March 17th, 1890 - The Voyager

Zelda was early. She came armed with textbooks from the library, two of them piled next to her, and she was early.

But she looked better than she had last time. Her hair was more-recently braided, less likely to escape. The ink on her hands was a little more faded, the bags under her eyes a little reduced. Saving J. Alfred Darrow was still the main project of her week, but in giving her the weekend, he had inadvertently given her some time to recover - and so, she was early, sitting on a crate, and fidgeting with his wand.

She heard him approach. Zelda looked up, and found her pulse kicking up. How many times did she have to see him before she stopped having that reaction, before they could just start having the normal interactions she wanted? He didn't care anymore, he had made that abundantly clear with his silence - and still.

Zelda had been all prepped to say Mr. Darrow, and instead found herself at a loss - his full name felt unnatural. "Good morning," she said instead, "Are you ready?"

If she could do this - if they could do this - then maybe it was possible to break the curse where it had launched onto him. But for now, the sun was shining despite the March weather, it was pleasant for London, and she was ready to work to break a curse.

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