March 10th, 1890 - Fisk Living Room

Miss Fisk.

Zelda had been over it. She had been over J. Alfred Darrow, with his boats and his hair and his flat and his boat and his adventures. It hadn't mattered anymore. Except that it had, and it did, and now she was spending most of her work week on his boat or researching his boat or talking about his boat, and he didn't care about her anymore and he called her Miss Fisk.

That was really the nail in the coffin; he called her Miss Fisk. The letter had fluttered down to her on the deck of his boat when she was working late; it was past dinner time and Brannon was going to be furious with her. Her hands were covered in ink from scrawling in her notebook, she was tinkering with complicated spells, she had bad news to give him and the letter had come calling her Miss Fisk and asking to meet her in the Ministry.

She slammed her notebook shut and apparated into the Fisk living room.

She had to look a state when she arrived; her hair was shoved into a messy knot on the top of her head, on top of everything else. She landed on her feet and threw the letter onto the ground before she realized she was not alone. The only blessing was that her audience was Ari, and not her father.

"I don't want to talk about it," Zelda said, looking between her brother and the letter and her hands, covered in ink.

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