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THE SUN HAD barely risen when Honora awoke. It was the birds. The kookaburras. They squawked outside her window, crowing into the early morning air. She tossed in her bed. Once, twice. She was almost asleep again, her eyes slowly drooping shut, when he appeared in her mind. Him. Their conversation. Their fight.
She didn't fall back asleep.
She stood up, walking across the cold floorboards of her room with her palms pressed into her squinted eyes. It wasn't even a fight, really. It was a misunderstanding, a miscommunication. Yes, that was all it was. Then why was it bugging the woman so much? It stopped her from sleeping, stopped her from remembering to change out of her sleepwear, and stopped her from recognising the wall in front of her. She walked right into it. The wall, that was. But, then again, she'd walked right into the argument too, hadn't she? The short fuse had grown to be too short.
Honora-Rue left her bedroom with a red nose. Even in the hall she could feel the frigid breeze. The air nipped at her skin, bumps emerging along her bare arms and tickling the bottoms of her feet. She shivered, crossing her arms over her body in an attempt to summon even a flicker of warmth.
"Good morning," she whispered as she walked by a guard. He nodded to her.
"Honora-Rue." The woman turned, looking at the guard with raised brows. "Your father has requested your presence in the study."
The woman furrowed her brows, confusion falling upon her. She let out a quiet sigh. It was too early.
"Of course. Thank you." The guard nodded at her once more before she left.
She crossed the house quietly, the only sound being the gentle pattering of her cold feet and the anxious tapping of her fingers against her gold bracelet. She eyed the paintings she passed, giving them a single glance before looking away. She inwardly rolled her eyes. They were all portraits of men who looked just like her father. Except one. The one closest to her father's study. It was of a woman, a familiar woman. Jane Austen. Her mother's favourite author.
