spirit_of_vitriol: (ap: oh no (astatueofus))
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.


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.]]


spirit_of_vitriol: (Default)
Flavia de Luce

May 2015

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