12-04-2024, 08:23 PM
(This post was last modified: 12-04-2024, 08:25 PM by Tristan Wells.)
(CW: reference to substance abuse)
He had meant to speak to his sister after he had examined Pippa. But when he came downstairs, he found the drawing room dark and deserted. The kitchen offered the same cold greeting. Penelope had either gone to bed or she was in her room avoiding him and Tristan did not have the heart to knock. A bowl of soup had been left out for him. He sat down to it, placing his oil lamp on the table. Soon he was resting his head on one hand, watching his spoon make slow stirring patterns through the soup. The yellow light flickered on the surface. His eyelids grew heavy. After what seemed like a long time, he realised that that spoon would never reach his lips and pushed the bowl away. Still he sat, weighed down by an increasingly shapeless but crushing sense of shame and dread. It was the promise of laudanum that finally roused him into getting up.
His sleep was dreamless but unrestorative. When he woke up, it took him a moment to remember what day it was and what he had scheduled. Then the events of the previous day came back. He lay back, covered his eyes with his hands and frowned.
In some kind of haze he finally got up, washed, dressed, shaved, and got ready for the day. Somewhere amid all of that, he found Nel’s letter and read it. Had he been that horrible?
By the time he appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, letter in hand, he was more awake. He looked at the laid out table. He really was a prick. He turned when he heard his sister come downstairs and looked at her like a schoolboy who had been caught at some mischief. “You couldn’t possibly lose me, Nel. I said some unforgivable things to you yesterday and I’m ashamed of myself,” he said quietly.
He had meant to speak to his sister after he had examined Pippa. But when he came downstairs, he found the drawing room dark and deserted. The kitchen offered the same cold greeting. Penelope had either gone to bed or she was in her room avoiding him and Tristan did not have the heart to knock. A bowl of soup had been left out for him. He sat down to it, placing his oil lamp on the table. Soon he was resting his head on one hand, watching his spoon make slow stirring patterns through the soup. The yellow light flickered on the surface. His eyelids grew heavy. After what seemed like a long time, he realised that that spoon would never reach his lips and pushed the bowl away. Still he sat, weighed down by an increasingly shapeless but crushing sense of shame and dread. It was the promise of laudanum that finally roused him into getting up.
His sleep was dreamless but unrestorative. When he woke up, it took him a moment to remember what day it was and what he had scheduled. Then the events of the previous day came back. He lay back, covered his eyes with his hands and frowned.
In some kind of haze he finally got up, washed, dressed, shaved, and got ready for the day. Somewhere amid all of that, he found Nel’s letter and read it. Had he been that horrible?
By the time he appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, letter in hand, he was more awake. He looked at the laid out table. He really was a prick. He turned when he heard his sister come downstairs and looked at her like a schoolboy who had been caught at some mischief. “You couldn’t possibly lose me, Nel. I said some unforgivable things to you yesterday and I’m ashamed of myself,” he said quietly.
