3 June 1893; Hogsmeade Station

Have it your way, Irene. Convince yourself I never cared about you. Just leave, then. Leave, if that’s what you want. I won’t stop you. She should have just left their conversation there, with him mad at her, watching her go, because Elias being mad at her was far better than what this was. It hadn't stopped raining since she left. Her skirt was newly stained with the same rain that covered the pavement as she walked. Perhaps she would have minded had things gone differently.

I’m in love with Daffodil.

It was heavy, and nauseating and jeering and it had hung itself at the peripherals of her vision so she could only trick herself into escaping it. She kept her gaze on the pavement, one foot in front of the other, because what else could she do? She couldn't turn around. She couldn't turn back time. She couldn't change the way she felt. So she looked straight ahead instead, not paying attention to the people bustling around her, looking for their boarding tickets and kissing family members or sweethearts goodbye. Not paying attention to how all of the figures entwined in each others embrace morphed into Elias and Daffodil.

Whatever it is I interrupted.

Irene looked straight ahead. Boarding the train at the station had provided some distraction until she caught glimpse of the platform and thought she saw a tall familiar figure standing amongst the crowd.

Of course, she was mistaken. Straight ahead. In another life Irene would have paused to take in the skyline of Hogwarts that she had loved to draw so much, or crane her neck to see a view of the bustling life of High Street, say good bye to the shop workers that she’d made friends with along the way. Perhaps if things had gone another way she would have felt horrible doing so, but as it was, the only thing she felt were the stinging of her palms as she gripped her trunk and suitcase.

Straight. Ahead.

Her palms were bitten with whitened half-moon marks. Her eyes were red, and her throat sore. She nodded to the man holding the door open for her and walked down the narrow second class hallway to her compartment. The door opened for her automatically. Though she knew she had never had stepped foot in something as nice as this, she only looked around once, then moved through the motions of setting away her things as if she’d done this a thousand times. With Bear out of his basket and waiting patiently on the seat, Irene drew out the bed and curled up; the cat nuzzled just below her chin, his small body vibrating as he began to purr. The curtains drew shut, plunging the room into near darkness and Irene fell asleep before the train left the platform.

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The following 2 users Like Irene Crawley's post:2 users Like Irene Crawley's post
   Daffodil Grimstone, Elias Grimstone

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders

5 June 1893; Port of London

Boarding the RMS Arianna should have been much the same as the train station, Irene figured. But arriving at the Port of London was instead an assault to her senses. Having worked in London so long, she knew should have been used to the sounds of the massive city by now, but with her head feeling as heavy as lead, the crowd was a bellowing roar. Masses of people expanded before her. Some fought with each other. Some called to their families. Children ran after their mothers. The horns of ships clashed against her ears and smoke curled through the air. The smoke was thick and dense, or perhaps it was merely the fog that clouded her mind. It wafted through the air, bringing scents of oil, wood and metal with it. Stepping from the trolley with the other passengers, she clutched her case and walked forward. Bodies immediately pressed against her, suffocating as it continued en mass towards the gangway.

The basket at her side rattled as a meow emitted from beneath the cover.

Reaching a hand inside, Irene’s hand met the soft coat of the animal inhabiting it; Bear's fur vibrated as he purred, and the rough texture of his tongue lapped at her palm in reassurance. What had once been such a nuisance of creature was now a steady companion that brought occasional chaos in the form of charcoal paw prints and clouds of soot. Irene could only hope that Cousin Cecilia would find such creatures agreeable.

With her ticket handed to the steward and her name given, she walked aboard the ship and to her designated cabin. It was almost as large as her entire living room. Blinking in surprise, Irene let her suitcase down with a thud. A knock at the door presented another porter who had the remainder of her trunks. After a generous tip as thanks, she bade the porter good bye and bent down to let Bear out of his basket. Before she could, the hinge of the carrier clicked open and the large cat jumped out of its own accord with a satisfied mew.

Yellow eyes fixated upon her, slowly blinking for just a moment before beginning to survey their new apartment for the next week. He held his tail high in the air, and the air practically vibrated as he purred in satisfaction. “At least one of us is enjoying ourselves,” Irene couldn't help but quip to the empty room, with a soft chuckle. She dropped to the floor, her skirts pooling out around her in a puddle of cloth as she began to unpack. Perhaps under different circumstances, she might have unpacked with magic, but in this she took her time, pulling out articles of clothing, folding and stacking them in a pile next to her. She only withdrew what she would need, and nothing more. Some clothes. Her brush roll. Her sketches, and some water colors. And a small sack of charcoal.

She took out everything she needed, save for a box of cedar engraved with lilies of the valley and smelling of lavender and citrus. That, she left tucked safely in the bottom of her trunk and wrapped in her mother’s silk scarf.

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here, have a soundtrack

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders

12 June 1893; Rome, Italy

Somewhere a few miles back, Irene’s comprehension of Italian had dwindled away like fine dust. She was perfectly alright to disembark from the ship, however navigating to the station and then finding transportation was another thing entirely. She thankfully had the help of the porter to help her with her suitcases, and just when she was about to go through the magical arch into the Muggle world, she caught wind of her name being called. Knowing it was highly unlikely she would ever know someone here in Italy, Irene turned willingly and found a rather stiff looking gentleman with a shockingly white mustache and a severe brow. “I’m she.” Irene replied tentatively as the poor porter almost collided with her sudden stop.

“I am Mr. Wilson, Mrs. Cecilia Shaw’s attorney.” It took Irene a moment to recover from her surprise. The letter had been quite kind in its tone and in no way did she expect such a letter to be penned by such a severe looking man.

“A pleasure,” she eventually managed, gripping her suitcase tightly in one hand and the basket in the other. “I apologize if I’m overdue.”

“Not at all, Miss Crawley.” He truly didn’t seem perturbed in the slightest, but Irene couldn’t shake the feeling of being under his gaze. “Now if you’ll excuse me, we have a bit of a journey ahead of us.”

Us. “Us - you - oh!” A flush rushed up Irene’s spine and she lurched into motion as she caught on. He would be her escort to her cousin, she realized as she hurriedly put her suitcase on the ground for the porter to load. Perhaps they would get the paperwork finished sooner than she thought. Once she climbed in, Irene set Bear’s basket down and sat as still as she could across from Mr. Wilson. With a rap on the roof, they lurched forwards and were soon winding through the streets of Rome.

Having last been to Rome more than a decade ago, it was almost more of a surprise than being at the docks in London. But where London’s weather was sharp and full of smog, Rome was clear, blue and filled with the scent of the nearby sea. Bear must have sensed it too, for one side of the basket immediately popped open and the large cat emerged to take in his surroundings. “Oh…erm…” Irene had neglected to write anything about bringing an animal with her, and it certainly showed in the semi-shocked face of Mr. Wilson. “I…do hope you’re not allergic?” She ventured, her tone already apologetic.

But before Mr. Wilson could answer, Bear met the man’s gaze, blinked his yellow eyes, and the cat’s mustache immediately turned the exact shade of white that Mr. Wilson’s bore. Irene's jaw dropped, and she let out a strangled sounding noise before clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle the oncoming giggle. How in the world did one apologize for their cat?

Mr. Wilson looked from Irene to Bear and back again before giving a resigned sigh. “You and Mrs. Shaw might get on more than I had originally assumed.”

Whether that was permission for her to continue to laugh unabashedly or not, Irene couldn’t keep it in much longer and tried to control her shaking shoulders as she coughed once again into her hand. Her familiar’s behavior was so unexpected, she would have felt like apologizing again. Her thoughts, however had already come to an immediate stillness. She’d already been writing the letter in her head to tell him of this first amusing sight, until she it all came crashing down again. Elias had made his choice, and Irene hers. And though she couldn’t stop her thoughts from telling him this story, she had be content in letting them go no further than the passing fields out the window.

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The following 1 user Likes Irene Crawley's post:1 user Likes Irene Crawley's post
   Daffodil Grimstone

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders

5 July 1893; Tuscany, Italy

“Irene, for Merlin’s sake, take a hat, it’s going to rain.”

“It’s not going to rain Cousin Celia.”

“You’ve said that twice now, and yet you come home looking as if you’ve been dunked in the Mediterranean.”

Irene winced guiltily with an apologetic look at Betsy. Her cousin’s poor parlor maid had been tasked with cleaning the puddles that Irene’s damp skirts had left on the outer doorstep the first few times she’d taken walks in the Italian vineyard’s grounds. She since learned the proper spells to make Betsy’s job easier, but there were a few occasions where she’d forgotten a spot or two and had left a footprint on the foyer floor.

Her arrival at the Tuscan countryside had been far from idyllic. On the way there, she realized with a sudden and vigorous certainty that she somehow was a better passenger aboard a train or boat rather than on ground. The sudden bumps and rough texture of the road jolted her stomach in unpleasant ways as the wheels hit various dips and bumps. Unfortunately Mr. Wilson didn’t have any more potions to help correct the malady, and Irene had to be content with closing her eyes and casting various cooling charms on her person until they finally arrived. Her cousin’s lawyer proved to be less severe than his appearance however, so in the times when Irene’s breakfast wasn’t in danger of making a reappearance, they made pleasant small chat.

Once out of the carriage, Irene found herself in front of a modest but entirely charming villa that Irene had really only seen in paintings. It was tall in appearance, though only seemingly two stories with white brick walls and a sloping roof. Eaves dropped prominently over the house with decorative, baskets of flowers hanging beteeen the wide cornices. Decorative stone animals peeked out occasionally the closer she looked.

And standing right on the porch wearing a beautiful frock of white and blue was - presumably - Cecilia Shaw. She wore an equally stylish hat to shade her from the sun, but as Irene approached, she was immediately greeted with warm twinkling eyes and a wide smile.

She could only smile back at Mrs. Shaw and start to introduce herself before she was seized by the shoulders and pulled into a tight hug.

“A pleasure to meet you.” Was all Irene could get out before she was ushered into her new home.

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The following 1 user Likes Irene Crawley's post:1 user Likes Irene Crawley's post
   Alice Dawson

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders