26th June 1891 — Echelon Home, Somewhere in England
Bellamy had been nearly bouncing on his feet all morning as he waited for Alistair Darrow to show up. For some reason, he'd suspected that perhaps he wouldn't — hence sending the second letter in the first place, where he'd made concessions towards English sensibilities (which he might have forgotten about entirely if Hermia Bonaccord hadn't mentioned them at that party last month). The fact that he'd agreed so readily, and that he was available so soon, was such a pleasant surprise that Bellamy had entirely forgotten to ask what time he was coming. He thought afternoon was more likely, but that was probably just because it had been afternoon on both of the other occasions when they'd met. He'd gotten his studio arranged just the way he wanted it in the morning, just in case, then spent the day lazing around the house. He wandered through the garden and practiced obscure spells he'd probably never need to use, but which were rather visually appealing, then he'd gone swimming in the lake behind the house, then he'd eaten lunch in about four different parts between distractions from his siblings and his father.
He had greatly over-estimated his ability to stay still in one place for an entire day, even if the Echelon house was generally more full of amusements than the rest of England was, and by the time lunch was over he was convinced he was dying of boredom. He wasn't going to leave and risk missing Alistair Darrow, though, so instead he lay languishing on a sofa in the room with the fireplace until finally it lit up green. He was on his feet and halfway across the room before the flames had even died down, reaching for the man's hand.
"Oh good, you're here. I was going crazy, honestly, because there's nothing left to work on with the portrait except the things I need you for. Come on, then," he said, tugging him in the direction of the studio. "But don't look at it when we go in. It's not finished yet. And I don't want you to see what a mess I've made of your nose, honestly. It's embarrassing."
He had greatly over-estimated his ability to stay still in one place for an entire day, even if the Echelon house was generally more full of amusements than the rest of England was, and by the time lunch was over he was convinced he was dying of boredom. He wasn't going to leave and risk missing Alistair Darrow, though, so instead he lay languishing on a sofa in the room with the fireplace until finally it lit up green. He was on his feet and halfway across the room before the flames had even died down, reaching for the man's hand.
"Oh good, you're here. I was going crazy, honestly, because there's nothing left to work on with the portrait except the things I need you for. Come on, then," he said, tugging him in the direction of the studio. "But don't look at it when we go in. It's not finished yet. And I don't want you to see what a mess I've made of your nose, honestly. It's embarrassing."
