[ quentin doesn't remember the last time he was home. he's lost track of how many years it's been, all of them and all the places he's been blurring together in some inconclusive narrative. he's not even sure he can call this place home anymore. that's the side-effect of wandering, perhaps: there's really no such thing as roots anymore.
but with eternity laid out at his feet, however unwillingly, one can't expect him just to sit quietly. he can't let himself grow brittle and gray like everything else. quentin collins might have his secrets and skeletons - and what collins doesn't - but he won't let himself be shoved in the closets of collinwood. better to separate himself from it entirely than be swallowed whole.
but when the mood strikes him to pop in, as it sometimes does, maybe it is like he never left. maybe he does know the hallways and the abandoned wings like the back of his hand. maybe, with the flickering lights inside and the gray skies out, familiarity can be comforting. maybe. ]
[ Lila Kyle does not ponder about how long it has been since she was last at home. There is no home to go back to — no pale yellow nursery, no manicured lawn, (no dead things in the driveway, smudges and smears, all red and black in the noonday sun). There's no Brad either and no baby left in her belly. Just a tumor that doesn't wither or grows, that neither lives nor dies but demands to be fed. A hole bore straight through the very center of Lila; a hole with no bottom, no beginning or end, making her a void, a black space, from head to toe.
She forgets this, of course, for the sake of the baby. (The baby that isn't a baby at all, but the memory of one, the hope of one, all shriveled and small like the rock that sags down her gut; empty as she is.) She imagines that the world has not ended, that the people haven't died and that society has broken like waves dissolving into mist against the virus' stony shore. A monster or a corpse, those are the only choices left, though Lila pretends there is another way.
The house with the pale yellow nursery and the gory drive is long gone, abandoned and given back to the earth, but Lila imagines this place with its stone walls and its wooden rafters and candlelit windows is that house, is that home. (Lila's home. Here at Collinsport.)
As to where the family has gone, the one that gave this town its name — who can say? Those that haven't been ground into bonemeal are given over to the virus and lose themselves to the flocks of the Twelve. But not Lila, who wanders aimlessly through the overgrown garden in a nightgown she found in the master bath. No, her blood is special and so she remains.
At the sound of the gate creaking upon its rusted hinges she turns, her voice light. (Honey, I'm home.) ]
Brad— Brad, is that you? [ One would never guess from the tone of her voice that the world had come to an end. ]
[ the fact that it's deserted comes as a shock. the collinwood of quentin's memories has caretakers, people putting in blood and sweat for the estate's upkeep. periods of negligence, of course, but the good-hearted and meticulous family of 1850 and 1972 seem to have disappeared without a trace. the town doesn't miss them. the town is too quiet and slow and nearly empty to miss them, but quentin doesn't think about it. the world itself is physically there, isn't it? and it will be there, and as long as it's there, he'll be there as well. whatever affects them doesn't affect him.
and all of his attachments in collinsport, maine left him long ago. perhaps the witch still lives, perhaps not; either way, quentin knows better than to go seek her out. knows better than to find her and let her put a collar on him like some lapdog. a century of that was too much, and having an acquaintance isn't worth giving up the sweetness of the freedom he has now.
he hears her first, voice trailing through a window mysteriously left open and rusted to the point where it won't shut anymore - the water stains on the carpet show the majority of the damage. and then he turns and sees her and his feet carry him backwards and for a moment he can't breathe.
she isn't kitty. that he knows. she isn't kitty or that sweet governess or even the woman whose portrait still hangs in the drawing room, crooked and paint peeling. but it's still with trepidation that quentin approaches the window once more. he leans forward, allowing his head and shoulders to hang outside, and he holds the windowpane up with one hand should the rust disappear and it come crashing down on him. ]
[ He returns home and though some of the faces change — the family, the gardener, the folks in town (those that refuse to remember him and those that refuse to forget) — the building remains very much the same. It's a testament, if not to the family that built it and the name that supports it, then to the very rock out of which it was fashioned. Some of decor evolves and some of it remains stubbornly rooted in the past: a lamp disappears from one room only to reappear in another a few decades later. The photographs on the mantle cycle through one generation and the next but the portraits that hang on in the library and the main hall grow dusty and faded with each passing year.
He returns home and the old gardener has taken sick so the bushes have grown wild and unruly in the yard. There is one less maid and a new nanny — a sweet, pale-skinned girl with brown eyes that laugh even when her mouth doesn't. When Quentin crosses her path, she is in the garden, catching butterflies (with an uncanny ease) with a net. ]
Another Collins? [ she asks without turning, his footfall just within earshot. ]
[ of course he is; he takes it for granted the way he can push through the doors and stroll through like he never left. he'll introduce himself to the new family - as his very own descendent, lest he give all the surprises away - and fall back into the fold with perhaps a bit to much ease, wooing them with stories of far-off places and old, old family legends that couldn't possibly be true. he'd think the same if he hadn't been there.
whether they're aware of the supposed curse, he doesn't know. quentin won't ask; it's not a topic to discuss over dinner or in polite company or anywhere, and perhaps they all think it's folly anyway. instead, he stands watching the unfamiliar woman, hands in his pockets, before he makes his way over to her with a lazy gait. ]
Quentin Collins, as a matter of fact. Don't think I've seen you before.
[ The plan had been this: she'd go to dinner, she'd make conversation, then she'd come home and call her parents irregardless of timezones, if only to announce — definitively and with a practiced finality — that the engagement to Roger Collins was off. (Thanks but no thanks; please don't do that again.) To her credit, she manages the first two parts with a modicum of grace (though Roger might argue that the conversation had left something to be desired). When Ariadne gets home, however, she doesn't manage that phone call, just sits on the end of her bed and stares combatively at her mobile for ten minutes before getting up to wash her face and call it a night.
She takes the phone with her when she slips in under the sheets, its mute blue light illuminating her corner of the room. Thumbing through her address book she considers contacting the handful of names stored there. Miles (a disaster), Cobb (wouldn't answer), Yusuf (what time was it there, anyway?). None of them seem particularly appealing except Arthur, whom she assumes would laugh, then judge, then fail to say anything helpful (albeit in a friendly sort of way).
It's quarter to midnight when she texts Roger — not to be polite, but simply to text him. Maybe, she reasons to herself, this is just another test; but she hasn't figured out the hows or the whys. ]
SENT: 11.47PM So. Scale of 1 to 10. How bad?
[ She doesn't expect him to answer. Or if he does, be honest about it. ]
[ it's a quick response, yes, but in his mind, the night is still young. of course, roger has no idea of the nightlife in france. he hasn't been there terribly long, and his methods of communication are still limited by the translator on his phone (or even an english-french dictionary. nothing wrong with doing this old-school, after all). he's sitting at the bar of his hotel when he gets the text, and he's already answered by the time he reacts to it. a mixture of confusion (he might not be drunk quite yet, but some of the stuff's already made it up to his head), realization, and then - of course - utter and complete cockiness as he realizes that there's something compelling enough about him that she'd contact him again.
that was usually how it worked. it's good to know he's still got it.
he throws back a celebratory drink of his brandy, enough to finish it off, and then, after a beat, grabs the phone off of the counter. ]
SENT: 11:49 PM Might need a second shot to be a good judge of that.
sometimes, barnabas finds this comforting. it gives him the opportunity to be left alone with his own thoughts, a luxury rarely afforded with the never-ending chaos that seems to fall upon the family. tonight, however, the calmness is disorienting. unnerving. perhaps he's gotten so use to the ghosts and spells and curses that a moment of solitude only serves to dangle him above some other pit of danger. and if not, he can't shake the feeling, regardless. it leaves him pacing about the grounds, stalking and stirring the ever-growing sense of worry. ]
[ victoria has never seen the ghost when she hasn't been indoors. nowhere near beaches or in the rain, despite the water imagery the woman conjured. she's never learned the ghost's name - only ever heard her speak four words in the timespan that she's "known her." and every time she materializes with an echoing "help me," it's a remainder of maggie evans that stirs inside of victoria, that follows the specter down dark corridors like something out of a gothic novel.
it won't happen today. it's a simple resolution that victoria's surprised took so long to come to her. spend the day out. out of the house, out by the docks, by the waves, downtown: anywhere. she's been cooped up too long to let herself fall into any reclusive habits. and as long as there are no ghosts plunging from chandeliers or strange voices coming down the hallways, maybe she can actually let her guard down. for once, maybe she can let herself be victoria.
she doesn't even know how far she's walked before she winds up on one of the docks on the far side of town. if she turns her head, she can see the spires of collinwood in the trees on that looming hill, but she chooses not to look. instead, after a moment's hesitation, she sits down on the edge of the dock, feet dangling inches from the water. ]
[ Much to Nigel's disappointment, what comes after dying is simply death — no more and no less. There is no ascension, no heavenly host and silver city; no angels, no cherubs, no harkening of trumpets. There is no hellfire either, no damnation for what he had done (father dead, mother dead, their bodies buried under the floorboards and mother's head cleanly severed at the neck). There is simply more life, insubstantial now but as tedious as ever — the sound muted as if through cottoned ears and all the color drained out of it, like back of Nigel's skull bleeding out all over the train tracks and Jack's clean cotton pants.
It is, needless to say, endlessly disappointing and so Nigel spends a great deal of time neither here nor there. The banality of his worldly limbo begins to smother him if he pays too close attention, but there is nothing else to hold his focus now that his fingers slip through anything they hope to grasp.
He leaves England and spends a long time under the sea, walking the abysmal ocean floor — a palely glowing wisp illuminating all the dark places, only passingly taken by the strange fauna of the deep. When he finally emerges (months? years later?) he has no concept of where he has made landfall. ]
Pardon. [ He's still wearing the clothes that he died in: pajamas and bare feet, blood staining his shirt and the pale rise of his shoulder, indelible now in his death. Nigel would take note of this as he peers over the young woman's shoulder down to the waters below, but being a thing only half-there, he casts no reflection. ] Might I ask where this is?
[ she doesn't hear footsteps behind her. she isn't lost in any thoughts in particular, perhaps only in the peacefulness, but she jolts when she hears him speak. victoria is quick to recover; there's no gasp and no nervous laughter afterward. just a jolt, and then a quick look over her shoulder.
instantly, her sight is drawn to the bloodstains which decorate him. she tries not to stare, but it's something that can't be helped. her eyes flick to his face before she looks away. ]
Collinsport.
[ victoria's gone tense, her fingers wrapped around each other so tight that they're turning pale. she doesn't look back at the man. she keeps her face blank and tells herself that she's gotten out of worse before - that he could be in trouble, not a danger to her - to just be polite and keep to herself and just don't give him a reason to give you any trouble.
she doesn't pay any mind to his lack of reflection, eyes stuck on her lap as her fingers twitch, the only thing betraying her nerves. ]
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but with eternity laid out at his feet, however unwillingly, one can't expect him just to sit quietly. he can't let himself grow brittle and gray like everything else. quentin collins might have his secrets and skeletons - and what collins doesn't - but he won't let himself be shoved in the closets of collinwood. better to separate himself from it entirely than be swallowed whole.
but when the mood strikes him to pop in, as it sometimes does, maybe it is like he never left. maybe he does know the hallways and the abandoned wings like the back of his hand. maybe, with the flickering lights inside and the gray skies out, familiarity can be comforting. maybe. ]
no subject
She forgets this, of course, for the sake of the baby. (The baby that isn't a baby at all, but the memory of one, the hope of one, all shriveled and small like the rock that sags down her gut; empty as she is.) She imagines that the world has not ended, that the people haven't died and that society has broken like waves dissolving into mist against the virus' stony shore. A monster or a corpse, those are the only choices left, though Lila pretends there is another way.
The house with the pale yellow nursery and the gory drive is long gone, abandoned and given back to the earth, but Lila imagines this place with its stone walls and its wooden rafters and candlelit windows is that house, is that home. (Lila's home. Here at Collinsport.)
As to where the family has gone, the one that gave this town its name — who can say? Those that haven't been ground into bonemeal are given over to the virus and lose themselves to the flocks of the Twelve. But not Lila, who wanders aimlessly through the overgrown garden in a nightgown she found in the master bath. No, her blood is special and so she remains.
At the sound of the gate creaking upon its rusted hinges she turns, her voice light. (Honey, I'm home.) ]
Brad— Brad, is that you? [ One would never guess from the tone of her voice that the world had come to an end. ]
no subject
and all of his attachments in collinsport, maine left him long ago. perhaps the witch still lives, perhaps not; either way, quentin knows better than to go seek her out. knows better than to find her and let her put a collar on him like some lapdog. a century of that was too much, and having an acquaintance isn't worth giving up the sweetness of the freedom he has now.
he hears her first, voice trailing through a window mysteriously left open and rusted to the point where it won't shut anymore - the water stains on the carpet show the majority of the damage. and then he turns and sees her and his feet carry him backwards and for a moment he can't breathe.
she isn't kitty. that he knows. she isn't kitty or that sweet governess or even the woman whose portrait still hangs in the drawing room, crooked and paint peeling. but it's still with trepidation that quentin approaches the window once more. he leans forward, allowing his head and shoulders to hang outside, and he holds the windowpane up with one hand should the rust disappear and it come crashing down on him. ]
What're you doing out there?
no subject
He returns home and the old gardener has taken sick so the bushes have grown wild and unruly in the yard. There is one less maid and a new nanny — a sweet, pale-skinned girl with brown eyes that laugh even when her mouth doesn't. When Quentin crosses her path, she is in the garden, catching butterflies (with an uncanny ease) with a net. ]
Another Collins? [ she asks without turning, his footfall just within earshot. ]
no subject
[ of course he is; he takes it for granted the way he can push through the doors and stroll through like he never left. he'll introduce himself to the new family - as his very own descendent, lest he give all the surprises away - and fall back into the fold with perhaps a bit to much ease, wooing them with stories of far-off places and old, old family legends that couldn't possibly be true. he'd think the same if he hadn't been there.
whether they're aware of the supposed curse, he doesn't know. quentin won't ask; it's not a topic to discuss over dinner or in polite company or anywhere, and perhaps they all think it's folly anyway. instead, he stands watching the unfamiliar woman, hands in his pockets, before he makes his way over to her with a lazy gait. ]
Quentin Collins, as a matter of fact. Don't think I've seen you before.
no subject
She takes the phone with her when she slips in under the sheets, its mute blue light illuminating her corner of the room. Thumbing through her address book she considers contacting the handful of names stored there. Miles (a disaster), Cobb (wouldn't answer), Yusuf (what time was it there, anyway?). None of them seem particularly appealing except Arthur, whom she assumes would laugh, then judge, then fail to say anything helpful (albeit in a friendly sort of way).
It's quarter to midnight when she texts Roger — not to be polite, but simply to text him. Maybe, she reasons to herself, this is just another test; but she hasn't figured out the hows or the whys. ]
[ She doesn't expect him to answer. Or if he does, be honest about it. ]
no subject
Why? You worried?
[ it's a quick response, yes, but in his mind, the night is still young. of course, roger has no idea of the nightlife in france. he hasn't been there terribly long, and his methods of communication are still limited by the translator on his phone (or even an english-french dictionary. nothing wrong with doing this old-school, after all). he's sitting at the bar of his hotel when he gets the text, and he's already answered by the time he reacts to it. a mixture of confusion (he might not be drunk quite yet, but some of the stuff's already made it up to his head), realization, and then - of course - utter and complete cockiness as he realizes that there's something compelling enough about him that she'd contact him again.
that was usually how it worked. it's good to know he's still got it.
he throws back a celebratory drink of his brandy, enough to finish it off, and then, after a beat, grabs the phone off of the counter. ]
SENT: 11:49 PM
Might need a second shot to be a good judge of that.
no subject
sometimes, barnabas finds this comforting. it gives him the opportunity to be left alone with his own thoughts, a luxury rarely afforded with the never-ending chaos that seems to fall upon the family. tonight, however, the calmness is disorienting. unnerving. perhaps he's gotten so use to the ghosts and spells and curses that a moment of solitude only serves to dangle him above some other pit of danger. and if not, he can't shake the feeling, regardless. it leaves him pacing about the grounds, stalking and stirring the ever-growing sense of worry. ]
no subject
it won't happen today. it's a simple resolution that victoria's surprised took so long to come to her. spend the day out. out of the house, out by the docks, by the waves, downtown: anywhere. she's been cooped up too long to let herself fall into any reclusive habits. and as long as there are no ghosts plunging from chandeliers or strange voices coming down the hallways, maybe she can actually let her guard down. for once, maybe she can let herself be victoria.
she doesn't even know how far she's walked before she winds up on one of the docks on the far side of town. if she turns her head, she can see the spires of collinwood in the trees on that looming hill, but she chooses not to look. instead, after a moment's hesitation, she sits down on the edge of the dock, feet dangling inches from the water. ]
no subject
It is, needless to say, endlessly disappointing and so Nigel spends a great deal of time neither here nor there. The banality of his worldly limbo begins to smother him if he pays too close attention, but there is nothing else to hold his focus now that his fingers slip through anything they hope to grasp.
He leaves England and spends a long time under the sea, walking the abysmal ocean floor — a palely glowing wisp illuminating all the dark places, only passingly taken by the strange fauna of the deep. When he finally emerges (months? years later?) he has no concept of where he has made landfall. ]
Pardon. [ He's still wearing the clothes that he died in: pajamas and bare feet, blood staining his shirt and the pale rise of his shoulder, indelible now in his death. Nigel would take note of this as he peers over the young woman's shoulder down to the waters below, but being a thing only half-there, he casts no reflection. ] Might I ask where this is?
no subject
instantly, her sight is drawn to the bloodstains which decorate him. she tries not to stare, but it's something that can't be helped. her eyes flick to his face before she looks away. ]
Collinsport.
[ victoria's gone tense, her fingers wrapped around each other so tight that they're turning pale. she doesn't look back at the man. she keeps her face blank and tells herself that she's gotten out of worse before - that he could be in trouble, not a danger to her - to just be polite and keep to herself and just don't give him a reason to give you any trouble.
she doesn't pay any mind to his lack of reflection, eyes stuck on her lap as her fingers twitch, the only thing betraying her nerves. ]
Did you miss the sign?