Esme Persephone Francis Valentine, Lady Lavenza, and heir to the Lavenza title, name, estates, and a whole bloody bit more than that, was in desperate need of a bath. Food as well. Perhaps even a good rest. Her eyes would not stop drooping and the warm cup of tea had long turned cold on her work table. It was not the lack of sleep so much that made her wobble, but rather the relentless desperation of her focus.
Chemicals brewed and bubbled on a long wooden table. Stacks of them hung in little racks, some under burners with a bit of flame. Colors, colors, and more colors. At the moment she was scribbling notes with a fountain pen. A spot of black ink marred her cheek; her hair—tied back in a bun—was falling in a frazzled mess.
The lab coat did not do much to keep the occasional foodbits and drink off of her black day dress—typically a color worn for mourning periods. But black suited her fine. It hid the mess she occasionally spilled when eating as she ploughed through her research. Normally she wasn’t quite such a sponge for meals, her clothes weren’t. She knew good and well how to act like a lady ought to. Unfortunately, such things just had a habit of not mattering a damned bit once she was knee deep in her experiments.
When a knock sounded at the door, for the third time that day, she hit her head on the table—three times.
“Bloody hell.... YES?” she shouted the last bit as she sat up in her elevated stool.
The door opened as she reached for a test tube and shook the contents, eyes narrowing. “Ah... my lady... I’m sorry to bother you...” Anita, her maid said, “But... Cook wants to know if you’re to be eating supper in the dining room tonight or...”
“I’ll take it here, thank you,” she said swiftly.
“Are you certain, My Lady?”
“Yes, why?”
“Well... begging your pardon, my lady... but you’ve been in here for three days.” A pause. Esme listened as fabric shifted and booted feet shuffled on the floor. “We’re worried, is all.”
Esme sighed and ran a hand down her face, but she did not turn back and look at the girl for fear of her seeing the exhaustion in her eyes from staring at paper and colored liquids for too long. “I’ve been sleeping,” she told her.
“Yes, my lady.”
“I will stop working once I’m done.”
“...Yes, my lady.”
Esme didn’t move to work again until the door shut closed behind her. “The interruptions are going to shatter what’s left of my sanity,” she muttered. She reached for another test tube, barely glancing at the label, and poured a few drops into the other she’d had in her hand; it now sat on a rack by itself. “Now... if that will—.”
Anything she’d planned to say went up in smoke—quite literally. A loud boom rocked the room—that portion of the house, glass shattered, and—while not hurt—Esme found herself coughing through the plumes. She reached out and waved a hand in front of her face.
“Christ,” she snapped, none too pleased and quite certain that her face—not just her lab coat, as she glanced down—was covered in pitch. “If only people would leave me the hell alone,” she huffed, deflating. Her shoulders slumped just before she stood up to open a window.
“Then maybe I could actually get some work done,” she half shouted to the back yard, the terrace, from her lab--from what was supposed to be the morning room.
Chemicals brewed and bubbled on a long wooden table. Stacks of them hung in little racks, some under burners with a bit of flame. Colors, colors, and more colors. At the moment she was scribbling notes with a fountain pen. A spot of black ink marred her cheek; her hair—tied back in a bun—was falling in a frazzled mess.
The lab coat did not do much to keep the occasional foodbits and drink off of her black day dress—typically a color worn for mourning periods. But black suited her fine. It hid the mess she occasionally spilled when eating as she ploughed through her research. Normally she wasn’t quite such a sponge for meals, her clothes weren’t. She knew good and well how to act like a lady ought to. Unfortunately, such things just had a habit of not mattering a damned bit once she was knee deep in her experiments.
When a knock sounded at the door, for the third time that day, she hit her head on the table—three times.
“Bloody hell.... YES?” she shouted the last bit as she sat up in her elevated stool.
The door opened as she reached for a test tube and shook the contents, eyes narrowing. “Ah... my lady... I’m sorry to bother you...” Anita, her maid said, “But... Cook wants to know if you’re to be eating supper in the dining room tonight or...”
“I’ll take it here, thank you,” she said swiftly.
“Are you certain, My Lady?”
“Yes, why?”
“Well... begging your pardon, my lady... but you’ve been in here for three days.” A pause. Esme listened as fabric shifted and booted feet shuffled on the floor. “We’re worried, is all.”
Esme sighed and ran a hand down her face, but she did not turn back and look at the girl for fear of her seeing the exhaustion in her eyes from staring at paper and colored liquids for too long. “I’ve been sleeping,” she told her.
“Yes, my lady.”
“I will stop working once I’m done.”
“...Yes, my lady.”
Esme didn’t move to work again until the door shut closed behind her. “The interruptions are going to shatter what’s left of my sanity,” she muttered. She reached for another test tube, barely glancing at the label, and poured a few drops into the other she’d had in her hand; it now sat on a rack by itself. “Now... if that will—.”
Anything she’d planned to say went up in smoke—quite literally. A loud boom rocked the room—that portion of the house, glass shattered, and—while not hurt—Esme found herself coughing through the plumes. She reached out and waved a hand in front of her face.
“Christ,” she snapped, none too pleased and quite certain that her face—not just her lab coat, as she glanced down—was covered in pitch. “If only people would leave me the hell alone,” she huffed, deflating. Her shoulders slumped just before she stood up to open a window.
“Then maybe I could actually get some work done,” she half shouted to the back yard, the terrace, from her lab--from what was supposed to be the morning room.
Sometimes I feel like a girl~... sometimes I don't~
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[Historical - 1850] Chemical Reactions [Closed] - by Blade - 11-25-2015, 02:36 AM
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