(no subject)

[acrookedchild]

The town's little museum was a curious place, mostly odds and ends. Its strange collection of artifacts ranged from the early fiteen-hundreds to the late eighteen-hundreds. Most of the pieces revolved around a principle family of the town's founding, growth, and prosperity-- the Widdowsons. While the museum was not exclusive to exhibiting the Widdowson history, their influence throughout the strands of narration the pieces might offer was undeniable.

Sir Roger Widdowson had been a major figure in the community, and all his descendants had followed suit-- or else landed in great scandal. Sometimes both.

A blond young woman of twenty-two took the stairs quickly, having noticed a man at the portrait of Sir Roger, his wife Lady Widdowson, and their infant son Jacob.

"Sir!" she called. She tried to smile, but her expression was stern. Too old for her years, yet it suited her well enough. "Sir, please don't touch that. It's very old. Very delicate."

Comments

[acrookedchild.livejournal.com]

Why did she smile? The painting was delicate, not to be touched. Even with his apologies, there was nothing to smile about. Yet, she smiled at him-- a thin, faint smile before her eyes turned to the portrait.

"Don't worry. It does that, I find. Draws people in." Her eyes flicked from Sir Roger's face to Lady Catherine's to Jacob's.

"It's like they're watching." The young woman had quieted some, her voice low. It rolled more than anything, soft as the far-off humming of bees on a warm, lazy summer day. "I think that sometimes. That they watch. Watch everyone in this museum. Watch me. Judging. Everyone. Everything." For a moment, she stood completely still, stone-faced. As if another exhibit in this place. "Sometimes they look like they're waiting for something. Expecting it. Maybe dreading it."

"Miss--"

The voice and sudden hand on her throat startled the girl, and she laughed uneasily at the patron who had come up to her.

"Miss, you work here?"

"I do, ma'am."

"Sorry to bother you."

"Not at all, ma'am. What is it?"

"Bathrooms?"

"Down the stairs, second hall on the left, first door on the right."

"Thank you!"

The blonde young woman looked back at the male patron by the painting still and laughed again, offering a sheepish smile. "S-sorry about that. I... get caught up in this place sometimes. So much history, you know? It... takes my breath away, sometimes."

[acrookedmouse.livejournal.com]

Something about the way she spoke scared him in ways a thin, pretty girl should never. Whether it was the museum, the picture, or her, Ben didn't know. He only knew that there was something wrong. It put the up-most dread into him that made his throat tighten up and his lung hold his breath inside. The instinct to run toyed with the fact that he was rooted to the spot like some pathetic animal confronted with something much more threatening to them than reason allowed.

Ben only breathed when the woman interrupted her. Thank God, he thought.

He was expecting the same kind of hum to her voice as before but she sounded completely normal. Maybe it was all in his head. He wouldn't have been surprised. Lately he wondered if he really was crazy.

Talk about history gave Ben something to latch onto and he laughed a little shakily.

"Yeah I know what you mean...'bout history, I mean. It's really fascinating."