entrancelogs | {open} pick it all up and start again

Entry tags:

{open} pick it all up and start again

Who: Abigail Hobbs & you
Where: Mansion & surrounding grounds
When: Through the end of July; specify in threads please
Rating: none yet (will add as needed)
Summary: A catch-all post for non-event interactions.
The Story:

{this is a general prompt: if you want to work out a more specific scenario, hit me up on plurk}

If someone had told her in advance how quickly she would get used to this place, Abigail wouldn't have believed them. But the fact of the matter is, unlike most of the people here, she really doesn't have anything she misses, anything she's eager to get back to. Sure, some of the stuff that happens in Wonderland is alarming: transformations, puppy plagues, murders. But there were plenty of murders back home, and at least here she is afforded a comfortable anonymity. She can go where she wants without asking permission, and there is no point worrying about her future. Time is suspended, and the looming prospect of the rest of her life with it.

There is a just noticeable loosening in her personality. She is still reserved, still cold and suspicious by most people's standards, but her hostility is not quite so close to the surface. Abigail gets in the habit of walking every day, through the mansion and around the grounds, lost in her own thoughts. She has plenty to work through, after all.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Abigail loves the library. She's picked up on the fact that, like all other parts of the mansion, it looks different every time she comes to visit it. Once, it rather resembled the rather dismal high school library she remembers so well. Another time, it could have been drawn straight out of a Disney film. At the moment it is not quite so ornamental, but it is just as capacious and brightly-lit.

No matter what form it takes, though, that library has always been one of her favorite places to pass the time. Usually, she finds it unoccupied (or else the architecture adjusts itself to accommodate her desire for solitude). Today, however, she's only a few rows in when she sees a woman pulling books off the shelf, switching their order purposefully. Abigail has the sense that the woman didn't hear her coming; she seems very preoccupied with what she's doing.

"Need any help?"

The library is an important place in Wonderland and has withstood a number of horrible events, including (but not limited to) Jabberywocky attacks, arson, and Evelyn knocking half of the shelves down on accident. With this in mind, it makes perfect sense that the books would rearrange themselves when they saw fit - that the fiction and non-fiction sections would switch places just to irk her.

Evelyn tries not to be bothered by it, but this is the third time this week she's adjusted the Ancient History texts because for some bloody reason they've moved into alphabetical order by country, rather than chronological order the way they ought to be.

"Hm?"

She turns as she hears someone addressing her, sliding a copy of Tutenkhamen's Treasures back into place (for some reason the book claims that a Howard Carter found the tomb instead of Howard Carnahan, but she can wave it away as a paradox).

"Hallo. I- erm. Yes, ah...I'm just fixing these, the library can be a bit idiosyncratic at times."

Abigail gets the need to stay busy in this place, she really does. She doesn't mean to antagonize, or burst this woman's bubble, but all the same, she has to ask: "What's the point of fixing them, if they're just going to be out of order again by tomorrow?"

At a certain point, you just have to embrace the chaos, don't you? Of course, Abigail knows that that is far easier said than done.

For once, though, she doesn't want to come across as rude, introduces herself before Evie feels obligated to answer what was, essentially, a rhetorical question, "I'm Abigail, by the way."

To be fair, Evelyn normally wouldn't give a single fig about the library's inability to keep things organized, but since these are the textual selections she uses the most in her research she has the niggling feeling that it's doing this just to annoy her. She wrinkles her nose at Thutmosis Vol. III and leaves it on the shelf.

Pushing her falling sleeves back up to her elbows, she makes the executive decision to cut today's rearrangement short in favour of getting to know a new(er) face.

"I'm Evelyn," she offers with a smile. "What brings you to the history section today?"

Abigail is on the cusp of answering Evelyn's polite question with an equally polite answer when something stops her in her tracks. Evelyn. It's an unusual name, particularly with the pronunciation she uses. Abigail doesn't think she's met anyone with that name before, so why does it sound oddly familiar.

As if on cue, her brain delivers the answer: she remembers hearing that name in Will's voice. Will's weary, irritated voice. That is the clue that finally tips her over the line from confusion to understanding. It had been when Will was yelling at that horrible Captain Jack about all his lewd insinuations. He had said (and Abigail, who had felt a twinge of guilt listening in on other people's conversations in the first place, remembers well) that he'd slept with someone named Evelyn.

Abigail, with sudden interest, rather impulsively, asks, "You don't by any chance know someone named Will Graham, do you?"

Edited 2014-07-10 02:03 (UTC)

There are very few subjects that Evelyn is unprepared to talk about, having spent enough time in Wonderland to skip comfortably between submarines, space stations, Roman history and her pathetic attempts at baking. She finds it remarkably easy to make friends and find common ground despite her obvious disadvantage of being temporally displaced by comparison.

She finds Abigail's question unusual, for one. Secondly, belatedly, it occurs to Evelyn that she is likely dealing with an inquiring mind concerning Will Graham's recent network outburst. Ideally, she would like to sweep all of that into a cupboard marked Private, but she doesn't have the luxury and the girl is waiting for an answer.

Evie blinks.

"...I do, yes."

That hesitation tells Abigail everything she needs to know (or at least, she thinks it does). There is no doubt in her mind, now, that her assumption is indeed accurate. After all, this Jack guy is apparently the sort of trashy, no-good person who would go on the network and maliciously spread half-truths and start gossip. Will wouldn't do that. But, well, Abigail gets the sense that an unfortunate, accidental disclosure or two wouldn't be unusual for him. He's not exactly the world's most tactful man.

Which leaves her and Evelyn here, and Abigail under the weight of more unalloyed awkwardness than she has experienced in a long, long time.

"Sorry," she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. It doesn't occur to admit she recognizes Evelyn's name from Will's message to Jack, or even to explain more fully who she is in relation to Will. Instead she just admits, "This is way weirder than I would've thought it would be."

She hadn't bothered to wonder how she would react if Hannibal or indeed Will ever became romantically involved with someone. On the one hand, she wants to be mature and not make it awkward; Abigail knows that she is only a very recent addition to both of their lives. On the other hand... she's not sure how exactly to do that.

That hesitation was Evelyn trying to determine whether or not she wanted to open this particular can of worms, and it appears that it has already been opened for her, rather violently, and the worms are bloody everywhere. If Abigail thinks it is awkward, she ought to take a brief moment to put on Evelyn's shoes and soak in the lukewarm bath that is Extreme Embarrassment.

"Um."

Evelyn chews her lip for a moment, frowning and trying to make something coherent out of Abigail's words. She must know Will - she must be important to Will if she is inquiring about this subject, having recognised Evie's name - but precious little else is available to Evelyn to infer. In the tradition of her maiden name, the Carnahans, Evelyn would normally bombard her with questions: what her relation is, why she seems so keen on the subject, et cetera.

All she can manage (without thinking about it) is:

"...weirder than you thought what would be?"

"Meeting someone who-" she begins, but really, that sentence was going nowhere she wanted it to go. Abigail changes tack. "Meeting a, uh. Good friend of Will's."

If Evie had been in any doubt of what Abigail assumes, the tone in which she says 'good friend' should leave her in no doubt. There's no disrespect in her voice, but she obviously doesn't think they are bosom buddies - she thinks they're bosom buddies.

Belatedly, though the fog of her own feeling of mingled discomfort and amusement, Abigail's logic starts to catch up. Evie hadn't reacted to the name Abigail, hasn't guessed who she might be. Probably, Abigail thinks, Will hadn't brought her up. She doesn't blame him. Not exactly the most romantic of small talk, mentioning one co-half-adopted a serial killer's teenage daughter.

"Will's one of my guardians," she explains with a little shrug. The word still feels strange in her mouth, formal and esoteric. All the same, it is technically correct. "Back home. I don't think anyone really cares, here."

It is really, really best not to dwell on this subject. It is best to put it away and pretend that Abigail hasn't said anything about Will at all, to make light conversation about something that does not involve the intimate details of Evelyn's personal life. It is for this exact reason she didn't want anything broadcasted, Will.

"Oh."

She pointedly recalls a conversation wherein Will lamented that he might not get to have children, but apparently he has an adopted daughter. Of sorts. Evelyn nods and considers asking a more probing query before thinking better of it, taking damage control into her own hands, and making a sincere effort to handle the situation like an adult.

"Well, they ought to care," she replies stoically, "Family is difficult to come by, here, and it's a pleasure to meet you. I've just put a kettle on, if you'd like some tea?"

"Sure."

Evelyn's complete lack of response seems a pretty obvious cue that she definitely does not want to talk about her and Will. Abigail can't remember Will's exact wording, come to think of it. She'd been operating under the understanding that the two of them had some kind of ongoing thing, but now it crosses her mind that it might have been a one-time occurrence -- something far more casual. Might she have made trouble for Will, talking to Evelyn like this?

Oh, well. Even if she has, the damage is done. A tiny part of Abigail, that she doesn't want to acknowledge at the moment, hopes there is a small degree of trouble. It'll be useful, to see how he reacts. (Even now, when she is more relaxed around him and about him than she has ever been before, Abigail is perpetually testing boundaries, wary, waiting for the other shoe to drop.)

"Have you got any family here?"

It's a natural enough transition. Now that their conversation is starting to normalize, Abigail finds herself feeling intensely nosy about Evelyn.

Admittedly, Evelyn and Will's relationship took a new and interesting turn as of this past week, but she isn't the sort of person to kiss and tell. The ongoing thing is still ongoing, that she knows of. Perhaps it is popular in the twenty-first century for people to divulge the sordid details of their sexual exploits, but Evelyn hardly plans on assuming that mantle of vulnerability in front of a teenager.

"I used to," she volunteers, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. "My older brother was here for several months, a year or so ago."

With all the gentility of an upper-crust hostess, Evelyn leads Abigail around the furthest shelf to a pair of desks, one of them considerably more used than the other. Mark Meltzer's files spiral waist-high from the floor-up, a thin layer of dust coats the papers over his workspace. Evelyn's desk is marginally tidier, but only just. She hadn't the heart to move his things after he disappeared.

On a little electric stove in the corner, a kettle begins to whistle. It prompts her to gather cups and saucers before steeping the leaves and turning back to Abigail.

"When did you arrive?"

Abigail takes in the details - the dusty desk, the well-maintained one, the setup that Evelyn has made for herself.

"Two months."

It's a little frightening to her how quickly the time has flown by. So easy to lose track, now that she understands the way things work around here, the logistics. She isn't getting any older, time isn't passing in the real world (she still thinks of it as the real world, not just her world) without her. It's like a very long, very mundane dream, really.

"You must've been here a really long time..."

Abigail runs a fingertip through the dust on top of one of the manila folders sitting atop the desk nearest to her.

Evelyn laughs, but the sound comes out a more humourless than she had intended. To make up for it, she slides a cup across her desk toward Abigail and sets a dish with sugar and lemon just next to it.

"Let's see now, in about six days it'll be...three years."

Saying it out loud makes something in her stutter, a gear missing a tooth wobbles out of place for just a moment before clicking back. Three years. A third of her years married. A tenth of her lifetime. Evelyn reaches for her own tea and stirs it absently, setting the spoon aside and taking a sip.

It's too hot, but the burning is the sharp jolt she needed to remind herself not to dwell on how long it's been. So many people have come and gone, footprints in sand being washed away by the tide. She casts a glance to Mark's desk before speaking again.

"A very long time."

Abigail betrays her surprise in stillness rather than anything more overt ;all the same, she is surprised - shocked, even. Three years. Abigail does the same kind of qualitative calculations as Evelyn, but measures on the scale of her own life. She is still young enough that three years sounds endless. Three years ago she was fourteen years old; she was in sophomore year. Her father hadn't even started teaching her to hunt, yet.

Even if they don't age here, hearing from someone who has been around that long is disconcerting to Abigail. What if she is here three years? Or five? She's been enjoying her time here, generally. Enjoying the freedom from responsibility and notoriety. But the real possibility of being here indefinitely hits her then, and she realizes she doesn't want to. She wants to get back to her own world, her own life - to make something of it. What, she doesn't quite know yet. But something.

Holding the teacup absently, Abigail sits down heavily in the dusty chair at the unused desk.

"Wow." That's about all Abigail can manage, right now.

Evelyn realises how utterly dreadful it must sound out loud to someone who hasn't been in Wonderland all that long. Just do what you can to survive. A cloud of dust floats up from the cushion on Mark's chair as Abigail seats herself, the idea that she might be trapped here indefinitely sending a shock of hopelessness through her (no doubt). Evelyn hastens to make amends.

"It isn't- This is impermanent," she points out, setting down her cup for emphasis. "We aren't here forever, I've gone home multiple times. I just...have also come back here multiple times."

Two, to be exact. The first disappearance allowed her a day or so to bring the dead back to life and potentially doom the world in the process. The second leave of Wonderland lasted nine years. Now that's a story.

She recognizes that Evelyn is trying to cheer her up, which seems odd to Abigail. It's her who has been stuck here so long. Evelyn ought to be the one in need of cheering. But instead she is worrying about Abigail and her feeling - this girl she only just met. Interesting.

It does comfort her some, to know that Evelyn has left within those three years. The thought of being pulled back to Wonderland again and again is horrifying in its own way, but the possibility of it seems more removed somehow. Abigail smiles, just a little, takes another drink of her tea.

Abigail's curiosity about Evelyn is, for the moment, stronger than her thought that just maybe, the question she's about to ask will make Evelyn feel worse about her captivity. "So where's home?" She's guessing England, at the very least, based on the accent.

Flopping down into her own seat at the other desk, Evelyn blows a stray curl out of her eyes and gives Abigail a crooked smile. The expression doesn't falter this time when she reaches for her tea and waves the steam away with her hand, processing Abigail's query and wondering how many times she's answered this question before.

"England, originally. I grew up at Mentmore Towers, it's- um. An estate over a village in Buckinghamshire."

She isn't entirely sure if that means anything at all to Abigail, as knowledge of the English peerage rarely extends to Americans whose surnames are not Waldorf, Astor, Carnegie or Rockefeller. Probably best to move onto more exciting information.

"But my mother was Egyptian, so we spent summers and holidays in Cairo. It inspired me to study archaeology as a profession."

Abigail doesn't bat an eye at any of that. Evelyn's hunch is correct: it's pretty much all Downton Abbey to Abigail.

"What, like pyramids and mummies?" It's such an outlandish profession, to Abigail. Then again, outlandish is somehow the norm in this place. No one is just a teacher, or just a baker - they're all teacher-who-solves-crimes and baker-who-also-solves-crimes, or monster-hunters, or goodness knows what else.

"Pyramids and mummies," she affirms, smiling into her teacup. "And reading ancient Egyptian, studying architecture and pharaonic power, excavating temples and mastaba tombs."

And resurrecting the dead from the afterlife. It is Evelyn's understanding that the fields of both archaeology and Egyptology (while intertwined, the former can be mutually exclusive from the latter depending on the concentration) are somewhat more difficult to break into in the future, that they are not as highly regarded, and that the studies are relics of a bygone era.

Her era.

"I suppose that, for context, I should tell you that I'm from 1935."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

{open} pick it all up and start again

for evelyn; july 8

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject