The Prewett Estate
Continued from Where does the time go?

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Much to Grigory’s relief, Prim hadn’t gotten very far. But it was a small one, all things considered, and in the face of her upset, it wasn’t much of one at all.

The doorway had led to a corridor, one unlit but not without light. Lined with arched windows that reached the floor, moonlight poured in, casting long shadows and bathing the hall in cool tones and a pale, silvery glow. Shadows draped over every edge, slope and corner, indolent like a lover, and the effect was striking; even the hardest heart would be hard-pressed to find it anything other than romantic.

But to the Russian emerging from the doorway – a large but silent shadow not yet sure of his welcome – it all paled in comparison to the only other figure in the hall. In the moonlit darkness, dark plum was ink, nearly black; against fair skin it gave the appearance of robing her in shadows, the cut of it pooling to the floor from subtle curves.

Even upset, Primrose Woolfolk was beautiful. But to Grigory, it wasn’t her immediate charms that had secured his admiration, but the ones less readily apparent—ones that, here and now, were nowhere to be found, and their absence made his heart clench. Whether it was deserved or not wasn’t the point; even if Prewett had cause, it didn’t make his actions right.

She was facing the doorway as he approached, but his footsteps were quiet anyway. His eyes, the first beam of moonlight revealed, were dark and sad. “Prim?”

It was easy to keep up a positive front in the presence of her sister.  Amaryllis was all things good and kind, and as a result, shouldn’t have to carry a heavy heart back to a party because of Prim’s problems.  So, Primrose made the choice to lie and send her away.  Now she was alone.

The dark stillness of the hallway became so much more obvious without Maree there.  It was almost like it got colder, warmth and comfort were sucked out of the air with the swiftness of a dementor’s kiss.  In her sister’s wake, the moon’s light silently crept in through the windows and long shadows settled over her.  The quiet was almost deafening. 

Prim’s chin dropped as her shoulders shook with a sob.  She dragged her hands over her wet cheeks and sniffed.  Pull it together, she chastised herself, eyes rolling upward as she bounced slightly.  She tried willing her tears to disappear.  Instead, they trickled down her face in fat drops, which only made Prim clench her jaw and fists, the rest of her seemed to crumple into itself.  “Fuck,” she hissed through gritted teeth – tears still running in burning hot trails down her face.  She raised her fists to her forehead and slammed her eyes shut, exhaling hard.   

 It wouldn’t do to apparate like this; she’d splinch herself for certain.  Prim dropped her trembling hands, focusing on her labored breathing.  The grip of shame on the pit of her stomach squeezed and Prim lurched, a wave of nausea washed over her.  She just wanted to go.  She’d had enough. 

Slumping against the wall, Primrose settled her temple against the wall, wrapping her arms around her middle.  She focused on the feeling of her ribs expand and contract with every deep breath.  It was grounding in a way, to just focus on her breathing.  She must have gotten lost in it – in, out, in, out because she didn’t know how long it was before she looked up, jumping in her skin: how did he manage to sneak up on her? 

The shadows hit the odd angles of his face, obscuring some of his features, but she couldn’t avoid his eyes: brown and sad.  Her name rolled off his tongue and his rumbling voice sent shivers down her spine.  “I’m fine,” she lied in response to the question.  She was sure if she stayed it would be like a chorus: are you okay?  Who could be?  But that wasn’t the point, was it?  The expected answer was vastly different than the reality.  No one in there would want to know the real answer though, well, maybe one person - but she'd already lied to him.  That made her feel guilty, on top of everything else. 

“I’m going home,” Prim added, pushing herself to stand up straight. Her brave face, though back on, was frail and wouldn’t hide her red rimmed eyes or splotched skin.  “You can go back to the party,” she dropped the armor of her own embrace and motioned half-heartedly back through the door, “It’s okay.”

I’m fine. It’s okay.


Grigory’s face, impossibly, fell even more. He had found her slumped against the wall, shoulders hunched – as clear a sign of weakness from one who usually stood so proudly – and she hadn’t wiped her face. Even if he couldn’t see it for himself… He heard it in the tone of her voice, the thin tremor running beneath it.

It might have been better if she hadn’t lied. At least then it wouldn’t have the truth already there, to be compared against the early hours of that very morning—when he had been greeted with near blinding ebullience. She had been drunk then – too drunk for anything more than cuddles, a few kisses – but her happy smile had seared itself into his memory, scrunched up and brilliant.

But Grigory wasn’t about to point that out. Instead, he quietly exhaled and took those last steps towards her, nodding slowly and bottom lip jutting out as if in thought. “I can,” he agreed, resting his hands on her shoulders. “But why am I want to…”

They slid down the length of her arms warmly before taking her hands. “If you go?”

This close, he could see the glistening tracks left on her cheeks—the smeared makeup, the swollen eyes. He let go of one of those hands to cup her cheek, gently thumbing some of the wetness away. “Party boring,” he murmured, carefully wiping away under an eye. “Food too small, not enough vodka. I’m think of leaving anyway.”

The small, crooked grin he offered, faded, something solemn taking its place. “Rather see you home safe.” Grigory tucked a strand of hair behind the delicate shell of an ear. “Let me?”

Prim was helpless to do anything but stand there and lie.  It felt like she didn’t have any other options.  In truth, she’d like nothing more than to bury her face in his shirtfront and cry.  But, that was undignified and decidedly un-Prim-like, so here she stood trying to pull off the stiff upper lip with limited success. 

The thin veneer of any self-restraint was gone the second he put his hands on her shoulders.  Her head dropped and she gave a slow shake.  Of course he agreed.  Prim glanced up, ready to acknowledge that the party was a much better option when he cut her off.  ”But why am I want to… if you go?”

Oh, that was just… (later, Primrose would undoubtedly blame her hysterics in the moment on adrenaline and mortification).  Her eyes stung as she bit back her smile, leaning her cheek into his hand.  His hands were obviously magic in their own right because Prim was never like this.  She never wanted to be touched.  But with Grigory, it was an entirely different story.

He was just warm and comforting even the roughness of his palm made her feel more at ease.  When the pad of his thumb circled under her eye and he indicated the party was boring anyway, Prim couldn’t help but chuckle.  “This is nothing,” Prim replied weakly, though she attempted to smile… not before sniffing a little, “imagine Christmas.”  It seemed the more important the occasion, the smaller the food got and the less variation in spirits available.  The second bit hardly bothered her, but she could see it being a problem for someone who actually drank. (After last night one could argue she was someone who actually drank). 

As her resolve melted away, Prim didn’t really want him to go anyway.  Letting a deep breath out of her nose, Primrose summoned all the courage she required. “Okay,” a long pause.  She didn’t know where her parents were, she didn’t know if they were home already – if they were waiting for her.  Did her sisters leave as well? 

It was a huge gamble., but what did she have to lose? “Can we go to your flat?” she asked quickly, “… I… my family,” she explained with a tiny, apologetic shrug.  She just didn’t want to deal with them at the moment – she couldn’t handle them.  “Please?”

Grigory made a face as he did as she said: imagine Christmas. God, that sounded horrible. Hardly anyone knew how to celebrate properly over here, it seemed. Weren’t these people supposed to be rich?

He beamed when Prim gave in.

Her request made him hesitate, but only for a beat; tomorrow was Sunday. Irina would sleep over at Colin’s and stay there for at least breakfast—maybe even well into the afternoon. There would be no awkward introductions unless she came back early, and Grigory doubted that she would. Whatever happened tonight – or wouldn’t – they would at least not have to worry about that.

He smiled again—softly this time, but one that crinkled the corners of those big brown eyes anyway, warming his gaze even more. Still cupping her face, he leaned in and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Of course.”

His hand fell away from her cheek. Taking a step back, he offered her his arm—something more lighthearted, yet endlessly affectionate, playing at the corners of his ruddy mouth. “You not eat yet, yes?” he asked as a slender hand tucked itself in the crook of his arm. “I’m make you something.”

Primrose had never considered herself small.  She was generally thin, but had always felt she was rather tall.  Certainly she had been considered too tall to have any professional success in the non-winged horse-sporting arena, a true dilemma when she had been  younger.  Right now, however, she could not be happier to be as she was: she was the perfect height for Grigory to press his lips to her head. 

Bowing her chin, she didn’t imagine it was possible for anyone to enjoy anything more than her right now.  Tipping forward a little, she was surprised when he wasn’t right there to stop her.  Blinking out of that little shock, she realized he had stepped back to offer his arm. 

The little gesture was just… so ridiculous.  She was standing there, sure as anything a mess, and he even bothered to do it?  She shook her head with a little laugh, not even hesitating to take it.  “Such a gentleman,” she praised and tucked her hand in his elbow like she’d been taught since she was young.  Seldom did she take the arm of someone like Grigory, though.  He was just so stable, solid.  There was a kind of certainty with him that Prim couldn’t put a name to yet. 

Her head turned slowly as what he started to say fully sunk in, however.  “Make me something?” she repeated, dumbfounded.  It was something that hadn’t ever crossed her mind.  “You know how to cook?” she marveled, as though he had just revealed he was capable of domesticating a dragon.  For Prim, that seemed just as likely an accomplishment for her as cooking a decent meal. 

At Prim’s compliment, Grigory’s chest puffed up a little in pride. At her surprise, however–

Brows furrowed, those warm brown eyes beneath them squinting as they tried to gauge whether or not she was joking—if her surprise had been at the idea of him, specifically, being able to cook, or something else; even if there was no way for her to know about all the borscht and pelmeni he made for Beast Division himself, or that he was the one who cooked enough for leftovers at home, a part of him threatened to be offended. He was a good son, one who made both mama and Mother Russia proud. Of course he knew how to cook!

But there was nothing in her eyes except awe, and so he found his own widening almost comically, visibly staggered by the idea that– “You not?” Gasp! “How you eat?” How did she live? Those same Russian brows knitted into a stern look. “Takeout bad for you, Prim,” he chided, like she didn’t live in a three-story mansion and almost surely had an elf or two at her beck and call. “Can’t have always. No way to live.”

But even as he said this, a small curl to his lips threatened to tug them into a proper grin. Grigory looked up and sighed, as if that might keep it at bay. “Now I’m have no choice,” he said, shaking his head. He tucked Prim’s hand into his arm even more securely and let his hand rest over hers. “I feed you, show you real food.”

From him, it wasn’t an unusual offer; after all, he cooked for friends and family all the time. He might not be a five-star chef, but when he cooked, he tried his best, and the results were hearty and good, solid stuff you knew would do the job. You might feel a little rueful about eating so much afterwards, but for the most part you didn’t. He liked that, being able to do that for them. There was a sense of pride to be derived from it just as much as it was an expression of affection, and he was no exception.

Prim, though – they weren’t friends, exactly, but Grigory… liked her. A lot. There was just something about her – the way her eyes lit up when she talked about her horses, how her cheeks bunched up as she gave him that wide, awkward smile – and it was enough to have him looking up hopefully at nearly every sound and voice to come within earshot. Just now it had had him half-growling at a drunk werewolf. If he hadn’t already known he liked her before…

Well. If he hadn’t known then, he did now.

His smile faded some, but the warmth of it shifted to his eyes rather than leave them. “Ready? We go now.”

She was. Grigory’s hand gave hers a small squeeze, and then…


crack


The hall was empty once more.