One of Bailie's daymares.
It's the last ten minutes of the last class of the day - Bailie's favourite for daydreaming, and scrawling all over her notebooks things clearly not related to... Etiquette.
As the pretty young girl stares blankly down at one of the numerous intricate lovehearts that decorate her page, the two names staring back at her start to swirl around in her, until now, blank mind.
"Sefton and Bailie."
An image emerges, of the two dressed in Fort's colours, dining at the grand old wooden table that graces the Holder's quarters. They are taking breakfast, with an array of imported fruits on display, complemented by freshly baked breads, pastries, and assorted pitchers of juice and milk.
Next to her empty plate, the same servingware from her childhood, rests shining silver cutlery. As her dark eyes slip over one shining silver spoon, the wear an tear of years upon years of Blood dining here becomes noticeable; she is suddenly aware of the age of the table, which has seen Interval turn into Pass turn into Interval, many times over. Her eyes trail upwards from her plate, across the myriad breakfast choices to her husband - Sefton.
He is older too, his face worn with years spent toiling to earn his position at this table. Grey speckles his hair, still shaggily cut to try and maintain the allure of his youth. For breakfast, he's chosen two pastries - and to drink, some brandy.
The sting of realisation as Bailie settles her eyes on the amber liquid in her husband's glass hits her in a wave; and suddenly, it's all gone.
She's staring at her notebook again.
As the pretty young girl stares blankly down at one of the numerous intricate lovehearts that decorate her page, the two names staring back at her start to swirl around in her, until now, blank mind.
"Sefton and Bailie."
An image emerges, of the two dressed in Fort's colours, dining at the grand old wooden table that graces the Holder's quarters. They are taking breakfast, with an array of imported fruits on display, complemented by freshly baked breads, pastries, and assorted pitchers of juice and milk.
Next to her empty plate, the same servingware from her childhood, rests shining silver cutlery. As her dark eyes slip over one shining silver spoon, the wear an tear of years upon years of Blood dining here becomes noticeable; she is suddenly aware of the age of the table, which has seen Interval turn into Pass turn into Interval, many times over. Her eyes trail upwards from her plate, across the myriad breakfast choices to her husband - Sefton.
He is older too, his face worn with years spent toiling to earn his position at this table. Grey speckles his hair, still shaggily cut to try and maintain the allure of his youth. For breakfast, he's chosen two pastries - and to drink, some brandy.
The sting of realisation as Bailie settles her eyes on the amber liquid in her husband's glass hits her in a wave; and suddenly, it's all gone.
She's staring at her notebook again.