1887 — Grounds of the Rowle Estate
Mourning was meant to be a time of greater restriction for social calls, but for Drusilla Rowle mourning her father things had never been more free. Her stepmother didn't care who she entertained — or if she did, she was not so bold as to offer her opinions directly, and Dru never bothered to ask her. Her father would have had opinions. Half her friend group would have been exiled by virtue of being male. Morrigan would be deemed beneath her social station. Even if everyone she cared about had been rich, pureblooded, and female, though, she was sure her father would have found a reason to block them. It was never about the people she spent her time with; it was always about isolation and control.
But now he was dead, and although her clothes were black her eyes had never been so alive. One of her friends had come to call and she had bustled them out of the house, foregoing the traditional tea and parlor-sitting for a long walk through the lawns and gardens — and the privacy of not being overheard so easily. They had been walking and talking some twenty or thirty minutes, and Dru was still rather in wonder at how it felt to say things without fear that somehow they would be reported back to him, and come back to haunt her later. They had just turned the corner of the path, putting them momentarily out of sight of the windows of the distant manor. Dru glanced over her shoulder to ensure there were no sight-lines to anyone working in the yard or garden, then lowered her tone conspiratorially.
"I can still do it," she confessed. She hadn't been sure when she chose the ritual how long the effects would last, or whether it would disappear once she did it once. That was why it had been so important to kill him when she had, not waiting for a more opportune time — the window could have closed. "Do you want to see?"
But now he was dead, and although her clothes were black her eyes had never been so alive. One of her friends had come to call and she had bustled them out of the house, foregoing the traditional tea and parlor-sitting for a long walk through the lawns and gardens — and the privacy of not being overheard so easily. They had been walking and talking some twenty or thirty minutes, and Dru was still rather in wonder at how it felt to say things without fear that somehow they would be reported back to him, and come back to haunt her later. They had just turned the corner of the path, putting them momentarily out of sight of the windows of the distant manor. Dru glanced over her shoulder to ensure there were no sight-lines to anyone working in the yard or garden, then lowered her tone conspiratorially.
"I can still do it," she confessed. She hadn't been sure when she chose the ritual how long the effects would last, or whether it would disappear once she did it once. That was why it had been so important to kill him when she had, not waiting for a more opportune time — the window could have closed. "Do you want to see?"
ty MJ <3