Victorian Nocturne

Elspeth stood in the little study, gone quiet since the others left to wander the residence. A capable woman would be a fish out of water in this group, so after carefully considering her options, she thought it best if she remained with the growing collection of supplies. Left to her own devices, she began sorting items of use into piles... Even if it made her feel like a perfect idiot. A blanket hung between her pinched fingertips. She held it to the light and inspected it for holes or bugs. Judging it appropriate for their use, she laid it against her chest and folded it into neat squares. Its faint smells of wool and moths offended her nose.

While she worked, she kept an eye on the room. Shadows seemed to bulge from corners that looked normal upon closer inspection. One moment the air chilled her and rattled her teeth; in the next, it warmed until perspiration beaded on her nose. Was she coming down sick? Elspeth dismissed that as nonsense. She hardly ever caught cold.

A figure moved beyond the door. Laying a blanket across her arm, Elspeth rounded the desk and peered into the corridor. "Oh! Mr. Musgrave, it's you. May I speak with you?"

Alistair had made to follow those who had swiftly deserted the study, but paused as he thought a moment upon his situation. It had become clear that what he had seen to draw him there - or, rather, what he had thought he had seen - had been nothing more than some sort of illusion. How then could he trust anything else he was confronted with in the strange house? Stranded with an assortment of strangers, Alistair found himself drawn to familiarity above all. Mrs. Fry, as the others had called her, and the boy Fox were the only familiar faces in the crowd, and when Fox journeyed out into the corridors, Alistair stepped back towards the strange woman he had encountered in an East End charity ward.

( Oh Dear...That's Not Good )

( Communication Woes )

Verdoux decided to remain in the study. As the others left, he found himself lost in thought. Even for a discerning man such as himself the situation was utterly bizarre. Was there, he wondered, a veiled connection between all of the parties involved, or was it sheer coincidence? Why did the house choose them, if indeed the house was sentient at all.

He paced to and fro, examining his environs to the most minute of details. The positioning of the chair at the secretoire, the number and titles of the books on the shelves, the choice of decor, including the paintings and prints which lined the walls. The way in which the rug puckered at one edge, not quite smoothed. The various accounts and ledgers kept in the secretoire, the letters, the notes, the bills. But none of this, he thought, was helpful. Something was indeed far more sinister, though he doubted it had anything to do with the choice of furnishings.

( And will not know. )