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Nov. 14th, 2012 12:56 pmViolet stared out at the stars and struggled for mastery. Standing quite close to the glass, she looked past her reflection at the eternity of space beyond. Seeing only those cold stars stare back, home seemed like an impossibly far place to reach.
When Sybil and Edith were young, she had indulgently read to them The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, a strange fanciful book that the girls had enjoyed far more than she. She was quite reminded of it now, but no amount of wishing would bring her home again into a world of sanity where war and disease were the worst of things, and those quite understood as a fact of living.
In the past few days nothing had made sense at all. The appearance of the sphere, the strangeness aboard, the dogs, the attack on the ship, and the men who had come with lights and guns had only been the beginning. She had assumed that if she stayed on the station, the madness inflicted upon her might have been kept to a minimum, but it had only escalated.
And then there was Miss Shepard and Miss Pond.
She had not attended the ceremony of their passing, and the distress that kept her from it was not in their deaths, not in grief, but in the circumstance. It was all very well for a person to disappear. Lady Grantham, unlike some others, believed that you merely went back to wherever it was that you came from and considered it a lucky stroke. But these first deaths were another thing altogether. Orchestrated by the station. Murder without a face. War without a country.
When she slept, she dreamed of that night when the lights went out, and on waking was furious with herself to let such a thing shake her. She would not allow it.
So when she saw Mycroft's face reflected over her shoulder she kept her chin high and inquired, "Quite through with paying your respects?"
When Sybil and Edith were young, she had indulgently read to them The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, a strange fanciful book that the girls had enjoyed far more than she. She was quite reminded of it now, but no amount of wishing would bring her home again into a world of sanity where war and disease were the worst of things, and those quite understood as a fact of living.
In the past few days nothing had made sense at all. The appearance of the sphere, the strangeness aboard, the dogs, the attack on the ship, and the men who had come with lights and guns had only been the beginning. She had assumed that if she stayed on the station, the madness inflicted upon her might have been kept to a minimum, but it had only escalated.
And then there was Miss Shepard and Miss Pond.
She had not attended the ceremony of their passing, and the distress that kept her from it was not in their deaths, not in grief, but in the circumstance. It was all very well for a person to disappear. Lady Grantham, unlike some others, believed that you merely went back to wherever it was that you came from and considered it a lucky stroke. But these first deaths were another thing altogether. Orchestrated by the station. Murder without a face. War without a country.
When she slept, she dreamed of that night when the lights went out, and on waking was furious with herself to let such a thing shake her. She would not allow it.
So when she saw Mycroft's face reflected over her shoulder she kept her chin high and inquired, "Quite through with paying your respects?"
