Viette #5: Changes and a feeling

The room to which Viette was led was familiar to her. She had stayed in the same airy guest room on the second floor anytime she visited in the past, though, since she hadn't been around for three years, she noticed a few modifications. The walls had been repapered to match the new trends of softer colors, and the deep burgundy curtains she remembered had been swapped for sets of lightweight, floral-pattern drapes. There was also a new lamp in the corner with a pale purple shade. Viette liked the changes.

A servant brought in the last of Viette's three bags -- her trunk had gone on with Henry to Grandpa Peter's home -- and ducked out quickly. No doubt, she wanted to have as little as possible to do with the estranged daughter of Mrs. Delia Roche-Doherty. It was an odd arrangement, indeed, that Viette came to spend time here with her mother. But that's what Henry and Delia had decided on sixteen years ago, just after Viette's first birthday.

Viette walked over to the big, floor-length window and tugged back the curtain. Her view had also changed, in a way. The once-overgrown glade she'd been so fond of had been cleared out, and a neat little pond now stood in its place. Viette frowned at this transformation and, with a sigh, she turned away and went to unpack her bags.

A funny feeling began to settle in Viette's stomach as she emptied her luggage. This feeling had been looming over her ever since she answered the door when the messenger called on them in Kavala. When her father had sat down with her at their rickety little kitchen table and told her about Carlotta's sudden death, the feeling had started to creep up on her. As she had packed their things and boarded the plane to London and ridden in Grandpa Peter's car here to the house in Brighton, she'd been ignoring this feeling. But now, as she hung her two black dresses in the wardrobe, Viette couldn't ignore the sinister, strange feeling of foreboding in her chest.

Sometimes, Viette got strong feelings about some things. When she had to make a big decision, she'd notice an undeniable pull in one direction, helping her along. She'd always assumed everyone had the same urges, until she told her father about it a few years ago. He had reacted with doubt, as if she might be making it up. But why would Viette invent something like that? What reason had she?

Viette reached for the only pair of black shoes she owned, and placed them neatly on the floor of the wardrobe beneath where she'd hung the dresses. She probably only had her peculiar feeling because of all the strange occurrences of the past few days. No one had even bothered to explain to her how her Aunt Carlotta had died. From her father acting so oddly to suddenly abandoning their work in Greece and coming to stay with Delia, Viette was bound to feel mixed up. Right?

Viette #4: A mother and a daughter

Their footsteps echoed offensively as Viette followed her father and grandfather into the foyer. They had been greeted by a stuffy-looking doorman, his watery eyes looking bored as he ushered in the strange half-family of his mistress. Viette tried to not dwell on the unconventionality of her relationship with her mother, the well-known and equally well-liked Delia Roche-Doherty. It was best to just pretend that she, Henry, Delia, and even Grandpa Peter were an average English family in all possible ways.

But as Viette concentrated on keeping her heels from clicking too noisily on the tiles of the foyer, she couldn't help recalling that rather disheartening feeling of discomfort that plagued her anytime she was in the Doherty house. Its expensive furnishings, heavy curtains, and dark floors, walls, and ceilings never made her feel welcomed, no matter how hard Delia tried to keep her daughter from considering herself a stranger.

Ahead, a slender figure in a fluttery green dress came dashing -- almost too eagerly -- down the splendid oak staircase at the end of the foyer. Viette noted a slight hesitation in her father's tread before he met Delia halfway.

"Vivienne, Henry! I'm so glad you all made it safely," Delia crowed in her attractively throaty voice. She embraced Henry in a very brief, non-romantic sort of way before taking Viette into her pale, willowy arms. "And I'm very glad you're here," she whispered into Viette's ear.

"I'm glad, too," Viette choked a little awkwardly. Delia's auburn hair, the same color as Viette's, smelled familiarly like lavender.

She noticed Grandpa Peter just as she released Viette. "Well, if it isn't Peter Dawes! I know you only live a few miles out from here, Peter, so I'm surprised I never see you."

Grandpa Peter smiled sheepishly and took one of Delia's delicate hands in both of his. "I'm sorry about that, Delia. I do stay pretty busy on our vineyard."

"I'm sure you do," Delia said, her radiant grin lighting up her heart-shaped face. But her eyes cast down at that moment and she sighed. "As glad as I am that Vivienne has made it back here to England at last, I was sorry to hear about the reason for your visit. I'm sure you are going to miss Carlotta a great deal, Henry."

"Yes," Viette's father said as he spun the rim of his fedora hat in his hands. Delia always made him peculiarly nervous, Viette had noticed. Especially when she was looking as uncommonly lovely as now.

Delia's smile returned in a flash and she reached out to take the bag on Viette's shoulder. "Won't you all stay for a while, have a cup of tea? Ernest is out for the evening but if you linger until about eight I'm sure you'll catch him--"

"Oh, no, Delia, I'm sorry," Peter interjected. "I have some things to take care of before dark, and Henry is meeting some visitors at the train station. You know, a lot of old friends are coming into town for the funeral."

Out of the corner of her eye, Viette saw Delia bite her lip in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Peter, I wasn't thinking."

"It's alright, Delia," Henry offered, patting her shoulder clumsily as he returned his fedora to the top of his head. "We'll be around tomorrow night, if we're invited to dinner."

"Of course you are," she said with a wave of her hand. "I want to hear all about Greece and the adventures you and Vivienne have been having without me."

As Delia turned to call someone to bring the rest of Viette's luggage in from the cars, Viette turned to her father with a look of disdain. "I can't believe you won't let me come with you," she hissed in his ear as she hugged him goodbye. "Adventures we've been having without her, indeed -- she would have hated Greece!"

"Actually, Delia's quite fond of Greece," he responded with an air of playfulness as he patted her back. "And she does like to hear about your adventures, Viette. Humor her."

Viette pulled away and stared into her father's eyes. They had the same vividly blue eyes, of which Viette was rather proud. "Well, as long as you and Grandpa are going to be here to deal with her tomorrow night, I guess it's okay," she said. "The longer she's around just me, the quicker she's likely to grow tired of me."

"Viette, lighten up," Grandpa Peter said as he tousled her hair. "There are going to be enough occasions in the next few days which require moroseness. Try to enjoy yourself here in your mother's company."

In which I apologize

This is the part where I hang my head in shame for not updating this blog in five days. Look closely; you'll probably find that I am genuinely sorry and hoping you won't react too harshly to this apology, though chastising and a bit of light scolding would be completely warranted from you, the beautiful (or, handsome, if you prefer) reader.

The only excuse I will make is that I went home this weekend for an amazing Easter break/birthday bash. I turned twenty yesterday, and yes, I do share my birthday with the fabulous Sarah Michelle Gellar (who celebrated her 32nd birthday). Anyway, I did a lot of brainstorming and note-taking regarding our fictional friend Viette, who, if you'll remember, has just arrived in England for the funeral of her aunt, after a three-year hiatus from her maternal family.

:) I'm excited to continue telling you this story; you should be excited, too. It's a good one, I promise. I would know.

Viette #3: The Doherty House

"I'm sure Delia has been looking forward to seeing you again," Grandpa Peter was saying consolingly, his leathery hands gripping the steering wheel as he guided his once-shiny black car along the gravel drive. The Dohertys' huge manor house crouched at the end of a mile-long driveway, tucked in a thin artificial forest that had been planted a generation back.

"Maybe. I'm just not sure it's the best idea to stay with her this whole week. She might even kick me out. It's been three years since she's had to deal with me."

"Nonsense. You're her daughter," Peter insisted. But his tired gray eyes didn't meet Viette's, and she slid deep down in her seat defiantly, trying not to take in too many details of her surroundings. The sheer bleakness of the landscape outside would be enough to drive her to saying things she didn't actually mean. At least her father wasn't in the car to witness her attitude; he was riding behind them, in a taxi laden with all their haphazard luggage from Greece.

Suddenly, Grandpa Peter's car broke through the shadows cast by the too-perfect trees, and Viette couldn't restrain her eyes from glancing out the foggy windshield at the broad, imposing facade of the Doherty house. With its gray stone front and the columns lining the gate, it looked more stereotypically English than Viette could bear, and she could hardly resist rolling her eyes. They had even added some crawling ivy, carefully trimmed to appear as natural as possible, since her last miserable visit. Oh, how perfect.

As the car pulled around the drive, which wound in a half-circle around a pretentious little fountain, Viette hastily snatched up her woven hat and yanked it over her unruly curls. She glanced down at her rumpled dress, the blue one she'd bought at a market in Kavala. It didn't look especially Greek, but she knew it didn't match the maroon cap she'd been wearing all day, and that would be enough to earn a few disdainful looks by the company she was likely to meet inside the Doherty house. Oh, well, Viette thought resignedly. I'm certainly not going to change for them. No need to mention that she had switched out her sandals for scuffed, awkward heels before leaving the airfield in London.

Grandpa Peter parked the car in front of the daunting set of heavy stone stairs which were meant to invite guests inside. Before opening his door, though, he reached over and patted his granddaughter's cheek, as if she were still a small child and not nearly an adult. "Don't worry yourself over all this, Vivienne," he said in the softest possible way his naturally rasping voice would allow. "There are enough things in this world to worry about than acceptance from your own family."

Viette grinned, a slight, rosy blush coloring her cheeks. "Thanks, Grandpa. I'll do my best to remember that as I'm being thrown to the dogs by you two." She motioned out the window, where Henry had come out of his taxi and was already carrying one of Viette's bags to the steps. She sighed. "I guess there's no other choice, is there?"

"No, I don't believe there is," Grandpa Peter said distantly, gazing out the windshield. Holding back another sigh, Viette wondered again how long she would have to wait before anyone asked her opinion in the whole matter -- how she felt about her aunt's as yet-unexplained death, the uprooting from Greece, the week spent in the company of her mother.

Viette adjusted the sleeves on her sweater and, taking a deep breath, she opened her door and was all too-aware of the crunching sound her silly heels made as they met the gravel of the 'round-the-fountain driveway in front of the Doherty house.

Viette #2: Arrival in London

One thing about England: it doesn't disappoint, Viette brooded sullenly as their tiny plane bumped down onto the runway. As usual, her father had allowed her the seat by the teeny window for their trip, and Viette had pensively watched the changing landscape thousands of feet below as they flew. Their first stop had been Genoa, then Paris, and now, at last, they had arrived in London, and the sun was setting somewhere behind the stifling gray fog draped over the dreary buildings.

Viette glanced cautiously at her father. He'd had very little to say the whole day, and mostly he had been reading a big, thick history book and taking notes in it anytime they were seated long enough for him to spread out his work. Henry was a commissioned researcher, employed freelance by universities and families to study and translate anything they were too lazy do on their own. In Greece he had been working for a family called the Katsaroses, investigating their history and tracing their ancestors back to the Spartans in the Trojan War. It was a fascinating sort of career and both Henry and his daughter appreciated the luxury of learning about all kinds of history and living in any place where someone like Henry was required. But during times like these, when Henry was Viette's only company, she wished he would have put away his work long enough to just see how she was faring.

Carefully, Viette tapped Henry on the arm. He glanced up, and the look on his face clearly revealed that he hadn't even realized they'd landed. "Oh, are we in London already, Viette?"

"Yes," Viette said with a sigh. She reached under her seat and grabbed the bag she'd stowed there. "Is Grandpa meeting us inside?" She peered warily out the window again, wondering if all that fog was thick enough to be considered rain instead.

Henry slowly packed away his heavy volumes and notebooks. "Umm... yes," he said distractedly.

Viette sighed, and wondered how long his troubled mood was going to last.

Outside the compact little plane which had brought them from Paris, Viette immediately determined that the fog was, in fact, rain instead. She pulled her arms through a sweater she had begrudgingly carried on the first plane in Greece and tugged a hat over her ears. What a terribly dismal place -- and yet, perfect weather for the occasion which had brought them back to England.

Henry put his arm around Viette's shoulder and gave her a sort of half-hug as they gazed out at the squat little building which served as a control tower for the airfield where they had landed in the south of London. "I guess I should have reminded you to pack a coat," Henry said.

Shrugging, Viette said, "It's not cold here. It just looks cold." Henry chuckled, and they hastened for the terminal building.

Inside, Viette immediately spotted her tall, lanky grandfather among the few tired-looking people lingering by the foggy windows. She ran forward and threw her arms around his neck. "Grandpa Peter," she cried happily.

"Little Vivienne," he said in his familiar, gruff voice. He held her out an arm's reach and tugged on one of the reddish brown curls hanging past her shoulders. "I'm glad to see you haven't cut off your pretty hair like all the other girls in this city."

"I was told I couldn't," she said with a bit of false dismay, throwing a glance back at Henry, who was talking to an attendant by the door. Looking back at her grandfather, she caught the look of sorrow on his worn face before he rearranged his features to look happy to see her again.

"How... how is he?"

Viette inspected her father from a distance. His shoulders were hunched beneath his tattered black coat, the one he always looked uncomfortable in because it was his most formal overcoat. His favorite gray fedora hat was angled to shadow his eyes, and his hands fidgeted with the clasp on his bag.

Sighing, Viette turned back to her Grandpa Peter with a shrug. "He's not been very easy to be around, but I understand. I'm really going to miss Aunt Carlotta." At the sound of his daughter's name, her grandfather cast his eyes away from Viette's and his lip trembled slightly. She put her hand on his shoulder and smiled with the caution she'd been using around her father. "He hasn't really talked about it since the messenger showed up in Kavala. He didn't even tell me what happened to Carlotta; he just booked our flights and helped me pack." She paused, trying to gauge his reaction -- but he didn't seem to have anything to say, either, on the issue of Carlotta's sudden death. Dawes men, she groaned. So chatty. "Are you going to be alright, Grandpa?"

"I'm... we'll be alright, Vivienne," he said after a moment. He draped his arm around her shoulders the same way his son did. "Let's head on to Brighton. I know you're excited to see everyone again."

"Oh, of course," Viette said, forcing a little too much cheer in her voice. Grandpa Peter gave her a look and she blushed, but, with a laugh, she pulled the cap over her ears again before going back out into the London evening.

Viette #1: A girl heading home

Viette took one last look out her window as the noisy airplane engines coughed to life. They hadn't been in Greece for very long -- only about eight months -- but she was certainly going to miss it. Out of all the homes she'd had in the past few years, their cliff-side dwelling had had the best view of any she'd seen so far. If Viette's memory served her correctly, her mother's old manor house in Brighton was surrounded by a gloomy landscape which didn't even compare to the exciting, stormy Aegean Sea.

Great. Another item to add to her list of things to look forward to back in England.

Viette didn't hate going "home" to England. She'd been lucky enough to not have to return for a visit in three whole years, so she shouldn't be complaining now, honestly. And anyway, her father couldn't help that his sister had died so suddenly, and the funeral was so soon. But Viette enjoyed her life of travel, of visiting thrilling new locales, and meeting new characters in foreign lands. Returning to England meant monotony and bored-to-tears conversation with the same old people she'd been forced to share company with since she was born. What a tiresome thought -- and she wasn't even there yet!

Viette's father, Henry Dawes, stumbled aboard the tiny plane. He'd been distracted and gloomy ever since recieving word about his sister's mysterious death. Henry had made the arrangements for them to fly out in time for the funeral, but the packing had been left up to Viette. Luckily, they were used to traveling light, and constant movement from one country to another -- wherever Henry's line of work brought him -- prepared Viette for knowing just how to pack their belongings to make sure the whole operation wasn't a confusing mess when they arrived at their destination. Normally, they didn't have to leave in such a rush, but these were special circumstances.

As Henry took his seat beside his daughter, she reached over and patted his hand. She did feel very sorry for him, and was trying to understand how lost he must be feeling with the news that his younger sister had died so suddenly. Viette knew she would miss her Aunt Carlotta very much, but the past few days in Greece had been such a blur that she hadn't paused long enough to feel grief. That would probably all hit, though, as soon as they landed in dismal, melancholy England, with its low-hanging clouds and oppressing hills, all conducive to fostering anguish.

Viette leaned back in her seat as the airplane engines choked again, signaling takeoff time. Hopefully they could return to Greece -- or somewhere similarly exotic -- as soon as all this funeral business was over. Hopefully.

In which things are explained

So, here it is! A new blog, separate from Ashley and the November Novel. This blog has an entirely different purpose from its predecessor, though both are still important. Let me explain.

A few days ago, I carried on the following conversation on Skype with my friend Kylie:

• Kylie says: I have like 2000 blogs
• Ashley says: hahahaha
• Kylie says: Regular, Buffy, Poetry, story
• Ashley says: I've had that many... ish
• Ashley says: I THOUGHT ABOUT HAVING ONE FOR STORIES
• Ashley says: like excerpts I think up?
• Kylie says: I have it so when I'm else where I can add what I think of
• Kylie says: YEAH!
• Kylie says: When I come up with something, I can log on anywhere and add it!
• Ashley says: I SHOULD SET OUT TO WRITE ONE LITTLE EXCERPT OF A STORY EVERY SINGLE DAY.
• Kylie says: DO IT
• Ashley says: I'm making it AS WE SPEAK.

And so I did. I made the blog here on Blogger since I'm familiar with it. I tweaked the layout so that it looks similar to the ashleywrimo one, with only a few differences (orientation, link color). Now, I have no more excuses. I have to just do it.

If I'm honest with myself, this mostly seems like a good idea to me because I'm constantly wishing I had more motivation to write. I'm hoping by setting out to write an excerpt daily, it will open doors to the worlds I only half-think-up during my day. I'm constantly getting ideas, but I write them off immediately because I don't think they can be expounded upon. But I'm not even trying to see if they work!

So no more excuses! I'm going to do this thing!