Chapter 1: How Awfully Absurd

This is an unedited snippet of a published book from a new point of view. It contains spoilers to An Awfully Big Adventure, as well (and more importantly) to Here Dreaming Though Wide Awake. Also, it might contain some gramtacial or spelling errors. So sorry, and sending much love!

Content guides are similar to those books, as well as possible triggers.

This is my kind way of saying "be careful what you wish for, 'cause you just might get it."

Chapter One, England 1904

All children grow up—which is completely absurd and not at all recommended.

A young age does not make one impervious to problems, but it does allow for more creative and therefore wiser sorts of solutions.

Children often believe that magic can heal all. Magic in songs or stories. Magic in sandwiches with no crust, and fruit sliced just so. The magic of being held in their mother’s arms for as long as it takes for their tears to dry.

Some children have a hard time holding onto that magic. Some children don’t even have mothers. Those children, grow up far younger than they ought to, only to learn how to fight it far stronger than anyone else.

George dropped his weight onto the cool stone bricks of the wall behind him, knowing it was there by the slight silver outline in the shadows. He tapped his fingers across his legs in a melody only he could hear, and used that song to tune out the voices around him.

Everything was dark and black, with exception to a faint shivering light creeping through the cracks of the cellar doors. Where he was unfortunately having to stand, when he had so many other places he’d rather be,

“George, are you even listening?” Victoria’s voice rang through the old cellar, too loud, given they were trying to remain secretly inside.

“I’m sorry, did you ask me something?” he replied.

A long sigh came from the distant corner, from Jeremy, who stood at Victoria’s side. “Are you sure this is how you want to spend our time?” he asked.

“Yes,” she hissed. “If George would only pay attention, we could be done with this by now.”

“Done with this,” George repeated, the word squeezing out mockingly from his throat. “By this, do you mean the conversation you’re having entirely by yourself? Or are you referring, once more, to the goodness of your sister and the likeliness you feel Desmond would destroy that?”

“He’s a little boy, and I don’t like him,” she confirmed.

George rolled his eyes, though in the dark the gesture went unnoticed. “First, Desmond is the same age as you. And second, I’d argue that he is less likely to hurt her than you are.”

“Your proof being?”

“He isn’t the one trying to meddle in her life. And lately, you’ve been nothing but cruel to her.”

Victoria huffed and silence filled the cellar, leaving only the silky brushing sounds of Jeremy soothing her, his hands passing over her arms.

George let his eyes drift closed, ignoring the world around him and wondering, yet again, why he ever allowed himself to enter this situation. Their ruse, where George pretended to court Victoria so her true beloved, Jeremy, could see her more often. A trick, where George pulled the veil over his grandparents eyes—specifically his grandfather—to dodge the pressure to marry and carry on the family name.

At first he thought it would be easy.

Until that first night at Victoria’s home, when he realized it would be anything but.

Now, six months later, somehow the predicament had only gotten worse.

“I’m trying to set things straight,” Victoria continued. “This thing the three of us have going on, it’s all a lie. It’s the worst lie I’ve ever told Molly. So yes, it’s easier to push her away, to be angry and cruel, than it is to lie with a false smile on my face.”

George felt the guilt burn beneath his surface, a constant simmer in his veins.

He pushed himself off the wall and walked across the cellar until he was close enough to see the silhouettes of Victoria and Jeremy.

“It’ll be worth it in the end,” he promised, trying also to convince himself. Then, adding a lilt of warning, “Don’t forget what I’m doing for you. All I ask in return is that you keep this one secret for me. Your sister will be fine. And once Desmond is here, you’ll see he’s not all that bad.”

“You can’t see past your own faults, George. If you don’t deal with them soon, they’ll come back to bite you.” Jeremy’s words of wisdom fell heavily between them. They always did.

Before George could deflect and dismiss, the door swung open.

Blinding light burst through the cellar and a very confused Molly rolled backward onto the floor.

She fell into the room with a song, beaded gown tinkling against the stones, like jittering taps against piano keys.

“Molly!” Victoria’s shrill voice reverberated through the cellar as she slammed the door closed. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not sure…” Molly replied, spinning her wrists from the impact of the cold stone.

George couldn’t do it. Though, perhaps, he didn’t truly try.

He couldn’t hold back. Not as Molly failed to rise on her own. Not as Victoria’s large voice had surely made her feel small. And despite the way he felt Jeremy’s grin as he slipped into a hiding place deeper in the dark, George’s decision had already been made.

“Allow me,” he offered too casually, stretching out his hand for her.

Molly gripped his fingers. In that precise moment, he remembered—while also forgetting—why he never let himself get that close.

He supported Molly’s elbow as he lifted her away from the ground.

Guilt had burned him from the inside, but Molly’s touch was a new level of torment. Torment like the temptations of sugared candy when you already had a toothache.

He stepped away from her as soon as she was on her feet.

Victoria tugged disrespectfully on his sleeve. “Get Molly out of here before she sees Jeremy. If this is how my secret gets out, I’ll see to it that it’s when yours does as well.” Her voice was furiously low.

Molly turned away, unable to comprehend what had been said, though she no doubt could sense its urgency.

“What do you want me to do?” George motioned a hand through the space. “I can’t exactly sweep her way.”

Though, as he said it, the vision crashed in.

He locked the mere idea of it into one of his internal boxes, where he let things shrivel until they went forgotten.

The click of the door handle stole their attention as Molly made for the exit.

“Molly wait—” Despite Victoria’s cry, Molly grasped for the handle and swung the door open.

Victoria grumbled.

George smirked, unable to rein it in.

“Say goodbye to your lover boy and meet us out in the hall,” he told Victoria, and left to follow Molly back into the light.

He was already so tired for the night being so young.

He ran his hands down his face and fell into the wall for balance. He raked his fingers through his hair and smoothed out his smoke-grey suit before shoving them into his pockets.

From the corner of his eye he saw her.

Molly. Her anxious thoughts trickled down to where she plucked her fingers into her sapphire dress, the dainty lace details and intricate beading.

Victoria slowly emerged from the cellar and hovered at the door, closing it with a softness that quickly vanished. Her gown was green, her hair was gold, but her fury was red—staining from her cheeks to the tips of her ears.

“Am I supposed to believe you fell into the cellar by accident?” she sneered at Molly.

“Yes,” Molly replied.

Victoria’s brow arched in surprise, revealing how much she enjoyed the quick snap of Molly’s response. She skimmed a hand over her round hip, and twisted her lips into a smile.

“Fine.” Victoria flashed a wicked grin towards George. “Can we go now?”

He was rather unfazed by her antics at this point, though they held nothing but treachery.

George pushed away from the wall and gave Molly a quick smile.

“I’m sorry about all this,” he said, circling a finger through the air.

Before Molly could look too deeply into all he hid behind those words, he extended his arm to Victoria and led her away, not allowing himself to look back.

Hurried steps brought them around the corner, where he hid them behind potted plants. At last he could drop Victoria’s arm.

“Don’t say it,” he warned, seeing her mouth part open.

“What difference will it make since you already know what I am about to say?” Victoria stepped closer to him, propping her hands at her sides. “You’re on the brink of falling apart, George. Ever since you heard word of your aunt’s failing health, you’ve barely been holding yourself together.”

George groaned and stretched out the tension in his hand. “I’m fine.”

“You’re a liar.”

He glared at her. “Shouldn’t you be thanking me, since most of my lies have been for you and your dearest Jeremy?”

She let out a proud noise. “Most, but not all.”

They stood locked in their stares as the front door swung open and the Jones’ guests were welcomed inside.

Victoria’s parents greeted the Prescotts with as much enthusiasm as they deserved—which was not much.

George grumbled his further complaints and took Victoria’s hand back into his own. He summoned a calming breath, and brought her out of their hiding place and into the foyer.

He hadn’t seen Desmond Prescott in nearly seven years, which was a long time given they had grown up together. George’s four years away at one school had overlapped with half of Desmond’s five years away at another. It was when Desmond had left for school when their written correspondence with each other—mostly pertaining to one singular topic—had stopped.

And before George could utter a polite hello, that one singular topic entered the foyer herself.

It was strange how Desmond hadn’t even seemed to notice.

George very quickly alerted Desmond by gesturing to Molly with a tip of his head and a flick of his eyes.

Desmond startled to attention. “Molly?” he called, and thus their reunion began.

Victoria sighed, irritated, at George’s side, to which he shrugged.

Alice and Harold Prescott cordially passed conversation with Cathryn and William Jones, though it was terse and strange in itself. And when Alice’s eyes sliced to the side to where her son stumbled his way through some very noticeable lingering eye contact with Molly, George prepared himself to hear her voice at full volume.

Alice took two steps toward Desmond, bringing a noticeable stiffness to her son’s shoulders. “Is that how you were taught to greet a young lady?”

Molly’s eyes darted to the floor, while Desmond’s locked on George’s own, like he had frozen and couldn’t recall what his mother was talking about.

So George had to demonstrate.

He lifted Victoria’s hand, and without making contact, raised it to his mouth.

Desmond understood, smiling as he raised Molly’s hand for a quick kiss.

Victoria let out an annoyed grumble and tore her hand away from George. “I cannot believe this.”

He grinned. “Best start trying.”

As calls for dinner started, George led Victoria through the foyer, to the long decorate dining room.

Flowers stretched from crystal vases along the crimson table runner, each placed below a chandelier and catching the firelight.

George looked away, helping Victoria down in her seat which was regretfully close to Alice Prescott. He shared a quick smile with Desmond as they lowered to their chairs in unison.

George let gravity bring him down, and used that moment of quiet to reach into one of his reserved boxes. You see, he kept many inside, some for forgetting, others to ignore entirely, and found it easy to slip from one to the next. The one he was in need of that night, was kept near his surface, and would allow him to be Victoria’s doting suitor.

“It’s been a wonderful six months,” Victoria explained to Alice. “George has been the perfect gentleman. Have you ever heard him play the piano?”

“Careful,” he muttered the warning through ground teeth as he pinched his lips into a smile.

Victoria cast him a glance that assured him she knew what she was doing. She patted his arm playfully, letting her laugh ring out in an odd giggling mess. “His grandmother taught him everything she knew. Surely you must have heard Lady Clarington play?”

“I have,” Alice replied, her expression sour. “No one plays quite like her.”

“Except George.” Victoria lifted her spoon and watched steam from the soup swirl through the air.

George froze.

It began like an itch, an uncomfortable pinprick that crawled beneath his skin. It syphoned the air out from his lungs and leeched the colour from his surroundings.

Everything went black.

Details of his unfinished song trailed to him in ribbons of grey and white before they flourished into vibrant hues of blues and purple.

While he was sure he remained at the dinner table, truthfully, he wasn’t there at all.

Instead he stood before rain soaked windows in a loud and boisterous ballroom. After being promised a corner of quiet, he instead found something more.

A shy smile and curious eyes.

Laughing after months of forgetting how.

And dancing. Too much dancing, yet somehow, not enough.

“Molly?”

The sound of her name pulled George out of his trance.

His unfinished melody dispersed into mist.

George glanced across to the table, where Molly peered at everyone, searching for who had called her.

“Yes?” she asked.

“I was just explaining how you will be singing among the talents of the Charity Ball next weekend,” Victoria said, lifting her glass of water for a sip.

The Charity Ball.

George was already abhorring the idea of attending such a large fundraising event. The crowd. The dancing.

He noticed Molly’s hands sliding onto her lap, no doubt plucking at the ends of her gloves in a nervous rhythm.

“Actually, about that.” George dabbed the corner of his mouth before placing his napkin down. He held everyone’s attention as far away from her as he could. “My grandmother was supposed to accompany the act with some piano. Unfortunately, she won’t be able to do that anymore.”

“Oh dear, I hope everything is okay,” Cathryn Jones said, with wide worried eyes.

“My aunt has fallen ill. My grandmother left town to be with her and will be away for a little while.” George took a sip from his wine glass and turned his attention back to his food.

“Who is going to play the piano for Molly then?” Molly’s father, William Jones, asked.

“I don’t think it is too complicated to figure it out,” Alice Prescott chimed in. “Lady Viola Clarington is the most talented piano player I have ever heard, and I believe she taught George. Therefore, he should accompany Molly. I’m sure your grandmother would approve, George.”

“I’m sure she would...” George’s reply tumbled out of him as the realization clicked into place.

He looked to Victoria, then across the table to Molly, and then to Desmond.

The poor boy didn’t seem at all phased or even aware of what had just happened. He didn’t even seem to notice Molly’s grim disposition.

George’s fingers tapped along the edge of the table, anchoring him against the onslaught of a song he never wished to play.

Desmond’s attention caught the movement. He knew, and was undoubtably recalling everything the piano had ever meant to George. The painful nights, the weight every song held, how it forged a path for him to come to terms with his past.

No, the piano was not some hobby, nor some trivial leisure pursuit.

It was, in many ways, the difference between dreams and nightmares.

When Desmond’s eyes met his from across the table, George could only shake his head. Desmond turned to Victoria with a scowl.

Victoria watched her soup bowl being replaced with a plate of the main course, and lifted her spoon in an elegant motion while giving Molly a duplicitous smile. “It looks as though you have no way out of performing in front of such a large audience.”

George flinched. He sucked in a breath through his nose, releasing it behind a forkful of food to go unnoticed.

And there was poor Desmond, watching him and searching if any fissure had formed in George’s facade.

That was why George knew Desmond was good—although it was a bit misplaced currently.

George could handle himself.

Molly, however, paled, her panic raising higher than she knew what to do with.

George pointed to her with the end of his fork, and let Desmond handle it.

Desmond slid his hand under the tablecloth, and in a quick second, Molly was looking up at him. They shared a soft smile, and colour bloomed over her cheeks.

“I’m sure you’ll give an amazing performance,” Desmond told her, before returning to his food.

Satisfied with that retort, George turned to Victoria. “I know you think having me play piano with your sister was clever, but you forget one very important thing.”

“And what might that be?” she quipped.

“In a battle of secrets, yours are more detrimental to you if they’re lost. I, on the other hand, have nothing to lose.”

“What of Desmond?”

“There is no version of this world where I lose Desmond.”

She scoffed, looking off to where the boy sat across from her. “That’s too bad.”

George stole a glance across the table to Molly. “Insult him again and see what happens.”

“You keep helping him. We’re only a few minutes into our evening and you’ve coached him into flirting with Molly several times over. What is it you’re after?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Do you think this is how she’ll realize she has feelings for Desmond?”

“She does have feelings for Desmond.”

“Oh really? Because where I’m standing, it looks as though she’ll be falling for you, all the while thinking it’s him. And I’m not about to let that happen.”

She gave him a stiff shoulder and dragged a cube of boiled potatoes through the gravy on her plate.

And maybe, regretfully, she was right.

He sat in silence, listening to the conversations around him, when he caught sight of Desmond, leaning towards Molly all on his own.

Desmond’s eyes may have been on his plate, but he certainly wouldn’t have been whispering to the vegetables. And when Molly nodded and tampered down one of her smiles, George didn’t have to guess at what the exchange was.

Desmond wasn’t as helpless as Victoria made him out to be.

Molly’s warm brown eyes ticked to everyone around her, nervously checking to see if her conversation with Desmond had been overheard. The conversation, where he assumed Desmond had invited her to their secret little spot they used to keep in the woods.

When Molly’s eyes met his, George glanced at Desmond, proud and unashamed.

Then, an invisible tether pulled him to look back to her.

Molly waited, her secret smile as colourful as he remembered it to be, and soft as the first glow of a sunrise.

Everything would be alright.

He would make sure of it.

With a sliver of a smile he allowed to sweep up one side of his face, George winked and turned back to his plate.