Feral

Second First Impression

James was seated upon the rocking chair in the front garden of Bilberry House when he saw that black, apparition-like form crest over the hill. His pipe sat in his hand, the tobacco only halfway burned. The afternoon clouds had parted earlier, leaving behind just enough blue sky to warrant a trip out of doors, though a chilled wind still whipped through.

And yet, as Miss Lockwood ambled closer, he could see that she was dressed in heavy layers, the kind that most would reserve for deep winter. All black, just like her hair, which only made her white skin appear more ghostly by comparison. Behind her, the low greenery that crept up the hill was still wet from earlier rains.

Typically, he disliked when the landscape out here was interrupted by man. This interruption, however, amused him somewhat. He thought of silly Gothic novels about specters that haunted the moors. Surely, Miss Lockwood might serve as inspiration.

As she came closer, he could see that she glowered. It appeared to be her default expression. At least she did not have one of those vacant, dead-eyed smiles that he'd seen so much of in his life.

"Lord Bancroft," she said, pleasantly but without much fanfare. It was her only greeting before her cloak parted and another stack of papers was handed out to him.

"Miss Lockwood," he said, matching her tone. Setting his pipe aside, he reached out and took them from her.

"Take a seat," he said, nodding toward the stone bench beside him. He'd intended for it to sound like a kind gesture, but it sounded rather like a command.

She looked at the chair he'd gestured toward, then back at him. "No, thank you, I do not intend to stay."

Yes, he certainly had not given her much reason to do so.

Well, best to make this quick.

With deft hands, he looked through the papers she had given him. Four drawings, all of them done in a similarly cartoonish style as that of the hellish dog story. This one, however, looked more familiar.

"Is this Bilberry House?" he asked, his brow pinching.

"Yes," Miss Lockwood said quietly. Wary, no doubt, of his reaction.

Throughout the drawings, a sickly Bilberry House was made well again. A sweet little story, and certainly one with the happy ending he'd requested. The corner of his mouth quirked upward.

"These are well-done," he said, and he rather meant it. Shuffling the papers back into a neat stack, he looked up at her. "I will print these in this week's edition."

"And next week? What time of day should I bring art to you, if morning does not work?"

The morning did work, technically, when he was not so grumpy. But he'd demanded that she change the time; he could not exactly take it back now.

"About this time works. Late afternoon."

"Alright, then. Have a good evening, Lord Bancroft."

Then, she turned and started her back the way she'd come. The slight lilt in her walk was more prominent when he looked at her from behind.

"Wait," he said, standing up.

She halted beside a small plot of wilting mums, then turned to look back at him expectantly. Her cane, and her hand resting upon it, escaped her cloak.

"I will come to you, from now on. You shouldn't...well, you shouldn't be walking here when winter comes."

Her eyes flicked from him, to her cane, then back again. He'd expected, perhaps, a bit of gratitude. Instead, he got a deeper frown than before.