A Silent Society - MPHFPC

End of The Beginning

"Noelle.. my sweet, I truly do not mind your stutter" Alma assures me,
for the last 4 weeks, every morning before my assigned chores with Horace I am to meet Alma in her study to read poetry, it's not that I don't enjoy it, Alma actually says that I'm getting better with my verbal communication skills every day..
I just don't like that I stutter so much, it makes me hate my voice more.

"C-Can I wr-write instead..?" I ask, softly with my eyes closed as though I'm trying to make it less confronting by lack of eye contact —
"My dear.. are you having that bad of a day with your words that you need to write? You can write.. but answer me this, are you merely embarrassed, or do you feel as though you desperately need it?" —
I pause. My cheeks flush red and I bow my head, trying to make my realisation discreet.
Sometimes I hate it when she's right.

Alma chuckles a little, making my blush deepen.
"I-I'll try w-without pen and p-paper" I answer -
Alma's face lights up and the most adorable grin forms across her lips, "oh yes there you go my dear girl!" She exclaims happily, I giggle a little at her enthusiasm.

"Are we thinking Emily Brontë today?" She asks, still smiling her adorable smile.
I nod in response to which Alma raises her eyebrows in authority -
"Ah ah.. Noelle darling, use your words for me" she says, a sweet smile plays on her lips so that I know she's not being to strict -
"Y-Yes A-Alma.. Emily Brontë w-would be lovely.. th-thank you" I reply, obeying her request for me to use my voice.
"Oh, Oh good girl. You are doing so well, you even used your manners!" She says, a hint of playfulness in her voice as she slides a book of Poetry by Emily Brontë across her desk to me.

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Once I am excused for chores, I meet Horace in the laundry room, Horace is already ironing some of the clothes as I pick up some shirts from the dirty pile and put them gently into the washing tub.
"So.. how are your poetry hours with Miss Peregrine going?" He asks, seeming genuine.
I smile to myself a little, blushing and feeling my heart flutter.
"Good then I'm assuming? your blush gives it away!" he giggles, my god the two of us together are childish.

Chores this morning are just like every other morning, the laundry room and the hall leading to it's door are both roaring with laughter,
It really adds to the happiness and joy of this home.
I like to think that there is a difference between a house and a home, a house is a building with foundation, but not necessarily feeling.
When a person is out in the world, take a new graduate for example, their first house of their own, may not feel like a home.. typically it's because they miss the home that they grew up in,
What makes a house a home? To that, I'd answer that it is the people in it.
This house is a home, and this home is a home that Alma Peregrine brought up out of the ash.

As Horace and I finish our unavoidable chores, we walk the halls in hopes for something to do, Horace finds himself curled up on the sofa in the sunroom reading a book -
And I wander upstairs, originally to go and write the thoughts that require the satisfaction of words on paper from a fountain tip pen.
That is, until I am met with the twins in the hallway - one of them desperately pulling the mask upon their face together, it appears to be ripped and causing a lot of distress for the dear child.
I kneel down to appear less intimidating as I beckon the sweet boy over to me.

I gently remove one of my own buttons from my button up shirt, popping it off into my hand, I then reach up atop my head, retrieving my hair pin from my crow black hair.
My hair drapes like a curtain over my shoulders as the pin that once held it up is taken out -
However by removing a button from my blouse and the pin from my hair, I can use it to temporarily hold the boy's mask together.. it will put a halt to it ripping up the seam any further.