30 June, 1895 — Morning — Dempsey Estate, Galway, Ireland
The trial was over. All the parts of it that mattered, anyway. They were meant to head to the court today so the solicitors could give closing remarks, and then the deliberations could begin; by the time they left, there would be a verdict. Kaatjie might leave the home of the friend she was staying with en route to either her home with the Spaans or her new bedroom at the Dempsey estate before nightfall.
Even at this time of year the estate was mist-coated in the morning. Don Juan had been staring out over a sea of white haze for an hour or more while he created different dramatic renditions of how the courtroom scenes might play out in his head, but it was burning off now. The estate had woken up beneath him. From his position on the room he heard the voices of servants as they stepped outside to fetch things or to dump out buckets of dirty water or to take fireplace ashes out to the garden composting heap. Breakfast was probably being served by now; someone would come looking for him soon.
He was contemplating fleeing the country. The various versions of the courtroom scenes he'd been imagining were along those lines; what would the Dempsey solicitor do if Don Juan failed to arrive to court, and no trace of him could be found? Presumably someone would try to lie on his behalf, claim he was taken suddenly ill and had intended to be present, but maybe his absence would be enough to tip the scales in favor of the Spaans.
He had not had the foresight to pack. Probably he lacked the enthusiasm to actually flee the country. He had not managed anything for the past hour beyond stubbing out cigarettes when they got too short and pulling out the next one. His cigarette case and lighter were on the roof next to him. He was still in his pajamas, because he'd wanted to be cold.
A noise came from behind the wall he was leaning on. Someone was coming in to his bedroom. It must be late enough that his mother was starting to worry, then — she had sent someone to fetch him. And of course, he had not thought to close the window behind him. He could only hope that whoever had been tasked with this errand was not much invested in it, and not inclined to spend much time investigating beyond seeing that his bed was empty. He slouched against the wall, pressed against the edge of the window frame so that he wasn't visible unless they poked their head out to look.
The trail of his cigarette might give him away. Don Juan licked his fingertips and squashed the ember out, but to his chagrin this only made a thicker stream of smoke flow out as the tiny fire died. Porphyria, he thought — hopefully it was Porphyria who had been sent to fetch him, because she would not have time for this. She would probably already be turning to leave. If it was Christabel, on the other hand, he might be in danger of having every loose piece of parchment in his room turned over, because Christabel had nothing better to do with her energies these days.
Invitational to a Dempsey sibling who lives at home - Christabel Daphnel Porphyria Dempsey Lycoris Dempsey Shalott Dempsey
Even at this time of year the estate was mist-coated in the morning. Don Juan had been staring out over a sea of white haze for an hour or more while he created different dramatic renditions of how the courtroom scenes might play out in his head, but it was burning off now. The estate had woken up beneath him. From his position on the room he heard the voices of servants as they stepped outside to fetch things or to dump out buckets of dirty water or to take fireplace ashes out to the garden composting heap. Breakfast was probably being served by now; someone would come looking for him soon.
He was contemplating fleeing the country. The various versions of the courtroom scenes he'd been imagining were along those lines; what would the Dempsey solicitor do if Don Juan failed to arrive to court, and no trace of him could be found? Presumably someone would try to lie on his behalf, claim he was taken suddenly ill and had intended to be present, but maybe his absence would be enough to tip the scales in favor of the Spaans.
He had not had the foresight to pack. Probably he lacked the enthusiasm to actually flee the country. He had not managed anything for the past hour beyond stubbing out cigarettes when they got too short and pulling out the next one. His cigarette case and lighter were on the roof next to him. He was still in his pajamas, because he'd wanted to be cold.
A noise came from behind the wall he was leaning on. Someone was coming in to his bedroom. It must be late enough that his mother was starting to worry, then — she had sent someone to fetch him. And of course, he had not thought to close the window behind him. He could only hope that whoever had been tasked with this errand was not much invested in it, and not inclined to spend much time investigating beyond seeing that his bed was empty. He slouched against the wall, pressed against the edge of the window frame so that he wasn't visible unless they poked their head out to look.
The trail of his cigarette might give him away. Don Juan licked his fingertips and squashed the ember out, but to his chagrin this only made a thicker stream of smoke flow out as the tiny fire died. Porphyria, he thought — hopefully it was Porphyria who had been sent to fetch him, because she would not have time for this. She would probably already be turning to leave. If it was Christabel, on the other hand, he might be in danger of having every loose piece of parchment in his room turned over, because Christabel had nothing better to do with her energies these days.
![[Image: 0hYxCaj.png]](https://i.imgur.com/0hYxCaj.png)
MJ made this <3
