He may have wanted to know more (certainly other people who knew she'd born witness to Mr. Hunt's death had wanted to know the details), but she was grateful that he didn't press her for much more information. Her only confirmation that he was on the right path was a small nod, her grip on his arm tightening as they walked the final steps to her flat. Reluctantly she let go of his arm and began to open the gate into the building's small yard. It took her a few steps to realize she was without her basket, and she turned, confused, only to find Elias standing there with an awkward air about him.
Were she in any state of her normal self, Irene would have been quick to make a joke, but nothing sprang to mind, and she glanced at her building once more before turning back to him. And then her heart began thudding in her chest, kick-started by his mere request for a cup of tea. Merlin, she was pathetic. And yet Irene allowed herself this, because he was offering it to her willingly and she could sense his concern for her. An affectionate smile quirked at her lips and she gave a small laugh.
"Of course," She walked back to him, reaching out for his arm again to walk up the steps. "That's awfully kind of you, to offer yourself a cuppa from my cupboards when you don't know what teas I have stashed in there." Her teasing came out forced, but her tone had lightened a bit; if only to prepare him for the sight that waited for them once they walked in the door.
Large blankets of canvas covered most of the small living room, and the furniture was pushed against the wall, protected from the splatters of paint that had been strewn across the canvases. In the center of the room was the piece of art that had been haunting her for the past week. It was the same piece that she'd been working on before tragedy struck. Before, the canvas had been splashed with pastel hues, vibrant and dancing in a clear image of what was obviously Padmore Park. Since then, the canvas had been slashed with violent reds and orange; a face barely peering out from the center with a black gaping hole for a mouth.
Even before she'd stepped through the threshold, Irene's wand was out and quickly drawing patterns through the air. The painting quickly flipped itself over and went to join the other large canvases near the fireplace. The leftover paint tubes picked themselves up and stacked neatly back into her kit, the brushes joining them in a little jar while the easel folded up and went to join the canvases. The couch scooted towards the center while books flew back into their spots on the shelves while the blankets of canvas folded up and dove into an obliging basket that was clearly too small for them, yet seemed to store them perfectly.
Soon the little apartment was set to rights, the only sign of work having been done there was the bowl of fruit on the table that Irene kept and the painting apron that fluttered past them into her room, streaked with the same black and red as the canvas. Once the door closed, a small wreath of dried lavender and citrus slices hung itself by the door; one wreath of many throughout the apartment that she used to ward away the scent of paint. It worked a treat, but there was still a faint scent of the oil paints if one knew what to smell for. For Irene, she barely noticed it anymore. "Please, have a seat." She waved Elias to the small table, now making her way to the kitchenette. "And pray that I have more than old lavender leaves from my wreath."
Were she in any state of her normal self, Irene would have been quick to make a joke, but nothing sprang to mind, and she glanced at her building once more before turning back to him. And then her heart began thudding in her chest, kick-started by his mere request for a cup of tea. Merlin, she was pathetic. And yet Irene allowed herself this, because he was offering it to her willingly and she could sense his concern for her. An affectionate smile quirked at her lips and she gave a small laugh.
"Of course," She walked back to him, reaching out for his arm again to walk up the steps. "That's awfully kind of you, to offer yourself a cuppa from my cupboards when you don't know what teas I have stashed in there." Her teasing came out forced, but her tone had lightened a bit; if only to prepare him for the sight that waited for them once they walked in the door.
Large blankets of canvas covered most of the small living room, and the furniture was pushed against the wall, protected from the splatters of paint that had been strewn across the canvases. In the center of the room was the piece of art that had been haunting her for the past week. It was the same piece that she'd been working on before tragedy struck. Before, the canvas had been splashed with pastel hues, vibrant and dancing in a clear image of what was obviously Padmore Park. Since then, the canvas had been slashed with violent reds and orange; a face barely peering out from the center with a black gaping hole for a mouth.
Even before she'd stepped through the threshold, Irene's wand was out and quickly drawing patterns through the air. The painting quickly flipped itself over and went to join the other large canvases near the fireplace. The leftover paint tubes picked themselves up and stacked neatly back into her kit, the brushes joining them in a little jar while the easel folded up and went to join the canvases. The couch scooted towards the center while books flew back into their spots on the shelves while the blankets of canvas folded up and dove into an obliging basket that was clearly too small for them, yet seemed to store them perfectly.
Soon the little apartment was set to rights, the only sign of work having been done there was the bowl of fruit on the table that Irene kept and the painting apron that fluttered past them into her room, streaked with the same black and red as the canvas. Once the door closed, a small wreath of dried lavender and citrus slices hung itself by the door; one wreath of many throughout the apartment that she used to ward away the scent of paint. It worked a treat, but there was still a faint scent of the oil paints if one knew what to smell for. For Irene, she barely noticed it anymore. "Please, have a seat." She waved Elias to the small table, now making her way to the kitchenette. "And pray that I have more than old lavender leaves from my wreath."
![[Image: 9EDhNw4.png]](https://i.imgur.com/9EDhNw4.png)