March 11th, 1894 — The Painted Lady, Hogsmeade High Street

...out of mourning, I see... ...death was never solved... ...must've been invovled somehow... ...she's always been cold...

Rufina's attempts at a serene expression faltered each time the whisperes reached her ear, her teacup freezing halfway to her lips as she tried to focus upon what Ursula was sayinig. It had been mere weeks since the rules of society had allowed the widow to return to full colours, to full social duties, and only a couple of months since she had returned to the Wellingtonshire house. Well, rather, moved into the new Wellingtonshire house, a stone's throw from the old one. With the renovations upon the new property nearly complete, and the statue that had once been Ernest Mulciber stored safely away in the family's Gringott's vault, the witch knew it was time to return properly to society, and a trip to The Painted Lady had seemed a practical enough way to dip her toes back into the society waters.

She had rather hoped that, between the fact that the Auror's Office had dismissed her as a suspect in the case of her husband's murder and the fact that it had been closer to two years than one, she might avoid further whispers altogether.

Evidently, she had been wrong. 

At least no one was saying anything directly to her face. That was probably a good sign.

Ursula looked at her expectantly, and Rufina set her cup back upon its saucer unsipped, clearly having missed something.

"I am sorry, Ursula, but it seems I have forgotten how to be in company," she offered apologetically, a sad smile toying with the corners of her mouth. "You must think me dreadfully tedious."

— Ursula Black —

  

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— graphics by mj ❤ —

Like constellations imploding in the night
Everything is turning, everything is turning

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You, tedious? What a thought! She scoffed and took a measured sip of her tea. It was admittedly a little irksome that Rufina seemed not quite back to her normal self but she'd never say as much to the other woman's face and she was quite willing to tolerate it because she knew it was only a matter of time now until she was... She was nearly there and then things would be as they were, sans Ernest of course. They were alike now in a way they hadn't been before, both abandoned by husbands. Ursula was less fortunate in that Phineas was still alive, but one couldn't have everything she supposed.

It hadn't skipped her notice that people were talking, people had been gossiping about Rufina long enough for Ursula to be more or less numb to it. Sort of. Had she been anyone else Ursula would probably have publicly distanced herself, but it was Rufina and she could hardly do that. Besides, she knew without a shadow of doubt that Rufina was innocent and the gossip would all come to nothing and she'd steer the gossips herself if necessary. And so it had all come to nothing, but she supposed it was natural for people to revisit the gossip now that Rufina was visibly out of mourning. It wouldn't last for long though, especially with the season fast approaching.

But are you quite all right? She didn't actually think Rufina was not all right, really she was only asking because it seemed like the socially appropriate thing to do. How could Rufina be anything but all right when she had all of her old freedoms restored to her and then some?

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"You don't—" she lowered her voice even as she leaned in "—hear the whispers?" Rufina asked. "About... what happened?"

Rufina did not consider herself a timid woman, nor one who needed to be sheltered from the ills of the world. Indeed, it was far enough removed from her husband's death that, though she had quit the house and had developed a minor aversion to statuary, she could talk about him now without feeling somehow cast adrift in a storm. It was the rest of it that remained a burden: her arrest, her questioning, the fact that the investigation had stalled so utterly that she remained the only person to have ever been a suspect.

That, it seemed, still weighed upon her like so many bricks.

"I rather hoped," she admitted, "that I might return to less... notariety."

— Ursula Black —

  

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