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Efnan in episode 1.26

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“Sometimes, I feel like I have so many feelings in me that I have no idea what to do with them, how to express them without messing myself up a little bit. Sometimes, I feel like I have nothing, absolutely nothing in me. Like I am just another speck of dust at the corner of an abandoned home and I will do almost anything to fill myself up.”

— Lukas W. // If you are in my shoes (via somepiecesofmyheartandsoul)

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closed to : @eleanorewhittock​ location : library time : early evening

As she runs her fingertips along the shelves, idly flipping through books she finds interesting, she comes across a familiar woman seated in an armchair. She is suddenly transported to six years ago: a fancy party at the Whittock House, Feriha stumbling upon their library and Eleanore Whittock finding a haven in it. 

“—Ellie!” she chirps, and the spell is broken. ( The memory fades with it. )   

She drifts over, buoyed by champagne and high spirits, her mood dimming slightly when she realizes Henry is not here to join either of them. She can’t help but wonder what he would make of this all—would he be more like how he used to be, carefree and adventurous, or would he act the part of the dutiful heir? Not that it matters when he’s traveling across Europe, away from the ghosts of London and away from this ball. 

But she’s happy for him, she really is. And Ellie must miss him more—that’s her brother, after all, and the only one who had remained. 

She falters for a moment, unsure of how to begin. How are you? How have you been? I heard about Henry. In the wake of his departure, it feels too heavy. She settles for something lighter instead, her words infused with warmth and honey. “You look so beautiful.” She beams, taking Ellie’s hands briefly. She has never known the only Whittock sister as well as Henry, but she has always liked her—Ellie is kind and warm, and like her, the only girl among three brothers. On this fact alone, she feels a sort of kinship with her, even if she has always been more Henry’s friend than Ellie’s. 

Either way, despite the distance and time that has stretched between them, she finds it easy to treat Ellie with familiarity. She imagines Henry would want her to do so, anyway, and she would’ve done it even if he hadn’t asked. “I love the dress and the sleeves. They’re so pretty! Did you make it yourself? Who are you supposed to be?” True to her character, she chatters on as if she only saw Ellie a day ago. “A queen, I’m guessing, by the hair—I love it, by the way—but I’m afraid I don’t know which one to begin with.”

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Victoria Chang, from “Love Letters,” in The Trees Witness Everything

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This time next month, I’ll be the new Mrs. Rusty Trawler… and I think we should have a drink to that! ( Breakfast at Tiffany’s, 1961 )

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Wickedness has leaked into the home I made, / and I want to burn it down. Sister, tell me / how you stand the murderous fury. You there / still singing, I crave demolishing, to eat / explosives.

Ada Limón, Bright Dead Things; “Home Fires” (via luthienne)

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Is there any part of me that doesn’t go directly to my heart?

Sanna Wani, from “Meditation,” in My Grief, the Sun (via firstfullmoon)

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FROM THE WARDROBE OF FERIHA DEMIR :

Feriha wears a combination of Victorian and Turkish clothing, the former influenced by her move to London at fourteen and the years she’s lived there since then. She is at a sort of in-between—out and about, she wears dresses and gowns like her British peers (row 2), but still largely prefers Turkish clothing (rows 1 and 3), which she wears at home and in the company of family and friends. While her choice of English-style clothing is because of assimilation, she often likes to incorporate touches of her homeland in her jewelry. She prioritizes comfort, favoring breathable, soft fabrics. She likes bright, bold colors, and is rarely seen in dark shades.   

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“Anne hoped she had outlived the age of blushing;

but the age of emotion she certainly had not.”

— details of Anne Elliot, Jane Austen, Persuasion

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dayanitas​:

.

A few hours ago, Daya had stood in Feriha’s bedroom, artfully arranging her hair and securing the flowers she wore in it. Feriha had told her she should come tonight, and Daya had been unsure, but her sister-in-law proved to be persuasive. At the last minute, Daya had chosen to come tonight, but the carriage ride was long - she had spent the entire time thinking about begging the driver to turn back. But she had made it here, and for the ever-reclusive Daya, that was an achievement. 

Ferha approaches now, surprise and joy written on her face. If Daya had thought that her encouragement was born from simple politeness, she no longer does upon seeing her, cute as a button in her fairy gown. 

“You don’t think it’s too much?” Daya runs a hand down her golden dress, smoothing the fabric over her stomach and hips. It’s been years since she has worn anything this daring, and if she doesn’t look a fool, she certainly feels one. “I feel a little silly in it, honestly. I should have worn something more low-key.”

♣

“Not at all!” Feriha enthuses, taking Daya’s hands in hers. Her sister-in-law always looks beautiful, but it’s different seeing her at a ball, clad in gold finery and looking reminiscent of the Daya she first met at fourteen. She hopes that Daya will make a return tonight; she won’t pretend she knows the root of Daya’s turmoil and why she’s shut parts of herself away, but Daya deserves to be happy. To smile without inhibition. 

“You shouldn’t feel silly. Besides, this is the sort of event where you don’t need to be low-key.” She nods toward a man ostentatiously dressed as some English king she can’t remember the name of. “And you look much better than him. His crown doesn’t even fit right.” Her own costume is rather on the simple side, now that she thinks about it, but she wasn’t exactly going for best-dressed or accurate—just pretty and comfortable.  

“Either way, I think you look gorgeous,” she continues, letting go of Daya and taking two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter. She holds one out, an unspoken offering to which Daya may say no to, if she wishes. “Besides, dresses are meant to be worn, no? There isn’t a better opportunity than this.”

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 ― Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God

[text ID: I want to unfold. / I don’t want to stay folded anywhere, / because where I am folded, there I am a lie.]

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retribctions​:

＊☾＊ 

He’s taken the offer of exploration to heart. Toshiro’s meticulous in traversing each room, creating mental notes and taking the time to memorize what unravels before him. But little has offered clues to Mr. Ashton, and by the time he’s entered another set of hallways, Toshiro frowns at yet another display of extravagance.

But his thoughts are pulled from the scene as he travels toward the nearby staircase, only to hear the thwack of feet pounding on the floor and —-

He’s quick to stop the momentum of the person ramming into him, grip tight on the other as he keeps them both steady. “Careful,” he hisses, though it bears no annoyance.

But the person is already springing back, and Toshiro finally has a moment to register the flushed face and fairy wings.

“You’re welcome, Feriha.”

A small smirk crosses his face as she tilts her head at him. Once again, the mask covering the top half of his face feels more like an asset than hindrance.

“Genkurō,” he answers, as if the single word explains everything. And to his sister, it would.

He takes a step back, folding his hands together. “But as to who I am — you’ll have to guess.“

♣

“Genkurō,” she repeats, as if tasting it on her tongue. Though it holds no meaning for her, she’s careful to get each syllable right—she knows how important a name is, how it hurts to have it pronounced wrong. 

Then her savior steps back. You’ll have to guess, he says, and Feriha grins. She’s always liked games.

Her gaze sweeps across the man’s figure, taking in the drapes of dark cloth and the sword at his side. Everything remains a mystery—except for his voice.

“Ah!” She snaps her fingers in recognition. “Toshiro.” She’d half-expected him to be one of the nameless strangers also in attendance, but this familiar face is a welcome surprise, even if she’s not quite sure what he makes of her. She likes him, though, quick as she is to take to anyone who humors her. “I didn’t think you’d be here, too.” 

It’s less that she didn’t expect him to receive an invitation—Mr. Ashton’s guest list has drawn from every corner of London for some inexplicable reason—but more so that she didn’t expect him to show up. Toshiro just seems so serious. 

“—But I guess even you can’t miss something like this. Fantastic, isn’t it? Something new at every corner.” Her tone is teasing, her smile bright, as she appraises him once more. “But who are you, really?” She looks up at him. “A fox, clearly. But what sort of fox?”

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aetunion​:

pollysheedy​:

Closed Starter for: @ferihas​, @aetunion​ Timestamp: 10:30pm Location: A quiet corridor

“I’ve almost got it,” Polly’s tongue pokes out from between their teeth in concentration, eyes narrowed slightly as they focus on the lock in front of them. It has been a while ( well, a few months ) since they’ve done anything like this, but apparently it is one of those skills that never leave you. They aren’t doing anything wrong - not really. Mr. Ashton had given them permission to explore the house as they wished, and even though the door in front of them was locked, he hadn’t told them they couldn’t pick the locks to gain access. This was fine. 

“You’re in my light,” they reach out to tap Link’s foot, willing him to move. “You’re supposed to be the lookout, anyway. You won’t spot anybody coming if you’re breathing down my neck.” He doesn’t seem quite as into the idea as Polly and Feriha are, but he’s here nonetheless. 

One last turn of the hairpin, and the lock clicks. Polly withdraws the hair pin, and returns it to Feriha, before turning the handle. It swings open easily, and Polly lets out a triumphant whoop. “Easy,” they congratulate themselves, stepping through into the dark room and turning back to look at her friends. “Somebody grab a candle. It’s dark in here.”

his fingers are itching with the urge to do something.

that something being potentially knocking feriha’s and polly’s heads together just to make them see what kind of a terrible idea this is. nevermind the fact that they know next to nothing about this mister ashton—the name already sounds incredibly pretentious to begin with. but going through a locked room seems like it’s begging to invite trouble especially after their host so graciously announced he’d be happy to have his guests freely roam his estate. yet, some of his rooms are locked.

how does that make sense?

link murmurs something under his breath when polly speaks, but dutifully shuffles out of the way. does he have any idea what they’re about to head into? not really. but somehow the two have roped him into this mess and now here he is, waiting for polly to force open the door. peeking over their shoulder, he sardonically quirks a brow at them. “so you think i’d be able to do what exactly when someone is coming?”

he throws a look at feriha, after. “at least she could bat her eyes at them.”

“No, no, I think they’d just be absolutely taken by your charming personality,” Feriha tells Link sweetly, sparing a glance back at him from where she stands behind Polly. “You’d do a far better job than me.” Like Polly, Feriha had taken to their host's invitation to explore the house and its grounds with enthusiasm, hardly discouraged by any obstacles in their way and Link dragged along for the ride. Maybe he's right and you shouldn't mess with what lies behind locked doors, but where's the fun in that? 

She cranes her head past him to see if anyone's coming just when Polly succeeds in their endeavor, the door swinging open easily. “Oh, well done!” She grins, clapping her hands before following them inside. Immediately, she’s enveloped in darkness; not even moonlight slants through the room, velvet curtains drawn shut. Only light from the hallway filters in, allowing her to spot a candelabra on a dresser. “Candle? I’ve got three.” 

From her pocket, she fishes out a bronze lighter ( stolen from a sitting room, belonging not to the host but likely a guest who had so carelessly left it behind ) and lights the wicks. The warm glow allows her eyes to adjust to their surroundings, and Feriha takes the candelabra in hand, spinning slowly about the room.

It is just as opulent as the rest of the mansion, yet something feels distinctly abandoned and untouched. Four armchairs surround a table, and behind that stands a fireplace, its flames long out; a dusty mirror sits on top, a thin crack running through. Other curiosities catch her eye: an empty decanter and matching glasses, a chessboard with the white queen toppled over, as if the game is just about to finish, and an ornate music box, waiting to be played. 

But it's a large frame covered by a burgundy cloth that draws her attention fully. 

There’s a reason the door was locked. 

Curiosity glints her in eyes. “Time to find out what secrets Mr. Ashton is hiding.” With her free hand, she pulls the cloth free, revealing the painting underneath. 

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