Boudica stirred in her sleep, sprawled out amidst her pillows with a yawn. She might have just gone back to sleep, except: the house was empty. The master was away.
Master of the house, that is. It was the preferred terminology of houses. She had nothing to do with it.
Always tricky, an empty house. Impossible to tell how long it would be. Never worth the risk to try and do a full cleaning.
But the sugar on the floor of the master bedroom…
If she hurried, maybe. She was feeling emboldened, anyway, after leaving that note.
Which she shouldn't have done. Absolutely should not have, n-o with a capital no. If she thought about it too much she was going to make herself anxious. She was already a little anxious. Maybe he hadn't found it? Maybe she could get rid of it and abandon the endeavor. She'd really had too much sugar. She really shouldn't have done that.
So, plan: quick jaunt downstairs to clean the floor and tend to the matter of the poorly-planned note, then right back to sleep.
Scandalous as it was to be wandering around the house in nothing but her slip, she was in a hurry. She was going back to bed soon enough, anyway. It was fine. This was definitely all a good idea.
The letter took priority, and so that was where she went first. Now that she'd rested the iron was bothering her again, the instruments and their disrepair, all of it itching against her skin and twisting in her bones. It dampened her mood, somewhat. Dampened again when she saw new writing, making her heart sink and skip all at once. It was all very nerve-wracking, this communication business. Dangerous, was what it was. Indiscreet.
She bit her lip as she scanned the writing, which did nothing to disabuse her of the notion that Vic Rosenburg was not possessed of great intelligence. Sentence fragments, barely even ideas. Or maybe it wasn't his first language. That would explain it as well, wouldn't it?
Very good Ghostie. Ghostie? She lowered the paper with a frown, then lifted it again to consider it. He would get rid of the iron… tomorrow? Today he was buying more sugar, that was good. 'No polishing', she could understand the gist of that.
Was… was she Ghostie?
Did he… think she was a ghost?
Why would she… how would… what?
The evidence was piling up in favor of his being not-at-all clever.
Was it safe for him to be living here on his own?
She should have put an immediate stop to all letters, but now she felt a bit guilty about it. Maybe it was better if he thought she was a ghost, anyway. No searching through her glamours or trying to find her name.
One short note. That was it. Nothing too encouraging.
Cream is good. Why is polishing bad?
… maybe that last bit wasn't entirely necessary. But why. She really did want to know awfully. Not that he was sure to have a good reason. He thought she was a ghost. His reasoning was spurious at best. Even a bad reason would be better than no reason, surely.
Tempting though it was to tidy a few things up, she was still standing around in a slip. Back to the master bedroom, then, to take care of the… puddles. There were puddles. He had left puddles of water all over hardwood and, yes, the evidence was really piling up. And pooling on the floor. She cleaned it, anyway, all the stray water in the bathroom and trailing outward, scrubbing away the sugar that remained until the floor gleamed.
Eventually she'd need to find a way to wash the sheets, but she'd settle for making the bed in the meantime.
Master of the house, that is. It was the preferred terminology of houses. She had nothing to do with it.
Always tricky, an empty house. Impossible to tell how long it would be. Never worth the risk to try and do a full cleaning.
But the sugar on the floor of the master bedroom…
If she hurried, maybe. She was feeling emboldened, anyway, after leaving that note.
Which she shouldn't have done. Absolutely should not have, n-o with a capital no. If she thought about it too much she was going to make herself anxious. She was already a little anxious. Maybe he hadn't found it? Maybe she could get rid of it and abandon the endeavor. She'd really had too much sugar. She really shouldn't have done that.
So, plan: quick jaunt downstairs to clean the floor and tend to the matter of the poorly-planned note, then right back to sleep.
Scandalous as it was to be wandering around the house in nothing but her slip, she was in a hurry. She was going back to bed soon enough, anyway. It was fine. This was definitely all a good idea.
The letter took priority, and so that was where she went first. Now that she'd rested the iron was bothering her again, the instruments and their disrepair, all of it itching against her skin and twisting in her bones. It dampened her mood, somewhat. Dampened again when she saw new writing, making her heart sink and skip all at once. It was all very nerve-wracking, this communication business. Dangerous, was what it was. Indiscreet.
She bit her lip as she scanned the writing, which did nothing to disabuse her of the notion that Vic Rosenburg was not possessed of great intelligence. Sentence fragments, barely even ideas. Or maybe it wasn't his first language. That would explain it as well, wouldn't it?
Very good Ghostie. Ghostie? She lowered the paper with a frown, then lifted it again to consider it. He would get rid of the iron… tomorrow? Today he was buying more sugar, that was good. 'No polishing', she could understand the gist of that.
Was… was she Ghostie?
Did he… think she was a ghost?
Why would she… how would… what?
The evidence was piling up in favor of his being not-at-all clever.
Was it safe for him to be living here on his own?
She should have put an immediate stop to all letters, but now she felt a bit guilty about it. Maybe it was better if he thought she was a ghost, anyway. No searching through her glamours or trying to find her name.
One short note. That was it. Nothing too encouraging.
Cream is good. Why is polishing bad?
… maybe that last bit wasn't entirely necessary. But why. She really did want to know awfully. Not that he was sure to have a good reason. He thought she was a ghost. His reasoning was spurious at best. Even a bad reason would be better than no reason, surely.
Tempting though it was to tidy a few things up, she was still standing around in a slip. Back to the master bedroom, then, to take care of the… puddles. There were puddles. He had left puddles of water all over hardwood and, yes, the evidence was really piling up. And pooling on the floor. She cleaned it, anyway, all the stray water in the bathroom and trailing outward, scrubbing away the sugar that remained until the floor gleamed.
Eventually she'd need to find a way to wash the sheets, but she'd settle for making the bed in the meantime.
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