Harriet Bythesea did not write home often. She'd never had reason-- her father tolerated her presence, nothing more, and until recent years her mother had been little better than a cloud drifting about the house. She wasn't sure when it had changed. Probably when Mama's eyes cleared. The odd clarity brought with it a wit and attention Hettie didn't really know how to handle.
She had been especially quiet this first week, grappling with the implicit threat in her father's letter. Doubting whether she should tell her mother. Perhaps Mama already knew...?
And then news of the Festival in Irvingly reached the students. The letter Hettie finally wrote was ugly in its haste, scrawled out at a slant and barely sealed before she tethered it to the leg of an owl and sent it on its way. From there, she returned to the common room to curl up in one corner of the couch and gnaw at one frayed curl. A disgusting habit. She couldn't help it. Not today.
She had been especially quiet this first week, grappling with the implicit threat in her father's letter. Doubting whether she should tell her mother. Perhaps Mama already knew...?
And then news of the Festival in Irvingly reached the students. The letter Hettie finally wrote was ugly in its haste, scrawled out at a slant and barely sealed before she tethered it to the leg of an owl and sent it on its way. From there, she returned to the common room to curl up in one corner of the couch and gnaw at one frayed curl. A disgusting habit. She couldn't help it. Not today.
00 Month, 1888
Seraphina Bythesea
Henry Bythesea (the letter isn't to him but it's still relevant)