Bad Prophecies (draft 1)

VIII

Kohl

I stood in front of a window in my nightgown. It was the early hours of the morning, and it was finally my birthday. The year before, it had been an opportunity to go visit one of my favourite places, but with no plans for the day, it was just going to be a simple one. One where I would reflect on my thoughts. Into my late eighties and early nineties, I had a really awful and constantly occurring migrane, which nothing could ever fix. I constantly took baths without boiling the water and lay on my hardwood floor with a wet rag over my face, but it wasn't any use. I knew from the beginning that whichever remedy was available in Victorian England was a hard narcotic or harmful to the human person, and certainly wouldn't help me.
The only thing I ever found was recommended to me by a friend of Pa's, an endurer of the disease anageria, that being quieting syrup.
When my chronic migrane came back in the 1990s, it had long since been eradicated due to sanctions on certain drugs. Quieting syrup's active ingredient was morphine. I don't think I need to clarify.
That morning, I took a dosage of the syrup from the little glass bottle it sold in.
With a newfound patience and comfort,
I dressed myself and laced my boots. Once I had on my glasses, I went along to the kitchen and brewed a cup of tea to drink. While waiting for the kettle to boil on the stove, I noticed a note on the table, so I picked it up. It read:
I am incredibly sorry, my dear. I was in a proper rush to reach the country of Scotland by evening. I have left you something in the shop, a book I think you will quite enjoy. Once again, apologies for my absence.
Love, dad.
I put down the message and went to steep the kettle. When I was done with everything upstairs, I went to open the shop downstairs and found that Alex was waiting for me at the door.
When I opened it for him, he greeted,
"I was hoping to see you, my lady,"
"Am I delusional, or are you really at my doorstep at five in the morning?"
"Look, I don't really have much time, but can you promise to meet me at Mr Laurence's at eight in the evening?"
"Uh, alrighty then, see you tonight, Alexander,"
"You too." He began to walk off before he performed an odd spinning-sort of motion, then bowed, seemingly having forgotten it to be the thing he originally intended to do. I giggled lightly and waved, as he did too.
Mr Laurence was one of the local business owners. He was a retired butler and quite a distinguished little gentleman. He owned a wine shop down the road, and he would sometimes allow you to sit in the shop after closing and taste test his recent brews. I assumed that was the intention of Alex and shut the door before going about my time, deciding ultimately that I would not run the shop today.
Soon, I pondered what else needed to be done, and I remembered Pa's note about a book he left for me.
I wandered over to the desk to find a leather-bound title, a collection of Shakespeare's poetry.
I left a note of appreciation in case he would return while I was gone, really not an uncommon occurrence in the house. Magic aided the ability to not be seen when you don't wish to.
I brought it up to my room and spent the day reading. Flicking from page to page in the then-was a brand-new volume, underlining and annotating my favourite parts. Often, I have always found my favourite parts of Shakespeare were his poems addressed to the fair youth. They spoke of a fairer, softer romance, preferable to the coalition of being wed against one's will for their parents to uphold some sort of status.

Alex

I woke up the morning of her birthday with only one thought in my mind:
I would propose to this human girl if it was the last thing I did.
As soon as I got up from bed, though, which had been at four in the morning since I could not sleep, the thought made me incredibly dizzy. What was I thinking?
To think I was actually considering it! I had sworn very early into my youth to never get myself caught up in such a thing as romance with a mortal. What, with considering the fact that I am forever 18 years old, and the other person would age both mentally and physically. One might say it could get a bit divided.
No, I told myself, it'll be fine, just stop being stupid. Whatever the outcome, I needed to get up now before my Russian mother woke up to do her early morning prayers. I don't have any idea as to why she still prayed, having borne the child of a demonic lord and been granted immortality at his hand, but I digress.
Once I had dressed and fed myself, I was on my way to Soho. The 'Bohemian' district of London was already filled with people roaming the streets, even so early in the morning, some were drunkards staggering home after a late night, others were early-bird business owners setting up shop. I knew Kohl would be one of them; Mr Fell often left the bookshop in her care while he ran important errands (although she did inform me 'important errands', more often than not, simply meant dilly-dallying with her mother in Scotland).
I rushed through the streets, trying not to run into those returning from the overnight shift on my travel to the shop. It was quite a tall building, three stories high, although in those times every building was extremely tall as a byproduct of the industrial revolution. It stood on the out-corner of the street. I stood by the door in wait.
Within only a few minutes, Kohl had come to the door. She seemed to be slightly stricken to be seeing me up so early in the morning before coming to her senses and opening the door.
"I was hoping to see you, my lady," I began.
"Am I delusional, or are you really at my doorstep at five in the morning?"
"Look, I don't really have much time, but can you promise to meet me at Laurence's at eight in the evening?"
"Uh, alrighty then, see you tonight, Alexander
"You too." I performed a twirl before some resemblance of a bow as I rushed away. I didn't bother to catch a carriage and instead ran through the streets of London to make it back home before Mother realised I had been gone.