The Magpie & The Raven

f i v e

Mrs Bell does indeed rake through Calliope's suitcase, discarding near half it's contents. Though she apologises profusely throughout and, when both women are sure the man of the house is not listening, let's Calliope talk her ear off about her plants.

The guilt Calliope feels in bringing up such a subject matter is not new, but it has been buried for some time in the free spirit of Ferndale Hall. Overrun with Eudoria's sheer will and want for Enola's eduction. Calliope was a great asset in that she'd been assured. Now she wasn't sure she was to be much use to anyone, other than an ornament to her uncle. And that was only if Mrs Bell could tame her with combs and ribbons and whale bone.

In the end it wasn't a perfect job; her hair refused to sit quite as high on her head as was fashionable with merely the ribbons to hold it there, her waist would not be squeezed as narrow as was wanted without turning black and blue in mere minutes, rendering her to sitting the whole evening so as not to grimace and 'ruin her face too', her feet were too big for the pumps, and her skin simply refused to stay a pale milky complexion, despite layers of powder being applied to fight off her consistent flush.

In the end they settled for only tying up half off her hair, loosening the corset till only continued movement would bruise, wearing an old pair of her mothers boots that almost matched the deep red of her dress, and discovered there was little they could do about her skin so sent her off with a fan and the hopes that a red dress might offset the red in her cheeks.

Nevertheless the first thing Calliope's Uncle said upon seeing his niece was that she looked like a harlot and ought to be sent back to finishing school.

Calliope had no doubt he would find such a school to send her to if given half a chance.

So, she resolved to sit quietly, remain pretty and sweet, and listen without disturbing the men's conversation. She would speak only when spoken to and hide her flushed cheeks with her fan whenever possible. She hoped it would be enough for her Uncle to see some 'potential' and merely keep her trapped at home rather than playing homage to her youth at a finishing school of his choice.

And she was managing it so, so well, even as her Uncle guided her through crowds with harsh hands, and corrected her posture with raps of a closed fist to her spine, shoulders, hips, anywhere he deemed unseemly. This she could endure again, this was men, society. Everything she'd been lucky to escape for any brief amount of time.

But then, across the room, her eyes caught with those she'd been trying to escape.

Her brows rose involuntarily, certainly not expecting the detective to attend such a frivolous affair. Everyone here was wearing a mask, or two, and Calliope couldn't help but think how tiring that must be someone who's whole job is to understand people. Although, she must admit that he was certainly beautiful. A beauty to rival even the soft, sprawling ferns growing around the windows, over the balcony.

A pinch to the back of her arm pulled Calliope's attention from the sharp blue-grey of Sherlock's and back to the young man her Uncle was trying to introduce her to.

He was alright, she supposed, but it was blatantly obvious that he showed no interest in her and kept drifting off with hunched shoulders and stale ale breath, staring despondently at the arched windows behind her. His escort, Father if she had to guess, seemed far more interested and made no effort to control his wandering eyes.

"She's still young though," her Uncle was saying, "will need a firm hand to keep her in line."

She knew, as her uncle talked, that she was expected to smile pretty and duck her head under their appreciative gazes. That this was about her, but did not actually involve her.