the curator.

.

It has been years since Daya made a new friend, or at least, one gained through her own personality (or whatever was left of it). In truth it has been years since she really connected properly with any of the old ones, either. Not like this. But Daphne was different. Daya enjoys her company, and the side of her that it brings out. It almost feels like the old her, except older, more mature. This is the Daya she should be, had life not taken such a terrible turn. 

But Daya doesn’t want to think about her husband tonight, and especially not when she is talking to Daphne. “Can’t it be both?” She asks, surprising even herself with how easily the joke comes to her lips. There’s another on the tip of her tongue, a silent dare for Daphne to do better if she can, but the curator’s next words stun her into silence. It’s been a long time since Daya has truly felt beautiful, and longer still that she has heard such words from people other than Feriha or Pearl or others morally obligated to compliment her. Daphne owes her no such platitudes, and there’s something fond in her expression that makes her believe that it’s true, even though she knows logically that it is not. Something in Daya switches, leaving her softer, more vulnerable. 

“Thank you,” she mutters, and she clears her throat, her cheeks turning pink as she looks away for a moment. The change of conversation is welcomed, and she chuckles quietly. “I wish I could have. I don’t like surprises. I was trying to track where we were going, but the journey was too long,” a crease appears between her brow, the lack of control over matters apparently a stressor for Daya. “Well, I am glad you’re here. For selfish reasons.” 

Daphne poses an interesting question, and Daya hesitates before giving her thoughts. In truth, she can’t make heads nor tails of the mansion. She takes a sip of her drink, and swallows slowly, before speaking. “Well, it’s strange really. Parts are older in style - renaissance, maybe, but others are more restoration era. Carolean, you know?” Her brows furrow again, one hand gesturing animatedly as she attempts to explain her thought process. “Not unusual in itself. All these old mansions have had bits added over time, but usually, the older stuff looks - well, older.” She her eyes to the ceiling, and slowly surveys the room. “But everything here is shiny. Fresh. As though it were finished yesterday. Yet, if this were a new house, surely someone with this much money would have it built all in one style? It doesn’t make sense.” 

.

Daphne doesn’t say anything in response to that. She lets herself consider it first, because the alcohol was only aiding in such boldness. The curve of Daya’s body as they leaned into one another was not helping. And even though Daya was a married woman, Daphne knew that wasn’t enough to stop her in any way. She never had much when it came to morals in that regard. Though there was something wolfish in her grin, her thoughts shining through in the expression she holds, “Well, luckily I’m not exactly opposed to you being selfish with me.” She thinks all hesitancy has left her.

She thinks, she wants to say more. But the topic changes just as fast as it’s brought up and Daphne does not linger on her previous statement for long. Instead, she offers up her attention in a different way. Daphne doesn’t think she’s ever picked Daya’s brain about her work before. She takes in the observation as if she were making a mental note. Tucking away the information for later. “I know a little of what you’re talking about.” Being a history buff, and whatnot. “But now that you mention it...” She doesn’t think she’s been the most present out of the two to really notice it at first. Of course, the woman who had sat observing the scenes in front of her would have more to say on it. 

But it does give Daphne pause. “Yeah, all that’s tellin me is that this Mr. Ashton. Or whomever, has got to be a right dickhead.” She shakes her head. “Still don’t really get the point of this party but I’m not complaining exactly.” It was a good excuse to drink. In a social setting. And not alone in her home with no one around to hear her cry. It felt more comfortable this way. And Daya was a rather fitting person for the occasion. “But I don’t think it’s supposed to make any sense. If we’re going based on the whole invitation process to begin with. Perhaps, that’s just the sort of party he’s into.”

.

Eleanore has never thought herself good at reading people. Not because she wasn’t intuitive, she always had been, but because people were far too complicated and interesting for a companion to do anything as intrusive as read them. Still, she feels the resistance in the hold, and she does not break away. Perhaps she needs it just as much - but she’s certain Daphne needs a hug. 

Her absence has been dearly felt in her life. For the wondrous conversation she brings, for the warmth that emanates from her - warmth she knows Daphne would never admit to having. Ellie thinks that the woman sees herself as cold, but nothing could be further from the truth; to be in her company is to have a hand held. Simple. Warm. And yet, she isn’t the only person who has distanced themselves from her, and though their distance has been neither as harsh nor determined as that of her twin, it feels like it could ache the same. 

She speaks once again, and all memory of loss leaves her mind, focused entirely on the words. And though they have just separated, she darts forward again, pulling her friend into an even tighter, and yet somehow gentler embrace. “You don’t need to explain. I’m just happy to see you.” When she breaks away this time, there’s a sadness in her look, and she hesitates a moment before asking,

“It wasn’t- just- I’m sorry, love. If it was anything I did.” Mind drifts, naturally, to previous whispered apologies, to old reasons that it may still be difficult to be around her. 

.

She does not stop the sigh that escapes her lips, nor can she control the sag in her shoulders. Perhaps, she did need a hug. A thought crosses her mind then, she buries it before it can become more. But she thinks she needed more than just a hug. That maybe, it wasn’t even the hug at all. It was the feeling of being in Eleanor’s arms. She thinks, she just needed her touch. Something that was already familiar to her, a comfort. Daphne does not say anything when she burrows her face in her neck, she hopes and she prays not a word is shared when she breaths her in. 

When they pull apart, she can’t stop her heart from racing. If it were not already the first thing to go off flashing in her mind, she could have forgotten all about it. The fact that they were just friends now. That it was not okay to kiss your friend, or to touch your friend in the way that Daphne wanted to touch Eleanor right now. She almost misses it then, when Eleanor apologizes. 

At first she can only gaze at her. Her mind a muddled mess and her heart a gaping hole. And then it dawns on her, “What?” It’s evident in her voice, that she doesn’t quite understand. Why is she apologizing? “I-I don’t-No. No.” She’s shaking her head now, hoping to get it across to her that she didn’t-she could never, “You didn’t do anything wrong.” It was never that, never that. She doesn’t know why, but Daphne was so far gone now, it almost angers her to hear. Though it was mostly with herself. That she was angry with. 

Because of course, of course it was because of her own negligence. If Eleanor could, she would fabricate any old reason to blame herself for something. Even if it were obvious, that it couldn’t possibly be her. Couldn’t ever be her. She’d still find herself here, apologizing. And Daphne would always end up feeling like the asshole. Because she was. And this was her punishment. 

“There is not a single thing you could do that would make me not want to be around you.” Be with you. She doesn’t say that part though.

-

Something like relief courses through him when Daphne opts not to prod, and he lets the smidges of his confession die out in the air, amid the roses. As Daphne points out her other influence, the costume starts to come alive, much like a painting finally rendered complete, the outlines drawn over, the oil on canvas reworked and brushed through. “I see,” he nods along with the explanation. He casts his gaze upon her, taking her words as an invitation to survey her ensemble more closely. His intellectual curiosity is seemingly satisfied with the answer, so why does he continue staring? It is wiser for him to stop, but his gaze drifts to her hands, her forearms, and the space between her neck and collarbone, left bare—and only then does he look away. “It’s, er, it’s a welcome change,” Gilly remarks, voice assuming a tone shakier than he originally intends. 

Had he been caught? In lieu of an apology, he turns his head back to those rose trees, holding his head high above the ground to spot the roses in full bloom. The red is rich and stark and deep, almost like blood, against the moonlight. If he squints hard enough, he can spot the roses’ thorns—those sharp protrusions that wound your fingers as soon as you reach for them, and just as much when your hand begins to turn back. 

“The jitters?” Gilly repeats her words, slowly, deliberately, as he turns to look at her. “What are you so afraid of?” 

The question is directed to her as it is to himself. He knows what he is afraid of—the rose garden makes that very fear palpable. It feels like a betrayal to think of Rose, and more so tonight, when spring has come and another kind of song threatens to fill in his heart. I cannot—will not—let you go, he thinks, issuing himself a promise. I have to leave you, I have to leave you, is a thought that rings just as loudly. Not for the first time, he wonders how long those deeds can co-exist before his mind caves in, when one promise becomes incompatible with the other and must therefore succumb, or be extinguished. 

That night he feels particularly emboldened to choose the latter, though he knows not why. Perhaps it is the alcohol. Perhaps it is Mr. Ashton and this manor, where the bizarre has become usual, the normal an oddity. Perhaps it is Miss Seong herself. Perhaps the axis has tilted to the side. 

Then again, perhaps it is something as simple as a change of heart. The hint of a feeling, but unmistakable all the same. 

“It’s been a difficult night,” he admits, his sigh long and deep. “It is… better, though, now that you are here. Considerably so.” He lifts the corners of his lips to form a smile, tinged with affection and a strange melancholy. “This is… this is okay, right? Me sitting here?” He says tentatively, the request directed to Daphne as much as it is to his own ghost. 

.

She finds it easier to tell him than she had thought. Perhaps it was because she had been thinking of it for the better half of the night. Nothing about this was a comfort to herself and it would continue to be a drag on her person for the entire night but at least she had her thoughts to hide away into. She knew there was nothing there but the same old. The feelings of loneliness, the desperation, the grief. It was all there. She doesn’t think a day could go by without it being there. At least those thoughts were familiar though, they knew her well. It was the reminder now; the cold splash of water in her face, that she didn’t really know how to deal with them, that was getting to her. That was the part that she couldn’t deal with. 

“I don’t know.” Her voice comes out cold, easy to miss if not for the fact that they were the only two in the garden. Because as she’d said, this fear was not familiar. She knew of her pain for far too long. This one was new. “Is that bad?” She doesn’t really know who she’s asking. Would she even want an answer? “I think...I expected it to be worse. Than this.” Her hand lifts up to gesture all around them. “And it was hard, yeah. But I don’t-I don’t feel any worse or better than when I was still at home. Alone.” Perhaps that was why she couldn’t shake them, the jitters. “I think just the act of...being. Is enough.” To set her off. 

“But, I don’t really think you need to hear about all that.” It’s too much, she thinks. She’s too much. But she doesn’t voice that part out loud to Gilly, he could probably discern that all by himself. Just five minutes with her was enough. Besides, it was mostly for her own peace of mind. He didn’t need to have all of her, just the parts she thought were safe enough to give. Just this. 

.

At an event such as this, where it seemed that there wasn’t a single person she knew not in attendance, she had been expecting to see Daphne. Hoping, perhaps. Hoping, definitely. It had been so long since they’d spent time in one another’s company - which was partly due to Eleanore’s own schedule, but also sometimes simply how it was for them. It wasn’t entirely rare they went a while without talking to each other, for they had nothing particularly in common except shared affection for one another. 

The woman held a place in her life that was hers and hers alone. To love, after Rory, had felt impossible, at least in the capacity she had desired to give it. The need, desperately, to have somewhere to put the love she had felt for the man had been siphoned to John, and to the family she had found so quickly after the loss of her own. But love, while it blurred, and thought it was shown in different ways across, was the love of kin, as if the same blood ran through their veins. 

And she had not loved Rory in that way, of course, but in the kindness and affection of a best friend, and the intimacy of a lover. It had been that intimacy that had put her in the very predicament she ended up in. Daphne, so different to the man in so many ways, but similar in the ways that counted, had been so very easy to fall for. Kind, intelligent, beautiful. Beautiful in every way. So hesitant with her love, same as Ellie, and though the motive was different, it had been such a soft landing. When it had ended, it had been gentle too.

Despite her need, it had been too much too soon, and feeling that way for anyone but Rory had felt like a betrayal. Even in memory. The transition from what she and Daphne had been into what they had become should have been difficult, but as most things were with the woman, it had been an easy transition. What she had felt for her had perhaps not sung in full choir like her fiancé, but it had hummed a melody. She wasn’t sure what music played when she thought of Bill. Maybe it was too early to tell. 

But, despite the music of the ball, she found the quietness as she locked eyes with the woman in question across the gardens. Crossing with relative grace, she smiled as soon as they were close. “I knew I’d see you somewhere. I’m glad of it, too. Oh, Daph, it’s been forever.” With that, she pulled her into an embrace, her head resting against her shoulder for a moment, waiting for the other woman to make the motion to let go.

.

Daphne did not fall into her touch as easily as she normally would’ve, though she was eager to just chalk that up to not having been around people much. And not for any other reason. It made sense, she had been without the touch of another long enough. She had forgotten what it felt like, and her body wished to tense up in response. Instead, she followed along. Hugging her in earnest for a touch longer than normal before deciding to let go. 

“Y-Yeah. It has.” She says, like the revelation in itself hadn’t been something she’d been pondering the entire way over here. She believed it to be something bittersweet when it came to the two of them, because while Daphne was sure to never sour the feelings between the two of them. She couldn’t be trusted enough not to do so whenever she got like this. Because the truth was that Daphne was no longer in control. And she didn’t know whether or not she was going to explode at any moment. She could only hope that Eleanor would not get caught in the crossfire.

She feels like she should be apologizing for something, she’s not sure what. Something about it just feels wrong, like she was doing Eleanor some sort of disservice. It probably wasn’t fair of her, to feel this way. As if she still owed something to her that meant more than the friendship they had so carefully crafted. Sometimes Daphne would forget. That they were just friends now. Still, she could not allow herself to be dishonest to her. For her own peace of mind. 

“You know, I-I didn’t mean to uh...” The words escape her, though there’s something in her eyes that’s pleading. She tries again, but she finds nothing. “I didn’t mean it.” She settles on that, a smile that was easier now, less forced, takes over. She hopes the message reaches her. 

location : the ball, anywhere you want.

date : march 25, 1889. Early evening.

Not without hope, Daphne approaches Eleanor with something akin to a smile. Though it feels all wrong as it stretches itself onto her face. It was not entirely forced ( she didn’t think she could ever not smile when it came to Ellie ), it was just as if she had forgotten how to do it. Her plans had mostly been to avoid, like she had already been doing for so long. Avoid, avoid, avoid. In the last few months she had only found a reason to leave her house for few things. Sometimes when she was really needed for work ( that one time she had finally found a reason to yell at Gilly ) and sometimes for food ( though she ate less and less of that as the days went by ). 

The point was that she rarely found the time to speak to Ellie. And she couldn’t come up with an excuse that was good enough for why. She didn’t think Ellie deserved a half assed lie either, but the idea of being honest instead hung over her and taunted her. Daphne could not tell if it was out of embarrassment that she wished to hide this side of herself from Eleanor. Perhaps it was out of some oddity to prove herself that she did so. A way to preserve the image of her that Eleanor had already come to know.

The one that she had seemingly fallen for. 

Daphne did not think that she’d spend the rest of her life pining after a past lover. And she wasn’t. At least, she didn’t think so. To her, she had already come to terms with the fact that she would never stop loving Eleanor. It sounded pathetic to her own ears but she knew it wasn’t really like that. For her, she didn’t think it possible to give herself over to anyone. And for the longest time she couldn’t, it felt too much like a death sentence. Entrusting someone with your heart. Something that had already been broken, she kept that part of herself locked away for that very reason. But Eleanor didn’t do that. She never forced Daphne to be hers. She just was. And so, for that alone, Daphne had fallen in love. And it would remain that way for as long as she would allow it.

And Eleanor didn’t know about her much outside of that love. Not everything at least. There were some things Daphne was too keen on keeping to herself. It wasn’t it for them, not then. But Daphne couldn’t ever say she was heartbroken because of it. After all, they still had each other. Even after they ended, there was still the warmth there. The one that they both leaned into, tugging each other into it. Holding one another closer. Daphne reminded herself often of what that feeling was like. Because with Ellie, she had managed to build a home outside of herself. 

And in that moment, that their eyes met, she remembered exactly why she loved her. So, she was tentative, hesitant with her next words. Always so scared to mess this up, to mess them up. 

“Was hoping to find you out here.” Not entirely a lie, though she leaves out the part where she most likely would have done everything in her power to avoid her.

-

The laugh that escapes her lips unsettles him. It’s the first time he’s heard Daphne laugh, never mind the kind of laugh that stumbles out awkwardly, gracelessly, but with an ease he does not often associate with the curator. No doubt a by-product of the wineglass she holds in her hand, which she soon drinks completely and sets down.

The change of pace is welcome. Too often their interactions are frayed, air heavy with things they have said, or cannot say. What he does not find entirely agreeable, however, is the rose garden in which they find each other. He supposes it is a warm enough backdrop, though he’s loathe to admit how standing in the greenery feels a bit like being enveloped in a memory he’s long hoped forgotten. Like standing amid the bed of roses only for his enthusiasm to be marred, quelled, by the jagged thorns sitting unassumingly in their stems.

“Never thought much of them, flowers. Not until…” Gilly’s stream of thought is cut off, deliberately, as if the mention of her would tarnish their current ease. He hopes to forget, though, just this once, swallowing the thought along with the final sips from his wineglass. “In any case, I keep the yelling to myself. Usually my imagined audience is a roomful of terrified students, however,” Gilly answers thoughtfully, before gesturing to her ensemble. “Certainly not someone who looks like they’ve stepped out of a Botticelli painting.” It’s half an observation, half a compliment. “La Primavera, is it?” He wagers.

“I’ll save you the mental exercise. I’ve come as Dr. Faustus. Thought it rather apt,” he says, with a small of wave of his hand. Tentatively, though deliberately, he takes a seat next to her and sets his own wineglass down, just next to hers. “How are you enjoying the night thus far?” 

.

Daphne hears something familiar in his voice, though he doesn’t allow it to linger long enough for her to discern what it is. She sort of leans into it, expectant, like he would be willing to let her in on the secret. She doesn’t know what exactly it is she’s expecting though. With Gilly, she’d ended up revealing more of herself to him than he ever could to her. And that thought made her stomach turn. Like that day in his office would make her forever bare to him, something for him to hold in his hand. To turn in his hand, inspect, as if there were something wrong with her. She hushed that part of her brain, hoping the light buzz the alcohol gave her would quiet it down. She did not wish to acknowledge the hold he could possibly have over her.

Instead she focuses on how warm it is. The warmth in her chest, the warmth spreading across her face. How it feels when she wraps her arms around herself, finding some sort of anchor to hold her down. And while normally she would relish in this moment alone, perhaps spin herself about and bask in the presence of something so beautiful. She does not feel as bothered by Gilly’s sudden introduction, instead she finds herself to be intrigued instead. Interested, even. Perhaps this feeling is one that someone would call comfortable. Daphne only had that with too few a people. 

“Oh?” She wonders if he had only meant it to be an observation, or if it were to serve as a compliment as well. “Well, trust me, I never would have worn something like this myself.” She was almost notorious for her looser suits and the way she seemed to want to emulate anything that did not center her own form. She enjoys it more than she would’ve thought. “There’s a bit of The Birth of Venus in there too. Couldn’t choose just one, spring just happened to be my favorite season as well and I’d just decided to put them both together. Though I couldn’t possibly reimagine it the same way. I’m glad I got some recognition.” She had tried her best, truly. Reckoned she was no true Goddess of Love and Beauty and all that, it was fun to pretend so for the night. 

She tilts her head, reexamining his costume with her newfound knowledge, “I would say so, yes.” She moves over a little when he decides to sit beside her. Closer. “Oh well,” She thinks the alcohol has made her more talkative as well. “You know me. Not much for going out, especially not recently.” She tries to pass the comment as a joke, and it is, her absence from the world has been more or less of a joke the more time she spent out here. “I’m just trying to ignore the jitters.” Her hand catches on her ring, playing with it. There was no reason to hide her nerves from Gilly, especially when she knew how easy it was to catch them. 

“I imagine you’re having a better night than me then?” She’s not looking at him, though her tone is curious. She was checking in. 

She’s Closed Starter for @daphneseong​ Location: The Ballroom, Ravensmoor Manor Timestamp: March 25th, 8:15pm

Daya has been here for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes, and three glasses of wine. She isn’t normally a big drinker, but the only alternative she can think of is dancing, and she is far too self-conscious to do that. Already, she is regretting coming, regretting her choice of gown, and wants to disappear in the background. 

A part of her is glad to note that there are very few in attendance that she knows to witness her humiliation, but that feeling quickly disappears when she sees Daphne. It is not often that Daya makes a friend these days, but the curator is well on her way to being just that. She’s glad to see her, and grateful that she no longer has to stand there alone. 

“You look beautiful,” she appraises her admiringly, no hint of a lie in her words. Daphne does look beautiful, her outfit perfectly complimenting all her best features. “Radiant, even. An inspired choice.” She didn’t think she was that drunk yet, but she’s a lot looser, at the very least. “Wasn’t the journey here boring?”

.

Daphne liked talking to Daya. She wondered if it was because of the lack of attachment that was there. There was no underlying tension, no prior commitments. No expectations. Just two women who enjoyed the others presence. It was enough for her to ignore the buzzing underneath her skin, the tenseness in her shoulders seemed to release on their own simply at the the sight of the woman. Daphne knew that was a bit of an exaggeration on its own right but it felt like the truth to her. 

She doesn’t smile exactly when she takes a seat besides her, but her eyes do light up a little. Letting Daya know, that she was there. “I don’t know whether to feel flattered or if that was you making a pass at me.” She jokes, though there’s a hint of something there in her voice. Daphne had eyes, and it was easy to talk to Daya like the revered woman what she was. She just commanded it, “I suppose I should come up with something better than yeah?” The alcohol had given her a light buzz. “Hm.” Daphne leaned in slight, not even trying to be subtle as she took in the sight of Daya. “Think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve seen.” She sighs, full of something warm. 

“I can’t say.” Daphne begins, “Though I’m almost certain I was asleep during it. Might be why.” She slouches a bit in her seat, getting comfortable. “I’m more surprised that I was invited to begin with. I feel like I haven’t been to one of these since...” Since her mother died. “I was just a young girl.” She trails off, thinking. “Don’t think I’ve heard of this Mr. Ashton fellow, sounds a little pompous to me. Though I will say his home is quite nice, I don’t mind gawking at it.” A curious glint forms in her eye, “Never had the perspective of an architecture expert before though. What are your thoughts?”

location: the ball, outside the gates of the poison garden.

date: march 25, 1889

She had not been expectant, in attending this event. Not really. In fact, she had thought of it as an inconvenience at first. Like the idea of stepping out of her home was deplorable to even consider for longer than a second. It still makes her skin burn with discomfort though. Even though she couldn’t exactly say she had felt any better being in her home. Daphne had still been pretty defiant on the idea of leaving. Then there were the pep talks, and the many letters of concern she would get from either Rahat or Eleanor. It depended on the day. Though she imagined that they were meant to be read with concern, she couldn’t actually be bothered to read all of them. Most of the time they were quick to be pushed to the side. Not for any real reason. Just the fact that she wished to be alone. Even the reminder of there being other people out there, in a world she had longed would be forgotten, was enough to send her spiraling. 

And then there had been Zoya. Zoya who would drop in unannounced, who would drink with her, who would laugh with her. Bringing her unwarranted gossip that Daphne would only half listen to every time but the sentiment remained regardless. She was sure, that their efforts had all been meant to help her. But Daphne couldn’t even bring herself to want it. Not when she didn’t think she deserved it to begin with. And while Daphne couldn’t really understand what it was that she was supposed to be getting out of this to begin with, at least Zoya was there. Trying, everyday, to get her to feel more like a person again.

Confining herself to her home, locking herself away had all been in an effort to protect herself. At first. It had quelled her anxiety when ever the image of the hat would appear in her mind. But it did nothing to help the ghost of the woman that now followed her wherever she went. And to give herself a sort of comfort something to sate her own desires, somewhere along the way, Daphne had convinced herself that she wasn’t really breathing. That she wasn’t even there, and if she pressed down on her chest long enough to feel it, she could convince herself that her heart had stopped beating as well. And that this house, was her own personal purgatory. It was her own, and so that way, she could find a reason-an excuse, for her own existence. 

Then there was the ball, and by some miracle, Daphne had found the courage to go. And she had told herself, that if she could just hold herself together throughout the night, eventually she would find herself back home. The only thing keeping her going was the promise of more drinks, her feet hadn’t stopped moving since she’d arrived and plucked one off one of the many trays. She’d said her complimentary hello’s, forced herself through painful conversations, felt herself tense up at the slightest bit of eye contact. 

At some point she’d wandered off from the rest of the crowds, too many people made her want to throw up. She found comfort in exploring the rest of the home, something in her chest jumped every time she’d come across something new. Like she was remembering something ( she would never admit to it, but the reminder of what it meant to make a place your home something that was for you and you alone, felt like a slap in the face at every turn ). Daphne had settled in front of a garden, her feet growing tired of all the walking ( pacing ).