'til our fingers decompose

seven

DELPHI & MABEL
— the first night

Frost dances on the windowsill, twirling its way through the crack in the window and grazing Delphi's nose. The flowery bedcovers are strewn over the floorboards, one remaining corner trapped beneath her foot, slipping as she stirs with a grunt and turns over. The peace of silence hangs in the air.

Her eyebrows furrow, one eye flicking open to survey through the mess of her hair; it's still dark, the slowly descending moon framed perfectly in the center of the window. She sits up with a scrunch of her face.

It's strange, Delphi thinks as her right hand knuckles her eyes. Her usual late-night sleep disturbances are caused by Dawson's last-minute demands, or some group of drunkards wandering the streets beneath her window, or a spirit tugging on the edge of her consciousness. The most she can hear now is someone padding around on the first floor beneath her. Why is she awake?

Eh. She's never had a full night of sleep, anyway.

Mabel gave her the attic room. It's ancient- her hand grasps thick cobweb as she reaches for her old coat beneath the bed, pulling it over the pink nightie Mabel's leant her.

The curtains are lacy and moth-eaten. Everything looks untouched, like a museum for the snow globes and miniature glass animals decorating the dresser and windowsills. Delphi's socks have made imprints in the dust coating the floor. She picks up a deer made of green glass, turning it in her hands, fingers stroking the cold smoothness as she makes for the stairs. It drops into her pocket with a clink.

Stripy socks pad down the steps. More imprints in the coating of dust. She swipes her hair out of her face, her hands raking through the black locks in an attempt to calm the slight frizz.

At the bottom of the stairs, her feet meet a fraction of light glowing from the door across; warm and welcoming, a contrast to the door to her left firmly shut. A note reading: "Delphini: fuck off." is tacked to the front in scrawly handwriting she has to squint to decipher. Nice, Cameron.

Delphi ignores it. After all, it doesn't affect her. Nothing should, so nothing does; that's Dawson's first rule. Never let anything get to you, ever.

She turns the brass doorknob to the more welcoming room, and it opens up into a library.

The entire room is flooded in warm, yellow, flickering light. Bookcases, dark brown and so stuffed with books that some have to be stacked atop, line the walls. A fireplace fills the space on the left side- dusty orange-red bricks embedded in the floral wallpaper, fire blazing in front of two squashy armchairs. The leather is clearly peeling, even from Delphi's spot in the doorway.

A fluffy blonde-haired figure lays in the chair furthest. Only her legs can be seen, reclining over the armrests, white socks kicking slightly.

The brunette makes her presence known, depositing herself in the free seat. Mabel looks like a deer caught in headlights. Her blue eyes cartoonishly widen in surprise, blinking.

"Hi."

"Hi."

Great start.

The blonde overcomes her surprise, shifting her body to get more comfortable. Her hair is messy and somewhat voluminous, feathered out over the armrest her head is leaning against. She's wearing a pair of light pink pajamas, short-sleeved, color faded to a gray-ish and threads coming undone here and there.

It's a theme, Delphi's noticed. How everything looks so fancy- the clutter of artifacts downstairs, the mirror framed in brass, the three floors and the gold jewellery Mabel was sporting when they first met eyes. But you squint, look closer, and it's not as perfect. The bottom stair is snapped in half. The painting in the hallway is peeling, leaving a gaping hole in the canvas where someone's head should be. Mabel's necklace is staining a green imprint around her neck.

She shifts again. The relic-girl realises she's staring, moves her focus to the flickering fireplace- watching the blonde through the corner of her eye. Her coat crackles.

"Did I wake you up?" Mabel speaks up first, voice loud but melodic and light. The kind of voice you'd expect Tinkerbell to have. Her accent is the kind-of affected, posh tone Delphi hears from most of the stuck-up agents from Fittes or otherwise- but Mabel makes it soft, soothing. Like a lullaby.

"I was already awake." Delphi lies for reasons unknown, even to her. Her adjusts from her strewn-out position on the chair, sitting up properly, back against the armrest to face Mabel.

Her eyelashes flutter at the sudden face-to-face. "Is the room cold? Used to be, when I slept there... always cold. Then really, really warm in summer. Sorry- there's nowhere else. Well, there is, but I don't think you wanna share with Cam. You can have an extra blanket? Or... two. Three..."

Mabel trails off. Delphi's face scrunches, as if in distaste- then a smile grazes her eyes, crinkling the corners slightly as she fights to keep it under control. The blonde's previously embarrassed expression molds into a giggle. "Sorry."

When the brunette doesn't respond, her smile drops again. Blue eyes move to her hands, starting to pick at her shimmery painted nails. White socks kick back and forth. "I don't have people over." She says, simply.

Delphi's hands scratch at the already peeling leather beneath her. Her shoulders shrug, nonchalantly, face hardening and jaw setting. Dawson's second rule- don't be fucking stupid.

That's the wrong one. Fifth: never let anyone know what you're feeling.

"Neither." One hand swipes her hair out of her face, the other supports as she pushes herself off the armchair with a grunt. Mabel's eyes follow her, unblinking. Like an animal trapped in a corner. She gives the appearance of one- a wounded animal, eyebrows furrowing as she tries to figure out what's going on in Delphi's mind. Winding back the conversation to find where exactly the switch flipped.

"I'm going out." Delphi says, firmly. Mabel's face says 'in the middle of the night?' without her even needing to open her mouth. She eventually adds, "A blanket. Thanks."

Then she's in the hallway, lacing up her boots, once again feeling the blonde's eyes on her from the top of the stairs. Like her very own ghost. That's what Mabel is- not an animal, but a ghost, lost for purpose.

That makes two of them.

She straightens up the mirror against the ripped green wallpaper, glaring into it. Hard brown eyes meet hers. Black fringe overgrown and tickling her eyelashes, purple ringing beneath her bottom eyelids, scar decorating her chin from when it met the tip of an agent's rapier. Her attention flickers to Mabel on the stairs, then away from the mirror with a clear of her throat.

Delphi disappears out of the door.

Mabel watches, the way she did every single time before.