Author Games: Golden Age

Entries Stricken

Again, please note that the chapter title doesn't have any correlation to the substance of the entries; we simply strived to relate it to the task title.  

⟁⟁⟁

1800s: Nerezza Diana Archeli

NO ENTRY RECEIVED.

⟁⟁⟁

1890s: Kaden Larke

NO ENTRY RECEIVED.  

⟁⟁⟁

1910s: Cecil Stephens

No word had arrived from Henry yet, but they'd been updated on his status by an urgent telegram addressed to the head of house: Henry St. Clair was missing in action.

Her Ladyship had let one porcelain hand flutter towards her heart, but had said nothing. Lady Catherine had remained composed and dignified, but her tightened grip on her fork had betrayed her true feelings on the matter. Lord Percy had whispered something - probably a prayer - and shaken his head in disbelief.

Lady Alice's sobs followed Cecil down the stairs as he entered the servants quarters with the breakfast tray.

He was on the last step before his blasted leg caught and he went crashing down. The tray fell first, slipping from his hands to the hard floor; the plates and glasses shattered with an ear-deafening clang that alerted everyone in the area to his mishap. Cecil himself went down next, twisting in midair to try and avoid cutting up his hands. Having hands shakier and more worn-down than the ones he already owned would be a free ticket to "resignation".

He succeeded in avoiding his hands, but instead a shard of broken plate sliced straight through his carefully-pressed jacket and stabbed into his skin. Though he couldn't see the wound, he could feel it's sting. Instinctively, the muscles around the area clenched and Cecil had to grit his jaw to ease his pain. It shouldn't have hurt so badly, yet here he was in a mess of broken pieces with freckles of his own blood dotting the floor.

"Cecil!" Mary was the first one to come racing forward. Maybe she'd come racing forward before he'd even fell - it was all a bit blurry already. Though he was sprawled out on the floor, he found himself feeling a bit dizzy. "Heavens, Cecil, are you hurt?"

"'Course he's 'urt," the kitchen maid's voice came through, "Look at 'is shoulder. It's bleedin'."

"Oh, dear. Is it terrible? Cecil, answer me!"

"Move aside, Mary," the butler's strict baritone alerted everyone to his presence. "Cecil, you've seen worse. Get up, boy."

He was right: Cecil had seen worse. Compared to the bullet he'd taken to his leg, a shard in his shoulder was nothing. With a grunt, he forced himself up into a sitting position. Mary, who hadn't yet 'moved aside' helped him onto his feet. His left leg felt number than usual, and when he tested a few steps he found himself nearly toppling over.

Mildred came bustling up, looking rather put-off by all the commotion. Wrinkles deepened her brow as she gazed down at the mess. "If we weren't so short on staff already, I'd have Mr. Martin write up your notice."

"You would, Mrs. Thomson, if you were in charge of me. Which you are decidedly not," the butler snapped. It was unclear if he was snapping at Mildred, Cecil, or at the situation as a whole.

"Well, you aren't in charge of me, either. You'd do best to remember that Mr. Martin." Mildred turned back to the two maids hovering around Cecil and said loudly, as if to prove her authority, "Mary! Frances! Clean up this mess. Cecil, to your own quarters to clean up. I suppose I'll have to patch up that bloody jacket."