Mortal Comforts || Kuroshitsuji OC

The Poisons of Thought

     Home suddenly felt far more drab than it ever had been.

     It had been some time since the storm had passed and Emilynne had walked herself home because, thank you, I've troubled you enough, I can make it back safely. The clouds had already parted, revealing a vast expanse of stars twinkling shyly in the distance. For some time, she had idled outside of the funeral parlor, admiring the night sky and the moon's dull glow, how it cast long shadows across the damp ground. But she had grown tired, and without a moment more's hesitation she turned heel and set course for home, too exhausted to even stop by the cemetery once more to check on her flowers.

     Her estate was a far warmer place than the parlor had been. It was a grand space, bathed in the amber hues of hanging chandeliers and candelabras placed by the windows. The floor glittered a clean, polished marble; the glass stairs shone yellow under the chandelier's light. All around, it was an inviting sort of place, clean, empty, and light in color - the opposite of the funeral parlor. Where caskets were in the parlor, her estate had tables, decked out with delicate lace cloths underneath flower vases; where bookshelves resided, she had doorways, open to the dining area and study. Ornate sofas resided in the study, sitting atop thick, mandala-print rugs, each couch complete with soft peacock green pillows lining their backs.

     Emilynne drew in a deep breath. The scent of fresh baking pastries wafted from the kitchen.

     She removed her half-muddy boots, leaving them by the foyer, and grabbed a fistful of dress as she hiked it up around her ankles, determined not to track dirt through the house after her servants had so carefully cleaned it. Her quarters were on the second floor, and as quietly as she could manage, she tiptoed up the spiral staircase.

     Her room sat directly opposite the front entrance to the house, situated on the southernmost wall. It was far less grandiose than the rest of the estate, but it was still quite a large room, prim and proper, befitting of a lady. It had an elegant bed stationed in the middle of the room, sheets neatly made and pillows fluffed, curtains drawn and tied to the tall bedposts. A gilded mirror stood at the western wall, reflecting the defeated image of a dirty, unkempt, and exhausted Emilynne. She glared at herself, detesting the wispy curls of hair that stuck out of place.

     With a yawn, she tossed her hat down onto her vanity and the shawl followed. It crumpled onto the table in a sad, damp heap. She turned on her wet socks, rummaged through her wardrobe in search of nightwear. After some careful deliberation, she settled on a silky white nightdress, and happily shed her muddy garments in replacement for her nice, dry sleepwear. She wanted to resign herself to bed and read for a bit, but fatigue had long since overtaken her bones, and, spent, Emilynne crawled underneath her sheets.

     Sleep took her all too quick.

******

     The next few days passed in a blur.

     Emilynne continued her life as usual, tending to her garden, sipping tea, eating luxuriously cooked meals courtesy of her servants. She carried on a mundane conversation with her mother about new silks being imported and made secret arrangements with her servants to clean the mud from her dress without informing her parents of the fiasco. She bathed, scrubbing every last bit of mud from under her nails. She practiced piano and allowed herself to attend cocktail parties hosted at her estate, exchanging casual banter with the bland personalities flowing in and out of the house.

     But she could not stop thinking about the strange man from the cemetery.

     The thought hit her in the midst of a conversation during the second party, and she had nearly dropped her glass. It was the first time in years that she felt she had missed someone - no, missed wasn't the proper word - and, yes, sir, she was quite alright, just startled by the thought of how lovely this wine tasted, thank you. She excused herself promptly, under the guise of a woman who needed to freshen up her makeup, and with haste she retreated to her quarters, glass still in hand.

     The shawl still sat in a heap on her vanity, and she allowed her fingers to travel along its creases in a curious fashion. It carried the scent of old paper, much like the funeral parlor. It had been a welcome warmth that night, much unlike the heavy, cold twill of her coat -

     The coat she had left there.

     A strange spur of excitement began to brew in the pit of her stomach. It would be an excuse to go back to the parlor, chat up the strange man one more time. He had such an odd aura, something Emilynne couldn't quite put her finger on, but he was friendly, and friendly was good. Emilynne had few friends left, and she wanted to hold onto the ones she still had.

    Gathering herself, she made a choice. Come next morning, she would head out into town and find the funeral parlor. With a confident smile, she downed the rest of her wine.

     Perhaps she would enjoy the rest of the party tonight.