𝑰𝑵𝑲 • 𝑻𝒆𝒘𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒚 / 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆

Burden

Her eyes bore holes into my side

A stare so intense I burn up inside

And of all the stars in the night sky

It's you with whom I'd wish to collide

—————

"Will that be all my lord?"

A drowned out voice belonging to one of the many workers scurrying about the manor asks. Over the past few days, the estate had become the nesting ground of all holiday chaos in the region. The rigorous and equally tiresome planning for this years Christmas ball well underway despite it only being November.

Tewkesbury was busy to say the least. It was his first year as lord and for some reason, that included decision making duties regarding all decorations, catering, invitations, and anything else required to throw the most extravagant event of the year. Prior to this, most of the responsibility was divided between his mother and grandmother... but she was now out of the picture. For good reason.

He was overwhelmed. Questions hiding around every corner, waiting for him to turn so that they can jump out at him and extract an answer. And although it wasn't like he wasn't doing anything, he felt utterly useless. In his eyes, there were so many far more important things he could be doing. Frankly, anything other than deciding which shade of green suited the silverware best qualified as more important at this point.

"Are the curtains festive enough sir?"

"My lord how many sausage rolls for the guests?"

"Will the candles be too much of a fire hazard?"

"How much mistletoe is tasteful?"

That question caught his attention, deciding he wanted one placed at the end of every hallway, and under every lamp post in the gardens. Besides that however, he could care less. Why, as lord, was it his job to sample colors and taste pastries all day long? He should be reading reports and discussing bills, he was an adult and he'd done more than enough to prove his capability.

But trying to prove yourself to someone who's watched you grow up, and has seen you at your worst, is difficult. His uncle felt that he wasn't ready. Not ready to be a lord, to take control of the estate, and definitely not ready to be allowed into his private study to join him in the grueling task of reviewing the weekly report. To him, Tewkesbury was still the careless young boy with rather inconvenient hair who wasted his days away atop an old tree doing god knows what with god knows who. He wasn't trusted.

And so he toned out the chatter, answering yes or no to questions which couldn't be answered with a simple yes or no, and thought about everything that had happened since his return to Basilwether.

I reconciled with Flo.

"My lord, custard or jam for the tarts?"

It killed me being away from her for so long. She's set the bar so high.

"Should we place the tree in the center of the hall or to the side?"

She's untouchable. I've never been able to hold someone up to the same light.

"Sir, how swirly should the calligraphy be on the invitations?"

Enola came so close. I could've moved on, I could've let her go.

"Ms Weston want to know if she can bring her beagles."

No she didn't. How could she. It's Florence.

"Or were they badgers? The ink got smudged in the post my lord."

It's Florence. It's always been Florence. And it will probably always be-