Ford was so startled by the word attack he nearly fell off the stair that he had only ascended a half a second prior. He wasn't a seer but suddenly had a dreadful vision of the future as he tried to explain to Morgan why this supposedly quick errand had taken him so long. He didn't want to have to cast spells on anyone, but tensions only seemed to be running higher with each passing second, and now the Minister-elect was saying some rather unkind things about the way Mr. Daphnel had died.

"Listen, maybe we could —" he tried to break in, as he climbed a few more stairs.

---

  

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Set by Lady!

"— And it may not be your fault you're dead," Oz continued, steamrolling right over the young man on the stairs as though he hadn't heard him at all. "But it's certainly your fault she's unhappy, and that's reason enough for you not to be welcome here."

Christabel hadn't confided any of her marital issues to him except on two occasions — once before she'd married, when she admitted that although she thought herself in love with Daphnel she knew he didn't reciprocate, and once directly after Daphnel had died, when she had been inconsolable with grief. Aside from that she had found other confidantes — but he had eyes. It was obvious to anyone who was paying attention that she had been unhappy most of the year, withdrawn into herself and avoiding society except to visit her family. She'd only come alive again during the election, when she'd been involved in the campaign, and he had been hopeful that it would stick... but not even two days after the election was called, she'd shown up back in their parlor, as shattered as she'd been the day of Daphnel's death. Oz hadn't prevented her from marrying him in the first place, convinced that maybe someday they could find something approaching happiness together even if it wasn't what his sister deserved — but it was obvious at this point that her marriage to Daphnel was bringing her nothing but misery, and since she was no longer legally bound to him there was no reason at all to continue it.

---

  

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MJ is the light of my life <3

Usually the recollection that someday everyone who knew him would be long dead filled him with dread, but in this very specific situation Victor was almost looking forward to it. He ground his teeth together as his brother-in-law talked about the supposed method of his death. Victor did often wish they'd chosen a slightly more flattering cover story, but in his defense it was difficult to plan anything with no warning in the immediate aftermath of his death. His ego hadn't been his primary concern at the moment, but now everyone just thought the same thing Dempsey did — even if Dempsey was the only one impolite enough to actually say it.

As for making Christabel unhappy — maybe it was true, but what else was he supposed to have done? How could he have cheered or comforted her when just being in the same room was enough to send her back into tears in those early days? And not to mention that she wasn't the only one struggling with the adjustments this year. He was dead, and he rather expected he deserved to be considered the victim in this scenario, if anyone was.

"Fine!" he shouted, with a flippant two-handed gesture as though he intended to push Dempsey away (though he did not actually make contact). "Keep her, then."

---

  

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Fabulous set by Lady!

Ford didn't think this was an ideal outcome to the conversation, but at least Mr. Daphnel didn't seem likely to storm through Minister Dempsey at the moment.

"Maybe I can write her a letter for you, Mr. Daphnel," he suggested hastily, hoping to distract the pair of them before they found something else to argue about. "If you want to come back to the Ministry?"

---

  

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Set by Lady!

Christabel paced nervously in her mother's study, her heart pounding in her chest. She had been willing to do anything to be able to touch Victor again, even if it meant resorting to that fucking drug, but his reaction had been far from what she had expected. The rejection stung, the feeling of months of small rejections crashing over her like an ice cold wave and the weight of her actions pressed heavily on her.

Ozymandias had been sent to run interference, and Christabel trust that he could handle not only himself but her husband - former husband? It had been a long few days for all of the Dempsey's and they didn't need this on top of everything else.

As she listened at the door to the exchange taking place downstairs, she felt a mix of anger, sadness, and frustration. Victor had made it clear that he didn't want her around him, and now he was here acting the wounded party and stepping up to Oz in what was ostensibly his house. She had hoped that the drug would bridge the gap between the living and the deceased, but it seemed to have only pushed them further apart.

With each passing moment, and the heightening of the voice below, her anxiety grew, and she continued to pace, back and forth, in the dimly lit room. She had to know what was happening downstairs. She opened the door as quietly as possible and stood at the railing, looking down on the open hallway and the exchange below her.

Christabel stood at the banister, her fingers gripping the wooden rail so tightly that her knuckles turned white. From her vantage point, she could see the drama unfolding in the hall below. Victor's voice rung out, harsh and unforgiving, as he directed those words at her brother. "Keep her then."

The words cut through her like a knife, and for the hundredth time this year, her heart shattered into a million pieces. It was as if the ground had been ripped out from beneath her, and she clutched at her chest, feeling the pain as if it were physical. Victor had made it painfully clear that he didn't want her, and the sound of those words in the open air, echoing in the grand hall of the Daphnel estate, made the rejection all the more agonizing - her brother, the ministry man and every servant had heard it.

As she stood there unseen by her brother and husband, a whirlwind of emotions. Anger, frustration, and a profound sense of foolishness coursed through her. All those months of mourning for a love that had been entirely unrequited had been for nothing but her own humiliation. She had yearned for Victor's touch, for his presence, and she had believed that the drug would be their salvation, a way for them to bridge the gap between the living and the deceased. But now, it was abundantly clear that she had been a fool.

"I guess we should be glad that we are being honest at last, Victor," Christabel said her voice wavering but stronger than she had expected, cold and laced with a bitterness she couldn't hide. Her eyes filled with unshed tears. She didn't dare let go of the bannister, she could feel her legs shaking and she wasn't sure she would remain standing if she tried to walk.

  

---

I am my mother's savage daughter, The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones

I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice
MJ made glory

Victor hadn't realized Christabel was within earshot, and he didn't know how much she'd heard. Given the way things had been going for him lately, probably not a single word her brother had said against him, but everything he had said which might have been construed as even slightly cruel. He wouldn't have put it past the Dempseys to employ a little selective hearing when it suited them, and she was looking for excuses to twist his words anyway — otherwise the way she had stormed out yesterday made little to no sense. He'd admitted something to her that he hadn't said to anyone else, plumbed the depths of the despair that had settled in him since January... and somehow this existential dread on his part had been construed as spousal neglect from her end. The mental gymnastics there were dizzying, but until about an hour ago he'd been too focused on the uncertainty of whether or not she was dead to feel frustrated by it.

She was certainly not dead now, so that put all those doubts to rest once and for all, he supposed. Victor still didn't know how to explain what had happened yesterday, but he knew that her looming haughtily over him and pretending he had always been cruel to her was helping neither of them.

"Belle," he said, turning towards her. "Talk to me, please."

---

  

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Fabulous set by Lady!

Christabel caught her brother's eye and gave him a subtle nod, a silent signal that he could stand down, that she was willing to engage in the conversation with Victor. She then turned and moved towards a room off the hall. As she descended the stairs, her footsteps were quiet, and she wore a pale blue tea dress that contrasted starkly with the greys and lavenders that had marked her wardrobe in the last year.

When she entered the room, she chose a chair and seated herself, her posture rigidly upright. Her right hand covered her left, which rested on her knee. The room felt tense, as if the very air had been charged with anxiety.

She took a deep breath, her eyes meeting his. "Victor," she began, her voice tremulous, "I admit that I didnt really expect you to come." She paused, struggling to find the words to convey the depth of her emotions, barely trusting herself to speak.

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them back.

  

---

I am my mother's savage daughter, The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones

I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice
MJ made glory

Ozymandias cast a glance up at his sister as she made her presence at the upstairs railing known, and for a fleeting moment he was proud of her. She was holding her head high, standing up for herself, putting her foot down for her own happiness... and then she crumpled like so much wet paper. He'd been expecting this, of course, and that was why he'd been so adamant that Daphnel not be allowed up to see her, but it was still disappointing. She was going to let him talk, and he was going to say whatever pandering things he'd said when he was wooing her in the first place, and she had such dreadfully low standards for herself that Oz had to assume she would talk herself back to Hogsmeade inside an hour.

He couldn't stop her, though; this was her house, too, and if she chose to entertain Daphnel that was ultimately up to her (and, as had already been pointed out to him, removing him forcefully from the premise wouldn't be easily accomplished). So perhaps he had to allow it, but he did not have to be pleased about it. "I'm using that room," he hissed to Daphnel as the spirit moved to follow Christa, which was entirely untrue. Then, to the man in the Ministry robes at the bottom of the stairs, "Mister — er, you," he said, realizing he'd never given a name. "Mr. Daphnel may have ten minutes to conduct his business, and after that I expect him gone," he blustered. Then, in case the Spirit Division employee thought he wasn't serious or that he was the sort who could be trifled with, he added, "And I expect I'll want to review your division's policy on this. It seems odd to me that your personnel facilitate unwanted visits and have no recourse for trespass." He paused just long enough to see that this had the desired effect (it did — the younger man's mouth had fallen open helplessly as he tried to conjure a response). "You can send the procedure to me when you're back in the office. And courtesy copy Morgan on it, of course."

(Oz had never cared a whit about Desiderius Morgan's profession before today, but in this instance it came in handy; threats seemed so much weightier, he reflected, when one could attach a relevant name to it. Not that he had any intention whatsoever of actually reviewing any of the spirit division's policies. He had much more pressing matters to attend to — but he did want to ensure that this man had a very vested interest in ensuring Daphnel adhered strictly to the ten minute timer Oz had set).

That done, Oz turned on his heel and went back into the study — and immediately after shutting the door, went to the window and carefully opened one of the shutters. The room Daphnel and Christabel had gone into was right above this one. It was unlikely that the window in the upstairs room would be left open at this time of year, but one could hope.

---

The following 2 users Like Ozymandias Dempsey's post:2 users Like Ozymandias Dempsey's post
   Desiderius Morgan, Lowri Dempsey

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MJ is the light of my life <3

At least she'd granted him that much (though her brother seemed irritated enough to give him even this). Victor followed Christabel into the room and hovered between her and the door. She was sitting ramrod straight. Victor obviously couldn't feel the air in the room but he had the sense that if he could have it would have been too close.

"Well, I hardly had much of a choice, did I?" he said, with a bitter undercurrent to his words he couldn't quite contain. "You left without giving me a chance to explain. You gave no indication that you ever intended to come back. And I couldn't very well write you a letter," he said with a cynical twist of his lip. (He had tried to write her, via proxy, and it hadn't gone well — that was a whole other mess to disentangle, which he wouldn't get into until he'd finished with this mess. First things first, and all). "So I had to come, didn't I?"

---

  

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Fabulous set by Lady!

Christabel's eyes remained heavy-lidded, the exhaustion of the day, the year, the overwhelming grief and sadness she had worn like a favourite dress for months, pressing down on her. She couldn't help but feel like she was drowning, and she desperately needed answers, closure, and some semblance of understanding.

"Perhaps a better question then is why?" she asked Victor, her tone devoid much expression. Her voice was flat and tired, reflecting the immense weariness that had settled in her bones. She had so many questions, so much confusion, she needed to make sense of it all, but she was struggling to find the will to care.

"Why are you here, Victor?" Her gaze bore into his ghostly form, searching for any sign of explanation or clarity. Her heart ached, and the weight of the world felt as if it were resting on her shoulders. She longed for resolution, for some way to heal the wounds that had torn them apart, but it seemed like an insurmountable challenge.

  

---

I am my mother's savage daughter, The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones

I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice
MJ made glory

Victor opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again. It seemed insufficient to say the obvious (you're my wife), especially given how her brother had deflected the same comment only moments earlier. And that was only half of why, anyway. At least some of the impulse had been obligation, feeling as though he needed to go through certain actions in order to uphold his end of the deal as her husband — in the same way he'd made so many decisions without thinking based primarily on his sense of family duty — but that wasn't all.

"You were dead. I saw you dead," he said — the latter sentence not an insistence but a clarification. He didn't know what had actually occurred last night, at this point, but he did know what he had seen when he came into her room.

(Was he going crazy? Was that what was actually happening here? It was a terrifying idea — he did not know that he existed in any meaningful way, beyond the thoughts and feelings that he experienced. If he was losing his grip on those, would he still be here in a year?)

"What happened yesterday?" he asked, tone taking on a pleading bent. He needed her to come up with some explanation that made sense, and the idea that she might not know what he was talking about terrified him.

---

  

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Fabulous set by Lady!

Christabel listened to his response, her exhaustion and sadness made it feel like she was listening from the bottle of a well. His words about her being dead and his clarification made her realize the gravity of the situation. What he had seen in her room had undoubtedly shaken him to the core.

Taking a deep breath, she decided to explain, even if it meant exposing her own vulnerabilities. She met his gaze, her eyes locked onto his ghostly form, and her tone turned bitter, filled with self-recrimination. "I took a drug, Victor, a potion called Spiritus Sancti. It... it allowed me to become like a ghost for a short time." She paused for a moment, her voice catching in her throat.

"I thought it would allow us to... close," she continued, the implication obvious and her laughter ringing bitterly in the room. The idea that the drug would bring them together, that it would mend the rift between them, now felt like a cruel joke. Her eyes bore into his face, and she couldn't help but feel that his presence was more about solving the mystery of her actions than about her as a person.

"I suppose I was desperate, I thought it would change something to be with you, like that again. Needlessly to say I was desperate. The outcome wasn't exactly what I was expecting." Her voice trembled with sincerity and regret.

  

---

I am my mother's savage daughter, The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones

I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice
MJ made glory

This was a lot to unpack. At least she hadn't denied the experience entirely. But a drug that "allowed" one to "become like a ghost for a short time" left more questions than answers. Had the drug actually killed her for a period of time? Had her body been alive in any meaningful way while she had undergone this? It didn't sound like the sort of thing that could be legal, but that was hardly the chief concerns at the moment. She'd taken this presumably incredibly dangerous drug that had left her body lifeless allegedly to bring the two of them closer. She had expected him to be overjoyed at the notion that she was a ghost, he realized — and now her reaction and storming out of the house made marginally more sense. Christabel said it hadn't been what she expected, but what she really meant was that his response hadn't been what she was expecting. His feelings had not been appropriate in her view, and now she was punishing him for them by running off to her family and sending her brother to bar his way and make threats.

"You could have told me," he said, practically seething. It was only years of etiquette ingrained in him that kept him from swearing, because if there was only one correct response to discovering his wife's presumably dead body on the bed she could have fucking told him what she was doing. If this whole thing was supposed to have been for their benefit, she was spending a good deal of energy making his feelings all about her.

---

  

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Fabulous set by Lady!

Victor's reaction to her explanation only served to fuel Christabel's anger. His seething frustration and his words ignited an ember that had been glowing for months. She couldn't contain the exasperation that boiled up within her.

"WHEN?" she half screamed in frustration, her voice cracked and unyielding. "You've barely spoken to me in a year!" Her voice wavered between anger and desperation as she continued. "You were gone in the mornings, absent in the evenings. I hardly saw you, Victor, and we certainly didn't share the intimacy of our lives."

Christabel stood, now face to face with him, her eyes narrowed and her anger more evident than her weariness. "and I tried!" she insisted, her voice laden with frustration. "In my room, I tried to tell you that I had done this to spend time with you. But you started yelling about how little you wanted me there. What was the right response to that, Victor? Huh?"

She began to pace the room, her hand running through her disheveled hair. "Perhaps that is my mistake," she continued, her voice filled with pent-up emotion. "I've spent the last year sitting around, a passive participant in my own life. Maybe that's what you've come to expect of me. That my entire day is sitting around, waiting for you to decide you want a brief conversation."

Her agitation was palpable, her emotions swirling within her. "So tell me, Victor, what should we have done?" She stopped and turned to him, her eyes locked onto his ghostly form. "Just kept on with you ignoring my presence, your family wishing I wasn't there?" Her words were a challenge, a plea for him to understand the impossible situation she felt she had been thrust into, her sympathy for him limited, as far as she could see his life hadn't changed all that much - he still socialised, saw his friends, proceeded to be part of society.

  

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I am my mother's savage daughter, The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones

I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice
MJ made glory

Christabel erupted then, and it was nearly a minute before she stopped speaking long enough for him to even consider trying to interject. Which he would have done, if she'd so much as paused for breath, because what she was saying was just wildly inaccurate. He had been in the same house as her the entire time he'd been dead (and not to mention that a year ago they were on their goddamn honeymoon, so she was just being melodramatic at this point). He left the house sometimes but he was hardly gone more frequently than he would have been if he had been living and going to the hospital every day, so it wasn't as though she had been suffering cruel neglect at his hands. And he'd been mostly leaving for her sake, anyway, because she kept bursting into tears when he tried to talk to her, which wasn't exactly comfortable for either of them. He'd felt like an interloper in his own house with her lingering in the rooms mourning him, and that wasn't his fault. And if she had been unhappy with the state of affairs, the hallway that separated their rooms was no wider coming from her direction than it was from his — he couldn't be held solely responsible for how little they talked. She could have said something, and he would have changed his habits — or at least tried to, if she could keep from getting tearful when he spoke to her longer than thirty minutes.

And as for what he had apparently been "yelling" at her yesterday — that was a ridiculously far reach from what he'd actually said. Was she twisting his words on purpose, or had she entirely misunderstood him? (He did not have an opportunity to ask, hell bent as she was on going through a full manifesto of imagined grievances before inhaling). Perhaps uncharitably (or perhaps not — she was yelling at him, after all, so it was hard to give her much benefit of the doubt when it came to altruistic intentions) he assumed the former. It hurt somewhere deep in his chest that he had admitted to something so deeply personal, something he had not managed to say aloud to anyone, and she had twisted it to make it a barb aimed at her.

"It's not all about you!" he shouted, right over the top of whatever she had carried on saying — because he couldn't listen to her any more, he had entirely run out of mental capacity to take in any more false allegations and accusations and certainly out of the emotional capacity to respond empathetically to them. "MY DEATH IS NOT ABOUT YOU."

---

(this would have been in parallel with the "perhaps that is my mistake" bit. Figured I'd stop here and give her a chance to respond!)

  

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Fabulous set by Lady!

As Victor's shout reverberated through the room, cutting through Christabel's rapid speech, her words stilled. The sudden silence left a cold emptiness in the air. His declaration that his death was not about her echoed in her ears, and for a moment, she felt a chilling realization settle over her.

"And yet you were not the one who lost everything, Victor," Christabel responded, her voice steady but filled with a quiet cold sorrow. It dawned on her then that he had not considered the cost to her, the price she had paid in trying to remain a wife to him, even in death. She had lost not just her husband but her future, her autonomy, and the children she would never have.

"I knew you did not love me when we married," she continued, her voice trembling in vulnerability and self-reproach. "I told myself we would have a lifetime to come to that, that we should have come together at your passing, but you wanted nothing to do with me." The weight of the unspoken pain hung heavy in the room, and she hated herself for the tremor in her voice. She hated that her brother had been right, that he had warned her, and that he had been correct. She hated admitting Ozy was right about what was for dinner.

In that moment, the truth of their situation became painfully clear. The gap between them, whether in life or death, seemed insurmountable. The love she had yearned for had slipped through her fingers, leaving behind a bitter residue of regret and unfulfilled dreams. "So what do we do now Victor?" she asked flatly.

  

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I am my mother's savage daughter, The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones

I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice
MJ made glory