Every little victory don't matter when nobody seems to care
Winning ten bucks on a scratch-off lotto ticket
The keys you thought disappeared
Every vacant moment you've exhausted all the options
That you thought could fill the hole
Every star you're wishing on just hoping for a little self-control
Tired of feeling selfish
You're tired of feeling restless
You're tired of feeling down
Sometimes he wished he hadn't gone to the Ministry to be turned back to normal. When he was under the influence of the New Year's magic, he'd been happy. An unnatural, pervasive happiness — but happy nonetheless. Now he was normal, and things were normal, and he didn't think he liked normal.

Jemima was going to have a baby, and Noble was scared; Daffodil had a baby, and maybe he'd saved her life, but it wasn't like it mattered; he had not spoken to Miss Hunniford since December. He spent a lot of time in his workshop. Sometimes he worried that Miss Henrietta Cartwright was the only person who understood him, because she was the only person who knew the worst thing Noble had ever done. Sometimes this, all of it, felt like a way for him to make up for the Sanditon hurricane, because he could not come up with another explanation.

He was working on calming potions. They were always popular, and now that it was spring, some mamas were collecting them before the summer started. A knock came at the door. "Come in," Noble called, tone already exasperated. He expected Clem, or maybe one of the other residents — he wasn't expecting anyone.

He missed Grace. He didn't mind when she came to bother him. Well — he'd minded in the past. But now, he missed her enough that he did not think he would mind the intrusion.

Tilda MacFusty Philomena Sprout

  

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set by Bee

That…was the last time Tilda ever tried to feed two groups of baby mooncalves without separating them into their own pens. Her vivarium pens still needed to be upgraded though, and she thought that perhaps she’d done it enough times to prevent the absolute stampede that ended up happening. Of course, no one could hardly blame the baby mooncalves. After all it wasn’t as if she’d just fed them hours previously and planned to do it again in the next few hours.

At least, she thought as she made her way down the street to the Greengrass residence, the two sets of parents had control over themselves when it was feeding time. Because the adolescents certainly did not. It was fortuitous that she was going to Noble’s to pick up a potion for one of her patients; she was nursing a massive headache (and probably a bruise on her forehead) from being head butted by two adolescent mooncalves who weren’t quite aware of their own strength yet.

After going through the back gate, Tilda knocked and waited for Noble’s answer. When it came (was it just her or did he sound frustrated?) she poked her head around the door first to give him a weary smile before she stepped all the way through. “Hullo Noble,” She greeted mildly; cautiously, before setting her healer’s bag on the workbench with a sigh, making one of her stray curls flutter out of her face before falling right back to where it had originally been. She brushed it out of the way. “Sorry, I know I don’t have an appointment.”

  

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