#a hissy feral kitten parented by a very persistent motherly hurricane

[ollie-ollie-oxenfreee]

goodnight, goodnight

Awkward Attempts at Parenting... 2! Featuring a scene from a River bubble, the Reverend Daughter’s truly abysmal self-care skills and the Fifth House’s foremost endearing busybody!

“Reverend Daughter, I must once again ask you to reconsider.”

“Lady Pent, I must once again ask you to mind your business.” Harrow shuts her book with a decisive thud and turns to look the woman who’s apparently taken it upon herself to become her nursemaid full in the face. “I understand that I am younger than many of the other postulants, but I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”

“Why, then, do you insist on not doing it? You’re shivering. You’re pale. You haven’t left this room in days, and I know for a fact you haven’t been sleeping - the bags under your eyes could carry water. I wouldn’t let one of my students walk around like this, and I’m certainly not about to let you.”

A tiny, petulant voice at the back of Harrow’s mind whimpers why not?, but it’s quickly stifled by the indignance brewing in the hollow of her chest.

“Your students may have appreciated your fussing, but I can assure you that I do not. Now if you’d please let me get back to -”

“No. Not until you’ve slept.”

“Why is it any of your concern? ” Harrow snaps, that bubbling hum of anger reaching a fever pitch and warping her voice into a frigid shrill. “I am not of your House. I am not your responsibility. My well-being has no bearing on the success of your research, or your efforts to combat the Sleeper, or - “

“It’s my concern because you’re a ready mind, and you need to be kept sharp. It’s my concern because your contributions to our group effort are worthwhile, and we would be set back a great deal without you. It’s my concern, truthfully, because you’re young, dear, and you’re hurting, and by virtue of being a person you’re worth caring for. Is that really such an outlandish idea? That someone might care about you and want to see you well?”

Harrow, who in all her life has never been anyone’s dear, freezes. The anger leaves her all at once. She distantly feels her folded hands begin to shake - hears the gentle clack of rattling bone as her bracelets knock together. Her voice is weak and thready when she says at last, “I have only just met you.”

“No matter.”

“The things I’ve done - I’m not some innocent child - "

“No matter.” Pent smiles - a profoundly weary thing, but warm and gentle, crinkling up her deep brown eyes. “Leave it to the past, Reverend Daughter. Rare advice from the Fifth, I know, but it’s for the best for now. There’ll be time enough for dwelling and making things right once you’ve rested. Now, on that topic - “

She swishes about the cramped alcove of Harrow’s makeshift study in a flurry of brown skirts, gathering up the blankets and dusty sheets that puddled sadly on the floor after Harrow’s last fruitless attempt at “sleeping like a functional human being.” The lady of the Fifth presents them in a neatly folded bundle of patchy black fabric and presses the bundle into Harrow’s arms when she falters.

“Go get yourself set up. Somewhere warm, please. I know daughters of Drearburh are well used to the cold, but being used to something doesn’t make it any more pleasant, and you deserve a moment’s comfort at the very least.”

Ushered along by the mothering hurricane that is Abigail Pent, feeling younger than she has in years, Harrow does as she’s bid. In her sudden tiredness she can only manage to spread her blankets out over a clear section of floor and twist them into a sloppy nest before giving in. As she curls up on her side in the center of the heap, a sense of - not comfort exactly, but distant familiarity settles over her, warm and hazy. She presses her painted cheek into her pillow, eyes fluttering slowly shut, and in her last moments of wakefulness she just barely hears Abigail murmur, “Rest well, darling. We’ll get this all sorted out soon."

                                                           ***

It takes a while for you to get your bearings when you wake. You stare up at the interwoven iron struts of the ceiling for a long, long moment, blinking blearily, trying to figure out where you are. The chill of lavender satin sheets against your skin clues you in at last, but the sense of warmth that must have come over you in your dreams doesn't leave you. Strange. If only you could remember what you were dreaming about.