
months ago. Jealousy, anger, despair, and betrayal all warred within the youngest Foxwood and he crumpled the letter between his fingers. He didn't have the mental capacity for this right now. He'd answer when he bloody well wanted to.
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