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?