À La Folie {ON HIATUS}

|5|

You know it's bad when you can hear the birds chirping, Florence scolded herself.

The bright screen of her laptop created a little halo around Florence, illuminating her face, the empty food containers, and her crimson-colored book. However, increasingly bright sunlight filtered through the cracks in the blinds to overrun its artificial counterpart.

Outside Florence's window, birds announced the arrival of the new day in over-the-top performances. She yawned and shut her computer.

Florence had one goal for the day: speak to Logan. She hadn't seen him in what felt like forever, and she needed someone to vent to. She only hoped her father was on a business trip or out with his colleagues.

Florence untangled her legs from the unruly sheets of her bed and stood. She padded into her bathroom. In the mirror, a young woman who looked five years her senior stared tiredly back. Long, dark half-crescents had formed under her eyes from the long night.

Florence shivered, thinking about what had caused her sleeplessness in the first place. She couldn't even put how she felt about it in words. Florence just knew she loved her brother.

An hour later, Florence was finally ready for the whip that awaited her downstairs. She pushed open her door and turned left, toward the staircase. When she got to the dining hall, she paused as she did every time and took a deep breath.

And then she stepped in.

Unfortunately, her father was there, seated at the head of the table imposingly. He was sitting there, hands tented, speaking in low tones to her mother and Emma. Reagan was there, too, head bowed. Theo and Philomena had yet to arrive.

Suddenly, Florence felt something poke at her side. She whipped around. Theo. There he was, standing there with a sweet grin on his face, his hand still extended from poking her. Florence smiled.

"Hello, Theo," she whispered. "C'mon, we've got to get to our seats in time."

Theo nodded and squeezed past Florence and the door, bounding over to his chair. When he pulled it back it squeaked, loudly. Her father looked over to Theo with a disapproving look. Then, he saw Florence, still standing in the doorway.

"What are you waiting for?" he demanded. "Sit."

So she did.

Her mother looked at her tiredly but managed to turn her lips upwards into something that might've resembled a smile. Emma was obviously angry about something―the expression she gave Florence bordered a glare. Reagan didn't look up.

The table was quiet for a minute. Then the servers came in. Ryan presented her with three perfect, plump pancakes stacked on top of each other, with amber syrup trickling down the sides.

With a sickening feeling of dread, Florence realized Philomena still wasn't in her seat. Everyone knew that once the servers came out, you had to be there or else.

Florence worriedly looked at her father, who was staring at the empty chair with a murderous look. In an attempt to take his attention away from it, she started, "So, how are the stocks―"

"Where is Philomena?"

Florence paled. She swallowed around an enormous elephant of a lump in her throat. "Maybe―maybe she's sick..."

Florence's father stood, throwing his napkin down on his plate aggressively. Without another word, he left, the door slamming shut behind him.

Florence froze, her eyes stuck on the door, stuck on it, her mind stuck on Philomena, stuck on her, her fingers curled around her fork, squeezing it, and her heart pounding, pounding so damn hard she couldn't breathe.