As suspected, she didn't have much in terms of tea selection in her cupboard, which only served to remind Irene that she needed to make another trip to the teashop at some point in the next week or so. Glad that her apartment no longer looked a disaster though, Irene felt a greater sense of calm as she meandered about the small kitchenette. It was as if having Elias there, conversing with her as if it were just another weekend, reminded her of what normal felt like. Or at least what her normal felt like before Mr. Hunt's death. She never thought she would miss the days when the most wretched she felt was the unrequited love that invaded her senses whenever she caught a glimpse of him on High Street. But Mr. Hunt's death proved just the ticket.
It was still another feeling she had to muster the strength to shake off. Elias' quip about butterbeer came back to her and she let out a small "Oohh..." of inspiration as she closed the cupboards. Butterbeer. Nibbling at her lip in contemplation, Irene turned back towards the living room and placed a hand on her hip as she tapped her foot as if that would turn the wheels of memory faster. She'd just gotten butterbeer earlier that weekend, hadn't she? And couldn't have been so distraught as to have consumed it all in one setting. Delicious as it was, it gave her a stomachache when she had too much.
Too deep in lamenting her own forgetfulness, she nearly missed Elias' last question ("Hmm?") before it hit her and she caught glimpse of the apron. Panic spiked back up her spine and her eyes flicked to the canvas against the wall. Painting. "....yes, I have....sort of." Not in the traditional sense at least, or what would be considered normal for her. There hadn't been any inspiration of beautiful landscapes that struck her in the past week; only the disfigured face of Silas Hunt.
Just as she managed to rip her gaze away from the canvas, Irene spotted the crate of butterbeer near the stack of smaller canvases she reserved for portraits. Taking her wand out, she pointed it at the crate which popped open to let two bottles of butterbeer float out. Only she may have done so a little too distractedly; the bottles settled nicely on the table, but the entire crate hurtled towards him.
“Elias!”
It was still another feeling she had to muster the strength to shake off. Elias' quip about butterbeer came back to her and she let out a small "Oohh..." of inspiration as she closed the cupboards. Butterbeer. Nibbling at her lip in contemplation, Irene turned back towards the living room and placed a hand on her hip as she tapped her foot as if that would turn the wheels of memory faster. She'd just gotten butterbeer earlier that weekend, hadn't she? And couldn't have been so distraught as to have consumed it all in one setting. Delicious as it was, it gave her a stomachache when she had too much.
Too deep in lamenting her own forgetfulness, she nearly missed Elias' last question ("Hmm?") before it hit her and she caught glimpse of the apron. Panic spiked back up her spine and her eyes flicked to the canvas against the wall. Painting. "....yes, I have....sort of." Not in the traditional sense at least, or what would be considered normal for her. There hadn't been any inspiration of beautiful landscapes that struck her in the past week; only the disfigured face of Silas Hunt.
Just as she managed to rip her gaze away from the canvas, Irene spotted the crate of butterbeer near the stack of smaller canvases she reserved for portraits. Taking her wand out, she pointed it at the crate which popped open to let two bottles of butterbeer float out. Only she may have done so a little too distractedly; the bottles settled nicely on the table, but the entire crate hurtled towards him.
“Elias!”
![[Image: 9EDhNw4.png]](https://i.imgur.com/9EDhNw4.png)