When the women had left the table, Evander’s attention had drifted to the tablecloth, a hand absently – relaxedly, if repetitively – smoothing down a crease in it just for something to do. Or somewhere to look; he could not very well keep looking at his brother, because it was hard not to continually notice the purple hair. (And thus inevitably remember, for about the fiftieth time that evening, that one could hardly throw stones when one’s hair was also currently, appallingly, purple.)
“Hm?” Evander echoed, tearing himself out of his own thoughts as his ears caught up with the question. It was unexpected, particularly coming now. Alfred had been back and settled in society (‘settled’, to the extent he was) for enough years now to have had endless opportunities to hunt down some household mementos of his youth if he had needed them. Did he really think Evander clung on to everything old just in case it ever became useful?
Not that he would be wrong, if he did. Evander had sold the house and moved away when he had become the last remaining Darrow to reside in it – because if he hadn’t he was sure he would still be trapped there now, alone and a bachelor and interminably rooted in the past (not the perfectly adjusted man he was now, with a full life and absolutely no emotional issues). But still, it had seemed wanton and wasteful and reckless to simply be rid of everything at once, so he had dutifully sorted through all the family possessions and tidied them away for a later date when he would know what to do with them. (Very often, this assumed later date had not yet come.)
“Most of it stayed with the house,” Evander answered, brow faintly furrowed in confusion, for he couldn’t work out why this might be relevant now. Alfred’s Sanditon house was already furnished. Indeed, he had left some of it behind, the new dining room table and far too many chairs for a bachelor’s house; most of the bedframes and anything in good order. The more worn things, he had kept, mostly under the rationale that they were unlikely to ever sell or under some vaguer inclination that he might need them someday, when he was married and a father – a future that had not materialised until far later than he had thought. “But I’ve a few pieces still in storage in the loft,” he acknowledged, suddenly remembering, amongst those nooks and crannies of recollection, a rocking chair their mother had had when they were young and that had been too scratched for anyone else to want. Perhaps it might still do for the nursery, though?
“Why, what is it you’re looking for?” Evander asked, preparing himself to be bullied into some foolish treasure hunt.
“Hm?” Evander echoed, tearing himself out of his own thoughts as his ears caught up with the question. It was unexpected, particularly coming now. Alfred had been back and settled in society (‘settled’, to the extent he was) for enough years now to have had endless opportunities to hunt down some household mementos of his youth if he had needed them. Did he really think Evander clung on to everything old just in case it ever became useful?
Not that he would be wrong, if he did. Evander had sold the house and moved away when he had become the last remaining Darrow to reside in it – because if he hadn’t he was sure he would still be trapped there now, alone and a bachelor and interminably rooted in the past (not the perfectly adjusted man he was now, with a full life and absolutely no emotional issues). But still, it had seemed wanton and wasteful and reckless to simply be rid of everything at once, so he had dutifully sorted through all the family possessions and tidied them away for a later date when he would know what to do with them. (Very often, this assumed later date had not yet come.)
“Most of it stayed with the house,” Evander answered, brow faintly furrowed in confusion, for he couldn’t work out why this might be relevant now. Alfred’s Sanditon house was already furnished. Indeed, he had left some of it behind, the new dining room table and far too many chairs for a bachelor’s house; most of the bedframes and anything in good order. The more worn things, he had kept, mostly under the rationale that they were unlikely to ever sell or under some vaguer inclination that he might need them someday, when he was married and a father – a future that had not materialised until far later than he had thought. “But I’ve a few pieces still in storage in the loft,” he acknowledged, suddenly remembering, amongst those nooks and crannies of recollection, a rocking chair their mother had had when they were young and that had been too scratched for anyone else to want. Perhaps it might still do for the nursery, though?
“Why, what is it you’re looking for?” Evander asked, preparing himself to be bullied into some foolish treasure hunt.
