So she said, but in so pleasant a manner he could not believe it. And perhaps it was better not to look for flaws: he did that in everything else. He need not look for them here. Let Alfred think it a strange development, if he liked; perhaps everything would go perfectly smoothly, and he would be able to prove him wrong.
But there was no time. Evander caught the drop of water on her cheek a split-second before he felt one on his forehead and cursed the world. (And himself for dreaming of drowning the wasps. In jam, he had meant, not in a flood of rain.) It was no exaggeration: as rain so often did in Scotland, it came down in a downpour, the first few drips becoming a constant patter in a matter of moments - and the thunder. Why hadn’t he seen the slate grey in the sky coming? Why hadn’t he heard the rumbling?
“But I checked the weather report,” Evander blurted out in disbelief, pushing himself up on his knees, disoriented and dismayed. The rest of the picnic was still laid out - the rest of the scones would be ruined - and they would both soon be as good as drowned rats. He had his wand, of course he did, but they were not that far out in Hawthorne Hollow. This was still within the bounds of Irvingly. And the first rule of Irvingly was no magic out-of-doors. And rules were rules. Evander had always been so fond of them.
“I’m so sorry,” he said beseechingly, mortally wounded that the weather witches in the Daily Prophet should be so wrong, even more mortified that she should think this day so badly planned when he swore it had been anything but. He stood up, threw a few things into the basket, bottles and cutlery clinking against each other haphazardly, and held out his hand to help her up; though to what end, he wasn’t sure, as they both were already getting soundly drenched. Fuck fuck fuck.
This was more than a shower, to be sure; the whole storm was rolling in, and if there was thunder lightning would soon be on its way. “This way -” he gestured with a nod of his head, rivulets sliding down the side of his face; it was some way back into the village, but there would be somewhere to shelter until the sky cleared - the church was not so far.
But there was no time. Evander caught the drop of water on her cheek a split-second before he felt one on his forehead and cursed the world. (And himself for dreaming of drowning the wasps. In jam, he had meant, not in a flood of rain.) It was no exaggeration: as rain so often did in Scotland, it came down in a downpour, the first few drips becoming a constant patter in a matter of moments - and the thunder. Why hadn’t he seen the slate grey in the sky coming? Why hadn’t he heard the rumbling?
“But I checked the weather report,” Evander blurted out in disbelief, pushing himself up on his knees, disoriented and dismayed. The rest of the picnic was still laid out - the rest of the scones would be ruined - and they would both soon be as good as drowned rats. He had his wand, of course he did, but they were not that far out in Hawthorne Hollow. This was still within the bounds of Irvingly. And the first rule of Irvingly was no magic out-of-doors. And rules were rules. Evander had always been so fond of them.
“I’m so sorry,” he said beseechingly, mortally wounded that the weather witches in the Daily Prophet should be so wrong, even more mortified that she should think this day so badly planned when he swore it had been anything but. He stood up, threw a few things into the basket, bottles and cutlery clinking against each other haphazardly, and held out his hand to help her up; though to what end, he wasn’t sure, as they both were already getting soundly drenched. Fuck fuck fuck.
This was more than a shower, to be sure; the whole storm was rolling in, and if there was thunder lightning would soon be on its way. “This way -” he gestured with a nod of his head, rivulets sliding down the side of his face; it was some way back into the village, but there would be somewhere to shelter until the sky cleared - the church was not so far.
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