Looking Glass

Chapter 5

When morning comes, her head is lying on books and papers; she'd fallen asleep on the desk in the midst of work. Face pressed against paper, hands stained with ink long dried before.

Dawn sun shines onto the dark wood, shining soft pink on dark red. The outside sky glows in pale yellow and dusty pink, pastel orange and peach running in streaks of gradient. The round yellow peaks on the horizon, a greeting of the day come.

Casted shadows of window grills in shapes of birds, wrought iron shining burning bronze in the sunlight. Chirps of life, flying wings; the world wakes up.

She stretches her neck, rolling, looking to the clock; it's so very early. Grumbling, she looks up to the looking glass, fingers pressing to her face, observing. Her eyes are swollen, red, eye bags heavy; she'd cried a little last night, the lack of sleep not of any help.

The avoidance of eye contact as usual, the thought clear in the back of her mind, a habit thankfully formed. Her eyes cast downwards to the book laying innocently there, a sigh escapes. Heavy thoughts she cannot outrun, at least she's already went through every single possibility that her mind can conjure.

She gathers loose papers scattered all over accumulated when she used up all the pages in the book the night before.

Awfully lucky she was, that she couldn't seem to find another case where the outcome is so, at least not so that it would affect her as yesterday would. Yes, how lucky she was.

It's a wonder how the thought of doomed outcomes never crossed her mind.

A yawn runs free from her, along coming yet another sigh. She stands up, heading over to the powder room. There's no use calling a servant, she'd rather be alone to stew in thoughts that crept constant in her mind.

. . .

Breakfast is served, and it's a repetition of dinner. The three of them at the long table, small conversations at the end of a meal. It's a routine she's ever so familiar and comfortable with. She almost relaxes to a daily comfort as usual, but the dream is broken in a reminder of a visit from her grandmother's mouth.

"What time will the police be arriving?"

"They hadn't mentioned."

And she'd forgot to ask. The mood is sour, despite the loveliness of the morning sky; her grandmother mildly fuming, father annoyed. It's then she recalls, in an admittable mistake of her part, that her family absolutely loathes the police force of Hythe.

An internal wince as she fingers the napkin on her lap. She has never quite known where the grudge against the justice of the city came from, a pity to her curiosity. Snippets of conversations eavesdropped, and unintended mentions revealed to her an involvement of her grandfather.

She knew nothing more than that from tight-lipped guardians, whatever secrets kept safely under wraps.

The thought before spirals into another, and she's now wondering about her grandfather, a man she'd never met.

He died young, far too young than everyone hoped for, when her father was a boy, a child no more than ten. She'd never gotten to know him, a pity of not meeting a man held high in her regards. Little things her father would mention of remembrance, tales sweet from memories of love and romance from her grandmother.

An intelligent man, soft and hard at the same time. He'd have liked her, they'd often say, if he had lived to watch her grow and know her.

The butler enters the dining room at this moment, an arrival of a guest announced. They all know who the elderly man is referring to.