"It really takes a lot -especially in our line of work- for me to feel alive, but you do that for me, Vivienne."
When psychically gifted Vivienne Salvatore is forced to flee to London from her home up north, she stumbles upon a "prestigious" agency...
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Unpacking my bags certainly didn't take long. The contents consisted mainly of half-filled sketchbooks, books littered with annotation tabs, folded clothing, and framed photographs. Everything was easily sortable, whether hung in the closet or shoved under the bed, nothing was particularly time-consuming.
That is if I don't actually look at the photographs in the frames, or see the faces sketched in the books, or remember the memories I made while wearing said clothes and the wild adventures that got some torn at the edges.
Del's only been gone five days, and I'm not sure I'm ready to think of her again. Think of anyone again.
I know Freya would hate me for thinking this way. Avoidance is no way to overcome grief, she'd say. It's what my mother had once told her, and therefore what she feels obligated to repeat.
She's always just been an echo of my mother, and I've always hated her for it.
Despite that, I still miss her. I miss Mal. I miss Del. I miss Mike. I miss everyone. God, this avoidance stuff isn't very good at avoiding.
"Lucy!" I hear George shout from below, an irritated tone in his voice. "What have I told you about licking the spoon while I'm still cooking?!"
"Sorry, Georgie!" I hear Lucy call out to him in response while giggling. "It tastes really good if that helps!" I hear her rush up the stairs, then the sound of a door quickly slamming shut.
It seems I've found my distraction.
I stand from my place sat on the edge of my bed, and brush the dust from my lap. I stuff the things I've yet to find a place for - including my Fittes application that they refused to even look at - into a box, and shove it under my bed.
I head down the attic stairs, down onto the second floor. I take the time to look around, noticing all of the unsettling masks and antiques hung on the walls, as well as the framed newspaper articles of success, several of which are about Mr Lockwood.
I quickly learn that he trained with a man known as "Gravedigger," but that is where the discoveries end. There is nothing about his past or how he inherited the house, which is what I'm most curious to know.
I think back to the locked door on the landing that he ushered me past during my tour. If I'm living here, I should know what's in there. Right? That makes sense.
