Early 1880ish — The Hawthorn House
They were going to be married in a few days. Marion and Ned. It felt like a countdown to doomsday, except Nick had already been drowning since the engagement had been announced. He had intended to studious avoided them both since then, but when Ned had finally confronted him, Nick had had no choice but to make his position clear. He loved Marion. And surely Marion had always known that, because she had always – he believed – loved him back.
But somehow all this had taken place, grotesquely, right before his eyes without his ever seeing the danger of it, the signs that the future was being warped away from what it should be. So, obviously – he had spent the length of their engagement avoiding the bookshop, taking out his bitterness on Ned when they both had to be there, and hardly being able to bear seeing Marion at all.
Had she noticed his distance, his absences? Had she even cared? Perhaps Ned had confessed to her the cause of their rift, and Nick’s brooding mood; perhaps he hadn’t. Maybe he had been afraid to bring it up, Nick considered, in case doing so prompted Marion to change her mind, after all.
(Nick had decided he would take her back, if she changed her mind now. He cared enough for her to grant her that – to forgive her one gross, unforgivable mistake. She just had to say the word.)
He wasn’t sure what he was doing here at dusk, exactly, but he’d had a drink to drown his sorrows after his day working at the bookshop (no Ned today, thank Merlin). If he had meant to apparate home after that, he had ended up on her doorstep instead. He had rung the bell – the housekeeper had said she wasn’t in. Wedding preparations, probably. Fortunately Nick had brought the rest of bottle with him, and he had nowhere else to be tonight. He loitered a ways along the street until he saw the carriage trundling towards their gates. No doubt the bride-to-be was one of the people returning – he stowed the bottle on a low brick wall and caught them as they were coming in. “Marion?” he called, just loud enough to catch her attention. “Marion.”
But somehow all this had taken place, grotesquely, right before his eyes without his ever seeing the danger of it, the signs that the future was being warped away from what it should be. So, obviously – he had spent the length of their engagement avoiding the bookshop, taking out his bitterness on Ned when they both had to be there, and hardly being able to bear seeing Marion at all.
Had she noticed his distance, his absences? Had she even cared? Perhaps Ned had confessed to her the cause of their rift, and Nick’s brooding mood; perhaps he hadn’t. Maybe he had been afraid to bring it up, Nick considered, in case doing so prompted Marion to change her mind, after all.
(Nick had decided he would take her back, if she changed her mind now. He cared enough for her to grant her that – to forgive her one gross, unforgivable mistake. She just had to say the word.)
He wasn’t sure what he was doing here at dusk, exactly, but he’d had a drink to drown his sorrows after his day working at the bookshop (no Ned today, thank Merlin). If he had meant to apparate home after that, he had ended up on her doorstep instead. He had rung the bell – the housekeeper had said she wasn’t in. Wedding preparations, probably. Fortunately Nick had brought the rest of bottle with him, and he had nowhere else to be tonight. He loitered a ways along the street until he saw the carriage trundling towards their gates. No doubt the bride-to-be was one of the people returning – he stowed the bottle on a low brick wall and caught them as they were coming in. “Marion?” he called, just loud enough to catch her attention. “Marion.”
