The Ghost of Winn Peterson

14. Vicar

Plenty of things in Vicar's life had unsettled, or perhaps disturbed him, but nothing prickled at his mind quite like hearing the infirm Winnifred and her close friend Evelyn had been trapped by the scheming motives of the doctor. "What a curious man!" Vicar chewed his lips and pondered. This Dr. Radcliffe's plans were well-thought out, if one considered how long he could have possibly stayed at Evie's house. If Vicar hadn't known any better, he would have thought the doctor was far more aware of the Thomas household than he was letting on. Why else would he arrive, only to dismiss the issue at hand he was summoned for?

None of it made the damnedest bit of sense. Vicar had been standing for hours at this point, and still, he paced in frustration. His feet cried out with every step, but he absolutely needed to understand. As Winn did not live in his house, and neither did Evie, could the reasoning for Ms. Peterson's journal being in Vicar's attic mean this was the doctor's house? Was this where the unfortunate heroine's had been relocated to after the death of Evie's mother?

Vicar sat on the ground, hungry once more. As he toed a rolling candle-holder, he wondered if he shouldn't just quit all of this and return to his own world, where gardens were not built and mother's were not known before their early deaths, where doctor's did not pursue the grieving daughters of their patients and friends were not forced into marriages they didn't want. Vicar thought about the sky now, and how different it must have looked to Winn. She could have seen clouds and the very rain fall from each spot in the cosmos, but if Vicar stood and looked out of the window, he doubted he would have seen much more than smoke. Sometimes, the sun peeked through, or the moonlight straggled its way into the city, but even the sunset he'd seen earlier through the broken attic window was a poor excuse for light. Only a hundred years had passed from one tale to the next, and yet, how horrifically it had been ruined by his generation! Then again, the burning of buildings as large and as old as his university hadn't helped, but that was a long way away from here.

Wishing he had a garden, Vicar assumed a stand once more and made his way begrudgingly over to the attic door. He was hungry again. With no way to tell the time, Vicar could only assume it had been a very long collection of hours since he'd last eaten, and he was reasonably sure nobody had brought anything else up. Then again, he'd pored through so much of Winn's journal, that he wasn't sure if he'd have been able to hear anything, were it loud as the nosing and poking around of those downstairs or silent as the pages of the old journal that lay on the improvised seat.

Hesitantly, the door opened. There was the low murmur of perhaps two or three people talking in hushed and low voices. The kettle could just be heard hissing two floors down. Vicar disliked the idea of being seen - he would have to move quickly. From where the noises came filtering up, it sounded as though the kitchens were still being occupied, but the drawing room still had hidden caches of food and drink.

At the very least, there was a very small stove and several canisters of tea in the drawing room.

Making sure there was nobody lurking behind the door, ready to pounce on him should he quit the attic, he stepped a hesitant foot out onto the cold floor. Having removed his shoes some hours past, he was grateful for the silence they provided when traversing across the wooden planks, but rather unhappy about the now-frozen state of his heels. Still, if being cold was what it took to remain as hidden as Dr. Radcliffe's motives, then Vicar was all too happy to bear with it. At the very least, he had a warm drink waiting for him downstairs.

Once he'd toed his way down all of the steps - managing to avoid creaking all but one stair - he paused and squinted around the next room. There was still one more flight to descend before he was anywhere near the kitchens or the living rooms, but Vicar had no way of knowing who had grown intrigued with the upper levels of the house. Fortunately, there was nobody waiting to surprise him. All that remained since his brother's passing in this part of the house was the crackle of an occasionally alive lamp. Where Vicar had been keen on his translations, Gaston had been a great friend indeed to re-purposing lights, and often for no other purpose than surprising his fellow residents. Even now, Vicar flinched as the ceiling fan hummed and buzzed a gloomy green colour, only to flicker back out into darkness.