![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mustbeawitchNow that there were four people from the Regency in town, one might have thought a real effort would have been made to attend church, but no: Wickham was a demon; Kitty, despite being a clergyman's wife, hardly could have cared less; and Georgiana was an atheist (and slept late). Instead, after a sleepover last night with Kitty, once she'd been prised away from Boston, Lydia had had a long, luxuriant soak in her hotel room's bathtub, then done her hair with the Dyson Air Wrap whilst Kitty looked on in fascination and Wickham prepared a bundle of herbs and such under her direction.
In lieu of a fireplace, he was now holding said bundle out the window in one hand, a lighter he'd spent most of Lydia's bath figuring out how to use in the other. (He was absolutely going to make Georgiana 'invent' that; it seemed simple enough and would be damned useful.) "Tell me when," he said as Lydia finished pouring a bottle of spring water into a bowl on the desk.
"Now," Lydia said, and Wickham lit the bundle on fire, holding it until it scorched his finger tips. Kitty pricked her finger to bleed three drops of blood into the bowl as it burned, but that was hardly enough to pay for even such a small glimpse of the future, and he'd rather the universe take it out of him than Lydia.
Lydia stared into the bowl for what felt like forever as her audience held their breaths, before eventually sitting back and declaring, "A boy. All healthy."
Kitty nearly collapsed, and Wickham had to hurry to move a chair to the right place. "And he seemed all right?" she asked, anxious. "Nothing...odd?" Catty, she meant. Kitty was the only woman any of them knew who had once been a cat; who knew what that meant for her children?
"Not that I could see," Lydia said, dabbing at her nose, which was bleeding slightly. Wickham should have let his fingers get more scorched. A few blisters wouldn't hurt him. "And even if he is a wee bit cattish, I'm sure it's nothing you can't handle."
Whatever Kitty would have said to that was interrupted by Georgiana bursting in through the connecting door between her and Kitty's rooms, pins in her mouth as she put her own hair up into her customary bun. "What did I miss?" she asked. "When are we going to breakfast?"
Lydia laughed. "Honestly, Georgiana, it's nearly time for luncheon! Oh, I suppose that must be why they call it 'brunch.'"
In lieu of a fireplace, he was now holding said bundle out the window in one hand, a lighter he'd spent most of Lydia's bath figuring out how to use in the other. (He was absolutely going to make Georgiana 'invent' that; it seemed simple enough and would be damned useful.) "Tell me when," he said as Lydia finished pouring a bottle of spring water into a bowl on the desk.
"Now," Lydia said, and Wickham lit the bundle on fire, holding it until it scorched his finger tips. Kitty pricked her finger to bleed three drops of blood into the bowl as it burned, but that was hardly enough to pay for even such a small glimpse of the future, and he'd rather the universe take it out of him than Lydia.
Lydia stared into the bowl for what felt like forever as her audience held their breaths, before eventually sitting back and declaring, "A boy. All healthy."
Kitty nearly collapsed, and Wickham had to hurry to move a chair to the right place. "And he seemed all right?" she asked, anxious. "Nothing...odd?" Catty, she meant. Kitty was the only woman any of them knew who had once been a cat; who knew what that meant for her children?
"Not that I could see," Lydia said, dabbing at her nose, which was bleeding slightly. Wickham should have let his fingers get more scorched. A few blisters wouldn't hurt him. "And even if he is a wee bit cattish, I'm sure it's nothing you can't handle."
Whatever Kitty would have said to that was interrupted by Georgiana bursting in through the connecting door between her and Kitty's rooms, pins in her mouth as she put her own hair up into her customary bun. "What did I miss?" she asked. "When are we going to breakfast?"
Lydia laughed. "Honestly, Georgiana, it's nearly time for luncheon! Oh, I suppose that must be why they call it 'brunch.'"
