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weemsfreak · 1 month ago

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Painting A Home

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate!

I meant to post this earlier, but in like fashion, it is late.

Summary⇢ Victorian Era, Christmas time

Cassandra is an artist, lonely and due to be married. Yet, she finds herself longing for the one and only Jane Murdstone, the sister of a man she despises. ~6.8 k words

This story goes along with the song 'Go Home' by Julien Baker

Warnings ⇢ alcohol consumption, mention of self harm, sexual assault and abuse

༺♱༻

Nights like these, you were glad to be alive.

And, nights like these, you wished that you were no longer.

Oil paints and brushes scattered on the ground, a canvas on your lap.

A house, a garden, an unnerving darkness.

Light, which occupied only few windows of the house.

You were waiting for your soon to be husband to fetch you and drag you to dinner. You were waiting, but you wished to wait, sat on a bench overlooking your creation. You were waiting, but you wished you weren't; not for him.

A silhouette moved into the window light, the kitchen, as it flit around the space.

Oil paints and brushes scattered on the ground, a canvas on your lap.

A home, her garden, a black sky that felt so familiar.

Your canvas matched the scene before you in a matter of minutes, forgoing some light for the dark figure that intruded.

Lost in the scene before you, a tall presence bending over the table inside, you failed to notice William walking through the garden.

"Cassandra, are you prepared for dinner?"

The canvas fell to the ground as you gathered your things, quickly placing them into your basket.

You nodded. "I must first take these indoors."

༺♱༻

Chatter and laughter sounded all around you, glasses and dinnerware clashing.

After your meal and wine, William's friends had found him and insisted he accompany them to the tavern.

Following along, it would be unusual for a woman to join in, but you didn't wish to venture home alone.

Entering, they sat at a table as you found your way to a corner opposite the door.

Letting your eyes roam, you found the place to be decorated, loud with music and rowdy men, and you found…Edward Murdstone.

Sat at a table, he laughed and shouted over the others. You were unsure if he was here with friends or on business, but either way, he seemed to be inebriated.

Nervously, you turned for the door, decided that you should venture home. However, you stopped in your tracks as the door opened and she entered; Edwards sister.

She searched the tavern and caught her brother immediately, continuing her search and finding you. She peered over at you with little surprise, yet her brows knit your way in question.

Jane had come to deliver Edward news, but she wished to be quick. She could not stand the scene of drunk and rowdy men before her.

Yet, you were here, staring at her with…something in your eyes. And it was unusual, Jane stared back.

Jane deduced that William must have led you here. And with the turn of her head there he was, drinking at a table with his friends as you stood in the corner.

Jane saw the way you two interacted, as if you knew each other well, but not well enough.

Not well enough to marry happily.

He was respectful, in the best way that a man was, but you, you didn't seem to take to him as he took to you.

The image of him made her lip twitch.

Him, sharing multiple drinks with his friends post dinner, dinner with you, after which he neglected to return you home safe and sound.

And you, peering over at her with a pleading expression, seemingly displaced, alone.

Slowly, you walked closer, silently asking if she would take you with her; if you could be with her.

"What has brought you here?"

You looked to William and swallowed, "I do not desire to walk home unaccompanied, yet it seems he has no intention of departing soon."

Jane didn't let her gaze wander from you, until she suddenly turned and headed to her brother.

She delivered the news as you watched from afar. Edward laughed, spilling liquid onto the floor with no mind. As he called for someone to clean up the mess, his eyes landed on you.

"Ah, Miss Cooper. How curious to encounter you here."

You stepped closer, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Mr. Murdstone, I was about to depart."

A smirk tugged at his lips, "And how many drinks have you indulged in this evening?"

You caught Jane glare at him out of the corner of your eye. You swallowed, "None, Mr. Murdstone."

That was a lie.

He chuckled, "Surely it is nice to set one's cares aside on occasion, yes?" You blinked at him, "I suppose."

You watched his eyes rake over your body, Jane breaking the silence.

"We are returning home, Edward. Do not linger too long."

"Allow us to escort you, Jane." Edwards friends, or perhaps business partners, called to her as she turned your way.

"That will not be necessary" she quipped, clasping her hands in front of her.

"Oh, come now. The streets are no place for a lady such as yourself at this hour." "Perhaps we might speak with the young lady" one slurred.

Jane shook her head firmly, moving toward you with purpose. "We are fine. I will see you at home, Edward."

Your arm was looped by hers as she glided toward the door.

As you turned up the road to the house, Jane let ger grip drop from you.

You looked up at her disappointed as your hand returned to your side.

It was odd, she was never touchy, nor overly caring, but you supposed that she was protective when she needed to be; when she wanted to be.

"You do not appear enthused for your impending marriage." You almost ceased walking as your breath caught in your throat.

You knew she was perceptive, but Jane knew much and spoke little- about certain things.

You stammered, "I- I cannot imagine why you would think such a thing."

Jane continued, head held high. "It is merely what I have gathered."

Jane opened the gate to the garden, immediately bending down and inspecting the Hellebores, then moving to the Snow drops beside them.

You watched her kneel onto the hard stone, riding her gloves and dirtying her hands with cold soil.

"You must see to the flowers in the daylight, Miss Murdstone. The hour is far too late for such tasks."

Jane ignored your concern, she could see just fine. "You need not watch me."

Reluctantly, you took the hint and headed indoors, ridding your day clothes and preparing for the night.

Lighting another candle, you opened your curtains to Jane sat on the bench.

It had just begun snowing, a light blanket of white covering the previously green and brown earth.

You could see your future in her, but in which way, you were unsure. Thoughts of ending up like her swirled in your head, unmarried and cold. Thoughts of ending up like her, one of the most interesting and demanding women you have ever met.

You could see your future in her, perhaps with her, no man nor madness in sight.

Closing the door, you walked down the path to the bench, waiting for her permission to sit.

Jane didn’t look your way, but she nodded.

You pictured earlier, sitting in this very spot as you watched her in the kitchen. And now, as you looked toward the dark window, she was next to you.

It took all your strength to ask, but you were curious. You deduced that a question would not make Jane resent you more. Either she did or she didn't, her mind was already made up.

"Have you ever been married, Miss Murdstone?"

You looked ahead, waiting to see if she would reply or simply walk away.

She breathed deeply, "I have been, years ago."

You frowned, knowing that no way it could have ended had been good. "Why did it end?"

You looked over at her, her gaze fixed on the dirt.

"He passed, the cause is a mystery."

Your brows knit, knowing that although mystery was not uncommon, there were many mainstream things that people died from everyday. You watched as the corner of her lip curled up slightly, as if it was a joke.

'The cause is a mystery.'

Your thoughts reeled. It could be because- well she could've- but she wouldn't…no.

Your lips opened in shock, but she said nothing further about it .

"You don’t wish to marry him, do you?"

Sighing, you closed your eyes. "He is a respectful man, one of the best choices I could've made…"

"Because you had to, you had to choose."

Blue eyes met yours as you attempted to form your next words, but you had none.

White specks covered her pale skin, blending in perfectly, before melting away to mere drops of liquid.

Yes, you had to choose, out of all your last choices. You felt that she did the same, until it came to an abrupt and most likely unpleasant end.

But, the thing was, living the married life was definitely not pleasant either, not for women; not for her, and not for you.

For eyes that you found in this moment were the only eyes that you wished to see this close, the only eyes you wished to marry, the only eyes you wished to love.

"I had to choose out of many similar options. Out of my last choices" you whispered.

Jane's lips pursed, she knew what you meant. "It is as if it is not a choice at all."

You swallowed, "It isn't."

༺♱༻

You found your way to the kitchen, greeting Miss Johnson as she set out some ingredients.

"I am to decorate for Christmas this morning, willing to help?"

You smiled and nodded, grabbing some porridge and taking it outside to eat.

As you returned to the kitchen to discard your dishes, you were not attentive to whom was beside you.

"What may I help you with, Miss Johnson?" Turning to the figure at the counter, it was not Miss Johnson that met your eyes, but to your utter surprise, it was Miss Murdstone.

She gazed down at you with confusion as your gaze met hers, then traveled to her hands, stirring ingredients in a bowl.

"I apologize Miss Murdstone, I had thought that Miss Johnson was baking this morning."

Jane said nothing, turning her attention to the bowl.

"May I help?" you asked, a smile lighting up your face.

Jane baked often, but usually not while others were around. Her creations were always delightful, and you wished that she would teach you her ways.

"You may fetch the butter."

Adding the butter into the pan, you stirred it with the treacle and sugar. Jane set the bowl next to you, telling you to pour the mixture into the dry ingredients.

Jane was gentle when she wished to be. She looked so at peace, stirring the mixture slowly as it formed into a dough.

You watched as the dough was plopped onto the counter, rolled out, and then a paper cutout of a little figure was placed on top.

You held back a giggle as she took a knife and cut around the stencil, placing the dough figure onto a pan with little expression.

"May I attempt once?"

Jane hesitated, then moved to the side and passed you the knife.

Taking your time, you laid the stencil onto the dough and cut around it.

You couldn't help but feel joy while baking with Jane. You had most likely intruded, you knew, yet she didn't swat you away nor throw any harsh words at you; and that was enough.

"Mistletoe!"

As you placed the figure onto the pan, your gaze was averted to Miss Johnson running toward you and Jane with mistletoe in her hand.

She held it over your head and looked down at you with a cheeky smile on her face.

You giggled, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Miss Johnson then held the mistletoe close to Jane, pausing as Jane's gaze bore into hers, a frown on her face.

You watched. Jane would not give in, she would not show affection for anyone; you both knew.

But as you stared, her lip twitched, and then she looked down at you.

You were unsure as to why she looked for you.

Perhaps she wished for you to rid Miss Johnson for her, or perhaps she was expecting something different.

Looking up at her, your smile fell to a frown. You found that she didn't look angry, she didn't seem annoyed, but perhaps she felt displaced, unsure.

Quickly, you placed your hand to your lips and blew a kiss Jane's way, feeling remorse and relief when Miss Johnson retracted the mistletoe.

༺♱༻

You were restless. The darkness of your room was usually settling, but tonight it was quite the opposite. Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you stood to retrieve water from the kitchen.

Downstairs, you placed a candle onto the counter and poured water into a glass. Sighing, you sunk down onto the cold floor, resting your head against the hard wood.

You cared none about any man, but you could say you were one of the lucky ones, for William seemed to be more courteous than others. Though, you had few to compare him to, Edward Murdstone being one.

The thing was, William could change with the snap of a finger, he could change with marriage; and he most likely would.

As a tear rolled down your cheek, you thought of how things could be different.

It was one thing to be pretty while living in the background, and another to be smart, confident, happy.

You knew that you could be happy, but not like this. Not with any man, not with the resentment you felt, not with the strictness that confided you again and again.

Alas with her, with her you could be happy.

You briefly thought of running, but to where? You couldn't leave her, you wouldn't know how.

With her you could learn who you truly are, you could learn to be free.

"Sleepless, are you?"

Your gaze shot to darkness, the familiar voice making you question if you were dreaming for a moment. Standing, you walked toward the table.

She was sitting in the absence of light, a piece of freshly cooked gingerbread on the table.

"Yes."

You sat beside her, a pause.

She pushed the plate toward you, and you took a piece.

In this moment, you knew it was this that you prayed for; baking and sharing life together. Simplicity, calmness, intimacy.

It wasn't much, you thought, yet it was too much to ask for.

"Have you ever regarded a woman with the same affections that a woman often holds for a man?"

It was not appropriate, you knew, nothing such as this was acceptable to speak about. It was pushed out of you with a stutter and pure exhaustion, as though carrying the weight of shame had finally become too much to bear. Alas, she could never be so open. She was not a friend, nor a confidant; she was Jane Murdstone.

But Jane has been where you are now, for she was still there in a way.

She spoke low and partially broken, "I know of women who have harboured such feelings." You bit off a piece of gingerbread. "I apologise for asking" you whispered.

You had averted her gaze in shame, and she had set hers on the table; but you couldn't resist for long.

Raven hair braided, she adorned the same as you, nothing more, nothing less.

It was the first time you had seen her through eyes that were so similar. No class, no hierarchy, nothing demanding and nothing cruel.

You both sat in silence for what felt like hours, but to Jane, it was a mere moment.

A moment of your eyes scanning her.

"It is not polite to stare."

Your gaze quickly landed on your lap before you stood to retreat back to your chambers. You thought it best to leave her, although her words lacked their usual bite.

"Apologies Miss Murdstone, I bid you a goodnight."

You turned to retrieve your candle when your wrist was caught and you were pulled, your ribs meeting her chair.

Her eyes bore into yours, and you didn't have to question why.

She knew what you felt, she knew how it felt, she knew what you were doing. Alas, she didn't know how she wished to go about your doing.

She tried to find the answer as your eyes searched her face, but she found only two things: you were as scared as she had been, and she was becoming soft in her old age.

Her lips moved with purpose when she whispered. "You may stare, but you mustn't get caught."

Eyes widening, you attempted to pull back slightly, but she wouldn't allow you.

Quickly you found yourself staring through the black, at the white cracks, and the dull blue. She didn't look like her.

When you nodded, she freed you of her grasp.

You swallowed the lump in your throat as you sat, picking up your gingerbread and taking another bite.

"There is little I can do to free you from marriage."

Her words were low, as if there was little hope; you lowered your head as a tear escaped once more.

You knew it, you did, but you didn't truly believe. Not until you realized that she understood, not until she spoke as if your burden was hers.

You whispered, "Please, I do not wish to."

Jane closed her eyes as she shook her head, unknowing of how to help. "I will let you in on a secret, if you promise to speak of it no further."

You gazed up at her, your eyes wide in surprise. "Of course."

Jane took a breath as she peered down at the table and went to speak. It was then that a door shut, slammed, loudly.

Jane stood and made her way to the stairs as you retrieved your candle and followed.

She headed toward her chambers, searching them and finding nothing unusual. She knocked on Edwards door, there was no reply. The sound did not come from the maids rooms, so you watched as she started down the other end of the corridor, toward your chambers.

And just as she did, Edward exited, closing your door.

In the dark of the night, he did not see her. "Go to my chambers and do not leave until I retrieve you."

Not until she strutted toward him furiously.

You ran to her chambers and hid behind the door, closing it quietly.

Edward was not a respectful man, especially not when he was drunk. He was your enemy, truth be told, which was absurd, considering how you felt about his sister.

You sat upon her bed, though you knew you shouldn't. You couldn’t help it.

A couple minutes passed, and you grew worried. Opening the door slightly, you heard muffled sounds.

"Why is it that you seek the girl, Edward?" It was gruff, demanding.

"I wished to check in on her, she has not been herself as of late."

You stumbled back, he had noticed your disposition. You have been hiding things, as you always had, but you became careless as of late.

Bottles were emptier than usual, and at times you found yourself locked in a room, throwing your regret into a sink.

No, you had not been yourself lately, but Edward did not care. Yet he noticed, and it made you wonder, had anyone else?

"That is a poor excuse. Why have you entered her chambers without permission?"

Edward said nothing. You supposed if he did it would have come out slurred.

"I have had enough of your shameful conduct. It was not how we were raised, Edward."

Edward stepped closer to Jane, a drunken and challenging smile on his face.

"And how is it, you propose, that we were raised, Jane?"

Jane was at a loss for words.

They were raised in a rigid, oppressive, authoritarian lifestyle. They only knew cruelness, abusiveness, and superiority. They were raised to overcome, to work, to feel nothing.

So why did Edward want you?

Why did Jane feel for you?

"Better than this" was her only response.

"I am the man of the house" Edward growled. "I do what I wish, and you women do not have a say!"

Your heart dropped, knowing that what you were going through, in one way or another, Jane had been through.

"I would had never thought that my own brother would be this malicious. I would have never thought that you'd be so depraved!"

You startled at Jane's anger.

"Stay away from the girl and don't ever, EVER let me catch you..."

A slap.

You gasped as you heard skin meet skin, but you heard no scream, no whimper.

"Quiet! I do as I please, Jane Murdstone. I will see you in the morning."

You shut the door and fell to the floor, clutching at your knees tightly.

Surely Edward was cruel, surely he was sinister, but you had never thought he would harm his own sister, his own blood.

You wished to run out of her chambers to her, to see if she was alright; but she would surely push you away.

Tears ran down your cheeks as you waited for her to retrieve you. Moments later she entered, not sparing you a glance.

"Go to your chambers, Edward has turned in for the night."

You stood, watching as she lit the candle on her night table. She was not crying, like you, but you could see the hurt in her eyes.

"Let me sooth your cheek" you said, holding back tears.

Jane turned to you, expressionless. "That will not be necessary" she grumbled, opening the door for you.

Stepping into the corridor, you were nervous to make your way even thirty feet to your chambers.

Jane sighed, gently pushing you away from her door and leading you to your chambers.

Placing the candle onto your bedside table, you sat on your bed. Jane stared as her lip trembled slightly, but you knew that she would never show her pain.

She had stood up for you, she had protected you, against her own brother, nonetheless.

And you wished to protect her, from anything and everything that plagued her being.

"Please let me" you whispered.

Jane let her gaze wander over your wardrobe, to your candle, to your bed, then to you. She knew you didn’t wish to hurt her, you wished to care for her, it would make you feel better; but that was not something she was used to.

Reluctantly, she moved toward you and sat at the end of your bed.

When you realized what she was allowing you to do, you moved quickly to your drawer and retrieved ointment. You sat next to her and rubbed some on your fingers, slowly bringing them to her reddened cheek.

Jane closed her eyes as your skin met hers, fighting the urge to flinch or pull away from you. Gently, you rubbed it into her warm skin, watching as she attempted not to reject you.

She didn’t ask, but you knew what she was thinking.

"You and Mr. Murdstone may be siblings, Miss Murdstone, but you are not the same person."

Jane's eyes opened in surprise.

"It may be a matter of nature versus nurture. Perhaps you were brought up the same, which I have no knowledge of, but it seems that it has made you both quite authoritarian and sometimes…cruel."

You paused.

"But Mr. Murdstone is who he is, which may be heartless at times, and vindictive. Forgive me, but his touch is…cold."

You sighed as you took your fingers away from her cheek, dipping them in more ointment.

As you brought your hand back to her cheek, you noticed that her eyes had widened and her jaw was clenched.

"But you were not born the same, Miss Murdstone. You are warm, and caring, and kind, and you are…you are not a product of how you were raised."

You stopped, putting the ointment away.

"You are beautiful, Miss Murdstone, whether you believe it or not."

Jane looked at you, a hint of confusion and sadness in her eyes.

"And whenever you scold me, or berate me, however you treat me from now on, I will still think that. I will always appreciate who you are, I will always appreciate you for protecting me."

Jane took a breath in, straightening up in her seat. It made you uncomfortable.

"I am sorry if I spoke out of turn."

You couldn't take your eyes away from hers, no matter how bold you had been, no matter how much shame you felt; and neither could Jane.

"Has Edward...has he touched you?"

Your brows furrowed as you remembered what you had said, you said that his touch was cold.

"No he- I have never felt the touch of a man" you whispered.

Another lie.

Jane's lip twitched to the side, knowing of your lie.

"When." It wasn't a question, but a demand.

"It was not like that, I-"

"When" Jane gritted.

You met her eyes again, swirling with malice, and you sunk into yourself.

"You were in London" you breathed.

Jane shot upright, moving toward the door hastily.

"I will not be leaving you alone again."

And then your door was closed.

༺♱༻

You were alone, again.

And although Jane had said that she would not leave you, her resistance was no match for business in London; her defiance was no match for Edward's.

You were unsure as to why he sent Jane on business trips without accompanying her, it was odd. But when he knocked on your door days before Jane's anticipated return, you supposed you found a reason.

You opened the door reluctantly, the smell of alcohol hitting you instantly when he spoke.

"Ah, Miss Cooper, and how are you tonight?" "Well, Mr. Murdstone, and you?"

"Fine."

Mr. Murdstone's voice was polite yet gruff, his smile deliberate. Leaning against the doorframe, his eyes swept over your room.

Your grip on the doorknob tightened, "Is there something I can assist you with, Mr. Murdstone?"

He straightened, "Well, with my sisters expected return on Sunday, and so close to Christmas, I would like to have a cake for her, and perhaps a painting."

Your brows furrowed slightly, "I'd be happy to paint something for her, I will start tomorrow."

Edward brushed snow flakes from his lapel. You watched as they landed on the floor and instantly melted. "Ah, yes, tomorrow..."

He trailed off, his gaze lingering on a canvas resting by the window. "You are the artist among us…perhaps you could start tonight."

You were conflicted, confused, it was late. You smiled, but it was strained. "It’s quite late, Mr. Murdstone. Tomorrow would allow me time to give it proper care."

Edward stepped forward, narrowing the space between you.

"Of course. Though it might inspire you more to begin tonight... I could provide company."

Your pulse quickened, understanding what he truly wanted. You closed the door slightly, "I appreciate the thought, but I find I work best alone. Tomorrow, Mr. Murdstone."

You watched as irritation passed across his face, then he chuckled. "Ah, ever the independent spirit. I suppose I can trust your judgment."

He hesitated a moment longer, his dark eyes meeting yours in a way that felt like a test.

"Goodnight, Mr. Murdstone" you said softly, and before he could reply further, you eased the door closed.

The lock clicked softly into place, rushing, yet hoping that he wouldn't hear. You stood, hand on the doorknob as you let out a breath.

For whatever reason he sent Jane away, you were certain it wasn’t strictly business.

༺♱༻

You were tattered clothing, frayed, suffering, addicted. Self destruction was apparently your strong suit, corrupting you in every way that it knew how.

The darkness of despair got to you in a way that nothing else could, she got to you in a way that no one else did.

And knowing that the thing you longed for most was far, far out of your reach, yet so very close, was enough to make you scared.

The future was something that nobody was sure of, but you were sure it would end the same. You were alone, and you always would be.

You didn't like the things you've seen, and you never would.

Needles to the worn out rags

The folds in my arms, the sickenin' black

And I haven't been takin' my meds

Lock all the cabinets, send me to bed

'Cause I know you're still worried, I'm gonna get scared

'Cause I'm alone again, and I don't like the things I see

That night, you did something that you hadn't in awhile, piercing your skin with the hope that you were not abolished to pain, to secrecy, and to suffer for eternity.

You hoped that Jane would return to you, and you hoped that Jane would worry for you; for that would mean she cared.

༺♱༻

Edward Murdstone was insufferable.

Many a times you had pushed him away from your chambers, and from you. But when Saturday rolled around and he had bid you farewell until Sunday, you didn’t feel any less scared.

You wished to say no more about him.

Finding Miss Johnson in the kitchen, she sent you to run some errands.

Venturing into the village, you found the licensed dealer where Mr. Murdstone purchased his alcohol, buying a couple bottles and heading to the market to purchase flour, sugar, butter, milk, and dried fruits.

Returning home, Miss Johnson started baking while you set out a canvas and oil paints.

As the hours passed, you hadn't noticed when the sun had gone down, not until it was too dark to see the painting in front of you.

You lit the lamp in the parlor, but its light felt like mockery.

You hated the silence. It had a way of amplifying the noise in your head.

The painting on the easel stared back at you as your eyes gazed at something just beyond.

Standing and retrieving a glass of whiskey, you dipped your brush into dark blues.

You had tried your hardest to capture her unyielding presence, the way she always seemed composed, distant, untouchable.

Edward had commissioned this painting, yes, yet you always found yourself painting her.

You didn’t know why you painted Jane; or maybe you did.

You took another swig of whiskey from the glass resting by your knee. The burn was bitter, but it numbed the ache clawing at your chest.

You painted her, again and again, until the whiskey consumed you even more than she. Almost.

"There's more whiskey than blood in my veins, more tar than air in my lungs, the strung-out call I make"

You chucked to yourself as you stood, leaving the painting. It was almost done, it was almost finished.

You thought of the winding roads that you used to wander at night, hoping no one would notice your absence.

Now, there was nowhere left to go, just this village and this terrible, consuming longing.

You took one last swig as you threw on your coat, heading out into the night.

And you don't know why you did. Perhaps you went walking to forget, or perhaps it was in search of her.

Yes, you would go to her, if she would not come to you.

But as the cobblestones came to an end, you realized that you would not make it, not that far.

You supposed that you had more hope than was reality, as you would not make it to her tonight; perhaps tomorrow.

And so, you collapsed to your knees on the side of the road without a choice, and you prayed that she would find you and take you home.

“I’m just drunk… side of the road… in a ditch,” you slurred, laughing bitterly. To your dismay, your laughter turned into a sob as your head dropped into your hands, and then into the grass.

I went walkin' again, and go out and forget

To tell any of my friends where I'm goin'

I'm just drunk, the side of the road, in a ditch

When you find me, I wanna go home, I'm sick

༺♱༻

Jane had returned earlier than expected, the cold night air biting as the horse and carriage climbed the hill toward the house. She hadn’t planned to come back tonight, but she had finished her business in London earlier than anticipated, and something unsettled her; a nagging thought she couldn’t quite place.

Just as she turned a few roads away from the house, she noticed something unusual in the grass. It was far too dark to see what it was, but she stopped the carriage and stepped out.

She outstretched the lantern in her hands to find your prone figure on the ground.

Jane froze for a moment, her composure slipping as she bent down closer.

You, of all people, she thought.

"Cassandra" Jane said sharply, leaning closer. Her boots squelched against the mud, but you didn’t stir.

Jane tensed as she pressed two fingers to your neck, finding a pulse. Relief washed over her slightly.

"Foolish girl" she muttered.

She hesitated, her hand hovering above your shoulder.

Jane was not one for tenderness. She had learned to keep her distance, to build walls that no one could breach; but something in your stillness broke through that reserve.

Jane grasped your arms and hauled you upright, muttering curses under her breath as she dragged you toward the carriage.

༺♱༻

Jane laid you down with care that she wouldn’t have admitted aloud, pulling the quilt over you. The room was silent except for your uneven breathing.

Jane stood back, arms crossed, as if putting distance between you both would help her regain her composure.

She ventured to her chambers and unpacked her bags, going back to check on you one last time.

When she passed by the parlor door, it was open, and the faint light of the lantern revealed the chaos in the parlor.

Brushes and rags lay scattered, a whiskey glass on the floor, the smell of paint thinner prominent.

Jane glanced around the room and found the unfinished painting, and the smear of blue paint on your cheek made sense.

As her eyes fell on the crooked canvas, she righted it, her breath catching when she saw her own face staring back at her, unfinished but achingly familiar.

Shaking her head, she moved around the parlor, cleaning the brushes and glass up off of the floor. As she stood, her eyes landed on the Christmas tree, and the gifts lying underneath.

A small gift that she had not noticed earlier read 'To Jane, Love Cassandra.'

Jane's eyebrows furrowed as she picked up the wrapped item, squeezing it lightly before placing it back. She sighed as her arms fell to her sides.

Jane had come across something that made her think of you in London, and she had purchased it. But she had neither the courage nor the inclination to gift it to you; not until now.

༺♱༻

Jane found herself sitting at the end of your bed, watching as you rolled over and almost fell onto the floor. She stopped you, reaching for your arms and placing you onto your back.

"I'm sorry for asking, but please, come take me home" you mumbled, your voice faint but audible in the stillness. Jane's jaw tightened, thinking you had woken, but your eyes remained closed.

You had quit talking again, but she was still listening.

Jane let her gaze rake up and down your form, and when she thought you had truly fallen asleep, she went to retract her hands.

Alas when she did, she noticed scars that littered your forearms, rolling up your sleeves to find more.

I'm sorry for askin', but please, come take me home

I quit talkin' again, I know you're still listenin'

To see if I sleep or pierce my skin

You startled at the contact, tears leaking from the corners of your closed eyes.

“Lock the cabinets. Send me to bed” you whispered.

Jane pulled away quickly, startled, but when you spoke no further she reached out again, her hand stopping short of touching your face.

“You’re drunk,” she said softly, almost to herself. “And reckless.”

She stayed there a moment longer, watching as you drifted in and out of sleep. The lines on your face softened, but the weight in Jane's chest didn’t ease.

Jane was worried, as if she wasn't often.

She was worried about many things, but until mere weeks ago, you weren't one of them.

She was worried about herself, she was worried about her brother and what he may do others, to you. But, she wasn't worried that you were a danger to yourself, not until now.

She was worried that you were scared, that you would get scared again.

She was worried that you wished to clean yourself of the guilt that consumed you; the alcohol, her brothers hands, the men you didn't want, your own doing, and her.

As Jane's hand landed on your forehead, you stirred at the warmth. You craved it, you needed it, you were cold, you were cold.

Your eyes opened wearily as your head started to pound.

It seemed that you had kissed enough bathroom sinks to make up for the lovers that never loved you.

It made sense, you knew that you were nothing but dirty clothes, and you were tired, so tired.

Your eyes opened again as you felt a hand travel down to your cheek. Wiping away your dried tears was a dark figure above you.

Your body wanted to startle, but you didn't have the energy to care, not until you registered her face. The lines between her brows deepened and the frown on her face more evident than ever.

"Jane" you muttered, rubbing your hands together as you felt the dirt on them.

"Cassandra, what in the heavens are you doing to yourself." It was a whisper.

Blue eyes met yours as you held in a chuckle, ironically, it wasn't yourself that scared you.

You sat up with all the strength you had and faced her, a smile coming to your face when you realized that it was in fact Jane, and you were no longer dreaming.

"You're home early" you smiled, looking up at her with half lidded eyes.

Jane's hand left your face, "Yes, I am home. And you are drunk and hurt, Cassandra."

You saw the pain in Jane's eyes as she peered down at you, but you only caught the first part of her sentence.

She was with you again, yes, she was home, so why did you still feel so scared?

You peered down at your hands as you noticed your sleeves had been rolled up. Tears streamed down your face as you realized; she knew what you had done.

You had painted her, unfinished, you had drunk yourself into the ditch, and you had pierced your skin over the noise in your own head.

"I'm tired of washing my hands, god I wanna go home."

You reached out for Jane as the tears flowed, but she caught your wrists in her hands.

You looked at her with a pained expression, pleading, and she realized that it was the same look you had given her in the tavern.

So lock all the cabinets and send me to bed

'Cause I know you're still worried, I'm gonna get scared again

And make my insides clean with your kitchen bleach

But I've kissed enough bathroom sinks

To make up for the lovers that never loved me

And I know my body is just dirty clothes

I'm tired of washin' my hands, God, I wanna go home

Jane didn't know why you were tired of washing your hands, for you were not dirty.

It was clear now that you wanted her. The questions, the caring touch, the paintings, the kind words; but she didn't know why you wanted her, out of everyone.

She didn’t know how to say the things you needed to hear; words that might ease your sorrow, that might bring color back to your pale cheeks.

And, she didn't know why you wanted to go home, where did you think you were?

Jane reluctantly leaned in closer, her breath spanning over your face. "Where do you think you are, Cassandra?"

You held back a sob as Jane watched you, closing her eyes and letting go of your hands.

She allowed you to wrap your arms around her as you placed your head to her chest, and after a moment, Jane's arms pulled you into her further.

"You are home, sweetling" she breathed into your temple.

You smiled, settling into her touch and finding freedom for the first time in a long time.

You were no longer scared.

"I am now."

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