and all that we intend is scrawled in sand
The bathroom by the orangery is blessedly quiet, though the party still bleeds through in softened echoes; laughter dulled by stone, music reduced to a low, distant thrum, firelight flickering under the door in warm, indifferent pulses. Wildering House knows better than to intrude here; even the spirits keep their distance, the air unusually still. Outside the closed but unlocked door, Spice has settled herself squarely across the threshold, a small white sentinel curled with her tail tucked close, eyes bright and watchful as she guards the space with solemn devotion.
Flora sits on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows tucked in tight, arms wrapped fully around herself as if she can hold her own ribcage together by force alone. The red lace dress pools around her thighs in a careless spill of fabric. It clings where she doesn’t want it to, soft and delicate against skin that's still flushed from divine heat. Tear tracks stripe her cheeks, catching the low lamplight like something crystalline, though she’s gone very still in the wake of them. Jaw tight, breathing measured, doing that thing she’s learned to do so well; holding everything together by refusing to let it move at all. One hand fists briefly in the lace at her hip, knuckles whitening, before she forces it to loosen again.
Her parchment lies folded on the small counter beside the sink, still faintly warm from the message she’d sent, and now all that's left to do is wait. A tight knot of upset energy coils in her chest, nowhere to go, no shape yet, just fear and confusion and the awful hollow where her mother’s presence should be.
Flora sits on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows tucked in tight, arms wrapped fully around herself as if she can hold her own ribcage together by force alone. The red lace dress pools around her thighs in a careless spill of fabric. It clings where she doesn’t want it to, soft and delicate against skin that's still flushed from divine heat. Tear tracks stripe her cheeks, catching the low lamplight like something crystalline, though she’s gone very still in the wake of them. Jaw tight, breathing measured, doing that thing she’s learned to do so well; holding everything together by refusing to let it move at all. One hand fists briefly in the lace at her hip, knuckles whitening, before she forces it to loosen again.
Her parchment lies folded on the small counter beside the sink, still faintly warm from the message she’d sent, and now all that's left to do is wait. A tight knot of upset energy coils in her chest, nowhere to go, no shape yet, just fear and confusion and the awful hollow where her mother’s presence should be.
