Jemima fled back across the hallway, and Ford was alone in his bedroom. This was what he had wanted, he supposed; the situation under control, to the extent that it could be. He could see Jemima's door closed across the hall from him. The house had anti-apparition charms and she didn't have an owl in her room. She wasn't going to tell anyone, at least for now. Tycho was gone. Clementine and Noble had not ventured upstairs. Things were contained, and now he could sit down to think and figure out the best way through this, decide how to address everything that had gone horribly wrong in the last twenty minutes. Except he couldn't — because he was alone in the room, and as the armor came down he was overwhelmed by the weight of everything it had been covering.
I wanted so badly to like you, Jemima had said. It twisted his gut, not just because he really did like her in return, but because he had failed her. They had known coming into this marriage how they'd gotten here; there was never an expectation that he would fall in love with her, or even be fond of her, or her of him. But they had promised to make the best of things, and Ford had vowed to take care of her, and now — now he had proven himself to be the sort of person she could not possibly like. She had held up her end of the bargain, and he was incapable of ever clawing back his. He had sacrificed so much in the hopes that he could at least be a decent husband to her, in spite of everything. Verity didn't speak to him any more, and maybe never would again. He'd forced Grace through so many uncomfortable moments over the summer and stolen away her chance of ever marrying so that he could get her out of the house and off of the budget. He'd poisoned someone to try and get them interested in Clementine — and in spite of all that he had failed anyway, just by virtue of being himself.
When he remembered the way Tycho looked at him just before he left, he was sick into the wastebasket.
I fucked up, he wrote on a piece of parchment with Cash's name scrawled across the top, but he abandoned the letter after that one sentence. He didn't have an owl in his room, either, and he couldn't risk sneaking downstairs and potentially letting Jemima slip away to her parents' house. He had gotten the situation under very tenuous control — he had to keep it there, at all costs. He'd have to find some way of writing out sick tomorrow, but he'd solve that problem later. This would take at least a full day of damage control. Noble could write in for him, when he was awake. Noble was probably sober enough first thing in the morning to manage a letter.
He needed to talk to Jemima, but he still had no idea what he could possibly say to her. So instead he crept out into the hallway, footsteps slow and silent, and sank down onto the carpet beside her door, listening to see if she was crying still.
I wanted so badly to like you, Jemima had said. It twisted his gut, not just because he really did like her in return, but because he had failed her. They had known coming into this marriage how they'd gotten here; there was never an expectation that he would fall in love with her, or even be fond of her, or her of him. But they had promised to make the best of things, and Ford had vowed to take care of her, and now — now he had proven himself to be the sort of person she could not possibly like. She had held up her end of the bargain, and he was incapable of ever clawing back his. He had sacrificed so much in the hopes that he could at least be a decent husband to her, in spite of everything. Verity didn't speak to him any more, and maybe never would again. He'd forced Grace through so many uncomfortable moments over the summer and stolen away her chance of ever marrying so that he could get her out of the house and off of the budget. He'd poisoned someone to try and get them interested in Clementine — and in spite of all that he had failed anyway, just by virtue of being himself.
When he remembered the way Tycho looked at him just before he left, he was sick into the wastebasket.
I fucked up, he wrote on a piece of parchment with Cash's name scrawled across the top, but he abandoned the letter after that one sentence. He didn't have an owl in his room, either, and he couldn't risk sneaking downstairs and potentially letting Jemima slip away to her parents' house. He had gotten the situation under very tenuous control — he had to keep it there, at all costs. He'd have to find some way of writing out sick tomorrow, but he'd solve that problem later. This would take at least a full day of damage control. Noble could write in for him, when he was awake. Noble was probably sober enough first thing in the morning to manage a letter.
He needed to talk to Jemima, but he still had no idea what he could possibly say to her. So instead he crept out into the hallway, footsteps slow and silent, and sank down onto the carpet beside her door, listening to see if she was crying still.
Set by Lady!