So, here it is. I'm starting it now: 3:27. Ready, go.
ETA: This is somewhat long. I'm doing it in parts. Let's see if I can beat the sun.
i. let nothing you dismay
It was well into Advent. When Christian had happened to glance up at the altar last Sunday, more than half of the candles had been lit. There was a definite something of Christmas in the air and it was starting to catch hold of everyone. They saw the shine and sparkle of Christmas, the promise of the New Year.
Christian saw the Old Year dying.
Not that he was particularly attached to it. It hadn't been a terribly good year after all. Pulled back here, same scenery, same classrooms, same stifling house, different father. He snorted, an unattractive gesture he indulged in when he believed no one to be around. Father.
Christian looked out the window, onto the grounds. There had been some snow, some weeks ago, but now the ground was cold and hard, and the icy-grey chill of the sky promised a sharp, frozen landscape, with no forgiving white to coat it. Christian sighed, and wished it would snow. He wouldn't admit to snow being pretty, exactly, but rather, as he had explained to Thomas on more than one occasion, it had something more to do with it being the proper sort of thing for this time of year. The right kind of cold, so to speak. Christian preferred that the absolute cold come in January.
Unsurprisingly, Christian preferred many things. What he most vehemently did not prefer was sitting on an extraordinarily uncomfortable chair outside of Carlyle's study.
Carlyle. Christian hated the name. He tried to avoid using it when he could, substituting 'sir', or a sullen nod. It was his only option, though, as 'Mr. Palver' would imply some kinship. 'Uncle', of course, was anathema. And 'Father'-
Christian's musings were cut short as the door before him swung open. He slouched more forbiddingly into his chair, knowing that the impeccable man before him would find his presentation distasteful, to say the least. Shoes dirty and scuffed, coat still on, but only half buttoned, scarf askew, hair mussed. Christian took a certain glee in knowing, as Carlyle certainly could not, exactly how he had come by his present appearance.
All smiles (as usual, thought Christian, wanting to be sick), Carlyle greeted him with a hearty handshake and pulled him into the study.
The study had been his father's once, Christian knew. But somehow he couldn't remember at all what it had been like before, or even if had been all that remarkably different. He thought the Morris print might have been one of Carlyle's introductions, but it scarcely mattered. What mattered was that Carlyle was here now, that it was his office, and that like some kind of poison gas had spread himself over the entire room.
Thinking on young men drowning on the fields of France, Christian took a deep breath before stepping inside.
"Now don't worry yourself." Carlyle said. His voice was supposedly calming. "It's nothing serious."
It was never anything serious.