❛for those who could not be trusted and lacked of courage – the inconsistent ones.❜
⋆ ✧ ⋆
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IN the nocturne of darkness, the stars are a choir; they are illuminations that sing a song of new beginnings. Their melody is laced with softness, tempting bodies of people to rest and their hearts to pace slow and steady rhythms.
A muscle twitches involuntarily at the corner of James Carstairs' right eye as his thin lips form a straight line. With his pale hands folded onto his lap, his foot taps furiously against the floor of the study room of his new home. A drizzle of cold sweat glides down his back as he waits for the Head of the London Institute to arrive.
James Carstairs knows a little about the woman which goes by the name of Charlotte Branwell. He knows that she was born to Granville Fairchild and his late wife in the 1850s. She was an only child – up until her parents decided to take an orphan in. Then, Charlotte finally became a sister – and Granville Fairchild once again became disappointed that he didn't get a son instead. He didn't hate his new daughter, he just wished for a successor who would run the Institute after his death. However, seeing that his wishes weren't to be fulfilled – he put all his efforts into the training of his oldest daughter, preparing her for that path instead.
According to Jem's parents, Charlotte is a dutiful and responsible woman, one that is to be trusted and greatly respected among Shadowhunters. She is married to a man named Henry Branwell and together – they run the Institute of London.
"You must be James Carstairs?" A very small woman, almost childlike in appearance, enters the room and interrupts Jem's busy mind. Her face is neat and possesses the signs of brilliance.
"Yes, I am. And you must be Mrs. Branwell?" Jem nods his head politely, offering the kind woman his respect.
"Please, call me Charlotte. There is no need to be so formal – we are all family here."
His heart stops beating for a single moment. A wave of sadness and hurt washes James' young mind, droplets of tears threatening to stain his hollow cheeks.
You have no family left.
Seeing the young boy's smile flatter into a curve that represents sadness, Charlotte remembers the reason for his arrival and scolds herself for being so careless and mentioning the topic of family – though she truly meant what she said. It is in her best intentions to make the twelve-year-old boy feel welcomed. And though he has only recently lost his loved ones, she wishes to offer him a new family – one that would love him just the same.
