capturedinlies

[capturedinlies]

Word after word echoes in the back of her mind, and Isabelle starts feeling dizzy the moment her glove slides off of her hand, and the fresh breeze of the night coats her skin instead. It is nothing compared to the darkest night in Margate, nothing to the fresh sea breeze wrapping around every single strand of her hair. And yet, it comes close to making her feel the same. The longing inside of her chest is roaring wild, like a fire. Her eyes are burning with tears she dreamt of crying so often in the last few months of his absence, though she never allowed herself to dwell in her emotions. Now, they have grown way too real, way too dark. And Isabelle feels herself giving in.

Her bare fingers trace across his chest, his arms, feeling the icy cold fabric, and a soft, quiet laugh slips out of her mouth as she imagines him falling into the water, rising out of it fully enraged. "I missed hearing your stories, and living them with you." A sudden rush of panic takes over her body, and it quickly comes visible in her face. Is this even reality? His absence feels to real, to fresh, her anger to vivid. Her eyebrows furrow, and Isabelle's gaze spikes upwards as her fingers clench the wet fabric, "Tell me, Thayer.", she bites, "What woman will you be lying to after this night? Who is here in London, that you find yourself desiring? Courting? Marrying?"

A short moment, gone with the uprising wind, as her dress soaks through, with how close they are standing to each other. Isabelle cannot be mad at him for long, not with him right in front of her, not with the words he is saying hitting her ears. "Apologies.", she whispers, her fingers wrapping around his face, her thumb brushing over his lower lip, her finger almost burning up at the touch, "You speak of healing, Thayer." Isabelle takes a step backwards. Then, one more. Slowly, she slides her second glove off. Then her hands find the back of her dress, and she undoes the few buttons swiftly, a satisfied smile taking over her lips, "So come take me, then. Have me."

Her dress drops to the ground, pooling at her ankles. The silver fabric is drenched in dirt, and yet, Isabelle barely cares. The expression in her eyes is soft, yet hungry, and she so desperately yearns for his touch on her body -- but she will not give in. It must be him that does. The scar at her hip is now visible through almost see through undergarments, prominent and still weirdly new, glowing in the moonlight. This is the brightest it has ever been around them -- the moon brings a different kind of comfort near the ocean. This, is scaringly exposed.

Isabelle could not fucking care less.

Her voice is too gentle against the hammering of his heart and the riot of his thoughts. He can barely ear it even if he knows its quiet hymn, how it feels murmured against his skin, what it tastes like when he takes away the breath to taunt it to silence. A part of him— no, all of him needs it.

The plead for a quiet mind is all he wants to fulfill, clinging to every word she utters and hanging himself from them if only to hear it again and again. But she is still too far, even when she reaches for him. Silken touch is nothing compared to the brush of her fingers, and his hands move up her arm to chase the warmth of her skin that peers between the glove's edge and the sleeve of her dress. His breaths, cutting dry against his tongue, are too loud to convince himself of just how much of her is here with him.

"I tried to come back to you, I-I tried to find you and all that was left in Margate was the sting." The salt, it's aching kiss against old wounds and the howl of winds along the shore were the only thing to grant silence to his mind. Even then, it had never been enough to cure him. This ailment pains him now, steals pieces of this moment from him. "Surely I was repenting for all I'd done, for not keeping you with me— for not letting myself be enough. I forced myself to suffer in your absence and—and—"

Dark hair on the water, distant laughter that is even miles away when she is beside him. Portia Lockridge dares to call back to him, to remind him why he is here, but it does not compare to where Isabelle had brought him under her touch. The comfort of numbing purgatory is nothing compared to this longing, to this wretched passion that aches so sweetly. She is the bite into the flesh of fruit, the first bleed of sweet nectar.

Calloused fingers roll down the edge of her glove, the moonlight a luster on her skin those threads cannot compare to. She is like stone kissed by the night's breath but she burns. He is cold, the shudder daring to pull apart his spine when she dares him to feel with every curious hand placed to his body. He is dead, quite plainly, and she is the sun peering through dull morning to return him to where he belongs. All these years of feeling like a forgotten and beloved creature of damning loyalty, retired out of misplaced affection and pity, come to a close.

He has returned to her.

And all of him is hers.

Thayer pulls the glove from her fingers, catching them against his lips. Every utterance she tucks away is taken to his mouth. She no longer tastes of the sea, hardly salt in the wound he has become. How she felt in his arms all those years ago, the racing of his heart had been for her alone but it is infiltrated by the drumming of hysteria. He is hers, but how much of it compares to all he'd given her before?

"It was not enough."

He was not enough, and he had found himself entangled with someone that used whatever fragments of the man he was to piece themselves together. His life with Portia was one of delicate nature, simplicity— a glass and broken thing on the highest shelf to never be touched, to collect dust, to be forgotten but always sit in awe.

"I ache for you," He whispers, dragging her bare fingers across his skin. The ink he has tainted his body with— these damned verses he cannot believe, the reminders of life that sit in blooming petals he has asked another to create because he cannot fathom such bloom himself— is nothing compared to what she instill in him. For what is a god without his angels? He draws himself closer, to be cut by her breath and to be taunted by the rise and fall of their chests to be near. "It is your absence that steals my peace, nothing compared to old wounds. Heal me, Isabelle."

[capturedinlies]

( @honeyedache -- a street amidst London late, in the afternoon )

When Isabelle leaves the modiste together with her mother, the sun is close to setting. While Isabelle does not mind, it seems to make her mother nervous, and so Isabelle tells her to rush back home before sundown, and to leave her at the jeweler. Yet, when Isabelle reaches the store, it is already closed, and the woman finds herself next to Juliet, taken aback by the shut door. "Oh, good heavens. Is it that late?" Isabelle turns in search of a clock, "Well." Laughing softly, she turns to Juliet -- and realizes the other woman seems familiar.

"Ah! I believe we have met. Perhaps at the diamond ball?" Isabelle bows her head, "Miss Isabelle Adwani, daughter to Lady Locke. I believe your name to be Juliet, is that correct?"

[capturedinlies]

( @lydiarosewood -- the Kensington Gardens early, in the morning )

"Lydia." The grin on Isabelle's face is wide when she catches up with the woman, and immediately intertwines their arms with each other. "How have you been, my darling? I was aching to get to chat with you at the Diamond Ball, but I happened to be otherwise occupied, until I left early. The first Ball of the season, and my first public appearance since my debut left me tired and desperate for a good night full of sleep." Not that Isabelle got a lot of sleep that night. Not that Isabelle left because she was exhausted. Quite the opposite, but she makes her thoughts dart into another direction, to avoid the itching beneath her skin to grow once more.

"What about you, Lady Rosewood?", she gently nudges her side, "Any suitors in sight?"

[capturedinlies]

( @promisedhexvens -- The Kensington Gardens late afternoon )

"Excuse me?" Isabelle has seen Edith around at the Whitlock house once before, and the gorgeous hair immediately catches her attention. Isabelle's lilac dress hugs her curves gently, and her hair falls over her shoulder when she gives a swift curtsy. "I never had the chance to introduce myself when I saw you at Duchess Emma's.", she explains, "My name is Miss Isabelle Adwani. I am Lady Locke's daughter. I recently moved here from Margate, by the seaside, and only arrived about three weeks ago. That hopefully explains my sudden appearance."

Isabelle releases a short laugh, that morphs into a kind smile. "I have to admit," she hushes her voice, "I am absolutely obsessed with your hair. It is ethereal, and fits you so well." A faint blush creeping onto her cheeks, Isabelle uses her fan to get rid of some of the heat. "Have you been enjoying yourself today?"

[capturedinlies]

( @promisedhexvens -- The King's theatre late, in the evening )

With her mother left in the audience, Isabelle runs off -- and that, quite on accident. Her original goal had been catching a hint of fresh air near the entrance, and yet she found herself woven deeper into the theater, lost in it's chambers, with no idea how to return. She had been quite lost in thought -- seeing her mother happy for the first time in a while had taken her aback, and all thoughts of her father had kept her occupied. A wooden door reads 'Elijah', and Isabelle can hear movement from behind it, so she gives it a careful, gentle knock.

"Excuse me, Mister, uh, Elijah?", the woman chirps, "I fear I may have gotten lost. It appears I have ended up somewhere I should have not even entered. My most sincere apologies -- however, could you lead me back out?"

[capturedinlies]

( @offairytale -- Queen Anne's Lace & Silk early, before twelve )

"Oh goodness. Your fabrics are fabulous. And your showcased work is amazing." Isabelle's fingers graze fabric after fabric in an attempt to determine her favorite, and yet she finds it hard to decide, with how much choice she has. When a familiar figure comes into eyesight, Isabelle's face lights up. "Lady Eva! Amazing to see you here! I would be honored if you helped me pick out a new fabric, so I can get a new dress made. Take a look at this one." Isabelle lifts a gorgeous, midnight blue fabric from one of the tables, and holds it out for Eva to touch. "I was imagining stars, sewn into it's front, just like the night sky. Or perhaps something ocean themed? Oh, there is so many options."

Back in Margate, her dresses would just get dirty on the beach, and therefore Isabelle never put much mind into what she wore, or how gorgeous the fabrics looked wrapped around her curves. Now, there were eyes and the ton to impress. "What fabric were you focused on? I think you would look breathtaking in something orange."

[capturedinlies]

( @secretgcrdens -- The Locke Estate early afternoon )

Every single room Isabelle walks in, seems to have a member of the Locke family in it. She is confronted with either her step-father, or one of her step-siblings, and the woman has to admit, that even though she loves her mother so dearly, even her sight is currently hard to bear. After the last night's events, Isabelle feels shaken out of her usual zone of comfort, and that is just adding on top of the mountain that has collected in her heart ever since she left Margate. When she enters the kitchen, that should usually be so full of servants, she is instead confronted with a much less pleasing face.

"Are you joking?" Isabelle huffs out a breath, "Is it a rule that the family has to be spread out through all rooms of the house? Can a woman not have one single room to herself? What are you doing in the kitchen, anyway?" Angrily, Isabelle snatches a piece of bread off of the table, to take an equally angry bite, "Enlighten me."

[capturedinlies]

( @whispercd -- Kensington Gardens early, mid-day )

The sun is shining brightly right into Isabelle's eyes, and the older woman gracefully averts her gaze, barely blinking, back at Emma. Showing oneself to the rest of the ton after a ball is a must, or so Isabelle has learned. And who else would she ask for company than the so lovely Emma she has grown so very fond of in this short period of time. "You must come to Margate with me someday, your Grace. Enjoying the sun at the beach is truly much more enjoyable than in the crowded city. Though I must admit, the Kensington Gardens have grown dear to my heart. The magnolia glades are breathtaking."

Isabelle waits until they reach a more quieter area, and stops in front of a few flowers. "So, Emma. Any suitors I should focus on?" She laughs softly, taking in the view, "I truly did not expect to share so many dances last night. But I'm assuming that is a side-effect of the war. Little of the ton settled down to marry, just like me. I have not been to London ever since my own debut." Amused, Isabelle gently nudges Emma's ribs, "Any tips for an old lady?"

[capturedinlies]

One thing Isabelle has always been amazing in, is spotting other people's emotions. It started early, when her father grew more drawn back, and her mother started behaving strangely, that she would read more into their actions, than others usually would. Perhaps why she immediately spotted the miniature nervous signs in Callum's face. Instead of showing it in her face, Isabelle gently squeezed his hand instead, offering him a reassuring smile. In the last few months, she has grown into her own habits of fear. Fidgeting with her gloves, scratching her dress, washing her hands over, and over, and over again. It does not disturb her in the slightest, to see hints of such fear on someone else. It manages to comfort her, instead, brings a warmth to hear heart that she would have never expected.

"Silence is my dearest friend.", Isabelle tells him in between movements and turns, "I am originally from Margate. I have been here for a month, and deeply miss the quiet walks on the beach. Though I find myself finding peace at home much easier now, as the streets are so loud." Her laugh is light and feathery in between words, "I'm also known to talk like a waterfall, if there is someone that listens." Just for a moment, she allows them to fall back into a comfortable silence. "The last time I visited London, it was for my own debut, many years ago. I'm sure that many things have changed. Is there a place you can advise me to visit, Lord Sinclair?"

Callum had been politely dodging eager mamas all evening, conveniently always having an explanation as to why he had to leave a conversation as soon as a mama began pushing her daughter towards him. At this point, Callum had an impressive arsenal of excuses built up. It wasn't that he didn't want to get to know his peers this season — and possibly see if he could find happiness — but he was terrified and he was sure the entirety of Mayfair knew it by now. He'd finally found a comfortable place on the wall, able to finally take some deep breaths and hopefully blend into the backdrop. He had noticed a young woman seemingly seeking refuge near him and he was able to steal a few glances at her. She was beautiful and intriguing, and she seemed to be enjoying her peace and quiet — something that Callum treasured as well.

He caught her eye as she curtseyed and he bowed his head. Callum couldn't hide the shy smile that tugged on his lips. "Lord Callum Sinclair," he replied, the smile on his lips growing, "It is truly an honor, Miss Adwani." He was happily stunned by her boldness and a smirk grew on his face as he watched her gracefully head towards the dance floor. She was magnetic and despite his fear of dancing in front of a crowd, he couldn't say no. "Yeah," he agreed, biting on his lower lip as he took her hand in his, leading them both to the dance floor. He cautiously placed a hand on her back whilst his other hand began to lead them in a dance. A chuckle escaped his lips as the world around them began to disappear, "I'm known for enjoying silence. Is that the case for you, too?"

[capturedinlies]

The growing stains of blood on her glove make her heart beat so fast that she thinks it might jump out of her chest, and start dancing on their noses, right in front of their eyes. It mirrors the visual that will be forever stuck in her head, of her shaking her father's lifeless body, her fingers soaked in his blood, mixing with her own. "Mad.", Isabelle whispers, "A state of mind you are perhaps reaching."

A beat passes, in which Isabelle listens to his rambling. Then, she places her gloved and clean hand on the right side of his face, and presses her thumb onto his lips, in an attempt to silence his trail of thoughts. "Sir Claremont." Her voice is full of giddy notes, her expression soft, "Do not speak with such haste. I am far from being a mirage, sworn up by a brain overrun with emotions. I am Isabelle." Her thumb rubs across his lips, and a smile forms on her own, "I left Margate a month ago. My father has passed. My mother has married anew. A gentleman from London. Lord Locke. And with her come I."

Isabelle drags her hand down his neck, his throat, his shoulder, his chest, feeling little resentment towards her soaking gloves. What she can mostly focus on, is the flowers in her garden blooming, growing, glowing. Her fingers graze the muscles beneath his shirt, and Isabelle catches herself sucking in a breath. The dress, the corset, they start to feel itchy again. Rip them off, her eyes scream. Free me of my cage.

"Before you had the chance to...?", the woman questions, though quite aware they have time for more questions, and more serious conversations later. Isabelle takes a step forward. Her chest comes in contact with his, pearls and gems meeting soaked through linen, her breath hitching when she felt his grazing her skin. Isabelle tilts her head, looks him in the eye, and whispers, oh so close to his lips, "Before you had the chance to what, Thayer?"

The risk of them being caught is clear, yet Isabelle couldn't care less. She stays frighteningly close, takes in his smell, his warmth, and whispers, "I've longed for you. In the darkest of my nights, I wished you had been there." Her fingers grip his collar, and she pulls him even closer, "I long for you, Thayer."

His heart is in his throat, taunting with every beat that rattles hollowed bones— they hold nothing, and yet, they do not let him break. What does he even stand for anymore if there is nothing within him, no semblance of purpose except to find out what it will take to finally fall apart for good?

The sky is ignited again, but the fire's brilliance falls over the garden wall. It stings to look in its direction, light swallowed whole and wavering as it comes closer. He can't tell if it stumbles with a ruffle of its being, too bright again. Is this the sign he begged for? The dread has infected his head, trying to deny it all as he swears it calls out to him under ragged breaths he can't catch.

The sea has come back to him in pearlescent mirage— Isabelle.

Too easily he has assumed he's lost them all, and she was one of the very first taken from his hands. He had chased her like a heaven he didn't belong to but couldn't be denied, insisted he could find healing in Margate because she would be there. She was long gone by the time he had crossed to those shores but he still searched for love, but it was hardly the same. Has his desperation brought her to this moment, sweet torture for the one thing he knows is out of his grasp?

"Have I finally gone mad?" He asks softly, tempted to turn his cheek to her to deny this twisted desire. Doubt clouds his features, confusion dismissed for what can only be known as the first twist of resentment. This is the memory he decides to taint?

As she stammers, he steps forward— as if to taunt this illusion, make a mockery of delusion. He knows her under moonlight better than the sun, and the shadows across her face are something he can paint with his eyes closed. But she is more than what he knows, living and breathing, and he cannot stop himself from taking her name. Pearl silk is stained red, aches when it brushes over broken skin, and he can feel the warmth of her being under the thin veil of her glove.

"Isabelle." An accusation, a question, a fact— Thayer is unsure, but his face softens and whatever is left of him crumbles. "I came out to the moonlight because I couldn’t make sense of this… I-I tried to return to Margate for you, to find something I had lost within myself. I had to return to London. I didn’t think I would ever come back… I didn’t deserve it, not after everything— and not everything I had lost did I think I could find anything here."

All these fragments cut his lip as he recounts them, tries to make sense of them. He could not understand how under the weight of such failure and burden, she had appeared after all this time.

"You were gone—gone before I even had a chance to—" Thayer stammers, taking her hands in his as if she will be gone if he does hold hold her to this reality. "How is it so, how are you here?"

[capturedinlies]

( @secretgcrdens -- The Diamond Ball early )

"Maude!" There's no need for titles when Isabelle can barely contain her excitement. The warm hug she draws the younger woman into comes straight out of her heart, and it matches her smile equally as warm. "The season's diamond! How incredibly exciting is that?" Isabelle draws back to perform a belated and minor curtsy to her new-found friend. She's had the chance to meet Maude right after her family moved to London, through encountering her at the modiste, and immediately falling fond of her gorgeous appearance and behavior.

"How are you feeling? I'm sure it's overwhelming, is it not? Where you hoping to be the diamond, dear?" Gently interlinking her arm with the other woman's, she draws her away from the crowded dance floor for a moment, and instead comes to a stop right next to the lemonade bar, offering her a cup handed to her by a waiter. "Here. Have this. God, has it been ages since I last attended such a ball. Perhaps, it was when I myself debuted."

[capturedinlies]

( @secretgcrdens -- The Diamond Ball early )

A few hours have passed, and yet, Isabelle's mother has not left her side even once. The lady graciously (and nervously) attempts to draw her into one conversation after the other, nothing that Isabelle is specifically keen on. And yet, she tags along, allowing the woman to calm her nerves through bland match making (serving no fruits so far). When she finally parts from her side, Isabelle finds herself settled by a wall, next to a gentleman, that hasn't dared to speak with her yet -- something the woman finds miraculously comforting. After around half an hour, Isabelle releases a soft snort, and drops a curtsy towards him.

"Miss Isabelle Adwani.", she introduces herself, a soft smile curled around her lips, "I must admit, I find myself deeply enjoying our shared silence. Perhaps, you could find yourself sharing a dance with me?" Holding the wrist with her dance card in his direction, Isabelle slowly moves backwards, towards the dance floor, "Yeah?"

[capturedinlies]

Rabbits must feel this way, hunted by men on their horses, only to be deemed to small, too skinny, too fat, too old. Prickling gazes gifted from all sides of the room, judging words whisper-shouted so that everyone hears them, including the person they're said about. Isabelle's chest is heaving when she rushes down the stairs, into the gardens. There is no need to care about a dark walk, when her whole body is covered in blood, anyway. Glowing silver fabric is wrapped around her body, jewels and sparkling gemstones spread all over, alongside white gloves to match. A symbol of purity -- purity. A state long lost on her.

The scar across her stomach itches, burns, and Isabelle claws at the fabric, at the corset beneath, as if she could rip her way through all the suffocating layers. Yet, it doesn't budge, and she is left haunching over a bench in the middle of thousands of roses. There is not a single breath she can spare to appreciate the beauty of the gardens, not a single breath she can use to get behold of adorned roses.

Guilt overcomes her -- she has left her mother alone at the ball, with all the suitors she was meant to meet. Goodness gracious, you're almost thirty. All your beauties are set to wear away. Isabelle screams into the night, full of anger, full of distaste for London, Buckingham Palace, the ton, the gardens, her new-found family. Family. Her home, the one that is true to her heart, lays far far away by the ocean, where her father was buried, and blood coats the fields in auburn colors.

Someone calls out into the night. Isabelle whips her head around, her panicked and hushed breaths calming for just a moment. The voice feels familiar. Rushing to pull her gloves back over her hands, she rushes around the corner, an attempt to flee a fate of forced marriage to a man that is so insane to call out to God. Perhaps too much wine. Perhaps..

"Thayer." Shock, and adrenaline takes control of her body. Isabelle stops right in her tracks, taken aback, "My apologies. Sir Claremont." Her curtsey is rushed, her fingers shaking. A face she had not expected to meet there, in the darkness of the night, here, in London. "Goodness, look at you. You're bleeding, right there on the palm of your hand."

Bleeding, and soaked. There is no hint to imagination with the way his shirt is clinging to his body, his muscles. Isabelle remembers it all too well. Heat rushes to her face, "I must... I must..."

open to: @capturedilies for miss isabelle adwani location: buckingham gardens, the diamond ball, buckingham palace, london, england.

This place haunts him, dares him to chase the sun when it is the dark of night. He is forced to recall everything good— pieces of himself he cannot find no matter how many times he breaks apart this wretched thing he's made up of parts so broken he isn't sure where they belong. What he's made is good enough, he knows that much. As he wanders these halls, he finds the faces of his brothers and father in paintings of legacies they failed. They're brighter than what he remembers them, better than what they died as. His own portrait at their feet looks to him, and then away. He can just barely recognize himself. His father had tried to make them all saints, the perfect ensemble of repentance. Timothee and Thomas had become just that, but to be holy, you had to die. Their bodies lay rotting but their souls become divine as heroes to a cause they should have never been forced to save. But Thayer? He stands here, alone, just barely a martyr. With every breath he takes, what has he proven? What is there to stand for? He searched for the shadows, the only place he belong in all this gilded glamour. The laughter of his youth and the thrills of such affairs he ignores in his present disappear, his heart telling him to run but his limbs are too heavy. They want to give up, fall to the earth and bury him with the weight of the world he's put on his shoulders. All his wrongs, such delicate beauties he had brought to decay— Cassandra, Portia, Maria and August, a child he cannot even recall the mother who he had loved for a night, the arms of a man he wanted to tear him apart who he knew never would because he'd been too kind, and a love lost to the sea. The gardens are swallowed by the night, only the simplest of petals catching the moonlight overhead. Fire from the hands of man burns against the stars in bright colors, and it is blinding. Like those he's ruined, he wastes no regard on the foliage in his way. Thorns catch on the velvet of his coat that he wrestles out of. Thayer savor the strangulation of every fiber, every sleeve that tries to break free of tailored thread. The cravat is ripped open at his throat, calloused fingertips catching the scar that dares to sting after all this time— it reminds him that he knows what it is to not breathe, and that he can. His clothes cling to his body from the water of the moat, the thin linen of his shirt clinging to what lies underneath. The darkness is there in verses he had damned, buried underneath his skin in a thousand pricks to entice his soul to take on such a damned hue so he can prove is rotten. If god would abandon him, could he not entice the devil to take him instead? None of it worked, and he roams these gardens and these endeavors without end. "I have no more than what you have left of me," Thayer calls out to the dark, to everything and yet nothing at all. "It is second nature to love, and the first is to die that you deny me time and time again! Why must you make it impossible to protect those I dare to put in my heart? Why leave me with such a wretched, withering thing to hold them to?"

[capturedinlies]

TAKE ME BACK INTO THE DARKNESS I NEVER LIKED THE LIGHT

( simone ashley / twenty-nine / she/her ) has MISS ISABELLE INDIRA ADWANI ever not agreed with her mother? marrying LORD TBD seems to be her greatest disapproval. lady whistledown recently whispered, that the miss would rather move back to her beloved seaside, than spend time in london's crowed social season. the ton is starting to wonder, why the sudden decision to move, and was this marriage one of true love, with her father passing only recently? born on MARCH 23RD, 1783, the eldest and only adwani daughter sure should focus on marriage now, anyway.

secrets are still secrets, even if discovered in the darkest of all nights. it still happened, no matter how hard one wishes that it had not. nothing is fair. it never is. -- tw: violence, death, parental death, addictions (gambling & alcohol)

For a brief minute, love, flowers and the ocean, are all Isabelle knows. The warmth with which her parents raise her, leave her coddled and safe everywhere she goes. Growing up near the seaside comes with many advantages and much to learn. Swimming, collecting shells, and long walks over dunes and across the beach grow onto her, as much as she loves the dark and tempest days, which she spends reading on her pillowed windowsill, with tea and sweets. Her parents' conversations are her music in the background, her constant company, her blanket.

Then, suddenly, they stop.

She quite vividly remembers the exact day they do -- all out of sudden the house is so full of silence. And so are the walks, the nights, the summers. A confusing turn of events, at least to her childish mind. As she grows older, she begins to understand. The slurred, drunk words after hours spent at the gentleman's club, gambling, are something neither her mother or her enjoy listening to. The shouting, the anger, the raging wish to be absent, and the deny of any help. She watches the loveliest, kindest mother crumble in grief of a husband that is not dead, just slowly becoming a ghost of his past self, and leaving only shambles and shattered feelings behind.

The intelligent and thoughtful man becomes something she learns to hate. And then -- it all stops. No more gambling, no more drinking. Kind words, and flowers again. Laughter. It's a carefully curated illusion, that shatters once again when Isabelle runs after her father in the darkness of the night, in the rain, and catches him in a duel with the lord that lent him the money to pay off his debts.

When she runs to stop them, they do not, and so she is the one left on the ground bleeding, helpless, and full of fear. The men both die in the fight. Isabelle is haunted by the sound of their last breaths, haunted by their cries for help, as she did cry for help first, and was not as important as their foe about money.

Hiding her wound, her inner pain, and her suffering, until they are officially found in the fields and she can finally, officially crumble, Isabelle is everything but amazed when her mother immediately packs their bags, and urges her only daughter to move with her, to London, leaving the seaside she so dearly loves behind.

In the blink of an eye, Lady Adwani is married again -- and Isabelle feels like she is punched in the face, when she is presented a bunch of step-siblings, she could care less about.

Cheers, to that.

familial ties: lord tbd (older step-brother), lord tbd (younger step-brother), lord tbd (youngest step-brother), lady tbd(youngest step-sister), lady tbd née adwani (mother), lord tbd (step-father), lord adwani (deceased, father) other ties: (to be done)