13th May, 1892 — Kirke House, Bartonburg
Elsie Kirke
Elsie Kirke
A year ago, on Elsie’s last birthday, he had found out she was pregnant. Any celebration of her birthday then had gotten consumed, understandably, by that grand dilemma and all that had followed, including the elopement two days later. From this side of life, that all seemed an utter whirlwind, the start of everything – but Tybalt was determined to celebrate properly this year, give Elsie’s twenty-sixth and their first weddinganniversary their due and have a whole extravaganza of a weekend with her, basking in the life they had made together, with no stress and no tears this year.
Well, no stress and no tears from her, anyway. Tyb had found himself in something of a whirlwind of his own, the hours ticking away until she was due to return home from her library shift. He had come home especially early to prepare, because there was to be no cheating and asking for help from the housekeeper or Elsie’s mother, he wanted to do all this himself – only he’d forgotten it was the nanny’s half-day, and so now Bentley had joined him in the kitchen, babbling away, perched in his high chair and watching the chaos.
But a mostly controlled chaos: Tybalt had managed a bit of baking before, and although he had gone all out on the recipes today, mixing ingredients reminded him, happily, a little of Potions class. There was a thin sheen of flour over everything – he wasn’t sure how it had gotten so far from the counters and the range, somehow all over the floor and up in his hair – and he was doing about three things at once, but he was making excellent progress, if he did say so himself. “Always keep your eye on both bludgers,” he explained cheerfully to Bentley, tugging out the apple pie before its crust started burning and turning back to the berries for the sponge cake. “It never pays to lose track of one.” In the background, Bentley made what Tybalt took for an encouraging noise, and grabbed curiously at Tyb’s wand lying nearby on the counter.
Tyb had just heard a door open. “Elsie?” Tybalt called out urgently, listening for footsteps inside. (Apparently he'd lost track of time a little.) “Wait, stay there!” he exclaimed, in alarm. “Whatever you do, don’t come in the kitchen!”
Well, no stress and no tears from her, anyway. Tyb had found himself in something of a whirlwind of his own, the hours ticking away until she was due to return home from her library shift. He had come home especially early to prepare, because there was to be no cheating and asking for help from the housekeeper or Elsie’s mother, he wanted to do all this himself – only he’d forgotten it was the nanny’s half-day, and so now Bentley had joined him in the kitchen, babbling away, perched in his high chair and watching the chaos.
But a mostly controlled chaos: Tybalt had managed a bit of baking before, and although he had gone all out on the recipes today, mixing ingredients reminded him, happily, a little of Potions class. There was a thin sheen of flour over everything – he wasn’t sure how it had gotten so far from the counters and the range, somehow all over the floor and up in his hair – and he was doing about three things at once, but he was making excellent progress, if he did say so himself. “Always keep your eye on both bludgers,” he explained cheerfully to Bentley, tugging out the apple pie before its crust started burning and turning back to the berries for the sponge cake. “It never pays to lose track of one.” In the background, Bentley made what Tybalt took for an encouraging noise, and grabbed curiously at Tyb’s wand lying nearby on the counter.
Tyb had just heard a door open. “Elsie?” Tybalt called out urgently, listening for footsteps inside. (Apparently he'd lost track of time a little.) “Wait, stay there!” he exclaimed, in alarm. “Whatever you do, don’t come in the kitchen!”
