Marion tried her hardest to put her best foot forward. So much so, in fact, that her feet were in terrible pain from the endless dances that evening – surely with at least half of the eligible men at the party, if she was successful A very accomplished evening, her old house matron congratulated her, holding Marion’s hand as she waved down the footman and provided the description of their carriage. The floo would surely be a more convenient way to return to home, but the old lady was distrusting of new inventions that could lead good ladies like them into the wrong sorts of fireplaces, and learning how to apparate was also out of the question. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Marion, just that she was of the old way where ladies simply didn’t do such things.
Eager to take her shoes off, Marion wobbled into the carriage after helping the old witch up into it. She dropped onto the seat with a whoosh of relief and eagerly kicked off her heels. No longer fussed with how her hair needed to look she slouched back into the seat and– “Oh!”
The older lady was talking something or another about some Ferrow’s ball or a nice chap she’d seen Marion dancing with, and didn’t notice the young woman's perturbed squeak. Marion shifted around in her seat to find the pointy culprit– a book.
“Ms. Robinson, are you quite certain this is our carriage?” Marion interjected, glancing with a bit of alarm around herself. Hadn't the curtains had been red, not blue, on the way here? Oh, she was sure of it now. Not that the old woman opposite her wouldn't notice – she was half blind.
“Oh of course I am, dear. I special ordered these seats to have extra cushioning, I’d know them anywhere,” the woman waved her off, and carried on about going to the modiste for autumn dresses. Marion’s brows furrowed, but a dissent died halfway up her throat. After a full five minutes and no sense of where they were headed, Marion turned back to this mysterious book. The cover was ornate, pretty silver embossing on leather. Her fingertips ran over it before she opened up the first few pages– Le Morte d'Arthur.
Though the book itself was unfamiliar, the story was one she knew well, and it felt reassuring to settle back into it after so many years. She lost track of how long she’d been reading when Ms. Robinson squawked. “This is not the way home,” she startled, nose pressed to the glass.
“Mmhm, I don’t believe it is,” Marion murmured agreeably, flipping another page.
“Are you reading, Marion? Whilst we are being kidnapped?” The witch snapped the book shut with a sharp inhale through her nose. Serenity, she told herself. Then she used the book to wrap sharply on the carriage roof, a knock that bid the carriage to stop. “Excuse me, sir...!”
It took a full fifteen minutes before they were back at the party. Ms. Robinson stepped out of the carriage with surprising dexterity for a woman of her century age, and a foreboding huff suggested some sorry servant may have his earful in a few moments. Marion reluctantly followed, feet still aching far too much to think about putting back on her shoes, so she opted to wait right near the queue. Didn't notice that it was only one of her heels that she held in one hand, while she still held onto the book in her other. She yawned, it was getting quite late now. The back of her hand, still holding her shoe, covered her mouth politely. Then she heard the sound of a slight commotion to her side.
A man was describing a carriage. A woman loudly spelled out, “Flourish. For Merlin’s sake, F-L-O-U-R-I–” And blue curtains, he said.
“Oh!” Marion exclaimed for a second time. She turned towards them straight away, hastened closer before she could think better of it. “Are you in search of your carriage? It seems we were given the wrong one,” she started to explain apologetically to group.
Eager to take her shoes off, Marion wobbled into the carriage after helping the old witch up into it. She dropped onto the seat with a whoosh of relief and eagerly kicked off her heels. No longer fussed with how her hair needed to look she slouched back into the seat and– “Oh!”
The older lady was talking something or another about some Ferrow’s ball or a nice chap she’d seen Marion dancing with, and didn’t notice the young woman's perturbed squeak. Marion shifted around in her seat to find the pointy culprit– a book.
“Ms. Robinson, are you quite certain this is our carriage?” Marion interjected, glancing with a bit of alarm around herself. Hadn't the curtains had been red, not blue, on the way here? Oh, she was sure of it now. Not that the old woman opposite her wouldn't notice – she was half blind.
“Oh of course I am, dear. I special ordered these seats to have extra cushioning, I’d know them anywhere,” the woman waved her off, and carried on about going to the modiste for autumn dresses. Marion’s brows furrowed, but a dissent died halfway up her throat. After a full five minutes and no sense of where they were headed, Marion turned back to this mysterious book. The cover was ornate, pretty silver embossing on leather. Her fingertips ran over it before she opened up the first few pages– Le Morte d'Arthur.
Though the book itself was unfamiliar, the story was one she knew well, and it felt reassuring to settle back into it after so many years. She lost track of how long she’d been reading when Ms. Robinson squawked. “This is not the way home,” she startled, nose pressed to the glass.
“Mmhm, I don’t believe it is,” Marion murmured agreeably, flipping another page.
“Are you reading, Marion? Whilst we are being kidnapped?” The witch snapped the book shut with a sharp inhale through her nose. Serenity, she told herself. Then she used the book to wrap sharply on the carriage roof, a knock that bid the carriage to stop. “Excuse me, sir...!”
It took a full fifteen minutes before they were back at the party. Ms. Robinson stepped out of the carriage with surprising dexterity for a woman of her century age, and a foreboding huff suggested some sorry servant may have his earful in a few moments. Marion reluctantly followed, feet still aching far too much to think about putting back on her shoes, so she opted to wait right near the queue. Didn't notice that it was only one of her heels that she held in one hand, while she still held onto the book in her other. She yawned, it was getting quite late now. The back of her hand, still holding her shoe, covered her mouth politely. Then she heard the sound of a slight commotion to her side.
A man was describing a carriage. A woman loudly spelled out, “Flourish. For Merlin’s sake, F-L-O-U-R-I–” And blue curtains, he said.
“Oh!” Marion exclaimed for a second time. She turned towards them straight away, hastened closer before she could think better of it. “Are you in search of your carriage? It seems we were given the wrong one,” she started to explain apologetically to group.