Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CHAPTER FOUR chrysanthemums and runaway lords
AFTER THE HEATED argument with the oldest siblings, the girl was giving them a silent treatment, and for the first time, Enola was as angry as her, not so much at Sherlock, though.
Florence couldn't stop thinking about all the lies she's been hearing and believing all her life, she didn't even know what to think about herself. They sold the house and Mycroft was her ward, if Eudora was capable of covering that she wondered how many things more were lies.
And she was sad, it has been a hell of three days since the brothers arrived, a hurricane of emotions she had problems with and wanted to avoid as much as she could, be she couldn't.
Both girls were laying on their respective beds, the light of candles warming the room that felt so cold. Both were silent but knew the other was awake, looking at the cream ceiling, Florence's new hobby when she zoned out.
The house. Her house. She didn't even care about the house itself, she cared that her parents lived there, their memories were there, the ghosts of bliss were there, well, they probably weren't anymore. Probably there was another family with kids running along its hallways and grannies knitting scarfs for their sons and grandsons, something she wanted to have so desperately, somewhere to belong.
She knew since the beginning she was a foreigner in the Holmes household, something was odd, like that empty feeling in your stomach that you shouldn't be in that place, that feeling that made your breath shallow and difficult, for years. She had happy moments in there, obviously, she had them, but when she was alone and all the familiar voices were quiet, her mind started telling her that that wasn't her home.
She didn't even have the mood to continue the book she was reading nights prior, now it was so bitter and blue. Now they would have to go to some stupid finishing school to learn how to be a lady. In her opinion, being a lady was to be independent, to be confident and have the guts to raise her voice as a woman. But no, to most people, being a lady was having a stupidly tiny waist and attending stupid balls to find a wealthy man to take care of them.
Ridiculous.
She pursed her lips and her eyes snapped up when she saw Ms. Lane entering the room, catching Enola's attention as well. "Ms. Lane. You don't intrude on us at night," Enola said, still laying.
The redhead sat, resting her back against the iron backboard of her bed. "Well, I thought we might get packing in the morning. These, used to be Master Sherlock and Mycroft's," the woman said with a smile, carrying two brown cases.
"I want Sherlock's," the redhead said, then chuckling slightly, not wanting anything from the oldest Holmes.
Ms. Lane looked at her with a smile on her features and shaking her head, to what she just shrugged. She definitely didn't want anything from Mycroft.
