December 19th, 1890 — Greengrass Home, Bartonburg

This was an awful winter. Wet, sticky, cold—fewer society events than she remembered hearing about in the years before, and no official coming out to warrant attending proper parties. Ford had promised to take her and Verity out for the New Year's festivities, but she had to hear any futher specifics, so she decided to spend her morning doing what she had for the last six months since her graduation: embroidering yet another handkerchief, seating in her favorite chair in the sitting room. The rain trickled down the window, providing white noise that sent her in and out of consciousness as the hour passed. She might not have been aware of her own drowsiness, if not for the noise.

First it was the distinct sound of the floo network coming from the fireplace, and then it was the sound of a heavy piece of metal clattering to the floor. Grace rose to her feet with a jolt and laid eyes upon the source of her fright—a person. A man. An unfamiliar man. He was coughing from the sudden cloud of floo powder that had risen from the carpet, probably since the metal container that he'd knocked to the floor had, until moments ago, held the family's floo powder supply.

Still, he was a strange man—and she was a woman—and they were alone.

Naturally, she picked up the nearest object and chucked it at him. A candlestick and its holder.

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Open to a gentleman, preferably an unmarried one for Maximum Amusement.

  

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Lunch at Blacks had been a largely liquid affair - as expected - and by the end Enoch was feeling full of something approaching festive cheer. The coming few days spent exclusively with his family were likely to be dull as ditchwater despite his mother’s excellent hosting skills so he felt it was perfectly justified to fortify himself in advance.

Which had unfortunately led to a slight slurring of his words when he had been floo-ing home. He landed heavily but thankfully remained on his feet, stumbling only when he took his first step and immediately kicked something.

“Buggering bollocks, who put that there?!” Enoch demanded through a cough, glancing around only to discover that this was not his room, not his house, and not one of his servants was present.

Confusion reigned for a moment as he pieced together what he must have done but any further clarity was lost the moment he was unceremoniously hit in the face by heavy metal and the smell of wax. Hand pressed against his injured eye Enoch turned on his attacker only to discover a young lady.

I’ll never live this down, he thought, before annoyance took him over.

“Who were you expecting that you react so aggressively? I might have been St. Nick himself.”

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If she would have waited a moment longer, she would have noticed the quality of his coat’s fabric or the posh accent which she spoke. She regretted it immediately, though was at a loss for what to say in response. Sorry? Was she sorry? There was no way to be certain of his intentions despite his apparent exasperation.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone. That’s why—“ she began, but then her eyes fell upon the sight of the growing bruise in the corner of his eye near his temple. She frowned and stepped forward, arm reached out just slightly.

“You startled me,“ she said a bit quieter. “I didn’t mean to—” Well, she had. She had meant to hit him, but that was before she realized he wasn’t some cunning assailant! (Or was he...? No, probably not. Probably.)

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At least his attacker seemed remorseful. And no one seemed to be rushing to her defence so he could deduce that she was mostly alone, which was not a state one often found young ladies of the genteel type in and were it not for the bruise he could rapidly feel forming on his face he would have thought things through a little more attentively.

As it was his face hurt like hell and he had not entirely recovered from his lunchtime revelries.

“I’m sure you didn’t Miss…” He squinted, trying to place her, but only succeeding in conjuring an image of the last woman who had grievously injured him. How was it that all the mad ones seemed to find him? “Nevermind.” He looked around the room with interest. “Where am I exactly?”

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No, it was now clear he had no attention to attack her. He must have stumbled upon their fireplace by mistake, which might have made for an easy fix if not for the supply of floo powder that now coated their sitting room carpet. She would have trouble explaining that one.

Suddenly a wave of horror came over her. She would have to explain this—him. She had never been alone in the company of an unrelated gentleman, and it was only because of a visit her mother had paid to an old friend that moment that she found herself alone in the sitting room. If her brothers could see her now—if anyone could see her now—well... she'd be as good as ruined! Surely!

"My family's sitting room," she managed through the thickness beginning to set in the back of her throat. She could not cry, she could not panic. It would be most unbecoming of her in the presence of a gentleman, even if she would have given anything for him to disappear. She could press him to apparate out, but it would draw the attention of the servants (or worse, her sisters upstairs!). What option did she have then?

"You have to leave," she said, jumping into motion suddenly. She seized the candlestick from the floor, placed it on the table, and turned back at him, only to hear the sound of metal hitting the carpet once more. With knitted brows and a deep breath and grabbed it once more, this time taking great pains to ensure its uprightness. Then, finally, she looked back at him.

"The door. You need to go through the door." She nodded. Surely he understood.

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The clanging of the candlesticks - were there two? He wasn't sure. After the burst of clarity that had come with his newfound black eye the fuzziness of lunch had rather snuck up on him again - Enoch found himself terribly confused. He had been going home hadn't he? Had this witch drawn him here?

"I shall go back the way I came thank you very much," he said, turning back to the fireplace and rummaging amongst the ornaments on the mantle, trying to find the floo powder and succeeding mostly in knocking things over.

"I am not some common house cat to be put out the door."

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   Grace Greengrass

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Grace's eyes widened as he rummaged through their belongings in search of what she assumed was the floo powder, and with no clear direction Grace frantically glanced in every direction—even towards the walls, Merlin help her—in hopes that nobody would come to check on the ruckus (and it was a ruckus).

She was going to be in so much trouble, between the scattered floo powder, the displaced decorations, and the gentleman trying to climb through the fireplace! With no other choice, Grace moved towards him and grabbed hold of his arm from behind, giving it a tug. "You can't go that way. You've sent our floo powder supply across the carpet," she tried to explain, finding it difficult to pull his notably taller, more muscular frame away from their more delicate items. He moved with such carelessness that she could only assume the hit to the head had sent him into a state of delusion.

(Merlin save her. She could not manage this. Not alone. But she had no choice.)

"You're in no state to leave magically, either." The bruise was growing and was nearly purple in color; there was no way he could return home without evidence of the encounter, even if he was too muddled to remember it. "You have to go out the door. You must."

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   Elladora Black

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The young lady, and her delicate insistent hands - oh how familiar he was with that sort! - did seem very insistent that he come away from the fireplace so he did as he was bid. Mostly to be gentlemanly but also because he had deduced that kicking at the fire would likely get him nowhere.

His patent leather shoes slipped in the dust as he turned, momentarily unbalancing him, and he took hold of her arm to steady himself. She was warm and terribly, terribly soft. Much more pleasant an aspect than the promise of snowy streets beyond. Was he even near his home? Perhaps he ought to apparate?

"Thank Merlin it was floo," he said, stooping over her shorter and infinitely pleasing frame, speaking low as though they were not the only people present. "I would hate to think I was stepping upon a cherished pet or worse yet a family member."

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   Grace Greengrass

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He moved, but it took no less than ten seconds for her to consider that having one of their housemaids discover her dilemma via the destruction of their fireplace mantle was preferable to having a gentleman—injured, handsome, andpossibly intoxicated, she realized as he hovered over her—standing so close and speaking in such an intimate, hushed tone. She stared up at him, heart pounding and a wide-eyed expression of fear frozen on her face.

"Well, you were two inches away from my father," she squeaked out, glancing past his shoulder to confirm that the disguised urn was, in fact, still in its place. It was, and it was a good thing to; she could explain away the floo powder and the metal, but she had absolutely zero desire to explain how her father's ashes had scattered across the room. (Not to mention that the prospect itself made her stomach turn!)

"You're hurt. You can't apparate, and my floo powder is lost. We'll go through the door quietly—" Hopefully he was capable in his state; if not she might have to use the muffliato charm and she was very out of practice. "—and you can do whatever you wish from there." Whether that meant apparating away or walking until someone had pity on him, she didn't know. She cringed to think he might do something that led to an injury, but what was she to do?

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At the mention of her father Enoch glanced over his shoulder, expecting the man to be hovering behind him, possibly armed and furious, but there was no one there and he briefly entertained the notion that the young lady might be mad. Was her father perhaps a ghost only she could see? He took a careful step out of the pile of ash on the floor just to be safe - one certainly didn’t want to upset a ghost at Christmas of all times!

“I most certainly can apparate miss, but for your sake I shall spare you the sight,” he said, sure he was making perfect sense. Young ladies were susceptible to shocks were they not and he was always dubious as to the respectability of ladies apparating - surely no responsible parent would sanction their daughters being able to go wherever they pleased without chaperoning?

“Lead the way.”

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Grace opened her mouth to argue, but promptly closed it. There was no point, not when a servant or sibling could come strolling into the sitting room at any time. It had been an awful long time since anyone had asked if she wanted more tea, so no doubt they would come sooner rather than later!

He agreed to follow her, and now she was faced with a new obstacle: getting him out of the house without being seen in the light of day. She was not so worried about kicking him to the streets; plenty of gentleman made calls to the homes on their streets... though far less stumbled out the door with a bruise on their face. Well, nothing could be perfect, she supposed. It was better than the alternatives.

She grabbed at the sleeve of his coat, making sure to avoid the muscle that lie beneath, and tugged him towards the room's exit. Grace had once mourned the Greengrass family's move to Bartonburg, but she could not imagine leading a gentleman through their more sizable country home. This home was sill spacious, but definitely more compact—they would have to traverse less than fifty feet before they reached the exit.

"You must be quiet. Please," she whispered, being forced to stand uncomfortably close to him as she peeked out of the room and into the corridors. Merlin had spared her after all, at least for now: the halls were empty. She looked up at him, at his striking blue eyes and the nasty bruise that she would not soon forget, and then stepped with him into the hallway. She pointed down one of the halls in silence, hoping he would have the sense to follow the most basic directions.

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Enoch took one step and discovered, to his chagrin, that at some point he had developed the grace of a decapod with a penchant for Tennessee Whiskey. Perhaps he ought to have been more cautious about his lunch? Rather than allowing Macnair to talk him into decimating a bottle of brandy between them…

Lords above, he was becoming dizzy and though the injury to his face had subsided to a mere ache the aftereffects to his cranium were such that it felt as though a stone were rattling around in a tin can. It would likely take more than a few hours of sleep to see off this particular headache - Merlin, he hadn’t been in this state since...well, a week or so really. He had, after all, spent much of the last decade getting into precisely this sort of state and was something of an expert on it by now.

Which meant that he was able to walk in a more or less straight line, though his feet were positioned at a variety of decangles at any given moment and were it not for the young lady pulling him towards the door he would likely not be managing quite so well. Which was a rare thing in ladies still in their decarian years! Yes, despite the fact that she had clocked him in the face there were altogether worse prospects to have stumbled across.

Even if she was treating him as a venomous tentacula she was desperate to get rid of!

“Oh you young ladies, you do have to worry about every little thing do you not?”

He did at least have the good sense to keep his voice low, and he lowered it a decimal point or so more as they travelled down the empty corridor.

“Which way next?”

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Focused on her surroundings, on every squeak of the floorboard above and every rattle of the windows as the rain droplets continued their assault, Grace was not nearly as focused on the gentleman as she supposed she ought to be. She only swung her head around to look at him as he spoke, and she stared at him with wide, alarmed eyes. No talking, she wanted to say, but knew that it would only add more unnecessary noise. No, she couldn't risk it.

She gave his sleeve a gentle tug and motioned to the corner up ahead. It was the last turn before the door, but she knew that they would be in full view of anyone who wanted to see them. The stairwell was around the corner, as was the entranceway into the dining room, as was the main foyer. She moved slowly, her heartbeat increasing with every step. This should not have become such a dramatic ordeal; if she had only screamed like a proper young lady would upon being faced with a mysterious man, the whole situation could have been solved by a family member or servant. She'd made it messy, though, and so she had no choice but to fix her own problem.

They reached the corner, and Grace craned her head around the wall to the sight of an empty foyer. They were still in the clear. She took a breath to move around the corner, but, living up to her childhood nickname, her toes slammed into the side of his foot and she stumbled forward.

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Taking the hint from her furious eyes Enoch pressed a finger against his own lips and followed behind. He was drunk as a skunk but still able to appreciate that young lady had to be much more cautious than he ever was and, despite the bruise on his face he was not inclined to get her into trouble.

All the better to have a favour owed him for the future.

Grinning he stopped behind her when she came to a halt, raising a hand to gently move a lock of her hair from where it had fallen against her neck. This close he could practically feel the heat coming off her skin and he was sure he felt a shudder go through her - or had she even noticed at all? - when she stumbled forward and Enoch caught her easily.

“Careful now. We were being quiet, remember?”

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   Flora Mulciber

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It was fortunate that Grace was innocent in both mind and body; she remained blissfully unaware of how the gentleman watched her too distracted by every small noise from the rattling of branches against the window to her fingertips on the wall to realize that he'd touched her. Later she would recount her irrationality and be filled with regrets, but now she was high on adrenaline and focused on making sure this went smoothly.

... And it was not going smoothly. She would have been silly to assume it would be easy, but she had envisioned sneaking through the hallways and dodging the servants that roamed the halls—not that she'd be tripping over their feet. He caught her easily enough, and for that she was thankful. She wasn't sure how appropriate a smile was given their proximity and the precarious situation at hand, but she mustered one anyways and motioned for him to lower his voice. They could do this. The exit was in sight. Struck by a sudden urge to run as the clock struck one o'clock and filled the air with a loud ringing, Grace stepped into the foyer, only to backpedal a second later.

"Mr. Greengrass should be returning home within the half hour," the familiar voice of the family maid said, presumably speaking to their one other maid by the tone of her voice, "We must have his tea prepared."

Back pressed against the wall, Grace held her breath until the sound of receding footsteps filled the now empty foyer. They were in the clear. She glanced up at the gentleman and gave him a look; now was his time to go.

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Having a burst of inspiration Enoch reached down and tugged off his shoes – all the better to creep through hallways! He stumbled, righting himself by leaning against the young lady’s arm and smiling slyly at her.

“This is not my first time you see,” he confided, winking as he took off across the floorboards, slipping moderately in his stockinged feet. Fortunately he made it to the front door – at least he hoped it was, he would refuse to leave if it was a servant’s entrance – and turned back to give the young lady a bow.

“Adieu my dear,” he announced, in a voice slightly louder than necessary, before crashing through the door into the street. As he had expected it was fucking freezing and the rakish image he had hoped to leave her with was slightly ruined by the yelp he let out before apparating away, leaving the door wide open and his handmade patent leather shoes behind.

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   Grace Greengrass

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