[semi-closed post; Σίβυλλα τί θέλεις?]
Sep. 29th, 2024 02:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
greentaraConstance has settled into a routine at the Mansion, as the residents call it. The routine is not unlike her routine immediately after being discovered in a different mansion, on Riverside Drive in Manhattan. There is a familiarity to it. She rises at half past six every morning and performs Chongg Ran meditation for an hour, after which she dines on a simple breakfast, typically two poached eggs, some fresh fruit, and a slice of toast with butter. She takes this breakfast with tea, preferring 铁观音 in the morning, an oolong varietal that Aloysius had introduced her to.
After breakfast, she silently walks the hallways of the mansion and its grounds for a few hours, sketching a map of it into her mind. She notes any changes from the previous day. All of this, she will write down in her leather-bound journal in the evening. Between lunch and the evening is when she dedicates her time to various pursuits; harpsichord and violin practice, weight training and knife-work with her stiletto to stay in shape, and some time spent on her scientific studies. After dinner, she spends her evenings reading in the library or in her own quarters.
The majority of this is done alone. Constance is used to being alone. No, that isn't quite true – not of late, but she was prepared to be alone again. It is when she has worn her body and mind down to the best of her ability and she is attempting to fall asleep in an unfamiliar bed that being alone in this in-between place is the most difficult for her. Then, her thoughts wander. She thinks of her sister, Mary. She thinks of Doctor Leng. She thinks of Aloysius and what he must be thinking at this very moment; will he attempt to follow her? She thinks of a particular note from years ago, one she has memorized in its entirety. Even though she has somewhat settled her score with its author, its odious words still echo through her mind.
And so now, what is left for you, my poor pitiable Constance? My precious fallen angel? Handmaiden to fratricide, consort to your sister's murderer? [...] I shall not mourn you: you were a toy; a mystery easily solved; a dull box forced and found empty; an animal spasm. So let me give you a piece of advice, and please believe this to be the one honest, altruistic thing I have ever told you. Do the noble thing. End your unnatural life.
He was right, in a way. She was not a consort to her sister's murderer – she would not put it in that gauche of a fashion – but she did love him at one point, as a guardian and a teacher. And yes, of course, her life is unnatural. Constance thought she had come to terms with that aspect of her history but her more recent conversation with Miss Frost had crystalized some emotions, much to her surprise, like an unexpected chemical reaction in a test tube. She now knows that she will never come to terms with it. She also thinks of the note that she left for Aloysius before she left. So many words written yet unsaid.
In her, I see my own lonely, loveless future. It is anything but pretty. And so I will return to my past – the destiny I was meant to have.
Constance has no future. She belongs to her past. There is now plenty of time to carefully plan and enact her revenge - but she must save Mary and make things right. As if to steel her resolve, one morning, there is a box underneath her pillow. When she opens it, there is a scalpel inside. The blade gleams and the edge is sharpened. The handle is made of yellowed ivory. She picks it up and stares at it, wondering, gripping the handle tightly. The familiarity is soothing.
[[There will be scene-setting tags in the comments, if anyone wants to thread with her in a particular setting!]]
After breakfast, she silently walks the hallways of the mansion and its grounds for a few hours, sketching a map of it into her mind. She notes any changes from the previous day. All of this, she will write down in her leather-bound journal in the evening. Between lunch and the evening is when she dedicates her time to various pursuits; harpsichord and violin practice, weight training and knife-work with her stiletto to stay in shape, and some time spent on her scientific studies. After dinner, she spends her evenings reading in the library or in her own quarters.
The majority of this is done alone. Constance is used to being alone. No, that isn't quite true – not of late, but she was prepared to be alone again. It is when she has worn her body and mind down to the best of her ability and she is attempting to fall asleep in an unfamiliar bed that being alone in this in-between place is the most difficult for her. Then, her thoughts wander. She thinks of her sister, Mary. She thinks of Doctor Leng. She thinks of Aloysius and what he must be thinking at this very moment; will he attempt to follow her? She thinks of a particular note from years ago, one she has memorized in its entirety. Even though she has somewhat settled her score with its author, its odious words still echo through her mind.
And so now, what is left for you, my poor pitiable Constance? My precious fallen angel? Handmaiden to fratricide, consort to your sister's murderer? [...] I shall not mourn you: you were a toy; a mystery easily solved; a dull box forced and found empty; an animal spasm. So let me give you a piece of advice, and please believe this to be the one honest, altruistic thing I have ever told you. Do the noble thing. End your unnatural life.
He was right, in a way. She was not a consort to her sister's murderer – she would not put it in that gauche of a fashion – but she did love him at one point, as a guardian and a teacher. And yes, of course, her life is unnatural. Constance thought she had come to terms with that aspect of her history but her more recent conversation with Miss Frost had crystalized some emotions, much to her surprise, like an unexpected chemical reaction in a test tube. She now knows that she will never come to terms with it. She also thinks of the note that she left for Aloysius before she left. So many words written yet unsaid.
In her, I see my own lonely, loveless future. It is anything but pretty. And so I will return to my past – the destiny I was meant to have.
Constance has no future. She belongs to her past. There is now plenty of time to carefully plan and enact her revenge - but she must save Mary and make things right. As if to steel her resolve, one morning, there is a box underneath her pillow. When she opens it, there is a scalpel inside. The blade gleams and the edge is sharpened. The handle is made of yellowed ivory. She picks it up and stares at it, wondering, gripping the handle tightly. The familiarity is soothing.
[[There will be scene-setting tags in the comments, if anyone wants to thread with her in a particular setting!]]
