The True Story of Emily Lockwood / g. karim

𝟙𝟚. ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕓𝕖 ℂ𝕒𝕣𝕖𝕪... ℂ𝕦𝕝𝕥?

~ / Episode Three - Part Two \ ~

"enemy"

❀

--The nose was, of course, quite suspicious. But, then again, Ellie felt literally nothing like their intruder had. She had an air about her that Emily often associated with picnics, flowers of meadows. 

Then again, Sir John Fairfax had nondescriptly posted that ad in the paper, somehow the morning directly after the incident. Mere hours after Emily and George had their little shouting match. 

Emily shook that thought from her mind, and chose to hyper-fixate on the details about Ellie. Her old war wound, as she'd told Anthony? Emily hadn't met any agent - retired or otherwise - who'd had wounds like that. No, most wounds were of the mind - nightmares plaguing them to the point of insomnia, guilt at having outlived their mates. 

So, what was it, really?

The scenery passed them by like an indie film, in blurs of green, and quaint little cottages. It was all rather cinematic, Emily couldn't help but admire her. She was, after all, a Jane Austen reader and romantic. 

She was a little bit disappointed at how quickly the drive went by, and she would've loved to do it again, simply to gawk at it more. The house itself was impressive, a gothic sort of structure Poe might have liked to paint a creepy picture of. 

"What a perfect place for a haunting," the girl chuckled, staring up at the massive house. No, house didn't cover it. It was a manor - a mansion. In the back of her head, she thought it was rather disgusting how Fairfax owned such a monstrous property, while people like them scraped by - barely. 

She blamed the system. 

"Indeed it is," Ellie said, parking the car swiftly on the gravel drive. They grabbed their gear, their bags laden with various little trinkets of destruction, and followed Ellie's lead into the place. Anthony was directly behind Ellie, and Emily had been trotting alongside him, tucking something into his pocket for him. 

He smiled mischievously at her, but his characteristic facial expression faltered when he saw Emily, who stopped mid-step and was staring toward the heavens - at a fixed point on the roof. She was breathing a little shakily, but snapped out of it quickly when he waved his hand in front of her face. 

Just then, Fairfax himself was there to greet them. "Welcome to Combe Carey Hall," he greeted not very warmly, perched atop the stairs - letting them know he was in charge. What an ass, Emily thought. 

"You're late." the older man frowned, and it took all of Emily's willpower to keep her face neutral. "Now, drop your bags and hurry up, please. The sun's going down." They did as he instructed, although it felt wrong to Emily that he was getting them to drop their gear - something so crucial to doing the job right. 

Odd. 

George pulled out his ancient-looking blueprints, the product of him "charming", as he proudly called it, the elder librarian at the Archives. "I can't figure this place out," he whined, glancing between the plans and the room itself in quick succession. "nothing's where it's supposed to be."