The True Story of Emily Lockwood / g. karim

𝟟. 𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕚𝕘𝕠𝕝𝕕𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕝𝕖𝕟 𝕜𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕤

~ / Episode One - Part Two \ ~

"A sunday kind of love"

--The kitchen of 35 Portand Row had been the heart of their home. Even before the death of their parents, it was central to all life. And, even after. It had never been the same, no, that was true - but it became over time a place of togetherness. 

That was, if you didn't count the insults of the thinking cloth. 

Still, it was one of Emily's favorite rooms of the entire house, simply because of the joy it held. Like the home's beating heart, as she called it. 

While Lucy and Anthony were touring about the place, George and Emily fell into their usual routine of hanging about the kitchen together as he cooked. Tonight was a very rare occasion - they listened to the record player, instead of talking to one another.

"I want a Sunday kind of love," the woman's voice came over the machine, and Emily smiled softly, watching George cook and occasionally sway along to the music. It was with a tender pang, that she thought of how much her parents would have adored him. 

"You're staring again," George snapped Emily out of her reverie, teasing. She scoffed. 

"Hey, don't give me grief for admiring the view," she responded coolly. It was nice, this kind of banter. 

"Yes, I'm a vision," he answered, now fully distracted by the food on the stove which had begun bubbling. 

"You are," she hummed, trailing a finger along one of the vines that grew from the various pots around the room. Julian, she called this particular pothos. 

"Just about done!" George informed cheerfully, and Emily took inhaled deeply before grinning. 

"You brilliant, brilliant human being," she chuckled, before pulling him in by the collar of his flannel shirt to kiss him gently. He stood just a bit taller than herself, and wrapped his arms around her waist. 

Anthony coughed from the basement door, and they sprang apart as if they were shocked. 

"Well, consider my appetite ruined," he deadpanned, glaring at them both. Lucy looked very uncomfortable. George conveniently took this moment to stir the food, avoiding mortification. Emily, however, simply deflected. 

"I can hear your stomach from here, Ant," she pointed out "you're an awful liar." 

"Oh, I'm wounded," he said dramatically. "Actually, Emily, now that I've your attention, could you come upstairs with us, please?"

Emily glanced over at Lucy, who still hovered awkwardly. "'Kay," she said, and let Anthony lead the way all the way upstairs, to the attic. Emily's attic. 

"Miss Carlyle, meet the attic," Anthony swept his arm out to display the space "my sister's domain. And, yours - unless you've other arrangements?" Lucy glanced quickly over at Emily, whose eyebrows were raised at her brother's offer. 

How considerate of him, to invite a complete stranger into their home, to share her bedroom. If Emily was murdered in her sleep, she would kill him.