21 October, 1893 — Daphnel Home, Wellingtonshire

Victor was at his wits' end after his confrontation with Christabel yesterday. He still wasn't entirely sure what had happened, but he knew that she had been confused when she'd left. She'd said his family would be rid of her, which seemed to imply that she thought anything he'd said during that interaction had been about her. He needed to explain himself, but he didn't know if waiting for her to come back was going to work. She might never come back. She would have been within her rights — their wedding vows had been till death do us part and by this point death had parted them. She had no real duty to him, nor he to her... but he couldn't in good conscious leave things as they had been yesterday.

Which meant he needed someone as an intercedent. He couldn't go to her without someone tagging along to operate the floo to and from — and he did not know whether her family would let him see her, anyway, or that she would let him speak. The other option was a letter, which seemed better, but he still needed someone to write it.

Jasper would have been a better candidate — even Oscar would have done in a pinch — but of course when he wanted them they were nowhere to be found. This was the trouble of having brothers with jobs when Victor had nothing to occupy his time all day. Fortunately he knew at least one of his siblings wouldn't have anything better to do with her time, because Beatrice never did anything.

"Bea," he declared, bursting through the wall of her room. "I need you to write a letter for me."

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