![]() ![]() Sparing a glance behind the entering form to find the carriage she had been in to be vacant, he quickly shut the doors to keep the heat from seeping out entirely. “My lady,” he replied in a similar manner, stepping aside to let her out of the cold. “Your grace,” she crooned with a mocking bow that only she could get away with in his presence. In fact, after a blink or two, he knew exactly who now graced his front door. Perhaps realising that the doors have now opened, the figure turns to address the two men.ĭespite her face still veiled in shadows, he is absolutely certain that this is no maid. The light situated on the foot of his stairs sadly did not assist in identifying the figure as he found her - he is quite certain it is a she from her attire alone - with her back to him facing the grounds. ![]() The figure was shorter than him, tempered at the top half and rounded at the bottom half, not unlike the shape of a bell. After a few steadying breaths, Simon swiftly yanks the double doors open wide and looks upon a figure shrouded in darkness. Having found herself locked out on some chore or another. There he found a porter, looking decisively at the door as if it would swallow him whole if touched.Ī maid perhaps, he hypothesised. The duke then rose from his seat, more curious than annoyed, and made his way to the front of the door. Certain now that it came from the main entrance. Just as he was about to chalk it up to too much work and too little sleep, another round of loud, precise knocks repeated in about the same pattern as before. Surely no one would be paying a call this late in the night. Perhaps he was hearing things, he thought with a focused attention to the door. Absent-mindedly, he reached over to return the cup to its saucer by his elbow before three loud knocks echoed in and around the house. After taking a long sip from his tea, which managed to diminish some of the chill from his bones, he returns his attention back to the confounding figures that do not seem to want to balance. Before long, the Duke of Hastings found himself hunched over his papers with ink staining his third - or perhaps, fifth? - shirtsleeve of the month, to his wife’s chagrin and amusement. With supper put away and most of the light snuffed out, the staff have mostly decided to retire for the night leaving Clyvedon Castle shrouded in silence.Ī steaming cup of tea greets the duke as he takes his place at the massive oak desk, unable to hide the yawn that escapes while in view of some manner of accounts that have been the cause of his strife for the past few days. A flurry of white glides across the windowpanes flanking the hallways, creating a surreal environment where the snowfall momentarily blocks the moonlight and litters the ancient rugs with shadowed spots in uneven intervals. But takenote the gentleman does nonetheless as he tucks his slumbering wife into her covers and makes his way back towards his study. Nights like these are not at all particularly noteworthy in the grand scheme of things. ![]()
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