#mayorgothfh

Later in winter, as the days grow shorter and the cold settles more deeply into everyone’s bones, Cassandra arrives in the late afternoon, cheeks pink from the cold. There is something brighter about her now, something settled, perhaps.  Mortimer greets her with a warm hug; it is not a long visit, but Cassandra has a mission. 

“I hoped you and Alexander might join Pascal and I,” Cassandra says at last. “For Christmas Day.” Mortimer considers briefly before nodding in agreement. 

Inside, however, the mood is far less composed. Alexander is in the midst of a thoroughly teenage outburst; something small, but magnified to great importance. A misplaced tool, a failed contraption, or simply the weight of the day; whatever the cause, it results in a sharp slam of the pantry and a muttered string of complaints not meant for polite company.

Birgitte looks over from her place beside the hearth. She sets aside her work without hesitation. 

“That will do,” she says firmly, though not unkindly.

Alexander bristles at first, as boys his age often do, but Birgitte does not yield. She speaks to him plainly, steady and grounding, redirecting his frustration into something manageable. There is a quiet authority in her tone, something not unlike a mother’s, whether she claims the role or not. Gradually, the storm passes.

That evening, Birgitte prepares supper. Steak, seared and hearty, fills the kitchen with a rich, comforting smell. The table is laid well, and the supper is shared, and mid-meal, with no knowledge of Alexander’s earlier outburst, Mortimer turns. 

Birgitte spends mid-day harvesting the freshest produce from the Goth kitchen garden to accompany the mutton chops she'd picked up from the Jacquet's Butcher shop that morning. Though the Goths are not known for lavish habits, today Mortimer requested that Birgitte prepare a meal of the highest quality to show proper hospitality to Investigator Mole.

When Mole arrives for supper, Mortimer attempts to maintain the dignified composure befitting a mayor, though the deep shadows under his eyes speak louder than any words. Over the clatter of cutlery and the glow of lamplight, Mole discusses his findings so far: vague reports of campsites and strangers in the woods, and scattered clues pointing toward foul play. Cassandra listens with stiff-backed composure while Alexander leans forward, eager for any sign that his mother might yet be found.

Once Cassandra and Alexander withdraw for the night, Mortimer decides it is time to discuss matters he did not want to mention in front of his children. He gestures toward the parlor, the location of the empty spot where the wedding portrait once hung. “I fear,” he says quietly, “that Bella’s disappearance is part of something larger. Freedom Hollow has changed. Crime seeps into its edges like rot in old wood.”

Mortimer Goth rises early, as is his custom, the house still and quiet around him. He makes his way to the sitting room and lowers himself onto the settee before the fireplace, where the embers from a fire Birgitte started the night before still glow faintly. He sits there a while, gaze distant, thinking of his dear Bella. It is a small ritual, but one he keeps without fail.

At last, he rises and returns upstairs, intending to begin the day. A bath has already been drawn, steam curling faintly in the cold air of the washroom. Mortimer settles into the cast iron tub with a quiet exhale, the warmth cutting through the winter chill.

Downstairs, Birgitte is already at work. She moves through the kitchen with practiced efficiency, sleeves rolled as she tends to the laundry; scrubbing and wringing. Once finished, she gathers herself and heads upstairs, intent on setting the bathing room back in order.

She pauses in the doorway. A slow but steady leak has formed along the seam of the cast iron tub, dripping down onto the floorboards below. Birgitte steps closer, grimacing as she takes in the situation. It is not catastrophic, but it will not mend itself. She isn’t equipped to manage such a repair herself, and especially not in winter, with the metal already strained by the cold. She will have to go into town, make inquiries, hire someone capable.

She bundles herself carefully against the cold with layers and gloves, and most notable is the large brown hood she draws up over her head, thick wool lined with fur. It had been a gift from Mortimer the previous winter, a token of appreciation for her work. 

The road into town is brisk as she makes her way toward the square. Her first stop is the general store run by the Oldies. Inside, the warmth and familiar scent of dry goods greet her at once. She shakes the chill from her shoulders and steps up to the counter, already preparing to ask if Herb can recommend someone skilled in metalwork and repair as she purchases supplies for the week.

Back at the house, Alexander returns from the schoolhouse with cold-reddened cheeks and his school primary. He settles dutifully on the floor in the parlor to work through his lessons, brow furrowed in concentration as he copies figures and recites passages under his breath.

Once his work is finished…enough, he slips upstairs to his room, where a small workbench waits near the window, purchased by Mortimer not long after Cassandra left the house; a quiet attempt to give the boy something of his own.

Dawn creeps over the Goth household, just as it has every morning since Bella Goth vanished. The parlor mantle stands barer than it once did; that summer a wandering outlaw made off with Mortimer and Bella’s wedding portrait, along with Cassandra’s cherished piano. Their absence leaves the household feeling even more empty -- if that were even possible.

Even so, two souls in the house rise long before the first streaks of light touch the horizon. Birgitte begins her work in the deep stillness of early morning so that every task may be tended before nightfall. Mortimer, meanwhile, scarcely sleeps at all; grief and worry have become his constant companions since Bella vanished.