Her Dark Artifice [t.r]

Chapter 1: The Return

i.

A vellum-bound copy of Edgar Allen Poe's Tales of the Macabre rested on Evadne Verlaine's bedside table adjacent to an alabaster vase filled with baby's breath and pale-blue tulips that had long since withered — the petals of the tulips were grey and the wilted stems shrouded in a thick cloud of fungus.

Outside the long, plate-glass window running most the width and length of the wall, birds flocking southward pierced the pale autumn sky like an onslaught of tiny daggers. Even with the window barely ajar, everything outside reeked of petrichor, and the storm had left behind its own conspicuous hallmarks upon the road - gutters gurgled with greying rainwater and puddles nestled themselves amidst the tarmac, whilst the glass of several buildings glittered with a mosaic of sunlit raindrops.

Dawn arose from her sleep some hours ago, and so the faint trace of salmon-pink, purple, and numerous red hues ranging from coral to crimson still ran across the sky like the brush of an artist's oil paint against a grand canvas. The last vestiges of stars twinkled and dazzled here and there, but mostly they'd been drowned out by the sunlight, hidden at that moment by thick clouds that drifted along the horizon like chimney smoke, a forewarning for later rainfall.

It was at the height of the wettest season in that quaint corner of the world, and the city of London bowed its head beneath the inclement weather like a child cowering beneath a calloused hand.

The crescent moon hung in the lonely sky, silhouetted against the expanse like a silvery half-smile embroidered into a tapestry. The sun outshone it though. Somehow, the moon escaped the silent sanctuary of the night and managed to sneak into the day to catch a glimpse of the world bathed in sunlight.

Still, dusk slept and midmorning enveloped the dawn.

Very few people walked along Grey's North Street, mostly elderly folk that refused to leave the city despite the bombings and working women clasping their tweed coats and knitted scarves wrapped around their necks at a futile attempt to escape the nippy weather. Since the start of the Second World War, most of the children had been evacuated to the sanctuary of strangers in the countryside, far from the threat of Luftwaffe incendiaries and city-wide rations. Far from the wrath of the Luftwaffe.

"So," said Rose Macaulay quietly, startling Evadne Verlaine who's back was turned to the rest of the room, her attention having been focused on the long stretch of road, autumn-kissed trees, and townhouses on the other side of the window-glass limned golden by the light of the sun, "You're leaving now?" Rose pressed on.

It was less a question than it was a matter-of-fact statement. And Evadne barely nodded, casting her gaze up at the grandfather clock at the rear of the room. "The train departs at eleven on the dot," she said dryly.

"Oh ... you'll have enough time then," said Rose magnanimously. As the words left her mouth, the grandfather clock struck ten. Her smile faltered a little.