The presence of so many musical instruments probably ought to have clued her in to the fact that he would be playing musical instruments.
And yet, somehow, it was still a deeply unpleasant surprise to hear the sound of a violin filtering up through the attic floor. Boudica buried her face in her pillows, pulling one of them on top of her head to try and wrap over her ears.
It was surprisingly effective.
Possibly too effective?
She lifted the pillow off her head, and the silence remained. Not perfect silence, because it sounded like he was talking to himself, but the music did not continue. Perhaps he'd realized that playing music at this hour was absurd? That would be good.
It wasn't as if she'd be able to sleep, anyway. But she could at least… not sleep in silence.
That he might find her was not a concern, because the glamour that made the door of the room she claimed so easy to overlook had yet to fail. It was hardly foolproof, but it didn't need to be. She was not sought out or sought after, and only occasionally did she need to avoid someone looking for an old something-or-other.
The attic was not the trouble. The trouble was that she would need to leave the attic, eventually. To fix whatever it was that he was doing, to bathe, to hopefully eat, to… fix whatever it was that he was still doing.
What could he possibly be doing down there, to irritate her so?
She pulled a comforter entirely over her head, as if that would insulate her from the situation. The amount of time that she spent awake was limited. She needed to use that time efficiently, and over the years with the previous homeowner she had grown very efficient. She'd managed to get the house cleaner than most other houses she'd lived in. She'd even found time to watch television, until the little wooden thing stopped working for reasons beyond her control.
(The analog to digital conversion had been hard on attic-dwellers everywhere.)
As something like sleep finally started to creep upon her… the anxious itch in her ribs went away.
He fell asleep.
It was the middle of the day, and he fell asleep.
This was horrendous. This was hideous. Three more days of this? Or was the first day already over, and now there was only two?
She forced herself upright, rubbing at her eyes, because time was clearly of the essence. She grabbed a towel and some clothes on the way out of the attic, because even though showering before cleaning made no sense at all, she could not bear a moment longer of feeling so utterly filthy.
She had turned showering quickly into an art form.
Dirty clothes taken care of, clean clothes arranged neatly, hair returned to its ideal state of pulled-tight perfection. She would have been in her ideal state, if not for the fact that she was exhausted and starving.
The dust had not returned. But something certainly had. He had unpacked boxes and left things strewn about in the entryway, or so it looked to her. She reached out to pick up something large and nasty-looking when a chill through her arm made her stop.
Iron? He'd… barred the door with iron? She tried to touch a few more things, strange boxes and hoops of metal and spikes like overlarge nails, but each time stopped short before they could hurt her. With an awful feeling in her gut she checked the back door, and found it no better. Heavy things suspended from the ceiling, even, little spikes underfoot in worrying configurations.
It couldn't be a fairy trap. There wasn't any bait. But then, what on earth was it? It was all a horrible mess, and she couldn't even clean it. She tried to prod at one with her toe, but recoiled immediately; even through her stockings, it burned.
And a quick check of the kitchen found that he still had not left her anything to eat.
Definitely only two more days.
She took care of what she could, anyway, cleaning away wax – why, wax, again with the wax, why this – and scrubbing the floors. She padded quietly into the room where he'd stored away the instruments, and found with horror that much of her careful work had been undone.
What on earth could he possibly be doing with this instrument?
Again she polished, again she replaced the string. He hadn't managed to do as much damage as was there before, at least, and he had not bothered with many of the others. Just the one violin, and the poor piano. And what had he put beneath it? She bent at the waist to look underneath it.
Himself. He had put himself beneath the piano. He had fallen asleep on the floor beneath the piano, doing she-did-not-know-what.
She had no idea what she was supposed to be doing about this.
She rubbed at the bridge of her nose in irritation as she backed away from the piano, heading back toward the kitchen. The kitchen was becoming her safe zone in this now-alien house. The only strange thing there was the candle situation, and she knew what to do about that. She did not know what to do with a grown man sleeping beneath a piano, trailing a mess that even she could not clean.
Only one thing was certain: she was never moving in with any man under the age of sixty again.
And yet, somehow, it was still a deeply unpleasant surprise to hear the sound of a violin filtering up through the attic floor. Boudica buried her face in her pillows, pulling one of them on top of her head to try and wrap over her ears.
It was surprisingly effective.
Possibly too effective?
She lifted the pillow off her head, and the silence remained. Not perfect silence, because it sounded like he was talking to himself, but the music did not continue. Perhaps he'd realized that playing music at this hour was absurd? That would be good.
It wasn't as if she'd be able to sleep, anyway. But she could at least… not sleep in silence.
That he might find her was not a concern, because the glamour that made the door of the room she claimed so easy to overlook had yet to fail. It was hardly foolproof, but it didn't need to be. She was not sought out or sought after, and only occasionally did she need to avoid someone looking for an old something-or-other.
The attic was not the trouble. The trouble was that she would need to leave the attic, eventually. To fix whatever it was that he was doing, to bathe, to hopefully eat, to… fix whatever it was that he was still doing.
What could he possibly be doing down there, to irritate her so?
She pulled a comforter entirely over her head, as if that would insulate her from the situation. The amount of time that she spent awake was limited. She needed to use that time efficiently, and over the years with the previous homeowner she had grown very efficient. She'd managed to get the house cleaner than most other houses she'd lived in. She'd even found time to watch television, until the little wooden thing stopped working for reasons beyond her control.
(The analog to digital conversion had been hard on attic-dwellers everywhere.)
As something like sleep finally started to creep upon her… the anxious itch in her ribs went away.
He fell asleep.
It was the middle of the day, and he fell asleep.
This was horrendous. This was hideous. Three more days of this? Or was the first day already over, and now there was only two?
She forced herself upright, rubbing at her eyes, because time was clearly of the essence. She grabbed a towel and some clothes on the way out of the attic, because even though showering before cleaning made no sense at all, she could not bear a moment longer of feeling so utterly filthy.
She had turned showering quickly into an art form.
Dirty clothes taken care of, clean clothes arranged neatly, hair returned to its ideal state of pulled-tight perfection. She would have been in her ideal state, if not for the fact that she was exhausted and starving.
The dust had not returned. But something certainly had. He had unpacked boxes and left things strewn about in the entryway, or so it looked to her. She reached out to pick up something large and nasty-looking when a chill through her arm made her stop.
Iron? He'd… barred the door with iron? She tried to touch a few more things, strange boxes and hoops of metal and spikes like overlarge nails, but each time stopped short before they could hurt her. With an awful feeling in her gut she checked the back door, and found it no better. Heavy things suspended from the ceiling, even, little spikes underfoot in worrying configurations.
It couldn't be a fairy trap. There wasn't any bait. But then, what on earth was it? It was all a horrible mess, and she couldn't even clean it. She tried to prod at one with her toe, but recoiled immediately; even through her stockings, it burned.
And a quick check of the kitchen found that he still had not left her anything to eat.
Definitely only two more days.
She took care of what she could, anyway, cleaning away wax – why, wax, again with the wax, why this – and scrubbing the floors. She padded quietly into the room where he'd stored away the instruments, and found with horror that much of her careful work had been undone.
What on earth could he possibly be doing with this instrument?
Again she polished, again she replaced the string. He hadn't managed to do as much damage as was there before, at least, and he had not bothered with many of the others. Just the one violin, and the poor piano. And what had he put beneath it? She bent at the waist to look underneath it.
Himself. He had put himself beneath the piano. He had fallen asleep on the floor beneath the piano, doing she-did-not-know-what.
She had no idea what she was supposed to be doing about this.
She rubbed at the bridge of her nose in irritation as she backed away from the piano, heading back toward the kitchen. The kitchen was becoming her safe zone in this now-alien house. The only strange thing there was the candle situation, and she knew what to do about that. She did not know what to do with a grown man sleeping beneath a piano, trailing a mess that even she could not clean.
Only one thing was certain: she was never moving in with any man under the age of sixty again.
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