June 2nd, 1889 — Churchyard, Church of St Fergus
As she exited the church just behind her aunt, Blythe felt as though she were hovering just above the two of them, looking on. She might have thought she had died and was now a ghost, were her body—corpse?—not still moving, and if it weren't for the fact that no one seemed at all perturbed. She had checked out as soon as the words mission trip had left Mr. Dursley's excited lips. Was this what it felt like to have no agency at all?
She had known immediately what would come—not, perhaps, during church but probably not at home. No, on the road between lay a trap, a pit of spikes or a rabbit's snare, one designed just for her. Aunt and niece would be sailing off on this expedition, Blythe just hadn't been told as much yet.
When Father had left—first left—for India, Blythe had thought it sounded like a tremendous adventure, had yearned to accompany him. The woman she had since become scarcely even recognized that child's sense of adventure, and instead looked at anywhere not British (except, perhaps, Paris) as intimidating at best and impossible at worst. Some among her friends, she knew, would leap at this opportunity.
In contrast, Blythe's feet were planted firmly upon the ground.
But, like the eventual second coming of their lord and saviour, it was inevitable. As her aunt's attention turned from another churchgoer to Blythe once again, the young witch snapped back to earth, the tips of her ears already reddening in anticipation.
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