Chapter One: Sister's Funeral

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Margery usually enjoyed rainy mornings. It usually meant curling up in a large, comfy chair by the roaring, crackling fire. A warm cup of tea in hand, spiced with just the right flavoring as she listened to the droplets of rain pattering against the window, like a sweet and calming lullaby sent by the sea by way of the clouds that resided in the heavens above.

Such mornings would be accompanied by a book of poetry, one with a leather cover and gold leaf designs swirling up along the spine. She would trace them while she read. The words would dance along the pages, painting picture after picture of beautiful landscapes, handsome gentlemen, charming ladies, and times that were long past gone.

But this morning there was no fire. There was no cup of tea or book of poetry. No stories of times lost long ago. There was only the rain falling on the ground all around her. Only the black silk that wrapped Margery in it's mournful embrace. Only the dark, thin veil that covered her face.

Only the droplets that descended on the pinewood coffin a few yards away.

Little Kathleen had been a child of pure joy. A light that would burst through the darkest of clouds. Everyone knew and loved her, the girl had no enemies. No one ever would wish her ill. And if someone made her cry, it would not just be Margery and her father who would retaliate. The whole of the community would, for someone had spoiled their sunshine.

And yet now here she lay, bright eyes closed, laughing lips stilled, and gentle, warm hands gone cold. She wore a delicate lace dress, the kind one might see a pretty doll wearing. It seemed to make the fifteen year old girl look younger. Blue always made her look that way. Kathleen never minded, she always said that perhaps she might have a little longer to eat sweets and not worry about boys if people thought her younger than she really was.

Margery did not cry. She was past that. She had cried constantly since her sweet little sister had left her. She was simply numb. Numb to the world and numb to the fact that the darling girl who would make the prettiest flower crowns and sing the silliest songs on warm spring days was gone forever. Taken by a sickness that no one could have suspected. By the time they realized it was tuberculosis...

It had been too late.

Her black gloves wore down to the threads with how much fidgeting she did. Her fingers moved as if to relieve the stress of the burden she felt on her heart. There was no shortness of pain there that morning. But for some reason she felt as if she bore the brunt of all of it.

This must be how her father felt when her mother died. Margery had been a child of five, spending the summer with her grandmother in the country when it happened. She had left knowing when she came home she'd have a little sister. She'd returned to find little Kathleen, but no mother.

She hadn't attended the funeral.

Margery looked over at her father, standing a few feet away. Rain dripped from the brim of his tall hat onto the mud, splashing his black shoes and the hem of his dark pants. His left hand gripped his ornately carved walking stick that he had carried ever since Margery could remember.

Captain James Villas, formerly of the U.S. Cavalry, was a tall, quiet man. He was soft spoken, but when he did speak, his words were well thought out and weighted with the years of wisdom and experience behind his eyes. Margery truly could not ask for a better father, despite the sorrow that seemed to lace his words.

She had convinced him to let her shave him that morning. He had not addressed the hair around his chin since the day before Kathleen passed, and it was beginning to look unkept. It would not do for him to come to the service in such a state.

Usually, he would do it himself or go to the barber, but he was barely in a state to dress himself that morning without assistance. He had needed to call Margery in to help with his cravat. His hands were shaking too badly to tie it.

And secretly, Margery feared what he may do if allowed to be alone with a blade.

She walked over to him, placing a hand atop the one that rested on his cane, in some pitiful attempt to offer comfort. He turned his head to look at her, the water that gathered on the brim falling off in a small waterfall that splashed the mud around their feet.

After the service, and after the streams of people offering their condolences had left, Margery took a deep breath and watched the coffin begin to be covered. So many had come to pay respects. It showed how beloved Kathleen truly had been.

"Come now." Margery forced herself to whisper. "It wouldn't do for one of us to catch cold. The maids have had enough work... without us adding to it with a fever."

Her words seemed to break a trance, and her father nodded. "You're right, of course." His voice was scratchy. He had been crying.

He offered her his right arm, and she accepted, ignoring the fact that his jacket was soaked from standing out in the rain all morning. She looked at his eyes, they were red around the rims.

"She's in heaven now, father." Margery whispered. "She's dancing with all of God's angels."

"Angels." He whispered, it looked as if he was fighting off more tears. "She's among her own kind, then."

Margery nodded, turning towards the carriage that was all draped in black and waiting for them. The carriage that was to take them home.

But it didn't seem like a home.

It seemed like a house.

A house that had lost it's soul.

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