August 30, 1888 — Veronica's Dressing Room
Theodore Gallivan

I am not bound for India, but for “the grave”, that you and the children might live a better, fuller life without the spectre of the full moon hanging over your heads.

The air must have been sucked from the room completely. It was the only explanation for how she could have slipped off of the seat in her dressing room and collapsed on the ground only to stare at the letter in her hand. Her husband was not one for cruel jokes, so that left little for her to grasp at as she read and re-read his message. There was a pressure on her chest that mounted as she did so, and Veronica had to tell herself to keep breathing. Soon stars had clouded her vision and she leaned forward onto her forearms as a wail of despair threatened to burst from her lips.

The sharp sting of the edge of parchment scraping against her palms drew her attention, and she looked up only to see the room had gone blurry.

Swiping the tears from her cheeks, she grasped the letter once more, smoothing the paper out on the floor to re-read it again. She lost track of how may times she read his words over and over, trying to parse any other meaning from them than her husband had left them. I must thank you most ardently for the companionship you have given me over these years, and for the two beautiful, bright, darling children that you have given me.

No such message came to her no matter how many times she oriented the paper or tried to decipher some other code from the letters.

When a noise sounded through the hallway outside, Veronica had shot up before she even realized what she’d done. Darting to the door, she wrenched it open. “Nathaniel?!” She shouted, bursting into the hallway, letter in hand as she searched for him. “Nath - oh.” Instead of her husband, she found his son - her son - there instead.

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   Theodore Gallivan

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He’d come home from his day as usual, knowing that his father had left for India this morning, but only glad for a little freedom for it – a chance to keep an eye on the Cannons in the meantime. That was until finding the letter in his room, nestled under the keys.

His pulse pounding in his head was all he could hear as he read and reread it, each time affording him no more comprehension than the last, even as a tide of anger swelled. It was rushing like a current in his chest as he heard a cry from another room in the house, as he kept the letter clenched in his fist and turned on his heel.

He stormed blindly into the hallway and Veronica met him there: a mirrored expression on her face, perhaps a mirrored letter in her hand. That made it more real than it had been – Theo’s face hardened. “He’s gone,” he said, the words scraping against his throat. “He’s gone.”

(He waited desperately for her to contradict him on this.)

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Standing there, gripping the wainscoting in the hallway with one hand and Nathaniel’s letter in the other, Veronica was barely aware that she was shaking her head. Even as Theo said those words, those godforsaken two words, her eyes darted about as if that would help distract her from what he was saying. And then finally she said, “No.” softly at first, then again with more vigor.

“No he’s not, we had - we had plans.” Plans for the future; for the weekend; for the rest of their lives.

Did you? a voice in her head countered, and that was all it took for Vera to break into a sob once more. She tore her hand away from the wall to grip the letter with both hands; it was crumpled now, tearstained and shaking as she brought it in front of her to read it again as if she hadn’t spent the last quarter of an hour doing the exact same thing.

  

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He looked over at her, eyes widening in the briefest bout of hope. That what she meant was I know better, it’s not how it sounds, everything’s alright – but no. She was distraught.

He scoffed a hollow laugh at her plans. God. He had forgiven his father years ago for keeping secrets, for being a werewolf – Theo had kept it for him too, at first, even to Veronica, even to Cecily – but he must have forgotten that his father was a liar.

And once a liar... here he had gone again, crafting some story about scouting in India that they’d all just swallowed – here he had been, pulling the strings and arranging things behind his back, behind all their backs.

Veronica was sobbing, and he wanted to sob too, or to yell, or to hit something. Instead, through a set jaw and some wild determination to somehow drag him back to their front door before he ran away, Theo said abruptly – “What did he write to you?”

He could tell her what was in the one for him, too. Maybe they could glean something from the differences in the details, if there were any.

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