IF I CANNOT FLY,

𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔.

[skywaits]

     independent, selective, and private portrayal of j.ohanna b.arker from the s.ondheim musical s.weeney t.odd. this blog is 18+, for friends & mutuals only. while i would rather that you not follow me first, it's not something i will be strict about—that being said, i am going to be very reluctant when it comes to following new people. be advised that this blog will be steeped in themes and motifs that are triggering, such as murder, cannibalism, & religion. lovingly written by meg. affiliated & associated with @criedmercy.

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[criedmercy]

“ i am as well as can be expected. ” a constant refrain in fifty-nine lancaster gate these past few years ( alongside ‘ no comment ’; but the missus mercy gathers she will stop using the former before she ever stops using the latter ) from its remaining occupants — and she is well. or, rather, lillian mercy is better. they all are. that is another refrain in her mind these days — i am better; repeating and looping around her until the thought, the mantra, ties itself into knots and becomes a plea, a prayer on its own. some days, it is the truth; and the state of her being. other days, lillian mercy digs her nails in until she bleeds. 

today is not going to be an easy one; when she is confident and sure of herself; when she is able to do all that she should, and protect those in her care; instead, she feels off balance. afraid. it will not be easy for either of us, she thinks; looking at johanna now as she stands in the half light of her room, door opened only slightly. looking anywhere but those watery eyes. her scalp, her shoulders, the way her fingers clutch at the wool of her cardigan. it is difficult. it is a weakness, too — enough to make the cold pinch of anger flare against the base of her skull; and she is not weak. never weak. it is johanna, who is causing this; johanna, who has seen her at her worst and knows how pathetic and disgusting she was at her core; johanna, who should have to pay the —

i’d like to discuss something that i have noticed in our sessions. whenever we touch on parts of you that you feel or understand to be vulnerable or imperfect, your whole system reacts. you indulge in cruelty, contempt — you are protecting yourself from the shame you carry. a breath; two, three, four — and the missus mercy feels her body relax; hands limp at her sides, shoulders slumping. when those pale eyes open again, she knows she looks tired – exhausted. 

i did what i did. i made my own choices. i just wish she had not seen the aftermath. 

“ … there are – ” and lillian mercy had always had a way with words when she needed to; charming and cold in turn. now? everything seems to fail her; and a small part of her misses archibald – he would know what to say, what to do. he always had. a ringed hand rises, fingers rubbing at her temple, her eyelid; standing at attention in her pencil skirt, blouse, and heels; clinical in the way she looks, not a hair out of place. “ you are of an age now that — doctor hearn and doctor everett think it is best for us to discuss this now. ” a step back. another. her ankle wobbles in her heels; a simple crack in the facade. “ i have him waiting for us in archiba — in the study .”

[skywaits]

"i'm glad." from anyone else, it may be manufactured politeness, a response borne from expectation; what else does one say? but johanna genuinely is glad to hear that lillian is well—it is the least that she deserves, after all that they have been through these past few years. nothing has come easy to them, between the media and the police and the courts, to say nothing of the turmoil that has unfurled within the walls of these two houses, but they have gotten through such trouble, and are out the other side still alive. not unscathed—far from it—but alive, and together, for the most part.

her heart aches a little when she looks at lilly, sometimes. they do not discuss their respective therapy sessions much, and certainly in no amount of detail, but she recognises things sometimes. coping mechanisms, grounding techniques, a look in her eye that often signifies a conscious effort being made to disregard a thought. they are all things that johanna has far less experience with, but has been introduced to, to varying degrees of success.

she listens earnestly when lillian tries to speak again, and the realisation that this is about something serious strikes her then. it seems out of sorts for the other woman, to struggle so with getting her point across, and that concerns jo somewhat, for she has never known the missus mercy to be so lost for words. fingers itch desperately, and she wraps her arms around herself in a sort of self-hug so as to fight the urge to reach a hand out instead, knowing that it would do little to bring comfort in this state.

"oh." she blinks, once twice thrice, a bit like a deer caught in headlights. "i didn't know that dr. everett was here as well." definitely something serious, then. but she trusts them, and there are few adults left in this world who can boast of that privilege, so johanna simply nods and steps out from her room, making to follow lillian. "we had better go discuss it, then."

[criedmercy]

the air of sixty-one lancaster gate is more suited to that of a funeral parlour than a home. standing in the dark gloom of hallways on long unsanctified ground, archibald mercy could remember funerals and wakes merrier than this place — quiet. still. in stasis where his own family is not; tittering and colourful as rare birds who do not yet know they have been taken far away from the warmth of their own shores. miss barker is the canary in the coal mine, then; fluttering down the staircase not to warn, but to greet; and draw them in deeper. the thought sits off centre within the mind of the mister mercy — watching the way she smiles, softly, the way she clutches at his youngest girl’s hands. lillian is right, he thinks; standing tall and proud, watching her. how could we ever leave her here? 

a thought he would not voice — not yet, at least. lillian was most insufferable when she was smug, after all; and the good lord himself could come on down from up high to try and teach the woman the virtue of humility — she’d not yield, even then. 

“ oh, you are truly an angel sent from heaven, jo — truly, and far too good to me. ” victoria speaks with the same sweet sincerity as christopher does. a trait, no doubt, learned from their father; and easily does the youngest mercy daughter press a kiss, then another, to johanna’s pale cheeks; beaming brighter than the sun before decidedly taking johanna’s arm in her own, leaning in for a most conspiratorial whisper. “ emmeline was absent from mass again this week. ” eyes flick between the scene before them; the way christopher stands before them, hopeful as he his awkward, his gaze only for miss barker, waiting as if she might ask for him to escort her — their parents, distant in all ways; lillian fussing with her hair, alexander tugging at the sleeves of elizabeth, sullen and withdrawn as always. “ mama was furious, jo. she is utterly convinced his grace has convinced her to convert, but what can she do? em is a duchess, and mama — well. mama is…. mama. ” as if more needs to be said. 

“ and are you fishing to give miss barker a scolding from her, nan? ” another whisper; this one from christopher — ever johanna’s protector where his siblings are concerned, no matter how small or large the annoyance. his own mouth puckers ( so like his mother when he is irate ); while victoria rolls her eyes with a huff. were she not a lady grown, she might stomp her dainty foot. “ you know how keen her hearing can be. ” two sets of pale eyes now fall upon the matron in question, thankfully engaged in conversation with the other members of the mercy family; and the sigh of relief from the youngest sister and youngest brother is audible, pronounced.

“ perhaps i was overzealous in my conversation. i will certainly bring such a matter to confessional next sabbath, if it pleases. ” an edge of teasing — head tilting; dark curls that match christopher’s ( but are so out of place against the rest of the mercy family ) shining in the dim light. 

a huff of irritation passes through christopher’s lips then, his own eyes rolling up, up, up. he will not fall for his elder sister’s bait, not here — and not in front of johanna, whom he wishes and prays sees him as — well. he does not quite know what he wishes for her to see him as yet; and furthermore, why did he care so terribly much about how miss barker saw him? 

it is a train of thought he will not entertain within this house, caught under the long and crooked shadow of the law; and the youngest mercy is glad, then, that johanna speaks; breaking the tableau before them when his good father offers a kind smile to the trio at the landing of the stairs; hand splayed at the back of elizabeth’s gown as he nudges her forwards. their second is a solitary girl — suited to the walls of ballroom floors and the edges of crowds; no matter how small. unsociable, entirely unlike both her mother and sire. it worries him in the same way that johanna does.

“ you need not apologize, my dear girl. i hope that the hours between mass and dinner have treated you kindly. ” his rumbling voice, low and deep, carries with it a quiet, commanding sort of presence; a warmth on even the bleakest of winter nights. though, he makes no motion to move; head turning sidelong to glance down at the missus mercy, fussing now with the collar of her eldest boy’s shirt. the missus and he, perhaps, are the most alike in many regards — in temperament, in looks; fair and golden in turn, beautiful and cold — and it is no secret that he is the gem of his mother’s eye. “ shall we, my dear? ” 

“ what — oh, yes. of course. we need not linger by side doors like a band of mummers, thank you, johanna. ” a gloved hand extends, elegant and jeweled; taken by the mister mercy with ease. even grey and aged, they are a striking couple — both in height and looks — as the party shifts forwards down a path long since known to them, and far easier when done within their own home. 

christopher pauses for a moment ( just a moment ); watching the way victoria moves, arm in arm with miss barker — and then, before he can stop himself — he all but runs to catch up, falling into step beside them. “ might i take your arm as well, miss barker? ” he offers himself with ease, with an elated hope in his gaze — though makes no move to touch without permission. to do so would be ungentlemanlike, he thinks; and johanna deserved only the best. alexander, on the other hand, does not seem to think so grandly ( or kindly ) of the matter — catching up to the trio in four long strides, a grin on his fair features as though he has told a joke, and he skillfully ( purposefully ) times his own steps to catch against johanna’s ankles as she walks, dogging every step with practiced ease, stifling his own laughter. 

“ jo-anne-ah — i fear your hems are too long, you are drowning in them. ”

[skywaits]

her eyes bat back and forth between christopher and victoria as they playfully batter each other in hushed tones, lest their mama overhear and take it upon herself to upbraid them for such troublesome chatter. there is nothing but fondness gleaming in her look as she studies them both, her most favourites of the mercy clan: the charming deviousness in toria's grin as she dishes out the potential drama of her eldest daughter, the almost frightening resemblance christopher shares with his mother when he disapproves of something, the petulance that his sister displays almost freely.

in truth, the topic of such gossip eludes her somewhat, floating above her head and slipping past her comprehension, for she is more invested in their presence here next to her than she is the chance of emmeline's conversion, or victoria's need for absolution. as she often does in their company, johanna feels distinctly less alone—the smile that stretches across her features no longer watery, growing in strength and sincerity with every passing second that their family brightens up the gloom and doom of 61 lancaster gate.

"certainly they have, sir." is all she offers up to archie in return, shyness returning to her briefly, ever in awe of the couple that reside next door. gaze flits sideways, then, and she hesitates only for a moment. "your gown tonight is beautiful, elizabeth." a small kindness paid to middle daughter, ever the wallflower whom even johanna feels sorry for at times, before her attention returns to the two on either side of her. when toria takes off after her parents, jo has little choice but to keep up, arms twined together; yet when she hears christopher hurried step from behind, something akin to expectation stirs up within her, and when it is met soon after with a courteous question, rosiness rises to the apples of her cheeks. indeed, she looks most delighted to be asked. "of course you may, master mercy." and so her other arm loops 'round his, resting softly against his jacket sleeve.

it is, perhaps, thanks to the two who flank her that she does not stumble and fall flat on her face when alexander begins his antics. her foot drags a little, yes, but she remains upright; and when his aggravating drawl pipes up from behind, she casts a sideward glance to toria followed by one to chris, and she can only hope that they understand what her plan is—a most abrupt stop, right when she expects him to try and catch her ankle again, and a sharp kick! backwards, like she's seen horses do in the street when their riders are behind them. "i do not think there anything wrong with my hems, mister alexander. perhaps your shoes are too big for you?" quietly, sweetly murmured, as though butter would not melt.

[criedmercy]

johanna appears like the first bloom after a long winter — a lone colour amongst the mottled and smoke stained grey-brown stone of sixty-one so bright she is almost blinding; and what a relief the sight of her brings, air rushing to his lungs at her approach. johanna barker is there. she is real, she is here — and she has not been vanished away like so many others that were dear to the youngest mercy. 

for a moment, and just a moment; he worries this is all dream — a trick of the light, and that when he comes to, he will be back within his mother’s stifling parlour, staring up and into that terrible house, praying for a glimpse of her. but her hand is flesh and bone against his — warm and real and there; and without thinking does he move, gangly arms slipping through the wide bars of the gate to embrace her. the iron bites against him; his fine clothes, his skin — it does not matter. miss barker is here, she is here, and christopher mercy does not want to let her go.

“ i am here. ” a quiet affirmation, spoken between the tight space between them — she smells of linens and spring and all things good in this city; memories of playing knight and princess and dragon and she had never needed protection then — it was always she who had come to his defense, his rescue; always — and his arms tighten around her for a moment before the worry that she, too, will be poked and pinched by the metal alarms him; and he releases her, clutching at her hands instead. “ forgive me, i beg of you — mother has been impossible since lolly was sent to the navy with our uncle. ” 

mother, when lillian had always been mama before. “ she will not let me out of her sight – toria, she – it is by her design that we meet today, miss barker. ” his words come quickly; rushed and hurried, as though afraid that she will stop him or vanish entirely. never, in their short and sheltered lives, has the young master mercy and the young miss barker ever been given enough time; and it is a precious thing between them; stolen and shared when they can.

and he is being greedy, he knows it – speaking so much; and taking her in now; those pale eyes drinking her in with nothing short of solemn affection. the curve of her nose ( and how he loved to see it wrinkle in disgust or delight ), the freckles at her cheeks, the line of her chin, her jaw; and just how her hand fits in his. it feels right, even now — and sets his heart a-pounding in his chest; be it from nerves or affection or both, he does not know. 

“ i do not have long. ” a kiss to her hand in his, curled around the bars, his own chest heaving — slowing; and when he looks at her again, his brow creases, face pinching with worry. miss barker had always been pale. shielded from the sun; but now, she looks sickly. like death itself had come to claim her; and her eyes — those eyes. though christopher mercy would never be so bold as to suggest they were kindred souls ( unless, of course, miss barker said as much ); but such comes with a friendship as long and deep as theirs; the ability to express near a thousand sentiments without ever uttering a word; and what he sees now in her eyes ( where there had been so often joy or annoyance in the presence of his family) is terror. resignation. a condemned on the way to the scaffolding who has accepted what is to be their fate. 

he watches her. stares at her. concern etched into his expression as he takes her in — the way she breathes; harsh, laboured, the way she trembles. johanna barker is afraid. much like alexander, he has never known her to be thus — many things, yes; but afraid?

“ what has happened?! have you taken ill, johanna? you look as though you — as though you have seen death himself. ”

[skywaits]

his simple presence is almost enough to calm her for a moment, the warmth of his hand in her own somewhat grounding, his arm around her comforting against the flutter of panic and despair in her chest. but like all things in her life, nothing good lasts for very long, and by the time he withdraws and they return to staring at each other through the bars of the gate, her nerves are twittering away again, agitation gnawing at her from within.

he stumbles over his explanation, but it falls on deaf ears, for johanna experiences a most strange sensation: between her heart leaping into her mouth and her lungs becoming most audible as they take each shuddering breath, it feels most like her head is stuck underwater. she hears words, now and then—mother, lolly, navy, toria, today. she can piece it together somewhat, understanding the gist, but the blame for his absence in her life was never going to fall anywhere near him in jo's mind. no, the judge is to blame for everything as far as she is concerned; just as he has been for these past fifteen years, and just as he will be for what she will be driven to do in the next week if a miracle does not happen.

the tenderness that christopher shows her would normally stir in her something so indescribable, an affection that is unfamiliar but welcome: yet now, it is a cold comfort. she is unable to focus much of her attention on it, clinging so tightly onto both the cool metal and the few wits she has left about her. and it seems, then, that he notices the air of anxiety that so oft' clings to her has increased tenfold, and the severity of the situation dawns upon him.

"oh christopher—he—he—he means to marry me!" it bursts from her like an explosion, and with it so the dam breaks, tears freely flowing down her cheeks, usually so pale but now reddened from hysterics, and so starkly contrasted about the sickly pallor that the rest of her has taken on. she has refused meals since learning of turpin's intentions, eating only when barton slips a tray into her room, which has become her cell more than anything else this past week. "the judge, he—he told me as much." she would far rather see death himself than stand at the altar come monday, and it is indeed something she is prepared for, lest it come to it.

[criedmercy]

there is a melancholy to london these days that has cast a pall over the long days of summer — stifling and hot and suffocating; and nowhere is it felt more keenly than in the residents of fifty-nine lancaster gate. whatever was left of them. and what was a ship without its rudder, its captain? set adrift on a sea of faces and a maze of streets — not fit for rescue, only pitying stares and whispers from once warm friends and neighbours. 

perhaps mister mercy has run off with some mistress. no, papa would never. perhaps he has run afoul of gambling debts. no, papa did not gamble. perhaps he was set upon after visiting some house of ill repute and left for dead. no, papa abhorred such establishments. none of them knew his father — none of them had loved archibald mercy in the way his youngest children did. to speak so ill of a man so noble; oh, lord — how christopher mercy wanted to scream. to shatter the silence around them and proclaim none in london had so pristine a slate to be throwing stones upon their own house. but that would be impolite. it would draw more glances and whispers and suspicion; and while he would sit in confessional on sabbath and speak of the sin of wrath, it would not change a thing. the congregation, the street — they would still whisper, papa would still be gone; and christopher would still miss him; the warmth of his arms, the quiet of his study, the gentle tread of his steps and the deep timbre of his laugh. 

and it was not just archibald that the youngest mercy missed. time had not been kind to the residents of fifty-nine lancaster gate; their numbers dwindling all the more. his mother had collapsed at the door when the navy had come to collect alexander — his trunk loaded in to a coach; and his brother grim-faced and nervous; with trembling hands and shorn hair that had once curled to his shoulders. he had been afraid; and tried not to show it — christopher had never known his elder brother to be afraid. annoying and irritating and brash, perhaps; but afraid? it was unlike him; unheard of. and while the youngest mercy had comforted his mother and told her that all would be well ( perhaps he was trying to convince himself of that, too ); his mother had wound her arms around him like some dog-strangling vine. thorny and suffocating and never far from him now — a shadow he had never asked for; a nursemaid he has outgrown, as if she was afraid that her youngest boy would be taken too; and all that would remain to her were the sisters that christopher loved so dearly.

you must not go far from me, christopher, my sweet boy. you are all that i have; and you are the man of this house now. he does not feel like one. still a boy in many ways, lingering in the shadow of his mother as much as he tries to pull away. missus mercy does not let go. does not let him out of her sight — the sole reprieve he receives is the short walk between the gardens in the late afternoons between fifty-nine and sixty-one; before the darkness of his neighbour’s house swallows him whole; and he fidgets and frets and does not pay attention to much of what the earl of bridgewater says at all; his thoughts upon his family, and her — dearest miss barker; who had seemingly vanished alongside archibald. tucked away in the dark corners of that bleak house — no more sunday dinners or daily walks; glimpsed, perhaps, from a window like some grey lady, or the back of her during mass, when he would take her in like a dying man; count the freckles upon her nose before she turned away, trace the features upon her face before her bonnet obscured her entirely; straining in the study to hear her footsteps, praying that she might peek over the bannister as she had before. it never comes. 

even their garden meetings, sweet and tender as they were, had stopped. to his credit, young master mercy had tried; but he would get no farther than the door to the sunroom that lead to the garden before his mother would appear and ask where he was going; would clutch at his sleeves and fix him with a look so wounded he could not keep his hand upon the door; and he would not betray miss barker by telling his mother where and who he was meeting. 

johanna had smelt of the world after a rainstorm when he had first kissed her at that gate; clean and fresh and utterly still — and they had never spoken of it since. what it might mean, what it might bring in the future; the way his heart had always beat so fast whenever she drew near — and how could he? she, who had always been his dearest and sweetest friend; now abandoned, and fate had not given the young mercy any recourse to explain, not given him any time to clutch her hands and tell her that he had not forgotten her, could never — would never — but that he could not steal away to her as much as he tried.

it is victoria who is to be his saviour ( their saviour ); ever her father’s daughter and just as sensitive — she had pressed his hands to her chest that morning after breakfast had been clearer away, blue eyes ( their mother’s eyes; shared between all five children ) watering with tears that always seemed to come these days. i know you meet with our jo before luncheon. i have seen you — and it seems she has been vanished away with papa. her lower lip had trembled; eyes glassy — hands too tight upon his. you must go to her. you must. i am worried, we have not seen — i will take care of mama, but you must be quick. you must. i will knock upon the windows thrice if she takes leave of me, but you must see jo. 

with that solemn agreement between them, he had stolen away like some thief within his own home; avoiding creaks in the floorboards that had been there since his childhood and had heralded the steps of his siblings, his parents, the servants — now to be avoided lest the madame of the house glimpse him. then, all would be for naught — and all would be lost. christopher’s tender heart remembers what time has taken away from his routine. the path of paving stones, warm in the mid-morning sun before it rose too high and the city slumbered in the heat — fifteen past ten; when they had always meet near every day if they could manage it; quick conversations and reassurances, a thousand things said with the eyes alone. i am here, and i will not leave you. pressing against the shrubbery, still kept pristine; even now — his hand trembles where it once was so sure, tapping against the gate. tap, tap, tap. 

“ miss barker? ” the youngest mercy dares not think on what he will do if she is not there — if she has given up on him, on this, on them ( and dare he even hope that there is such a thing as them? ); his voice a strained whisper. truly, he would not blame her if @skywaits had. “ johanna. ” her name from his lips — there is no sweeter word in existence to him. johanna. it is his hands that tremble now, fingers curling around the wrought iron until his knuckles whiten and strain against his skin. were it any other day, were it any other month — had nothing and everything happened, if it had all been the same; he would have stayed there, pressed to the hedges; hidden from view. instead, he presses against the gate, searching the desolation for her — she, who he would know anywhere; at any time, in any life.

“ please tell me that you are here. ”

[skywaits]

"chr-christopher?" hushed as she tries to be, the trill of her voice soars and cracks, as though it's rusty from disuse: these past few months, she has spoken little. some days, johanna believes she does not utter a word from the time she wakes until the time she drifts off to sleep. even her lark has been unusually quiet as of yet, as though he could sense the augured darkness, and no longer wishes to sing.

every flicker of a flame of goodness around her has been snuffed out as of late—the kind mister mercy missing, the dreadfully darling alexander shipped off somewhere (they looked to be military men, from where she sat by her window, but she does not dare to presume), her sightings of christopher few and fleeting. the judge even forbids her from attending confession, seemingly wary of letting her out of his sight at all, or letting her breathe in the presence of another soul.

at first, she had been perplexed by it all. he was always an overbearing guardian, stifling and discomfiting, but he's become downright obsessive as of late, leaving johanna to feel as though she's constantly treading deep waters, struggling to keep her head up. the beadle has been glancing sideways at her more and more, but not entirely lecherously, the way the judge does. no, bamford has almost bordered on looking nervous when he looks at her. she thought herself overly imaginative at first, or paranoid, or a healthy mix of both.

but now? now she understands why.

three days have passed since she was informed of her guardian's intentions—his desire to wed, and for her to be his bride. she had voided the contents of her stomach near instantly, much to poor barton's dismay, and retired to her room early. shell-shocked as she was then, it has now turned into panic, fear, horror. he means to do it, there is no doubt in her little mind about that, and who is there in the world to stop him? what power has she to put her foot down, to decline, to have any say in the matter?

there is lye down in the servant's quarters, she is sure of it. and strychnine too, in fact: she remembers there being whispers of rats in the attic last year, ones that were swiftly dealt with that same winter. she would like to say that they are nothing more than a last resort, but she does not see many other resorts at all, not in her current state. frazzled and distraught, pacing the grim garden of sixty one lancaster gate, safe in the knowledge that he is at court today—and anyway, what is the worst he can do to her now?

"i am, i am!" twitters away does she, tremulous as ever and far paler than before. jo rushes to the gate, palm pressed against the iron, fingers shaking as they strive to wrap tightly around his own, eager for any semblance of contact with another person; with her christopher. "oh, are you really here now? or am i truly losing my wits once and for all?" am i becoming my mother after all? chest heaves up and down as breaths seem to wrench themselves from within, uneven and rough.

[criedmercy]

fifty-nine lancaster gate is a clinical world — bright and spotless; not a speck of dust upon the mantles and bannisters, not a single item out of place ( the magazines angled just so; tastefully, staged – cutlery and silverware polished, arranged in equal, measured spaces ); a shell of what it had been when its master had breathed, when clutter and all manner of belongings had been present – scuffed shoes at the door in haphazard piles, books left open, coats and hats upon benches and hooks – all signs of life well lived; of a family that came and went as they pleased, no longer. an illusion of life; but much like its sole owner, simply not there.

but even in such a purgatory, sanctuaries exist. two bedrooms – one on the third floor, the other upon the second – mussed and beyond the reach of the staff; littered with books and clothes and studying materials, half used make-up palettes and post-it-note highlighted law books; charging cables and socks that had not made it to the laundry chute. it gives the madame a headache, even now — though she does not look upon it; lillian mercy knows that there is a blemish there; upon her home, her mind; a rot she cannot cut out no matter how much her hands ache to clench and her voice wishes to raise. such a mess made them happy; and if it was she who was the arbitrator of such happiness, then so be it. 

now, lillian – i’d like us to explore how your impulse to manipulate and control others shows up for you. doctor everett’s voice is always in her head these days; more so, after archibald. after gretna green. after… everything. what underlying needs or vulnerabilities is that masking? she wants to open the door; for even johanna’s room is part of her domain – and she needs no permission to enter within her own home. once we identify those insecurities, we can work towards ways of functioning that do not harm you or anyone else. that elegant hand of hers, pale and flashing with rings ( a georgian wedding band from the prawle estate, a signet ring from the victorian period ), knocks upon the door – once, twice – firm; unyielding; though to her credit, missus mercy does not dare to open it. instead, she stands – a quiet shadow within her own home, face impassive. blank.

this will harm johanna no matter the function that the madame will pantomime. two years of therapy after all of it ( the elopement, the inheritance, his death, archibald’s disappearance ); paperwork and court hearings, her hand on johanna’s shoulder, on christopher’s too; her own rage, simmering still ( it was too quick and too clean for him and all that he did ) and most days seemed the same. halting. slow. trembling. but she has been good ( johanna has not thanked her yet – and missus mercy reminds herself that she may never get a tearful thanks from the girl; but that she is grateful all the same ); calm. encouraging. supportive when it mattered, with or without an audience. to be the architect of such growth and peace was to find pleasure with or without being thanked. some days, she swears she feels it. 

“ johanna? ” but the girl is not a girl any more. not really. and lillian mercy has no interest in shielding adults from the harsh realities of the world that children were meant to be protected from. to do so would only prolong the inevitable – make them weak and susceptible to things far worse than her that prowled london. 

lillian, i need you to shift the lens of your thinking. you can support your children as adults without needing to control who and what they become. her jaw sets. a flicker of irritation in her expression. as if this was easy for her. to be so open, so frank — to let @skywaits see her.

“ doctor everett has arrived for my session. i want you to come down with me today — ” a pause. she blinks. “ — please. ” please, though her tone brokers no refusal; flat and monotone, not pitched or breathy as it had been when johanna was young — as it had been upon her birthday this year before she had lost all reason to lie. “ i have something to discuss with you that is… it is important. ” the missus mercy speaks slowly; every letter enunciated; every word thought of as though she cannot quite remember how to string sentences together. “ i want him present. ”

[skywaits]

it is the small things which matter the most to her, even now. the lack of fear felt within four walls, the sense of comfort no matter the room she occupies, the ability to be and do and say what she wishes, when she wishes. freedom can feel like its own cage sometimes, johanna knows this: has discussed it with her psychologist, with chris, even. (he had wanted to better understand how she was adjusting to life beyond next door, and she, ever appreciative of his efforts, had spoken frankly. a little too so, perhaps—he had seemed shell-shocked by her explanations.)

these days, the house is quieter than she remembers it being in her youth. it is, after all, only she and christopher left living in it alongside lillian, and she suspects it is nearly time for them to fly the nest as well, even if she knows there is no expectation of it. but normalcy has been something that she and dr. hearn have been striving towards as of late; she is a late bloomer in many things, as circumstances thus far have dictated, but where possible, she ought not miss out on any more milestones and experiences.

the privacy she is afforded here is top of the list of those small-but-important things. simple, really, something that many no doubt take for granted, but not jo. for the missus mercy to knock on her bedroom door, and wait for permission to enter: two years have seen her grown accustomed to it, yes, but she will never not appreciate it. not when so much of her youth was made up of agonising silence, barely breathing in her own room so that she might hear when his footsteps were coming down the hallway, listening out for the turn of the key in her door. here, there is none of that fear, none of that dreadful anticipation.

soft instrumental jazz floats around the space, lillian's request cutting over it clearly, and jo stretches a hand out to her speaker to pause it, grateful for any distraction that might be offered from the textbook before her. " yes, of course, lilly." at such a request, politely issued yet ... dispassionate in its delivery, she's quick to rise from her armchair and pad across the room. strange, she thinks. cardigan is tugged a little tighter around her frame as she appears by the doorframe, flaxen braids swaying with her movement. "is everything—alright?"

[criedmercy]

 sunlight spills gold and glorious through mottled glass panes; a bright june afternoon rivalled only by the sky — rarer still; robin’s egg blue and utterly cloudless; unchoked by the smog and smoke that so often plagued london in the colder months. it paints the parlour of fifty-nine lancaster gate almost garishly; pinks and reds and mauves over saturated until the carefully picked damasks and mahogany, the rich carpets that the missus mercy had spent hours ( no, days; months ) pouring over to grace the hardwood floors of the townhouse looked more like the scrawl of a child’s drawing than a realm of luxury; ostentatious and obscene in its display of wealth. perhaps that is why only @skywaits has the sole honour of receiving an afternoon invitation — ivory stock, embossed and gold foiled, the slanting and sprawling hand of the missus mercy so chique one could hardly read it ( dearest miss barker; it is our utmost honour to invite you to join both myself and miss victoria mercy for an afternoon tea this friday. i look forward to your acceptance. yours, missus lillian mercy. ); an effort, perhaps, to make up for every missed evening function; balls and dinners the poor girl would have glimpsed through the amber glow of windows come evening, when the house was full and laughter sprawled out into the street. or, perhaps, a way to fill the day when intendeds and beaus are unavailable to promenade through hyde park; and the youngest mercy daughter begs and pleads for ‘ sweetest johanna ’ to be brought from ‘ that gloomy and awful house next door, oh please ’ — until the mister mercy, weak willed thing that he is, leans to his wife during dinner, hand upon her sleeve, and bids her ask. 

and perhaps it is why she sits just outside the door now; needle flashing in the light as she works, a sentinel only half listening to what she knows to be mindless chatter. 

“ oh, i wish you were able to walk with us – especially on a day like today. ” a day like this should be felt so fully — head turned up until the sun kissed the youngest mercy daughter’s cheeks pink despite the bonnet shielding her from the sun; to run through grass and trail fingers through cool waters. they’d done so in their youth, had they not? grass stains upon their pinnafores and tangled curls. how different must they seem now; nearly women grown — though victoria’s eyes still gleam with that same mischief even now, perched just so upon the chaise lounge in her fine taffeta and linen gown, as pale a blue as her eyes; tassels and lace and she turns her head, dark curls swaying, to gaze out of the window and on to the street for a moment. you are going to get freckles and resemble some country bumpkin if you keep that up. it is her mother’s voice that speaks within her mind; needling, sickly sweet. look at dear johanna; practically perfect. why can you not be like her? and here she sits, in shadow even now; as if the very sun itself might burn her within the parlour. is it jealousy or pity that she feels now — the former unwelcome, unwanted, unchristian of her; and latter unhelpful. johanna is nothing if not her dearest and oldest friend — much more of a sister than elizabeth, closer than dear emmeline, too; they’d learnt to walk and run and sing and read alongside each other; teased about height and begged the maids to measure them, for surely they had grown more in a minute, an hour — now memories she holds so very dear.

in some ways, johanna is still a girl; kept away from the world while it kept turning; isolated, even here, amongst friends. and they are friends — dearest friends. there is no soul in london who knows more of her childhood sins and secrets than the pale girl before her; no girl to whom is so kindred a spirit as she is; and her skirts whisper as she moves, leaving the warmth of the sunlight and her long cold tea to join her in the shadows, ringed hands clutching johanna’s, squeezing — bringing them to rest against the lace of her collar.

“ i must introduce you to my theodore when you attend a ball here next, i simply must. he is going to propose soon, jo, can you believe it? me, to be married — i would have you in the wedding party, my maid of honour. there is no one else i would rather have. oh, please say you will — you must. i will not take a no from you, my dearest friend. ”

[skywaits]

to say that the young johanna has been in a state of stupefaction ever since laying her eyes upon the invitation would be a wild understatement. the envelope had been opened before it had been passed on down to her, from the judge's hands into barton's, and then finally into her own, but she would never dream of complaining about such a fact; in truth, it is the first time in her sixteen years that there has ever been anything addressed to her included in the morning's post. for it to be so very elegantly laid out, the beautiful detailing of the card and missus mercy's sophisticated penmanship—why, they are all cherries atop the cake, in her watery eyes. it was, of course, carefully preserved, and as soon as she was dismissed from tea in the parlour following their meagre meal it was instantly stored at the bottom of her reticule, one treasured item kept safe inside another.

he had hardly been pleased, but then, there was little room nor opportunity for him to decline on her behalf. he knew the missus mercy far longer than she did, after all; and not even the judge is fool enough to deny her.

and so here she finds herself, primly perched on the edge of a chaise in the parlour of fifty-nine lancaster gate, squinting a little against the sheer vibrance and brightness of the room and its decor, she who is so accustomed to damask and dark, blocked-out windows and drawn curtains. even now, she sits in the shadow so kindly provided by a mahogany chest, her lithe little self swallowed up by the sheer luxury of the room.

toria natters on without an ounce of unease, sat just across from her, ever the picture of comfort and confidence. one could hardly be blamed for thinking them as different as chalk and cheese on appearances alone. where victoria stuns in taffeta and linen, jo paints a simple picture in printed muslin. her dark curls sway with every movement, while jo's wheaten blonde braids barely budge. but the companionship that she finds with the youngest mercy daughter is irrefutable, the comfort she finds in their friendship—their sisterhood—priceless.

"there is nothing i would like more than to meet your theodore." wan little smile lights up her features, shifting ever so slightly on the chaise to make more room for toria, to lean into her a little more, if only to aid the conspiratorial nature that their conversation has taken a turn towards. "you are sure to make a most beautiful bride." it is the whole and utter truth, her heart both soaring and aching at the thought, for it is one more friend that she is sure to lose. "i ... if it were up to me, toria, i would never dream of saying no to you." sadness lingers in her face, then, for she knows (as well as missus mercy must, lurking as she is by the doorway) that the judge would refuse outright.

[criedmercy]

“ you wound me, good lady! ” there is a sing-song lilt in his voice, ringing out quietly from the shrubbery like a warbling nightingale; an edge of teasing that belies his own nervousness. young christopher can hear something far darker in johanna’s voice; a sheathed blade for the time being, but one he knows all too well — the stirrings of anxiety he often saw in her from the stiff line of her shoulders, to the twitch of her mouth, to the wringing of her hands, to the widening of her eyes. he can see her now, if he tries; though it is an image he would rather not dwell on; not here, not now — and it is not the image of her he would have in remembrance over the summer. “ i will take your secrets to my very grave, miss barker. not even father o'loughin  will know. ” confessional, after all, was best saved for admitting he had indeed antagonized his brother and hidden his university books in a most unkind act of theft. as for the present, real and raw and immediate, young mercy would rather remember her happy; she’d been thus as a child, hadn’t she? though he cannot remember when, it had seemed a veil had come over her at some point in their youth; obscuring her from the world as surely as her window had.

a sigh leaves him, long and slow and loud through his hawkish nose as he shifts through the bushes, listens to the way her feet scuffle — and how quiet her voice is at mention of him; a shadow that hangs over all of them, even now. “ we need not speak of him, miss barker. not at all – or – or again, if it pleases. ” her laughter, rare and bright, warms him for a moment — softer and sweeter than summer rain and strange, his cheeks feel warmer still; and the boy is glad that he is hidden from her wide-eyed stare. if miss johanna barker were to see him flush, well — he would not know what to do; no, odder yet, why was he even thinking of what he might do, were she to see? 

all things to ponder later, when he ought to be studying. 

“ i could ask papa if he could send a letter to you in my stead — perhaps it is more like to get to you, then? ” and that surely would be not an odd request. papa, i am terribly sad for miss barker. might you write and send her a letter this summer, and tell her that i wish her well? he almost snorts at the notion; the image of it — asking thus as if he were a little boy again. “ but then… he is not so very descriptive with his letters. mama always said he wrote as if reporting from a battlefield. ” his head turns, then; watching the way her pale hand grips the iron, so tight, as though afraid she might be ripped from this moment. it is a dangerous thing, what he does next — impulsive, and without thinking; his own hand leaving the protective shield of the garden shrubbery to reach out, wrapping around johanna’s in a moment of comfort so rarely afforded or done, always one to remain proper. but no one can see them here, and they are alone. or, alone as two could be with the lord above watching. 

“ your hand is cold. ” why did i say that? his own is warmed by the soft gold of late spring’s sun; warm as his face is once more. “ …i will have to tell you all about it then, when we return. one day, miss barker, i promise you will see it too. ”

[skywaits]

"it is not my intent, kind sir!" though she tries desperately to match his tone, to imbue that little thread of teasing in the notes of her voice, she falls flat in such an endeavour, and sounds only wholly genuine. if he strikes a note akin to the nightingale that trills and chirrups from the treeline above, then she is far more remnisicent of the caged lark in her own bedroom; jumbled, sharp, and flinching.

the mention of father o'loughlin brings a slight shiver to her frame, though she hopes it can be dismissed as being down to the elements, for she in her light muslin gown has little more than a tatty shawl thrown over her shoulders to ward off the breeze that shifts through the garden. the good father has done little to earn such a reaction; quite the opposite, in fact. it is the good judge who has instilled such a conditioned response in her—forever the threat looms, of not just the arm of the law but the arm of the church being ever-present, ever-ready lest she stray from the good christian teachings that he tries to impress upon her.

"it would please me very much," overly eager to give an answer, slumping a little further into the wall with sheer relief. the last thing johanna wishes to do is to mar the few minutes they have left before the summer with mention of her guardian. that smile she wears is slowly, if not consistently, growing, and it aides the colour that begins to spread across alabaster cheeks. "i cannot say with certainty that any letter sent would find its way to me." a sad admission, but it is the truth nonetheless. she is acutely aware of how little the judge thinks of dear mr. mercy; and more than that, how he wishes to keep his ward isolated, unreachable, cut-off. it has only gotten worse in these past years, as her hems have gradually become lower and lower, and the looks he gives her have morphed from protective to something ... almost perverse.

she is snapped out of her own thoughts, spiralling as they are, when she feels his hand close over hers, the touch of warmth bringing her back to this moment, grounding her, almost. "... i-is it?" jo finds herself feeling a little dazed, and somewhere between nervous and charmed. fingers feel frozen to the iron, not wanting to budge them even an inch in case he takes it the wrong way, and it results in the loss of that little gesture, that small patch of contact. "i so look forward to hearing all about it, master mercy." there is a silent addendum that follows, voiced only in her head, about how impossible promises should not be made, but she cannot bring herself to be so cruel to one so kind.

[criedmercy]

sundays were always thus — a small parade through the garden of fifty-nine lancaster gate; silken slippers and patent leather shoes marching through a well worn path upon the grass ( now covered in paving stones at the missus mercy’s insistence ). such a spectacle had been easier to manage when they were children, when they had needed a hand to hold and could be quieted by a gentle hush or a stern look; the very image of domesticity — now, it had become difficult to do thus, with children now all adults far more eager to be independent, always bickering and whispering ( alexander had stepped on elizabeth’s hem, victoria had bumped into elizabeth, elizabeth had stepped on the back of christopher’s heel, christopher had tripped into alexander ); a symphony of sound against archibald’s low baritone, soothing and pleading in turn, for quiet — that all of this might be sorted later, when they were not within earshot of the street, perhaps? a look from the matriarch, cold and pinched and wicked, followed by a shrill series of words — i could pitch myself into the thames and not one of you would cease your bickering to see it happen, let alone jump in after me! that finally brings quiet, aside from the shuffle of feet and the whisper of cotton. 

the sabbath were kept holy within the walls of both households; the mercys, at least, knew how to keep them thus — the maids had scrubbed the floors and walls until all had shone, polished crystal and silverware and bone china until reflections could be seen. there had been an argument in the strange space between mass and dinner; when travelling shawls and bonnets and top hats were littered in the foyer, when the children were sat in the parlour — and both master and mistress of the home had gone into his study, a world normally closed to all but victoria and christopher. must such a farce continue, long past any chance of finding humour in it? as if all of london did not know of such a closeness between two houses — christian neighbours, good and true. and shall we abandon miss barker, who is most certainly waiting for us this very minute? would you leave her with him? that had ended any further dissent, just as the missus mercy preferred. 

it is why they are here now; arm and arm at the head of the line, passing through the wrought iron gate that seemed to give entrance into a vastly different world; no longer pristine and lush, but soot-stained and greying, choked by the smog of london. god bless archibald and his soft heart, all too easy to push and prod when needed — when warranted. it is a good thing that the man looks forward, or else he might see the smirk upon his wife’s features. and it is young christopher, at the end of the line as always, who shuts the gate behind him; who looks up to the window he knows miss barker will be in, a bright spot in the gloom — how he smiles; unabashed, unashamed at the sight of her, lighting up his features as he stretches up, up, up — and waves as though they were children of six and seven once more. he would stay there, too; a moment too long, falling behind — until victoria turns to glimpse the house, and hisses to come close before mama sees you acting thus! 

for a moment, he scrambles in the gravel path, closing the distance in a few short strides ( and earning such laughter from his elder brother, until his eyes roll back in his head ) in what must be a moment of luck sent by the good lord himself, straightening his waistcoat, his cravat — before both of his parents have turned to examine their brood. they must be perfect, all, in their mother’s eyes ( it was always father who never begrudged them a childhood scrape or stain ). and never was there a gaze more unkind than hers; a hand to elizabeth’s jaw — chin up, my dear, your posture is poor these days — a smile for alexander, as always. 

“ i need not say it, but i shall regardless — i do expect you all to be on your best behaviour here. ” a pointed look to alexander, then; an incline of his head. how low archibald’s voice is; rumbling and soft — a quiet authority that would, perhaps, be misplaced in a courtroom, but suited him more than enough when it came to managing his own house. as if he would allow the most honourable judge a smug smile when it came to his own children, or a comment about undue influence upon his ward — strange girl, stranger circumstances — hand moving to rap thrice upon the side door they had entered through for near sixteen years. 

the gloom is worse after crossing the threshold, old and dark and damp — dust filtering in silvery light through velvet curtains. victoria, ever delicate, sneezes. there is no valet, no butler; never in all of their sunday visits has there been anything but a long-faced footman to take their coats and gloves and hats, piling up into his arms one by one until it is a miracle he can see at all. 

“ not even a butler, still – ” “ hush, my dear. ” pale blue meets green then; frozen in a tableau of challenge in the weak light that comes from the still open door behind mister and missus mercy; not broken until archibald decisively reaches over his wife, and firmly ( gently ) shuts the door. a commonplace occurrence, none of the children bat an eye at it, elizabeth instead shifting nervously, stepping forwards; only to be quickly passed by christopher, his steps determined, his gaze focused on what can only be seen as a pale blur.

“ miss barker! ” how wide his smile is, how overjoyed — he reaches forwards, then stops himself, falling just short of grabbing @skywaits hands. it is not proper, not here; at least, and to bring trouble to such a kind and strong soul would be, in his opinion, a terrible sin. victoria is the one that closes the gap in a flurry of satin and lace; cotton shawl at her elbows flying behind her, to grasp at johanna’s hands; pale ( so pale ) next to her own rosy ones, warmed by summers at the coast. “ johanna! how are you faring, my dear? we hardly spoke at mass today, there was no time, so you must forgive me — besides, lady brighton’s daughter was there, and did you see her gown? it is a wonder that she was allowed to leave the house! ”

[skywaits]

there are a great many reasons for the pretty little miss barker to look forward to sundays.

it brings the weekend to a close: the judge returns to court the next day, and there he will remain for most hours of the following five, to johanna's relief. it being the lord's day, mass is an irrevocable feature, and with it comes an excursion beyond the confines of lancaster gate and kensington gardens, fresh air to inflate her lungs and brighten her wan cheeks. the biggest reason (and perhaps the one she is most grateful for) is the guaranteed presence of the mercys, both at mass and the dinner they share mere hours afterward.

all in all, she finds herself most happy to go through the motions every week. the suffocating atmosphere of the dining room during their meagre breakfast; the monosyllabic responses from barton as she dresses, fretting over how to make a gown more modest, more respectful of st mary moorfields, and the good father manning; the discomfort of the short carriage ride east, the judge's knee inching closer and closer to where her cloak drapes over the bench; even the mass itself, prolonged and painful as it is wont to be. they are all well worth the change of scenery, the brief escape from her cage. what an opportunity it is!

the few hours that separate her return to 61 lancaster gate and the time for their joined dinners are always difficult, whether they are set to be hosted downstairs or not. she knows which one she prefers—indeed, she suspects near everyone involved prefers dining next door, servants included. she hears barton grumbling every other week, growing increasingly more stressed as the days tumble along, until she's positively apoplectic come a sunday morning. [when does she attend mass, johanna wonders?] the food is certainly tastier, the environs prettier, the ambience more enjoyable. here, in judge turpin's abode, there is an air of unease that hangs over the whole building like the smog which ruins london. it never clears, no matter how long the windows are left open or how many mercys pile into the few rooms of the house that are fit for purpose, fit for guests.

the muffled sound of footsteps and the clanging of the side gate drags her out of her solemn contemplation, pale face nigh-pressed against the windowpane of the hallway window. (she would prefer her bedroom, normally, but it faces out onto the park, and would not offer her a vantage point for their arrival.) they strike her a little like a family of ducks, the kind mister and missus at the front, the children all filing behind them in a neat row, and laughter bubbles from her throat, unfamiliar and out of place. christopher waves and it is the briefest of waves she offers back to him before launching herself from the windowsill, eager to meet them before they're shown in to the parlour.

by the time she makes to descend the final set of stairs, she is only a little winded, and tries to slow both her breathing and her feet, lest the judge catch her. unfitting behaviour for a young christian girl like herself, she can practically hear hissed into her ear, the faint shadow of a hand flitting too close to her shoulder, her side. it has not yet happened—but she knows what he expects of her, knows that he does not want her growing 'too close' to the mercys, lest she run the risk of being exposed to something that he deems unworthy.

"master mercy." two simple words that seem to get caught in her throat all the same, a shy little smile etched onto her face as she lingers awkwardly at the bottom of the staircase, barely aware of henley (or is it hackett under there?) nobly struggling with the mountain of cloaks and hats and gloves that are piled atop him. but then victoria flutters towards her, and attention is spread thin, smile almost as strong as her grip on the other's hands, barely aware of the stark contrast between them both. "there is nothing to forgive, toria, we are talking now."

if there were not so many others currently huddled in the hallway, she would surely giggle at the mention of lady brighton and her sartorially challenged daughter, but she civilly skims o'er it, glancing beyond toria at least. "mister and missus mercy, forgive me. it's wonderful to see you both again." a nervous attempt is made at showing grace, smile wobbling the tiniest bit. she does not think they would ever tattle on her or the lapses in her manners, but it is better to be safe than sorry. "w-won't you all come in to the parlour while we wait for the judge and the beadle?" she hadn't intended for it to sound like a question, but such is the way when one is a mere ten-and-six years, unsure and uneducated in the ways of such social matters.

[criedmercy]

“ miss barker, i would be terrible indeed if i could not keep secrets. ” are their meetings, brief and strange and fleeting as they are, not proof enough of his nature, steadfast and true? pressed so tightly to shrubbery he knows he will find evidence of it upon him for weeks afterwards; leaves in his trunks, bark in his boots, his pockets. all things he will cherish when the sun grows high and hot, when the salt breeze of the coast stings his cheeks and he is far away from london, from iron wrought fences and mouldering law books, and far away from her, too. it pains him to think upon it; as if sixteen years of their lives have not passed with johanna, paler and paler every year, observing most of it through the mottled panes of her window. 

it isn’t fair, he thinks. so like a child still in so many ways, no matter how often his father proclaimed he had grown into a man, no matter how his mother poked and prodded about courting and balls and dances now that he was, indeed, a man. whatever that meant! it isn’t fair that we are leaving, and she cannot come with us. life is not fair, my son — the law is not fair, either. it simply is. now, surely the good lord himself would not want either to stay as such; stagnant; frozen, while he and the rest of the world changed, grew, moved. 

a sigh leaves him then; pale eyes casting up to peer at the sky through the greenery he had shrouded himself in — the beautiful, cloudless blue that spoke of long evenings spent running through fields with his cousins, laughing and screaming — and when had that become frowned upon? christopher did not know, didn’t want too; and his gaze drops down to the tips of his shining, patent leather shoes, sinking into the grass, and the only part of him visible should his mother seek him outside of the walls of fifty-nine lancaster gate. “ you – you need not fear; that, i promise you. besides, i am not even sure that your guardian knows my name — i do not speak to him of… ” matters of the heart. of you. “ …much beyond my studies. ” how easily does a smile curl across his features, a huff of a laugh shaking his shoulders as he leans back, wrought iron cutting against his waistcoat, the linen of his shirtwaist. the maids will scold him for damaging such fine fabric, but it is worth it, to have a few moments alone with miss barker outside of sunday masses and dinners.

if he closes his eyes, christopher can see her — her large eyes, her pale cheeks; and hopefully, a rare smile. how he loved to make her laugh, whenever he could, be it at dinner or during mass. a secret, meant only for them to hold; and hold it he will; until the skin on his knuckles splits and bleeds. his head turns then, glimpsing the way her fingers cling to the spires of the gate, how she trembles. there is an urge, a desire — to cover her hand with his own, and he almost does. almost. he would not have the hanging judge see them thus.

“ might – do you think, miss barker, that your guardian might allow me to write you during the summer? ” a vain hope, perhaps; but it was one that young christopher will carry with him nevertheless. “ that way you might travel the coast with us, at least in reading, until i am home and can tell you all about it. aunt elle will be sad to have missed you. ” again. it goes unsaid, as so many things do — how his parents had both requested for johanna to come with them for a summer years ago; how he and victoria, thick as thieves, had pressed their heads to their father’s study to listen ( i even offered to pay for miss barker’s journey, the look he gave! It was if he were the very devil himself; with no love of christian kindness ); all for naught. how all three had sat together; johanna nestled between them; dark curls against her golden ones, and how victoria had soothed them both. there will always be more summers. and there were; though it seemed to christopher that johanna’s were always the same. “ …i am – i wish you might come with us to lannacombe hall. ”

[skywaits]

"i suppose that's true." urgency turns somewhat bashful, suddenly aware that she may have gotten ahead of herself. how many years has it been that they've been meeting at the gate between their two houses? fleeting as these encounters may be, there is an air of privacy afforded them both, as well: there is no dark presence looming overhead, the eyes of the law occupied elsewhere. here, they can actually talk openly, exchange more than wordless gazes that somehow contain multitudes. it is a talent that johanna shares with all of the mercy children by now, but christopher is who it is most developed with, by far—the ability to express a thousand and one sentiments with nothing more than a glance, and maybe the slightest twitch of a lip.

feet shuffle a little on the concrete path as she shifts herself more comfortably against the wall, now that breath is beginning to return to her. how is it, that even in the burgeoning heat beginning to set upon london, that everything here in the garden is still so despondent? the few trees that there are seem to be a muted shade of green, the ivy climbing upon the walls more smothering than it is charming, the blackthorn bush brimming with thorns, seemingly thirsty for blood. (her over-reactive imagination has already begun to spin into motion, preparing her for these long and lonesome months.)

"perhaps it is for the best. he is a ... strange conversationalist." how little her voice sounds, as though fearful he might hear her, and seek to punish christopher when next he sees him. a most unusual beast is the judge, and johanna has come to understand him and his ways far too well. the mention of his studies and the little exhale of a laugh that follows it brings a hesitant smile to her face, one that she can only hope and pray to the lord himself is sufficiently masked in the shadows, for reasons that she herself is unsure of. strange, that.

her hand, cold and pale as it is, has turned clammy from nerves, though this is far from the first time she has stolen away to the garden for a few moments alone with him. it slides a little on the iron, fingers trailing as their grip loosens some, only to clench tighter together than before at his query. "oh, master mercy, how i wish he would." truly, the notion is almost a dream—she has never received a letter before! and how christopher views it all, as a way for johanna to travel alongside the mercys over the summer, for her to escape the bars of her own cage, if only through the page. all the stories she has heard told of lannacombe hall, of devon adventures and aunt elle gatherings; it would turn her positively puce with envy did it not make her so very sad first. "if i did not think he would punish her should he find out, i would ask barton if she could pass your letters on to me." in truth, she does not know that the maid would keep such a secret for the two, which appears doubly damning of the only way jo can envision such a plan unfolding.

[criedmercy]

summer held with it its own softness — not the grey streaked rains of spring or the chill of autumn, but the sensation ( the memory ) of countryside visits and estate travelling; of warm linens under sun dappled patches of grass, shaded by weeping willows and bending oaks. christopher mercy stands upon the threshold of it, as he does with so many things ( the season, the world, youth, life itself; perhaps ); lingering as the sun does come dusk, stretching longer into the evenings now as surely as he grows taller every day ( or so his mother said ); gangly and all limb, no muscle. alexander teased him something awful for it, ever the prince without a throne or palace to his name — father had embraced him, told him he had been just the same at his age; and to not take such things to heart. if the lord had not expected siblings to argue, the story of cain and abel would never have become a cautionary tale. 

and if the lord had intended for christopher to grow broad and strong, perhaps he would not have given him a penchant for knowledge; a hunger for it, ambition to match; too. you are so very like me, my son. his mother’s voice sickly sweet in his ear, curling, turning — i am not, he thinks; shoes scuffing against the worn stone of the sheltered terrace of fifty-nine lancaster gate. i am myself, entirely. whatever that meant; for while his siblings, his father, his mother ( his tutors, his mentor, too ) all seemed to know their place in the world; be it within the threads of a larger tapestry or the weaver, the purchaser; god help anyone who tried to tell them otherwise — he did not; and where did that leave a second son of a third son? seventeen seemed much too young to know much of anything. 

 but, seventeen was not too young to know routine — breakfast with his family, squabbling and loud ( and now, much fretting of packing; what to bring and who to visit, and just how quick summer will pass ); dressed and washed on his way to sixty-one lancaster gate before lunch, to stand in the dark and cavernous, crumbling halls of a man of whom, christopher had decided, had little scruples. a land of silence, of slow and twisted things. talent alone cannot open the door to oxford, boy. as if the selling of one’s soul could, either. he knew lighter things, too; the sound of a rarely used laugh and just when the princess might be let out from her tower ( or a canary let out from her cage and to the aviary, alone and solitary — to be watched by a collector ). three taps to the iron wrought gate; ivy and roses ( all his mother’s, prized and lush; compared to the sparseness that he knew lay beyond his own sanctuary. not so much a garden as it was a desert, swallowed by the smoke and fog of london. 

tap, tap, tap. three taps to greet; four to run. his knuckles against the iron, the sound ringing out like the bells of saint paul’s. “ miss barker? ” never johanna; never so familiar despite having known each other all their short lives. it would be too familiar, he thinks. too forward. and miss barker is a dear friend, the gentlest of souls — it is why he is here, after all; pressed to the shrubbery, away from the prying eyes and meddling fingers of his mother, and the cold stare of the judge; stealing just a few precious moments in what time was left to them both outside of sunday dinners and sermons. “ i am surprised you are out today — the sun is high. ” i am surprised you were let out at all. “ not that – not that i am ungrateful, @skywaits. in truth i was hoping that you might — that i might see you a moment longer before we are to travel east prawle and quit london before the heat comes. ”

[skywaits]

the summertime brings with it many things. warmth and brightness flood the world just beyond her window; the flora of hyde park blossom and bloom, almost taunting her from just across the street; and next door grows deathly quiet, as her companions—her only saviours in this life—depart lancaster gate until the start of the season.

yes, while these dozen weeks or so may be bliss for most of london society, those who migrate to the greener pastures of their country estates, it turns downright torturous for miss barker. no longer are her somewhat regular outings to the park, or to the dining room or parlor of the mercy family. those brief opportunities for gaiety or for joy are snatched away, banished just as the lingering tendrils of spring are. long hours of daylight are seen only from behind the glass panes in her bedroom, embroidery in hand, lark twittering away sadly, poor thing.

but it is not that time just yet, and so johanna resigns herself to savour these last few days, treat them as though they may be her last, for that is what they are, at least for these next few months. optimism is so very hard to practice for one such as she, a wilted flower in this den of withered weeds. no matter how grateful she is for their neighbours, the fear never leaves her that they may one day disappear, just as her father did—just as her mother did.

timing is a talent of hers, for routine is also commonplace in the turpin household. she knows when he leaves for court and when he returns, of course, but she also knows how long it takes for him to carry out his morning ablutions, when he takes tea in his library, when he and the beadle take their afternoon jaunt around the city. it makes her escapes into the garden easier, and lessens the hassle around them: gone is the interrogations, and thinly veiled vulgarity. they may come once she retreats indoors, but if she times her return correctly also, she may get away with it all with nary a question.

"master mercy!" a lilting voice squeezes itself into an urgent whisper, bare fingers wrapping themselves around one of the bars, pale skin whitening even further. breath rattles around in her chest, not least of all because of how she's pressed herself against the adjoining wall, hoping the sad shrubbery that hangs off it conceals her enough should her guardian look out his window. "i feared i would not see you before devon calls you all if i did not. perhaps—perhaps you could fail to mention it to the judge when you see him, later?" the last thing she wishes is to earn his ire when it is she and the people of london who will be subject to it, whatever poor souls lie on his docket today.

[catherinesboleyn]

Emma Corrin as Anna Harding

Nosferatu (2024)

[criedmercy]

" my dear girl, i did not accept mister mercy's proposal - my parents did. " johanna is naïve; dangerously so - unaware of what the missus mercy considers simple and plain matters. it is, she supposes, her responsibility to teach the girl - but it does not stop the bubble of cold laughter that bursts from her; sardonic, biting, mouth pulling into a downwards grin as the mask slips. " marriage is not so much about love as it is about security, johanna. he was simply the only one who could provide the life to which i had grown accustomed to, and that made him more than suitable. " granted, her own dowery had smoothed over the minor blight of her own name, untitled, unlanded - but the third son of a baron could hardly be so picky... unlike some. and missus mercy is not so foolish as to rush johanna off to the darkened halls of the shadowy convent ( no, prison ) she has the misfortune to call home - though johanna may flutter and beat at the bars of her cage, missus mercy keeps her steps slow. measured. much like her thoughts as they brew in her mind - befitting a lady. how could she be so foolish as to ask that, when she had just wept and near wailed in the park, jeprodisring them both? it is enough to give her a headache - and she can feel one forming at the base of her skull. her own daughters were stupid things - she'd thought johanna better. she had to be better. yet it seemed that once again, missus mercy alone, prevailed - what any of them would do without her, she did not know.

" how to hold yourself in public, etiquette, social graces - your father is a titled lord; and that is an entirely different realm than this. you are to know music, the art of conversation, dancing - how to manage a house and its staff, how to stick to budgets and delegate. a woman is as much an integral part in a machine as she is a doll. " always performing. and though missus mercy considers herself most worldly, it has escaped her notice that her youngest is meeting in secret at the garden wall. looking at johanna now, she is not entirely sure if she should even be dressing like a young lady - perhaps she ought to go back to ribbons and knee high skirts - but the fault does not lie with johanna, it lies, as it does with so many other things, with her guardian.

her expression, pinched and puckered, softens at such an adoring expression - she cannot fathom why her own daughters do not look at her like this, after all she has done for them - after all she will do for them. and as her expression softens, so does her resolve; and a thin hand moves to cup the girl's rosy cheek. much better than her own brats, indeed. " if i have anything to say about it, you certainly will. " she will miss the christmas season, the winter balls - perhaps the spring will be kinder. " and you will shine there, dearest girl. "

[skywaits]

the missus laughs, and it is crueler than she had ever expected directed at her; she retreats a little back into her shell, back into where it is safe for her, even if, in this case, safe is synonymous with numbed. there is much that she is ignorant of, johanna knows this, but is it her fault? is it something that she could have so easily rectified with some string of actions that she did not know were available to her? she does not wish to blame the judge, not for everything, but she cannot help the stirrings of resentment that start up in the pit of her stomach, adding their voice to the ever-present fear of him that she has lived with for most of her life.

it takes everything in her to try and not flinch as her guardian is referred to as her father––whether she succeeds is another story entirely. "m-music? and, and dancing?" the very idea has dual, conflicting effects of both thrilling and terrifying poor sweet johanna, and it shows in her face, sure as day. features contort, brows furrowed close together, dimples carved deep, lips pulled taut and near-quivering. much like the ocean, she is pulled one way and then another, merciless and choppy, swirling round and round and round.

at the softening of lillian's expression, so too does johanna's, and she all but melts into the palm of her hand with a gesture of such affection. she is used to being desperate for kindness; it's the receiving of it that nearly does her in. "if i do shine, as you so kindly predict," her voice wavers a little, as though she does not quite believe it, but also does not wish to contradict her mentor, "it will only be because i have had you to look to."

[criedmercy]

if there was ever a woman in london who did not forget even a perceived slight - it was missus mercy. and while, of course, her own slights were forgivable; others were not - not often, not usually; and briefly does her hand move, grasping johanna's as they begin to make the all too short path back to 58 and 59 lancaster gate; gloved fingers lacing with johanna's. all is well, the touch seems to say - and the corner of her mouth quirks upwards into the barest trace of a smile.

" you need not sound so astonished, dear girl! " and she tries to feign displeasure; she does - her grey hairs and the wrinkles at her eyes and brow are, after all, a sore spot - and like so many things, best left unmentioned. pining after the glory days she'd refused to leave behind. her own parents, god rest their souls, had done their part; bought her ribbons and dresses and called her their beauty; their fortune maker. and so she had made their fortune - it all rang hollow. " six. with two proposals before mister mercy. "

yet - it is more teasing than anything; preening and half smug at the younger girl's astonishment; how wide her eyes had become! the judge had done an excellent job at keeping johanna from the world; but even with that iron fist and that terrible noose, he could not stop johanna from wanting it.

and lillian could recognise that same wanting within herself - she could. no one ever told young girls just how dangerous wanting was. and she had wanted - wanted all eyes upon her; wanted approval and status - wanted so much some days she felt consumed with it; the constant refrain of how her life should be different - different husband, different home. much like touching a hot stove, it burned. " i was excellent at keeping beaus. there's a trick to it - you must keep them wanting. " they'd have lined up just to kiss her hand.

" were you not given an education befitting a lady? " johanna's comment, again, gives missus mercy pause; thin brows knitting together - it seemed that this was a walk that had more revelations than the good book; and she looks down her nose at the girl, equal parts curious and worried. " i fear that reflects rather... poorly on your guardian, my dear. " as do other things. things that johanna need not hear about - and never would, if god was good. and briefly worried that she might have yet again distressed the girl, lillian squeezes johanna's hand - and bestows a rare gift that even her daughters had not received. " i see no reason why yours would not be full. you are a beautiful girl, johanna. and you have been raised by a... man of good standing. " perhaps an over-exaggeration; but johanna's beauty and manners would more than make up for the latter. " they'd be fools to not ask to dance. "

[skywaits]

an incurable sense of curiosity has long since plagued her, she's just never had much in the way of occasions to let it shine––until now, anyway. "and what was it about mister mercy that made you accept his proposal over the other two?" these walks of theirs have always made some room for johanna to relax and speak more freely than usual (for her to speak at all, in truth), but she has never taken advantage of the opportunity granted to her before today. the genie is out of the bottle, so to speak, and it will take a fair amount of wrangling to get it back in there again; they still have a ways to go before having to return to lancaster gate, at least, despite already being on the path home again. such is their saving grace, in a way.

brows inch closer together once more, not so much in distress, rather in befuddlement. her education in general was lacking, derived almost entirely from the frosty governess of her childhood and the few educational tomes deemed suitable for her delicate eyes. "w-well, befitting a lady in which ways?" she learnt more than her guardian had intended, perhaps, and johanna has the baby of the mercy family to thank for that, sweet christopher, slipping her books that the judge thought ill-suited, and discussing his own lessons (among other things) over the garden wall when they were able. she does not confess any of this to the missus mercy; she is a girl for who secrets are strictly forbidden, and so the few that she does have are clung to dearly.

all the same, when it comes to society, jo has only the few scraps of miss austen's work that she has laid her eyes upon over the last few years to go off of––about as old as the reticule of her mother's that swings from her wrist, she thinks. nevertheless, there is little reason for her to dwell too long on such things, especially when she is bestowed a gracious honour such as a compliment from the woman who might as well be a mother to her, the closest thing she might ever have to it in this world. "do you suppose ... i might ever get to attend such a party?" though her voice is reduced to little more than a whisper, there's a spark of frightened excitement that alights her gaze, aimed so adoringly up at lillian as it is.

[criedmercy]

" he is proud - of both of them. " it is as subtle of a correction missus mercy can make to the barest of jabs - a thin brow arching in challenge, though her mouth does not flatten itself into that irate expression she so often wears. of course, there had to be childhood scrapes and bruises between the two - but the matriarch will hear not a word against her eldest son; for nearest and dearest to her heart was he ( even if he had the unfortunate habit of neglecting his studies for skirts and parties. all little things she could ignore. all things she might forgive ). " but... christopher has a wonderful future ahead of him, indeed. i am sure that he will find his fortune there. " or next door, if lillian had anything to say about it -- and she certainly did.

easily, she laces her arm with johanna's - pale eyes lingering at the faded and fraying reticule dangling sadly from her arm - out of style by at least a decade. briefly, her mouth puckers in thought, as though she might say something halfway to being unkind ( surely the judge can afford to purchase you a new reticule, dear girl! ) - but johanna changes course; and lillian is powerless to resist. an all too familiar topic of conversation within 58 lancaster gate - drilled in to the heads of her daughters as a steady refrain with every failed season. at your age, i'd already been married a year. and while she does not understand just why her daughters are lagging behind - she knows that johanna, much like herself, would not be out for long were she ever allowed to be.

" my own parents came all the way from dover for it - it was important to them that london see me. " there are some days that she misses the sea - how often she'd stood watching it from windows and cliffsides with her siblings; misses the tranquility of a smaller town - the cleanliness of the air next to the smoke and smog of london. but dover had never been the most interesting place - and her mouth pulls sidelong as she begins to walk again; back on the path they had taken.

" i had no less than six beaus before my parents suggested mister mercy as a match. " it's a conspiratory whisper into johanna's ear - a gleam of pride in her eyes as she smiles. what lillian does not mention is that her dowry was more than enough for any gentleman to forget she was a merchant's daughter. " the house was always filled with flowers from them, like a florist's - and in the first two weeks, i had a line outside the door! but mother and i narrowed it down - and it was a fine match indeed between mister mercy and i. " fine indeed, and only that - and she remains unaware of johanna's own struggles surely as she ignores her own.

" my dance card was always full, as well. a word of advice my dear, for when it is your turn - never become a wall flower. you are much too pretty to linger in the shadows. "

[skywaits]

"of course," her head bows, slightly; both in acknowledgement of the clarification and as something akin to a tacit apology for having implied otherwise, even if it was her intention to begin with. she never wishes to offend, or to find herself on the wrong side of the handful of people she has in this world, not when they number so few.

there is a rapt audience to be found in johanna, who hangs on to every word that leaves the older woman's lips, relishing in the easement that's started to ebb in and lessen the load on her chest. these walks of theirs are entirely too short and seldom, but all that means is that she has learnt to cherish them ever more. already, so much of today's stroll has been spent working through that physical manifestion of her distress–and she will not let any more of their precious time be spoiled. not if she can help it.

"six," she repeats, equally as hushed, and astonishment is clear as day in her eyes, the storm within them slowly beginning to roll away as their conversation steers away from the darker contents of her own life. the girl tries to imagine what it must've been like to stand in missus mercy's––then miss fitzwilliams, she supposes––place, how it must boost one's confidence to catch the attention of so many young men, to feel desired, to have all those choices and such freedom at your disposal.

johanna has often found herself wondering how her parents met, what their story was. she knows nothing but what others will tell her, and none are particularly impartial. all that is ever told to her is how her father is a criminal, her mother was terribly ill; as though that answers any of the questions that have crescendo'd within her since childhood, that make her wonder who (what) she's descended from, what she's destined to be.

"i should hardly know how i ought to act at, at parties and balls, ma'am." shyly spoken, a faint blush returning to her cheeks, though whether it is out of embarrassment or longing is up in the air. "i do not think a slot on my ... dance card would be in high demand." not if the young men of society favoured their feet remaining painless, she thinks to herself, having only ever read of such gatherings in a few of the books she has been permitted to read.

[criedmercy]

some part of lillian worries that she might spoil the girl with too much affection - as if an act of the barest and gentlest kindnesses could ruin a child who had never known them; and johanna looks starved. and while missus mercy may regret becoming a mother - the notion of what she is meant to do; the act of it - is all too clear. what mother would let a child starve? when johanna's own hands come to anchor lillian's there, for a moment ( and just a moment ); missus mercy stiffens, unused to her own affections being reciprocated before she, too, relaxes.

lillian does not believe that she needs anyone, let alone a frightened girl - but she does need this; and she keeps her hands there, cupping johanna's pale face and watching as brevity returned to her features. she was much too serious for one so young - lillian, herself, had been rather free spirited as a girl ( as her own children were, though it vexed her to no end ); looking at johanna now, missus mercy could only blame the guardian and that silent, bleak house she'd the misfortune to wind up in.

the two stay there like this; a moment longer yet - before lillian draws johanna closer to her once more, pressing a kiss to the top of her pretty head; giving her one final embrace - as with all things, missus mercy holds on a tad too tightly - but it is only for a moment; and a moment is a moment before johanna is released from her wanting hands entirely. " yes. " she chimes in; clearing her throat rather delicately - altogether quite unsure what to do with her hands now that she is no longer holding johanna's. " victoria has had.. a few seasons. " a fact that is not met without ire from missus mercy. " she would have been a great help to you both. and christopher, well - it is always comforting to have someone that you know with you. god knows it can be overwhelming for some. " like you. the unsaid words hang there for but a moment; lips pressed into a thin line - the breeze picking up and rustling the velvet ribbons at her chin - and then, they are gone.

" welll, " and missus mercy is all too eager to speak about her youngest, dearest boy - especially to johanna. a rare smile breaks through, then; pale eyes sparking with what might have been warmth. " christopher is very studious, and quite serious - " her arm laces with johanna's, then; and she does not mention that christopher mislikes the judge as much as mister mercy does. " he is already doing so well at oxford, always has his nose in a book. he barely has time for anything else these days! "

[skywaits]

her golden crown of curls is kissed, she is pressed in a tight squeeze, and then it is all over, far too quickly for her own liking; but she berates herself immediately for such greediness. own hands flex and fidget in mid-air momentarily, the leather of her gloves cracking and wrinkling some before they fall to her side, the frayed ribbon handles of her reticule sliding from the crook of her elbow to her wrist once more. (little in it beyond some coins and a scratched pocket watch in disrepair–she is nothing if not a creature of sentimentality.)

"mister mercy must be so proud to have a son who is following in his footsteps," it is as close to a pointed jab that johanna is willing to make, directed at the first son and golden child of the family next door. she is far from a bitter person, but it's hard to forget childhood tyranny, especially when it occurred near every time she spent time with him. "and you, that he is already finding such success." eagerly added on, not as an afterthought, but an accompanying thought.

"what was your own society debut like, ma'am?" a raving success, she imagines, if the lady in her youth was anything like the lady she sees before her now. though she dare not comment on it, she has sensed that victoria's fruitless seasons thus far may be a sensitive spot for the family's matriarch, and elizabeth is only recently betrothed. the little that she can remember of christopher is fond. he always seemed such a shy boy, just as well-behaved and mannerly as she, and it sounds as though not much has changed, judging by how his mother talks of him.

it ignites a spark of intrigue in her mind, which is tamped down as quickly as it was lit––johanna wonders if part of it is jealousy. not just that he has parents who so clearly love him, but that he was able to attend oxford, to pursue further education, to get out of the home and into the world. (thou shalt not covet, she can hear the judge's deep voice decreeing inside her head, and it takes an effort not to flinch.)

[criedmercy]

soothing in turn where lillian had once been stern, missus mercy moves, both hands now cupping johanna's pretty cheeks; expression shifting from the displeased one that so often darkened her face to something far murkier. sympathy, perhaps; even pity - sorrow, too. and her pale eyes search johanna's pinched, serious features - allowing the quiet to settle. and as only any mother can, she bends at the waist, pressing the barest of kisses to the curve of johanna's brow. she'd always been the image of a devoted mother when the children needed her. missus mercy liked to be needed - but never too often.

" good. " she murmurs, pulling back just far enough to look upon johanna again; those green of her eyes, the way she leaned in to the slightest touch. we are family. on some level, she means it. having shared the same spaces for so long - having walked in those shadows herself, not so very long ago, missus mercy understands. she does. but it appeared that she was made of stronger stuff - and why shouldn't she be? johanna was only six and ten. where would she be, were they anywhere else in the city? lillian can only imagine - poor thing, locked away like some living treasure until she withered from lack of light, from lack of love. the refrain pounds against her skull; surely as the pressure in the air changes. she should be grateful.

how easily johanna's moods change - it should be a concern; should be, but is not - for now. so long as the girl can keep herself calm, all will be well ( and all matter of things will be well. ) what had the priest said last mass? be not afraid. it doesn't help the worry that gnaws at her; that same feeling that is reflected in johanna's eyes. but lillian takes another breath, her thumbs brushing up, down - ghosting against johanna's smooth skin.

" i have my ways. you leave his lordship to me. " and though missus mercy knew better than to run afoul of the crooked shadow of the law and his iron fist, she did not fear him. not entirely. " you know, " and she pauses; lips pursing as she glances to johanna. " i had hoped... if you were to be presented to society, i had hoped you might see more of my son, christopher, as well. " not subtle by many degrees - but not so overt either. a suggestion, if anything. " you might have entered society together. "

[skywaits]

eyes involuntarily flutter shut as her face is cradled, her brow kissed, her very soul lifted and warmed, a nearly overwhelming display of love––the very first of its kind that she's ever received, johanna thinks. it's almost enough to set her off in a display of weeping once again, if she did not now know better. they flicker open expectantly a second later, the emotion in them a little less grave than they were.

her own hands rise to rest on top on lillian's, gloved fingers circling her wrists, wanting to prolong this moment a little further; if she could bottle it up and preserve it forever, she would. something to return to on darker days, to heartily consume on those nights where she is sent to bed without supper like the child she has long since outgrown.

the slightest, most imperceptible tilt of her head follows then; blonde curls falling loose once more, swaying with the movement and the breeze alike. "oh?" she had never thought of it like that, being out in society alongside the youngest of the mercy children. he and victoria are the ones that she gets along with best. much as she loves the missus mercy, it is they (alongside their father) who might best be described as kindred spirits to the young miss barker. "i should think i would have enjoyed ... not having to navigate society alone." words chosen and paired with the utmost care, not wanting to say or imply something she oughtn't.

"how are his studies coming along?" a genuine inquiry, spoken with true curiosity and care. she knows that her guardian is mentoring him; sometimes, she can hear the quiet hum of conversation from his library on the floor below, travelling through the floorboards and walls. on the rare occasion that the judge forgets to lock the door to her bedroom–as he often does, when he is preoccupied and does not want her to wander–she can creep out onto the landing, and lean over the railing of the stair to better listen in.