November 1st, 1892 — Christabel's Room

Upon getting home from the Halloween ball Chris had fallen into bed in complete exhaustion.  She had enjoyed the evening, enjoyed the fuzzy affectionate feeling that the potion had given her, she could even have been said to have enjoyed her conversation with Ozy.  Well - not the content exactly, that had been awkward and strained - disquieting to have to say out loud what she had known for some time.  What she had liked was having a conversation with Ozy that was actually open, honest and with any trace of sarcasm or cynicism.  The realization that he actually cared for her happiness had really made her evening and even now, in the cold light of day with a mild dehydration and aclohol hang over it still tickled her

She had skipped breakfast - her stomach didn't feel right.  She hadn't had a huge amount to drink, but she guessed that there may have been some interaction between the potions and the champagne, because she felt like she had slightly over imbidded - breakfast felt like a terrible idea.  So by lunch time she was still sitting in her night dress at her writing desk, ink staining her fingers, and the corner of her mouth where she had been absently chewing on the quill between her lips. 

She had been working on her latest book, and the character was coming more and more into relief - and she had found that once the character was known to her, picking their way through the mystery they found themselves in was the easy part.  From her conversations with Mister Lissington she had imagined up her cursed item, locked room mystery.  She hadn't slept for two days when the details had been coming into focus - and she had over heard the upstairs maids complaining about the quantity of paper that was generated by her scribbling and note taking, as well as the ink blotches she had made in the carpet in her haste to move one thing or other. 

Her main character had been evading her for months as she equivocated over small details and the factors that were needed to ground the character into the real world.  Now, after last night, she thought she had it.  Her handsome, old money, dashing leading man, would have a sister.  The pair of orphans - with no family he was the patriarch but his love of his job came first, which meant that their vaguely fraught relationship would, on the surface, allow him to gallavant across the globe on the sort of adventures she intended to inflict upon him.  But it also provided enough of an anchor to bring him back to England at the end of each novel, and give him a reason not to view himself as disposable. 

She was beginning to like that idea immensely, and the more words she committed to paper the more real her character became to her  - until after 3 sides of mostly prose (bar a few lines of physical description that she had put a line through) he was mostly complete.  She put the quill down, a little breathless and her hand cramping, as though the act of writing had been real physical exertion.  She drained the last of the tea that had been brought up for her this morning, it was ice cold but it did the trick to mostly wash the taste of ink from her mouth, and sat back in her chair as though doing so would give her a new perspective on Mister Apollonius Finch, like a painter observing their canvas from all angles. 

There was a knock at the door, and her ladies maid stood in the door way.  [i]'Miss you've a visitor downstairs'[/url] Chris nodded her acknowledgement and stood from her desk, finally ready to begin the process of getting ready to face the day. 

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