December 23rd, 1894 - London
She doesn’t know why she opened her window at that familiar, beckoning clack of a beak, especially this late in the evening… Maybe it was curiosity – who would be sending her, of all people in magical London, post? – or maybe she’d simply, foolishly assumed Agatha was sneaking her a tiny missive…
But, whatever reason, it was a mistake. (She makes them so often nowadays – everyday – she’s not certain why she’s surprised – or why she even trusts herself to make decisions anymore.)
Huey – her name for Father’s owl, because he thought very little enough of his fellow man, let alone animals – perches on the edge of her desk; his feathers ruffle in the corner of her eye and, when that does not illicit a response, he begins trilling and hooting. The longer she goes without acknowledging him, the louder he goes (and time seems to be slowing down as she comes to grips with what his presence means).
It’s hard to pay him proper mind, however, even though she’s aware he will start nipping soon enough, as she breaks that oh so familiar seal on the envelope.
He’s probably hungry, since you’re not there to feed him regularly anymore. (A tiny, cool voice in the back of her mind also wonders if her mother looks as poorly as Huey, left to Father's care.)
She should hush him, feed him; she should put this letter to the wayside, get to her feet, and devote herself to caring for the scrawny brown owl. She should not read what is inside, not when she's been up for hours trying to find sleep in the midst of journals filled with sketches and musings from school. Unfortunately, she will not - she cannot, because putting the letter down would mean not knowing and the unknown will most assuredly haunt her more than whatever Gilbert Griffith has written down.
She hands quake, the parchment crumpling under her thumbs as she tries to hold it still enough to read past the first few lines. The sight of Father’s familiar scrawl across the page has her curling in on her herself, as if physically preparing herself will negate the emotional pain she knows his words will inflict (because his opinion of her still matters, despite it all); her eyes burn and her throat tightens, but she manages to keeping her stuttering breath quiet.
The last thing she needs is anyone to come in right no—
Talons prick through her sleeves and skin as Huey alights on her arm; the pain wrenches her back into the moment and she gasps, loudly, flinching so violently she sends a full inkwell clattering to the floor; the letter slips free as she jerks - the move, somehow, does not dislodge the old owl - and flutters to the ground.
But, whatever reason, it was a mistake. (She makes them so often nowadays – everyday – she’s not certain why she’s surprised – or why she even trusts herself to make decisions anymore.)
Huey – her name for Father’s owl, because he thought very little enough of his fellow man, let alone animals – perches on the edge of her desk; his feathers ruffle in the corner of her eye and, when that does not illicit a response, he begins trilling and hooting. The longer she goes without acknowledging him, the louder he goes (and time seems to be slowing down as she comes to grips with what his presence means).
It’s hard to pay him proper mind, however, even though she’s aware he will start nipping soon enough, as she breaks that oh so familiar seal on the envelope.
He’s probably hungry, since you’re not there to feed him regularly anymore. (A tiny, cool voice in the back of her mind also wonders if her mother looks as poorly as Huey, left to Father's care.)
She should hush him, feed him; she should put this letter to the wayside, get to her feet, and devote herself to caring for the scrawny brown owl. She should not read what is inside, not when she's been up for hours trying to find sleep in the midst of journals filled with sketches and musings from school. Unfortunately, she will not - she cannot, because putting the letter down would mean not knowing and the unknown will most assuredly haunt her more than whatever Gilbert Griffith has written down.
She hands quake, the parchment crumpling under her thumbs as she tries to hold it still enough to read past the first few lines. The sight of Father’s familiar scrawl across the page has her curling in on her herself, as if physically preparing herself will negate the emotional pain she knows his words will inflict (because his opinion of her still matters, despite it all); her eyes burn and her throat tightens, but she manages to keeping her stuttering breath quiet.
The last thing she needs is anyone to come in right no—
Talons prick through her sleeves and skin as Huey alights on her arm; the pain wrenches her back into the moment and she gasps, loudly, flinching so violently she sends a full inkwell clattering to the floor; the letter slips free as she jerks - the move, somehow, does not dislodge the old owl - and flutters to the ground.