It was the day before Christmas and Samuel Griffith was at the house of his family in south London. He expended a great amount of energy on keeping up the appearance that he did not move through these familiar rooms like a ghost coming to haunt these halls. He felt like that; he felt that until he found the strength to go through with his plans, he would be stuck in a mirror dimension of the life he knew, one where everything was coated in a hostile sheen and where the threat of dissolution loomed over him every second of the day. He shook this persistent delusion only when sitting down at the table for meals, or under the watchful eyes of his sister Agatha, whom he could never disappoint. Then he compressed himself back into the man he ought to be, someone solid and in touch with reality, who would hold up the walls of this house and take care of everyone under its roof.
When he heard the loud noise from the guest room upstairs, he discovered that it was not only Agatha who could force him into the wherewithal to be present. It was also Eleanor. He could not disappoint her either. He feared that he already did, because he neglected her. By this time, he should have been able to provide something for her—should have. She lived in the guest room still, that was now "Eleanor's Room." The door was open, and he stepped into the entryway to see what was going on.
The noise was caused by a very ornery owl that clawed at the girl's shoulder and an inkwell that had fallen to the floor in the struggle. Samuel was at her side in a few steps and took hold of the bird. It tried to hack at him, but he pressed its wings to its side and resolutely tucked the owl under his right arm, where it could only ineffectively scratch at his jacket. He knew this ill-tempered bird.
"Gilbert's owl," he said and looked at Eleanor. She looked pale and shaken. "He wrote you a letter," Samuel concluded. His gaze flickered to the floor, where a piece of parchment lay. Spilled ink threatened to soak the paper. He hesitated for a second, then he picked up the letter.
"I don't want to read it without your permission," he said to Eleanor and he offered her the parchment. Looking at her face, and knowing his brother, he hardly would have written to wish his daughter Merry Christmas. "Are you all right?" he asked finally, and even that vague of a question somehow seemed invasive.
When he heard the loud noise from the guest room upstairs, he discovered that it was not only Agatha who could force him into the wherewithal to be present. It was also Eleanor. He could not disappoint her either. He feared that he already did, because he neglected her. By this time, he should have been able to provide something for her—should have. She lived in the guest room still, that was now "Eleanor's Room." The door was open, and he stepped into the entryway to see what was going on.
The noise was caused by a very ornery owl that clawed at the girl's shoulder and an inkwell that had fallen to the floor in the struggle. Samuel was at her side in a few steps and took hold of the bird. It tried to hack at him, but he pressed its wings to its side and resolutely tucked the owl under his right arm, where it could only ineffectively scratch at his jacket. He knew this ill-tempered bird.
"Gilbert's owl," he said and looked at Eleanor. She looked pale and shaken. "He wrote you a letter," Samuel concluded. His gaze flickered to the floor, where a piece of parchment lay. Spilled ink threatened to soak the paper. He hesitated for a second, then he picked up the letter.
"I don't want to read it without your permission," he said to Eleanor and he offered her the parchment. Looking at her face, and knowing his brother, he hardly would have written to wish his daughter Merry Christmas. "Are you all right?" he asked finally, and even that vague of a question somehow seemed invasive.
