16 June, 1892 — Late — Ben's House, Swallowbury

Ben had just been looking for a distraction when he'd gone to The Three Broomsticks tonight, but what he'd gotten was anything but a distraction from his situation with Melody. Dionisia didn't understand — through no fault of her own, because no one understood — but he'd listened to the advice she'd given him anyway. It wasn't what he wanted to hear, but it was too similar to what Melody had been hinting at for weeks for him to discount it entirely. Talk to her, huh? Tell her everything? He doubted it would end well, but what choice did he really have? It wasn't as though this was sustainable. He'd been trying to sweet-talk her for weeks, to convince her that they could be happy, and she hadn't budged an inch. If she was really this resolved, then he didn't know what to do to fix it. He still felt that this would be the worst possible thing for the pair of them — for their family — but at this point, between the frustration of the past weeks, the indignity of the meeting with St-Whoever-Black, and the alcohol he'd consumed tonight, he was thinking fuck it, why not? This would detonate any hope they had of ever being happy in the future, but at least then it would be conclusive. That was better than limping along and holding out hope for some better tomorrow that wasn't ever coming.

He flooed in to the parlor and tripped over a side table before he managed to get the downstairs light turned on. He didn't know what time it was, but it seemed Melody and Nora were already asleep, and the housekeeper had long since left for the day. He lit the gaslight in the dining room with shaky hands, then went to find a bottle of firewhiskey. He set it down on the table with a glass, then headed up the stairs to knock on Melody's door.

"Hey, wake up," he muttered through the door. "I wanna talk."

---