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*Holds Bacon's body in my arms*

WHEN: 6 February WHERE: The stableyard of St Maur Castle WHO: @alastair-talbot

The morning had dawned harsh and cold, the pink sun piercing a bleak sky, the promise of frost in the air. Margaret knew all this because she had been awake for hours, pretending to be asleep as a maid lit her fire before rising to bear witness to the birth of another day. Apprehension spoiled any joy she might have derived from such a sight, because in a matter of hours Alastair Talbot was accompanying her to Maurice’s memorial.

Margaret prided herself on self-knowledge, yet even she struggled to untangle which of these filled her with more anxiety.

A stiff breeze whistled through the stableyard. Margaret loitered like a naughty child by her gelding, Prince’s, stall. She had sent a small note to Alastair the day previously to request his presence on the estate to view the memorial, as they had arranged. Given the location of the memorial, she had suggested they ride out together - though now she wondered at the propriety of such a thing. Her riding habit fit her tightly, the black coat and skirt intended to streamline dashing over fields on horseback, yet now it felt positively obscene. Why had she not suggested a walk, where layers of mourning clothing might obscure the frailness of her body and therefore her soul? The desire to hide away was quite foreign to her. She hated it. 

Maurice would tell her to buck up. She ought to take his advice. If not in life, then death - right?

The sound of approaching boots on cobblestones attracted her attention. Margaret turned away from patting Prince’s soft muzzle to watch as Alastair entered the stableyard. When their eyes met she was greeted with a peculiar sensation not unlike falling.

“Lord Talbot,” Margaret said, hiding behind a polite smile. Then, because nothing at all seemed appropriate given the purpose of their meeting, she gestured to the horse in the adjacent stall. “This is Napoleon, although he has little in common with his namesake. I thought a tall mount would suit you. He’s a bit fresh, but we’ll knock that out of him. The memorial is on the other side of the estate.” 

For a moment or two she merely focused on Napoleon, stroking the gelding’s bay neck and smiling in admiration as he whickered quietly and snuffled at the sleeve of her jacket. Oh! Her heart swelled with love for the beautiful creature. God may have his troubles, but horses were not one of them.

When Margaret at last looked back at Alastair, her smile was wide and unguarded.

That scene.

Also me: *goes online and gets distracted by 800000 diff things*

Tea: *gets icy cold*

Me: