spirit_of_vitriol: (trapped (Hollow Art))
In the past week, Flavia had made enough of her own observations into the vision stones--purely, of course, in the interest of science--to begin a rough classification system.

There were the good: what had to be her very own laboratory, with her in a lab coat, running tests and making notes; a much older Flavia (is that what Harriet might've looked like, if she'd ever grown old? she'd wondered) dressed in a sweeping gown and sitting on a dais as a tuxedoed gentleman spoke about her illustrious career, before the audience rose almost as one, applauding as the man at the podium turned, holding out a medal; herself as a teenager, in robes and a mortarboard now, addressing the crowd as Darrow High valedictorian.

There were the bittersweet: a train pulling to a stop at the station, a foot still clad in a climber's boot (though no less graceful for it) alighting on the platform as a woman both unknown and wholly familiar to Flavia stepped into a new world; watching Ophelia in a pure white gown practically floating down the aisle, eager to shed her mantle as Flavia's sister in favor of Madame Prouvaire (or was that Dieter, of all people, waiting up there by the priest?); a glimpse of her room in Dimera looking terribly empty, boxes and bags stacked in the hallway and Father waiting stiffly by the door to take her home with him.

There were the unexplainable: a pair of children, asking some unseen entity when Mummy would be home; Flavia as an adult, clad all in black and standing watch as a sandy-haired man (was that Gavroche?) put his ear to a vault door, fiddling with the combination dial; a beaker full of something strange and glowing, spilling onto her hand--and her eyes sparking, moments later, with vast, equally strange power.

All of them provoked their own set of questions, filled in details of what her future might hold, or what she hoped might never come to pass. But even the most disappointing of the things she'd seen are things she'd prefer, compared to the sight in front of her now.

Read more... )

With a shriek, Flavia flings the stone sphere from her lap, sending it rolling across the grass. The sun may be shining; there may be flowers in bloom just steps away, but all she can feel is sickening, terrifying cold.


spirit_of_vitriol: (Default)
Flavia de Luce

May 2015

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