June 27th, 1891 — Kieran's Flat, London

This was positively delightful. Juliana had never been to someone's house before (er, except it wasn't a house at all — it was really barely even a flat by her standards, but she wasn't trying to be judgey about that sort of thing), except for her family members and close friends. When she did go to someone else's house, it was to pay calls, which wasn't at all the same. Paying calls was so stiff and formal they might as well have been at a ball or a luncheon the entire time. It didn't have the sense of comfort, of being able to just talk, that she'd felt since she arrived here. They'd discussed all sorts of things, starting with her thoughts on Carmellia and moving into literature more broadly and from there diverging into dozens of topics she had never thought to talk about with anyone else — mostly because she had never assumed anyone would be interested in her opinions on the subject. She'd finished one cup of tea and had moved on to a second, and had tucked one of her legs up under her skirt, because it wasn't as though anyone was around to chastise her for it. The sofa in this room may have been a little shabby, but it was also quite comfortable, and she was having fun.

"So," she said as she added a copious amount of sugar to her tea (perhaps she ought to have brought her own — she did tend to go through a lot of sugar with her tea and she was aware it wasn't cheap to keep it around). "I have a deadline coming up, which is a little unusual for me. Oh, sorry — is it alright to talk about work here?" she asked, glancing around the room. She hadn't seen any other people during the time she'd been here, but there were telltale signs that he didn't live alone, and she didn't know how much his flatmate (or flatmates) might have known about his life.

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