#holy.starter

[serenathemaid]

"It's a shrine for her." Serena said, trying to sound as prim as she could without sounding snotty. No, not prim, but calm, as if she had faith that by lighting a candle at the base of the portrait, she could pray there and somehow Mrs. Carrigan would come to her senses and reappear like some resurrected spirit. Ah, perhaps best not to refer to her as a spirit. It was bad enough that Serena had nearly said it was a memorial for Mrs. Carrigan, she didn't think comparing her to a spirit would put anyone's mind at ease.

Of course, the very existence of the portrait seemed to put people on edge. It was a different group and a different scene, just like there was a different sized crowd and Serena didn't know who originally had the bright idea to count the number of figures in the portrait, but it certain wasn't putting anyone at ease. Between the portrait and the broken window, people kept prying into the running of the house and it left Serena feeling rather frazzled. If they'd all calm down and simply have a little faith, things would be worked out. The craftsman could cover up the window, perhaps the butler had put the new portrait there, and as for that poor horse, well, Serena didn't have any answer for that since she didn't want to point fingers and say someone didn't close a stall door, but it was all easily explained.

"I'm sorry, did you need something?" Serena asked, shaking her head a little as if to focus her thoughts. Running her hands down the clean fabric of her apron as she stood up, Serena tipped her head in polite curiosity. "Or were you thinking about Mrs. Carrigan?"

[gwilvm-blog]

open starter

Over the last years, Gwilym had grown used to the feel of the stables. The smell of horse and hay, the hush of huffed breaths and gentle snorts, the warmth despite the cold outside. In times past it had been a refuge from the strangeness of the island outside, from the way the world around seemed to twist ever so slightly into the wrong shapes. That was before the disappearance, before the arrival of the new painting he couldn’t think about too long without his head hurting. Before there was an empty stall staring at him like a finger pointed in recrimination. 

There were too many things to worry about now. He had gone out looking for the horse, walking on feet still scraped from his unconscious wandering, but there had been no sign. It was as if she had vanished into thin air, leaving nothing behind as an explanation he would be able to understand. He hadn’t heard anything about being let go yet, hadn’t even heard outright blame for the loss, but he felt the guilt all the same. He knew the others were peering at the painting, trying to decipher the meaning as if that would set everything right again, but he couldn’t bring himself to look. It was far easier to ignore it all as much as possible. To feed and water the animals, to let the dogs out to run, to check the horses’ hooves for stones, to focus on only what was right in front of him.

The water buckets were heavy as he lugged them from the well to the stables, but he relished the moment away from the now oppressive stillness of his former haven. The wind was strong outside, and the piercing whistle distracted him, drawing his attention from the path ahead and out to the lands and sea below. He almost expected to see Mrs. Carrigan out there, wandering along the shore and into the crashing waves. It was only at the sound of a voice that he startled from his reverie, one bucket dropping from his hand and splashing the shoes of the new arrival. “Cachi,” he muttered to himself, steadying the other bucket with hands suddenly shaking from adrenaline. “I am so sorry, really, I was thinking about-” He stopped, biting the inside of his cheek. “I apologize.”

[gwilvm-blog]

@drewtheheir​

It was rare for the cats which wandered the manor’s lands to give birth this time of year, rarer still for any of them to live, but it had only been a day after Mrs. Carrigan disappeared that the gray and white cat with the missing tail presented Gwilym with the tiny, barely-breathing form of a kitten. He hadn’t known she was pregnant, didn’t know where she was hiding the remaining babes if any of them had in fact survived, but she watched with placid calm as he wrapped it in his scarf and cradled it beneath his coat before heading back into the stables.

He had fully expected it to die that night, as so many little fosterlings had done before, but every time he woke in the night and the nights after, it had been breathing and willing to eat. There was something wrong with its eyes, he could tell that much just from looking, but he wouldn’t know what it was for sure until it was old enough to open them for itself. For now, at least he had managed to beg enough milk from the cook and keep the stable warm, and that was all he could really do besides hope.

He’d placed it inside his hat and tucked it into his scarf in a loop across his chest, a jury-rigged attempt to keep it warm throughout the day, and was heaping the hay into the racks when the stable doors opened and the wind rushed in. The horses snorted around him, feet stomping at the sudden cool air, and he made soft hushing noises as he turned to see who had come in. His ears, already a little pink from the chill, flushed darker as Drew- Mr Hutchinson, he corrected himself- entered the dim light of the stables. Gwilym wasn’t exactly sure what to say or do, and that disturbed him. It was easy to know how to behave with the wealthy, but a line had been crossed between them and now he didn’t know if the old rules remained or if they had shifted into something he’d never been taught. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said after a moment, old manners rising to the front. “Do you need me to get a horse ready?”