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boudica
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boudica
valesport
The first thing that Boudica noticed when she woke up was that the house didn't smell right. Specifically, it didn't smell like anything had been baking. By nightfall, when Boudica woke, it always smelled like baking. Breads and muffins and cakes, only few of which Boudica could properly eat, but which she enjoyed the smell of anyway.
The second thing she noticed was that the house didn't feel right. It didn't feel like a home. It didn't feel like a place that had been lived in for decades, like a place where children had been raised and grandchildren spoiled. It didn't feel forfeit, either.
She dressed and left the attic with the well-practiced quietude of many years, hundreds and thousands of nights doing the very same thing. Cleaning came first, because her priorities were what they were; dusting and sweeping and washing the windows, none of which took very long when she'd been keeping things so endlessly clean. There were no dishes to be done.
When there was nothing left to do, she made her way quietly to the old woman's room. Normally she never would have dared, but tonight, she suspected, was different.
She'd never gotten out of bed. That much was obvious, now. It was Boudica's preference to stay in homes with older mortals, because they were more likely to recognize her work, to stay quiet and keep to themselves. She'd liked this woman, though they'd never said a word to each other. It was a blessing to pass in one's sleep, she'd been told. She really didn't know. She looked peaceful, now, and it was the first time they'd really been in the same room.
It was a very strange feeling. Stranger, still, that the house was not forfeit. That was usually the way of things, these days. This was the peculiar limbo of a gift not yet accepted, tied by blood to someone who yet might sever it.
Boudica hadn't known her, but she'd lived with her long enough. Photo albums bursting at the seams, photographs on the walls, portraits painted before her hair had faded to gray. She'd had family, once. They never visited, as far as she could tell. But then, she was only ever out at night. Maybe she just didn't know.
She cleaned the old woman's bedroom, because it ached to leave it otherwise and it seemed a kindness to her. They'd find she kept a tidy house, whenever they came. Would anyone come? Boudica didn't want to leave her lying there to rot. That ached worse than the mess.
Boudica walked through the halls, and looked assessingly at the pictures on the walls. Who would it be that would come for the house? How old were these smiling faces, now? They grew and grayed and died so fast, it seemed like. One of these sparkling women, one of these messy children. She wouldn't know until they came to make their claim, if they did. A night or two to see if this house could still be lived in with someone new in possession of it.
There was a picture of a man with an unpleasant smile, and she didn't know how old it was. She didn't think she'd stay if it was him. He looked loud and unkempt and rude. She didn't know how she could say that, based only on a single picture. It wasn't like she had much else to do, watching silent movies in the dark and trying to attach stories to faces of people she'd never meet. This didn't look like the face of someone who would go to bed early and leave custard on the counter.
Very few of them did, if she was honest.
With a sigh, she considered the phone on the wall. Who was she supposed to contact about this kind of thing? How would she even explain it? She picked up the phonebook beside it, large and worn and heavy. She knew, conceptually, how phones were meant to work, but she'd never had occasion to use one before.
Police. Did they handle all dead people, or just the murdered ones? She'd try it, anyway. She didn't care for the idea of a bunch of strangers walking through the house, tracking dirt and leaving things in disarray. Maybe that would give her something to do, until she decided whether she'd need to find a new place to live. Carefully and slowly, she pressed 9-1-1. When someone answered, she recited the address, and then immediately hung up.
Which wasn't what she'd meant to do, but she'd panicked.
Well. That was done, anyway. Now there was nothing to do but wait. Hopefully not too long. She didn't know what to do with a house all to herself.
The second thing she noticed was that the house didn't feel right. It didn't feel like a home. It didn't feel like a place that had been lived in for decades, like a place where children had been raised and grandchildren spoiled. It didn't feel forfeit, either.
She dressed and left the attic with the well-practiced quietude of many years, hundreds and thousands of nights doing the very same thing. Cleaning came first, because her priorities were what they were; dusting and sweeping and washing the windows, none of which took very long when she'd been keeping things so endlessly clean. There were no dishes to be done.
When there was nothing left to do, she made her way quietly to the old woman's room. Normally she never would have dared, but tonight, she suspected, was different.
She'd never gotten out of bed. That much was obvious, now. It was Boudica's preference to stay in homes with older mortals, because they were more likely to recognize her work, to stay quiet and keep to themselves. She'd liked this woman, though they'd never said a word to each other. It was a blessing to pass in one's sleep, she'd been told. She really didn't know. She looked peaceful, now, and it was the first time they'd really been in the same room.
It was a very strange feeling. Stranger, still, that the house was not forfeit. That was usually the way of things, these days. This was the peculiar limbo of a gift not yet accepted, tied by blood to someone who yet might sever it.
Boudica hadn't known her, but she'd lived with her long enough. Photo albums bursting at the seams, photographs on the walls, portraits painted before her hair had faded to gray. She'd had family, once. They never visited, as far as she could tell. But then, she was only ever out at night. Maybe she just didn't know.
She cleaned the old woman's bedroom, because it ached to leave it otherwise and it seemed a kindness to her. They'd find she kept a tidy house, whenever they came. Would anyone come? Boudica didn't want to leave her lying there to rot. That ached worse than the mess.
Boudica walked through the halls, and looked assessingly at the pictures on the walls. Who would it be that would come for the house? How old were these smiling faces, now? They grew and grayed and died so fast, it seemed like. One of these sparkling women, one of these messy children. She wouldn't know until they came to make their claim, if they did. A night or two to see if this house could still be lived in with someone new in possession of it.
There was a picture of a man with an unpleasant smile, and she didn't know how old it was. She didn't think she'd stay if it was him. He looked loud and unkempt and rude. She didn't know how she could say that, based only on a single picture. It wasn't like she had much else to do, watching silent movies in the dark and trying to attach stories to faces of people she'd never meet. This didn't look like the face of someone who would go to bed early and leave custard on the counter.
Very few of them did, if she was honest.
With a sigh, she considered the phone on the wall. Who was she supposed to contact about this kind of thing? How would she even explain it? She picked up the phonebook beside it, large and worn and heavy. She knew, conceptually, how phones were meant to work, but she'd never had occasion to use one before.
Police. Did they handle all dead people, or just the murdered ones? She'd try it, anyway. She didn't care for the idea of a bunch of strangers walking through the house, tracking dirt and leaving things in disarray. Maybe that would give her something to do, until she decided whether she'd need to find a new place to live. Carefully and slowly, she pressed 9-1-1. When someone answered, she recited the address, and then immediately hung up.
Which wasn't what she'd meant to do, but she'd panicked.
Well. That was done, anyway. Now there was nothing to do but wait. Hopefully not too long. She didn't know what to do with a house all to herself.
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