The dust.
The dust.
The dust.
The new furniture, she had anticipated. A new owner for the home meant new furniture. That was just the way it went, even if the old furniture was very nice and she'd like it. There was going to be an adjustment period, before everything had been moved and unpacked and put where it was meant to be, and she accepted this. Boudica didn't like it, but she accepted it. Like she accepted that there would be a bit of noise, that there would be a bit of mess, that things would not be the way that they had been.
She'd even been a little optimistic. He'd fallen asleep early. Sleeping early was even better than sleeping late.
But then the dust. It hit her like icewater, skin crawling, scratching at her spine. There was just so much. Where could it all have come from? How could anyone possibly bring this much dust?
She still might have forgiven the dust. But then the candles. Burnt out, or blown out, she didn't care which. Melted stumps swimming in wax, pools and puddles and rivers of wax – that could not possibly be an accident.
It wasn't the worst mess she'd ever shared a room with. But it had been so long since she'd had to deal with a real and proper mess, since she'd felt this ache squeezing at her bones as if to crack them.
She really didn't want to move.
She got to work, sweeping the floor and dusting surfaces, getting into cracks and cleaning the hardwood on her hands and knees (because nothing on the end of a stick could be trusted to do it right). She scraped up wax and replaced candles with new ones, even though she'd rather there not be candles at all. She polished wood – and polished and polished and polished, and she would probably smell like orange oil for a week.
The instruments were tricky. Boudica was not musical. Boudica was not anything that involved making noise. She knew every board in the house, and how exactly to step on them to avoid even the slightest creak. But even after she'd cleaned and she'd polished, they itched at her, nagged and nagged until she found herself replacing strings and adjusting tension in perfect silence. She put them away when they'd stopped bothering her, though there were some that bothered her still, and she did not know how to make them stop.
Boxes for rooms that did not yet have names, and so they couldn't be unpacked. Was there a music room? She'd leave it by the hall. She didn't think they had a dungeon. She'd just have to put that one in the basement.
There was an enormous wooden box in the dining room that she had not the slightest idea what to do with. It was the cleanest thing that had been brought into the house. Far better than those great green monstrosities, which she'd been avoiding but would need to confront eventually.
Some of the boxes had been tossed and dented and torn open, and one had a quilt hanging out of a dragged corner. Some of the stitches had split, and it smelled… the less said about how it smelled, the better. She washed it by hand and she dried it in the machine in the basement, and she fixed all the ripped stitches and shored up a few that were on the brink.
A blanket. That belonged in the bedroom. Whichever room had been chosen for a bedroom. Tricky, with someone in there. Still, she crept upstairs on silent stockinged feet, neatly folded quilt in tow. Everyone in the house – except her, of course – was sleeping. A very deep sleep, but that didn't stop her from worrying. She poked her head in the door – a mess, a mess, not safe to clean it yet – and eventually moved to set the quilt at the foot of the bed.
It seemed very cold. And he – he, male, definitely, she should have known from the dust – seemed very pale. There was nothing less clean than sick.
Gently and gently and yet gentler, she unfolded the quilt and draped it over him. It made her feel a little better. Then she took the cup – which definitely did not belong there, absolutely not – and absconded back to the kitchen to wash it out.
Still hadn't finished with the boxes, still hadn't found the best places for some things left out, still hadn't washed the footprints out of the rugs or taken a brush to the molding or gone for a second turn at dusting to catch everything that had floated away. Her hands were raw and her back hurt and her skirt was wrinkled. Some of her hair had come loose from her bun, a stray wisp of brown.
He woke up.
It wasn't even morning.
It wasn't even almost morning.
She wasn't done.
She huffed, blew the little strand of hair out of the way of pitch-black eyes. A frisson of tension against her ribs, and she couldn't yet risk stealing away past his door to get to the attic. She'd wait for the feeling to subside, for the safety of sleep again.
And in the meantime, she'd just have to hide.
The dust.
The dust.
The new furniture, she had anticipated. A new owner for the home meant new furniture. That was just the way it went, even if the old furniture was very nice and she'd like it. There was going to be an adjustment period, before everything had been moved and unpacked and put where it was meant to be, and she accepted this. Boudica didn't like it, but she accepted it. Like she accepted that there would be a bit of noise, that there would be a bit of mess, that things would not be the way that they had been.
She'd even been a little optimistic. He'd fallen asleep early. Sleeping early was even better than sleeping late.
But then the dust. It hit her like icewater, skin crawling, scratching at her spine. There was just so much. Where could it all have come from? How could anyone possibly bring this much dust?
She still might have forgiven the dust. But then the candles. Burnt out, or blown out, she didn't care which. Melted stumps swimming in wax, pools and puddles and rivers of wax – that could not possibly be an accident.
It wasn't the worst mess she'd ever shared a room with. But it had been so long since she'd had to deal with a real and proper mess, since she'd felt this ache squeezing at her bones as if to crack them.
She really didn't want to move.
She got to work, sweeping the floor and dusting surfaces, getting into cracks and cleaning the hardwood on her hands and knees (because nothing on the end of a stick could be trusted to do it right). She scraped up wax and replaced candles with new ones, even though she'd rather there not be candles at all. She polished wood – and polished and polished and polished, and she would probably smell like orange oil for a week.
The instruments were tricky. Boudica was not musical. Boudica was not anything that involved making noise. She knew every board in the house, and how exactly to step on them to avoid even the slightest creak. But even after she'd cleaned and she'd polished, they itched at her, nagged and nagged until she found herself replacing strings and adjusting tension in perfect silence. She put them away when they'd stopped bothering her, though there were some that bothered her still, and she did not know how to make them stop.
Boxes for rooms that did not yet have names, and so they couldn't be unpacked. Was there a music room? She'd leave it by the hall. She didn't think they had a dungeon. She'd just have to put that one in the basement.
There was an enormous wooden box in the dining room that she had not the slightest idea what to do with. It was the cleanest thing that had been brought into the house. Far better than those great green monstrosities, which she'd been avoiding but would need to confront eventually.
Some of the boxes had been tossed and dented and torn open, and one had a quilt hanging out of a dragged corner. Some of the stitches had split, and it smelled… the less said about how it smelled, the better. She washed it by hand and she dried it in the machine in the basement, and she fixed all the ripped stitches and shored up a few that were on the brink.
A blanket. That belonged in the bedroom. Whichever room had been chosen for a bedroom. Tricky, with someone in there. Still, she crept upstairs on silent stockinged feet, neatly folded quilt in tow. Everyone in the house – except her, of course – was sleeping. A very deep sleep, but that didn't stop her from worrying. She poked her head in the door – a mess, a mess, not safe to clean it yet – and eventually moved to set the quilt at the foot of the bed.
It seemed very cold. And he – he, male, definitely, she should have known from the dust – seemed very pale. There was nothing less clean than sick.
Gently and gently and yet gentler, she unfolded the quilt and draped it over him. It made her feel a little better. Then she took the cup – which definitely did not belong there, absolutely not – and absconded back to the kitchen to wash it out.
Still hadn't finished with the boxes, still hadn't found the best places for some things left out, still hadn't washed the footprints out of the rugs or taken a brush to the molding or gone for a second turn at dusting to catch everything that had floated away. Her hands were raw and her back hurt and her skirt was wrinkled. Some of her hair had come loose from her bun, a stray wisp of brown.
He woke up.
It wasn't even morning.
It wasn't even almost morning.
She wasn't done.
She huffed, blew the little strand of hair out of the way of pitch-black eyes. A frisson of tension against her ribs, and she couldn't yet risk stealing away past his door to get to the attic. She'd wait for the feeling to subside, for the safety of sleep again.
And in the meantime, she'd just have to hide.
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