if you want to see your mother, you have no more than to look in the glass

[spirit_of_vitriol]

Flavia often wondered if, somehow, Ophelia had planned it this way; arranging deviously for her two younger sisters to share a birthday and leaving herself with a day all to herself. Indeed, in years past Feely had even tried horning in on Daffy and Flavia's own celebrations, inviting her friends over for tea or croquet with the excuse that January was far too cold to have any sort of real party. It was absolutely infuriating, and more than enough grounds for a certain wronged party to hide a frog in the teapot, say, or attach ampoules of vile-smelling chemicals to the heads of the croquet mallets. Spending the rest of the day locked in the cellar was worth it, for such sweet revenge.

In Darrow, and without Daphne's presence, both Flavia and Feely had birthdays to call their own, and groups of friends to share them with. Perhaps that made it easier to feel like they could celebrate with one another, should they choose--and choose they did. Last night, Flavia had trundled through the remaining snowdrifts to Feely's apartment, overnight bag in hand. Though there had been movies, not storybooks; pizza, not a horrifying creation from Mrs. Mullet's kitchen, the night had reminded Flavia of nothing so much as the happy evenings they used to spend together back at Buckshaw, before Feely and Daffy aligned themselves against her.

It was something she'd never thought she'd find again, which is, of course, why it couldn't last.

The next morning, Flavia awoke to an odd strangling feeling, a sense her nightdress had somehow shrunk, which couldn't be possible; they'd only just bought it. Perhaps she'd slept more restlessly than she'd thought, twisted it around in the night. She clambered from the bed--all she could see of Feely a tumble of dark hair, still dead to the world--and stood up, to the wholly bizarre sensation the floor was much further down than it had been when she'd gone to bed. She looked down at her feet, or tried to; leaned forward slightly more, and there they were. They'd only just started discussing what her Health teacher referred to in class as a time of change, but Flavia hadn't thought it happened quite this quickly. Grabbing the dressing gown Feely had left draped over a chair, she pulled it on, as much for warmth as increased modesty.

"There has to be a--" she started to say, before the reflection in Feely's bedroom mirror caught her eye. The hair was wrong; mousy brown instead of spun gold, but other than that, the woman in the mirror looked exactly like the few photos Flavia had seen in old scrapbooks--or hanging on the wall of the art museum here in the city. Aunt Felicity had been right, it seemed; to see Harriet, Flavia only had to look at herself.

This had happened before, to other people, she thought, padding quietly out to the living room in hopes that Feely wouldn't wake up to see her. Porthos, and Coraline, and probably others; it would pass for her just as much as it had for them. She tried not to think about the fact they'd grown younger, tried not to worry whether or not that made a difference. Whatever worries she had, as it was, flew away at the sound of footsteps behind her.

"Mummy?"

It didn't sound like Feely, not exactly, and as Flavia turned around, she saw why. One little girl, practically swimming in the very nightgown Feely had worn to bed the night before, blinked sleepily up at her. Before either of them could say anything more, someone knocked at the door. With a happy cry of "Visitors!", Ophelia ran to fling the door open wide. Flavia could only stare in confused, mute panic.

[[tag one or both (just let us know/make it clear in your tag)! ask questions at the cityhall post here.]]

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[likeblueblazes]

She wakes up with her head all in a fog. She feels entirely too warm to be bundled up in her room at Buckshaw, and the nightgown she dons drapes over her like a curtain. She rubs at her eyes as she sits up, the material of her pajamas shifting with her. Her eyes widen when she catches sight of the other woman in the room. Harriet's hair is darker than she remembers, but Ophelia doesn't care. Her mother is here with her now. Alive.

"Mummy?" She murmurs, needing to jump to make it out of the strange bed she finds herself in. She cautiously approaches the woman she assumes to be her mother when she hears the noise from the door; she turns around and hurries, calling out "Visitors!" while nearly tripping over her dress.

[spirit_of_vitriol]

It's a deliveryman, thank God, and nobody they know, nobody they'll ever have to see again; it's enough to break Flavia out of her sudden paralysis and send her over to join Ophelia at the door, to laugh (the sound forced and strange to her ears, and she prays he's not astute enough, this early in the day, to tell) as the man realizes his error, that he'd knocked on the wrong door. Number fifteen's two floors up, she hears herself say, like it's the most natural thing in the world, and then he's gone, toting his armful of parcels to the elevator and she can shut the door, throw the bolt, start to take stock. She was a de Luce, and a scientist, and between those two things, there wasn't anything she couldn't do.

Wasn't there?

Flavia tries to regulate her breathing, to project an air of outward calm, before turning back to face the girl who used to be--who still was, she reminds herself--her older sister. "Ophelia," she says, before stopping short, not knowing what to say after that.

[lafaute]

"'Allo!" Gavroche called out, looking past the strange little girl in the doorway. He holds a large box full of Chemistry pieces and books that Combeferre has guranteed that Flavia will enjoy, found at a rummage sale at one of the many chruches in Darrow. There is no reason for the gift, except that he thinks his friend will enjoy it, and perhaps show him how to make intersting things like poisins. He thought he had been good in not coming through the window this time but instead using the door. "Is Flavia here?"

[onlyabird]

The way they celebrated birthdays here was slightly different from name days back home, but it was close enough, the idea the same, that it was one custom Sansa had been able to pick up on with relative ease. Of course, there were few people for whom she'd have actually gone out of her way to do something about it, but Ophelia was someone she had come to care about in the time they'd known each other in Darrow, a friend when she'd gone a while without having any. So, although she hadn't yet come up with a suitable gift, she thought she might as well stop by Ophelia's apartment and wish her the best, really, the least she could do.

She wasn't expecting to see a small child open the door, a woman looking old enough to be her mother standing in the room behind her.

"Hello?" Sansa said, confused, then stepped back to check the number on the door again. It was the one she had intended to go to, that she'd have sworn she had been to before, but, frowning, thought that perhaps she was somehow mistaken. There was no other explanation she could see for the scene in front of her. "I'm sorry, do I have the wrong apartment?"

[Both, either, whatever, gimme! :D]

[confidenceman]

The lock on the door began to jiggle as Sawyer struggled to get his key in properly. He never felt very good about leaving the girls alone for any period of time, but when he'd woken up to find that they'd run out of the applesauce that Clementine still favored even now, he'd rushed down to the corner grocery store to pick up a few things, restock on eggs. Nothing that had him gone for more than ten minutes, though as he heard noise from inside the apartment, he could only figure that the girls had gotten up in that brief amount of time.

"Hey, sorry girls, I just had to pick up a few things at the st—"

Taking a step inside, Sawyer paused, then his expression grew dark as he spotted an unfamiliar adult standing in the room.

"Who the hell are you? What on..." his voice trailed off when he caught sight of another young girl. One stranger in his apartment was bizarre enough, but two had him knowing that the city was probably toying around with something. His brow furrowed, and he took a half step back. "Anyone got some names for me?"

[ both, please! ]

[spirit_of_vitriol]

Flavia didn't know if she should cheer, or scream, or faint, seeing the closest thing she'd found to a parent on the other side of the door. Maybe, given the circumstances, she'd even permit herself to break the cardinal rule of the de Luces, and fling herself sobbing into his arms; anything was possible. Then she looked away from him, back at the small, confused little girl Ophelia had become. If Feely thought, even a little, that their mother had come to life again--that Flavia was Harriet--there was only one option.

"Harriet...Harriet de Luce," she lies, trying to keep her voice steady. "And Ophelia de Luce." She makes a feeble gesture towards Feely, standing by the door.

[petit_poete]

Since it was so soon after Christmas, Jehan didn't really have time to come up with another gift to make for Ophelia's birthday, so he'd bought her a bracelet the man at the shop assured him was quite a popular style these days and a box of chocolates.

Armed with both, he made his way down to her flat and knocked, though he was surprised when the door was opened by a young girl. "Pardon. Is mademoiselle Ophelia in?" he inquired politely, wondering who the girl was, but assuming introductions would soon be forthcoming.

[Obviously for Ophelia, but feel free to toss Flavia in too!]

[nervesofsteel]

Admittedly, it’s Mary’s idea that they get Ophelia a gift for her birthday. John has never been very good at birthdays, with friends and family as much as girlfriends. He doesn’t even know how many knows the girl’s birthday in the first place, except that some people seem to have a sense about these things. And hell if he even knows what you’re supposed to get a seventeen-year-old from the 1950s as a thanks-for-being-a-great-babysitter gift.

Lotion, it turns out, and bubble bath. Mary insists she’ll love it, and oh, by the way, do you mind stopping by and giving it to her on your way to work? Thanks, love.

When John knocks on the door, he at first gets no answer, and gets ready to depart with the assumption that Ophelia’s still sleeping. He’s about to leave the package behind with a note, which suddenly the door is flung open.

“Um.” He cocks a brow at the unfamiliar woman, and checks the number on the door to make sure he’s knocked on the right now. “Ophelia de Luce lives here, right?"

[both please!]

[spirit_of_vitriol]

At least, Flavia thinks as Watson looks from Feely to her and back again, puzzlement writ large on his face, he's an Englishman. One of her sister's foreign friends would've been harder to explain away; at least with Watson, Flavia can maintain the facade they're still in England (or wherever Ophelia's confusion might lead them) for a bit longer.

She can only hope the good doctor's quick-witted enough to follow along.

"Doctor," she says after a beat, trying to color the word with false, friendly brightness. "We weren't expecting visitors so early."

Before Ophelia can turn around and see her, she meets his eyes, mouthing It's Flavia as she gives him a constrained, furtive wave. If the whole situation hadn't been so terrifying, she might've thrilled at the clandestine nature of it all.