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On the outskirts of Forks, there is a small brick cottage. A wooden sign on the letterbox filled with spiders reads "Little Wood Cottage." Wisteria flowers bloom up the side of the house and hang over the doorway in spring, and daisies sprout among the weeds in the front garden. It sits on the edge of the forest, the back door almost rusted from disuse, latched securely shut for fear of what lingers within the trees. The fence is a white picket, chipped in desperate need of a new coat of paint, vines creeping up the wood.
Mia Blackthorn only has one bag to her name, and she clutches it tightly as she climbs out of the police car. Police Chief Charlie Swan steps out of the other side, and gives Mia a tight smile, before pushing the rusty gate to enter the property. The gate gives a loud creak of complaint, and Mia winces at the harsh sound.
Mia notices that the front door is painted a deep red, also chipped and flaking like the fence. Charlie gives the door a sharp knock, and sighs, hooking his fingers into his belt loops as he relaxes his stance.
"You've come a long way?" He asks Mia as they wait for the door to be answered.
Mia nods. "Just from New York." She replies, her voice soft and low, quiet that Charlie leans forward slightly in order to hear her answer.
"Forks'll be a bit of a change for you then? It's not as exciting as the hustle and bustle of a big city."
Mia just shakes her head slightly. She's still looking forward at the red door, eyes tracing over the cracks in the paint. "It's a welcome change."
The occupant of the house still has not answered the door. Charlie clears his throat gruffly, and knocks again, a little louder. The occupant was made aware that her grand-niece was arriving today, and the silence both inside the house and outside the house was getting to him. He never liked coming down to this house on almost the outskirts of the town, and it wasn't often that he had to. It was unnerving how the birds never sang near the house, and there were barely any signs of life. Mia seems perfectly at ease with the silence however.
"I'm sorry to hear about your cousin," Charlie says, attempting again to make conversation. "It must be very hard for you."
The seventeen year old sighs, tucking her golden brown hair behind her ear. "I didn't know him that well, despite him having custody of me for so long. Thank you for your condolences, however."
Ah, yes. Charlie remembers what the social worker had included in the report. Mia had lived with her cousin, Thomas Blackthorn for many years, after being orphaned at a young age. It seemed however, that after having a nanny until the age of thirteen, she had become solely independent for the next four years, as her cousin was so busy with work they barely saw each other, despite living together for almost ten years. It was only in the last year that he had been diagnosed with cancer. The reports said that she had taken on all the responsibilities of caring for him and held his hand when he'd died. But she hadn't cried. And now she turns and sends a soft smile to Charlie. He's baffled; but he doesn't have much time to be confused as the red door swings open.
Mia's great-aunt is Mathilda Blackthorn- a wizened old lady, thin and grey, crouching over her cane. The cane is long, whittled out of wood and polished, with a hissing snake, teeth bared over the handle and tail curled around the length of the cane. Mia eyes the snake wearily, it's slitted wooden eyes staring up at her.
"Mia." Mathilda croaks. Mia sweeps her gaze over her great-aunt; the woman seems to be nearing 100, practically on her deathbed. It's a miracle she's up and walking, Mia thinks. It's a good thing Mia knows how to take care of herself, especially since she'd been doing it since she was seven. "Thank you for bringing her Charlie. Come in you two, I'll put the jug on."
Mathilda turns, and with a slow walk, makes her way inside the cottage. After exchanging a look with Charlie, Mia clutches the handle of her suitcase and steps over the threshold.
The inside of the cottage seems just as dreary as the outside, and Mia feels herself almost itching to grab a duster and clean the place. The walls are plastered with dark, ancient wallpaper, floral detailing yellowing with age. There are two chairs next to a fireplace. One is a dark purple armchair, upholstered with velvet, but the other one is merely a wooden kitchen chair, looking as rickety and old as Mia's great-aunt. The wooden floor needs a serious mop, and the rug looks like it needs to be hung outside to air a bit.
"Oh- Mia, dear, would you mind?" Mathilda calls her name from the kitchen, and Mia sets her case down in order to follow the old woman into the kitchen. Mathilda has sat down at the kitchen table (a small wooden table covered with a tea-stained lace table cloth). "The kettle is over there, dear. And the mugs and teabags are next to it. You wouldn't mind pouring us both a cup, would you? These bones of mine are getting so sore."
Silently, Mia nods, moving over to the cupboard that Mathilda gestured to. Despite her having light footing, usually moving as quiet as a mouse, the floorboards squeak under her boots. As she's setting up the water to boil and pulling out mugs, dusting them off with the corner of her shirt, she hears Mathilda beginning to speak to Charlie. Mia notices that her voice, while croaky, has a sickly sweet twang to it, like spoiled honey sliding down one's throat.
"What a sweet girl she is, just like her mother," Mathilda is saying to Charlie. "When I heard all about those reports of how she cared for Thomas on his deathbed, I knew she'd be good to me."
Mia sighs. No wonder Thomas, barely present throughout her childhood, remained her legal guardian stubbornly. He was the last living relative standing between Mia and her reclusive, bone idle great-aunt. Yet, she has merely seven months until she is eighteen, and she'll be free. She just has to grin and bear it. She pulls the hair tie off of her wrist, plaiting her hair quickly down her back and out of her face. Mia can feel that she has a lot of cleaning to do.
