January 27th, 1895; early afternoon — Broadmoor Parlour, North Bartonburg, Hogsmeade
The headache that had seen her abed past noon the day previous still lingered, but no longer pierced through her skull like an ice pick seeking brain matter. She had scarcely been able to recall the night before, but knew she had not overindulged simply because she did not care for the taste of champagne, nor the sensation of losing one's faculties that the heavier punches tended to bring about. While Persephone knew, in the abstract, that some people did suffer such megrims, she had never been among their number, leaving it altogether uncharacteristic and she even more miserable than she might otherwise have been.
At five-and-twenty, 'calling hour' was something endured exclusively at her mother's insistence. Persy could count her would-be suitors in the past year on one hand, a fact that thrilled her and picked at the fraying edges of her mother's nerves. Still, dutifully, she sat in the parlour each afternoon, usually with a wholly abnormal book for a young lady to be reading. It was quiet, there was tea, and to be truthful, she no longer minded it. After all, she might have been sat with a book anywhere in the house. Today, the pain in her head, however, was proving to hinder the part of the daily ritual she actually enjoyed, and her mother's reading aloud of the latest Witch Weekly was a dreadfully poor substitute.
A caller for Miss Broadmoor. Mr. _______.
The declaration from the housekeeper in the parlour's entryway broke through the monotony that had fallen. Persy felt as though she had been doused in ice water and her brain struggled to connect the words to any sort of real-world situation as her mother, of course, bid the gentleman be shown in, that some sandwiches be brought up, reminded Percy to smooth out her skirts—
And Percy merely stared, vaguely dumbfounded, as her apparent caller entered the room.
Open to a suitable MC/UC bachelor/widower, 29-45. Please read below.
— mj makes glorious sets! —