Things feel off, wrong. Of course they are not quite right, not here, never in Mawbrooke. Though Lydia has to admit that things feel even more wrong than they normally do. She knows so when Irene comes to her with a grin that pinches the corners of her eyes. That is never a good sign. Her maid has a penchant for scheming, one that she herself does not always appreciate.

"Our poor reporter had another unfortunate run in with the local wildlife. I do believe Mawbrooke may be getting to her.", Irene informs her, smile still firmly in place.

Of course it is the reporter who is causing trouble. Lydia was a fool to believe she might leave them in peace after having been here the first time. However, she is not so brash as to voice it. The woman might be hurt, maybe traumatized after another one of Mawbrook's beautiful hauntings. At the thought she feels a twinge of compassion. The island has never been kind and perhaps never will be. That is not to say that she will be hospitable. No, the reporter better leave as quickly as possible, vanish somewhere Lydia does not have to see her or the grins Irene certainly will send her way. It is infuriating how much possibility for change a single person can bring.

She half expects for Sloane to not show herself during dinner. It would have been nice to know that the woman is too scared to join both Lydia and Irene. It would have been nice to keep Irene to herself, but of course that is not a possibility. The reporter is being tugged into the far too large dinner hall by a near manically grinning Irene. Her maid is drawing too much enjoyment from this and thus Lydia knows she will not enjoy any of tonight's meal, which is perhaps too childish of a notion. 

Irene leaves them both to retrieve the meal, fingers trailing the polished wood of the table.

Her eyes follow the movement, anything to not engage with the woman across from her in any way, shape or form. Of course Irene takes her time and there is only so many things she can pointedly stare at before she makes an outright fool of herself.

"I hear that you have had another frightening encounter today. I hope it left you not too roughed up." Lydia tries to keep her voice polite, though a certain edge slips into her words nonetheless.

The other woman flinches just a little and she has to force herself not to smile at such obvious weakness.

"Well, Irene has done a good job of patching me up. I just hope it doesn't happen again." Her fingertips nervously trail along the edges of the band aid that peaks out from beneath her collar.

Sloane seems muted somehow, less inquisitive than she was when she had visited the very first time. She nearly comments on it when Irene finally returns with their plates. For today a dish mainly made of fish paired with fresh fruits has been prepared.

"I bring you the most splendid dish cooked by yours truly." Her maid grins here, a little too sharp.

Irene seats herself  at the side of the table, neatly between them. She smiles at Sloane, bright and quick. Lydia herself gets an open mouthed grin while the woman chews. Her teeth glint in the low light, bits of meat and fish bone stuck between them. How unsavory. Nevermind, Lydia had not planned to eat a lot anyways. She feels nauseous already.

Her gaze flits towards one of the clocks placed within the dining hall. 19.34. Not late enough to to already have fallen behind schedule, though with everything that has been changing she might have to claw her way to her routine in order to merely attain an ounce of a feeling of control. 

Lydia pushes the plate away from herself, the food barely touched. She delights in the small, childish pout it gets her from Irene. Of course, moments later, guilt begins to blanket the feeling. It is not Irene's fault that things have been going so poorly lately and it certainly is not her fault that Lydia has never learned how to properly cope with anything.

"Irene, please be a dear and make sure our guest is settled for the night. I am afraid I have to retreat early today."

She does not wait for an answer, knows that Irene will fulfill her wish. Though if her maid will be punctual in doing so remains to be seen.

19.40

19.50

20.18

The knock sounds on her door just before the creaking of wood in the corner of her room can start. Saved in the nick of time it seems.

"Enter."

Irene steps in. There is a grin still tugging at the corners of her lips. Momentarily Lydia's stomach sinks with a feeling she will not grace with a name. She is beyond it.

"I know. I know I'm late, but explaining all the rules to Mrs. Aldrich simply took a lot of time."

No apology, she nearly comments on it, but by then her maid is already stepping closer. Soft lips press to her forehead, soothing, while an arm loosely winds itself around her middle.

"Don't worry. I would never dare leave you with all of them all by yourself." It is murmured against her skin, soft and quiet. An expression of affection that she will hoard close.

"I would kill you for it." Her words lack any bite. Her own expression affectionate.

Irene chuckles, a loose, open thing. "And what a sight that would be."

Lydia knows she could never pose a threat to the other woman, though sometimes if would certainly be nice. Perhaps Irene would take her more seriously if she were. From her peripheral she spots the shadow in the corner of her room moving. It does not dare come closer, not when Irene is around. 

"Well, seeing as I have yet to receive reason to bring your life to an end, shall we go about our nightly routine?" The words do a poor job of masking her anxiety. The syllables shake and shiver.

The other woman reaches for her, entwines their fingers in a loose, comfortable hold. Irene's skin is soft, warm. Her touch soothes and within moments the shadow has retreated back where it came from.

"I would not dare think of doing anything else tonight. I know how much you value this." Her maid smiles, presses another kiss against her temple.

Together they lock the cellar, testing if the door may hold for another night. After, they replace the hyacinths by the attic with fresh ones, making sure to leave not one dying petal by its door. Finally, they walk the paths only they know. Thrice do they trace these old steps and with each time the manor begins to feel less like a breathing thing that will swallow them both. It seems that maybe for tonight, even the most volatile of spirits will remain where they belong for once.

Lydia has just begun to make a turn to return to her own chamber when her eyes catch on gray hair and dark eyes. Sloane is most obviously not within the room assigned to her and that notion sends cold dread down her spine. Her jaw clenches out of reflex at the shift in the air. The stairs behind her creak and she knows it cannot be Irene. Not a peaceful night then. 

She glares at the reporter, hopes to send her scurrying back to her own room. Irene is already stepping forward, has tilted her head to murmur a quick "I will take care of her.", then leaves her there. It is the first night that she does not finish her nightly routine together with the other woman. The dread is curdling low in her stomach when she finally locks the door to her room, daily attire replaced by the flowing nightgown she wore ever since she was a teenager.

The wooden panels in her room begin to creak when she is close to falling asleep. She opens her eyes, looks. It is a mistake. The thing at the end of her bed is staring back at her. It wears what her father had worn at his funeral, though now the fabric of his tailored suit is dirt stained and moth eaten. The face is halfway gone, caved in with decay and maggots. The eyes are empty husks with irises that glow with an intensity that burns. 

It stares back at her. It grins, delighting in the shiver that particular action elicits. The teeth are falling out before it can close its mouth once more. 

Lydia refuses to call the thing her father, not that he had been a lot of one when he was not rendered to such a poor imitation of himself. It reaches out, rotting hands wrapping around the bedposts as it drags itself forward. It remains there, suspended by the foot of her bed, teeth snapping and cracking.

She does not fall asleep for a long time.

Upon waking come next morning, she vows not to tell anything to Irene. This mishap has occurred rarely and shall not occur again if she makes certain to properly follow her nightly routine next time. A naive thought. Things continue to change, routine cast aside to keep the reporter in check if her maid's reports are to be believed.

Sloane Aldrich is a curious woman, snooping around where she should not. She nearly broke into the cellar, opened the attic door without a care and walked the halls of the manor when she should not have. With each minor negligence, Lydia finds herself more ruined. With each day that Irene joins her too late for their rituals, that shadow in her room will grow bolder. It rattles her bed, creeps in so close that she can feel its rotten breath across her cheek, cold and moist. The hauntings are not contained anymore. They spill from the cracks of the manor when she is not looking. Something tries to push her off the stairs one day, another nearly has her choke in the bathroom. It is always those cold hands that grasp for her, half rotten or piercing bone. And all of it the fault of a woman who does not know how to stay in her room when asked.

Yet still, Irene's attention is more often on the reporter than Lydia. It has something different than dread curdle within the pit of her stomach. Something hot and seething.

When her maid misses yet another routine due to shepherding Sloane, Lydia waits for her. Irene rounds the corner with a besotted smile that drops the moment she spots who is waiting for her. It makes her look guilty.

"I missed another one, didn't I?" Irene reaches for her, and she childishly steps away.

"Indeed. Perhaps if you spent less time with the reporter and more time on keeping everything in check then all of us would find ourselves in kinder positions.", she replies, voice stiff.

"Perhaps if I let her wander the manor will take care of it."

"No, I... That does not have to happen. I merely don't like having her around."

Irene chuckles. She seems to have figured out something that Lydia herself has not.

"You don't? Or is it perhaps the attention that I give her that displeases you so?" She is grinning as she says it, entirely too pleased with herself.

"I don't... That's not-", Lydia stutters, swallows nervously. She can feel her cheeks turn red. "I don't want her to disturb us more than is needed."

"Liar." Irene presses a kiss to her cheek, lets the touch linger if only to reassure her. "I will be certain to be with you tonight and all the days that follow."

Well, perhaps things are not as terrible as she first believed. The reporter may still snoop around, but Irene's flirtations seem to fluster her enough to at least keep the woman far away from Lydia's private affairs. In a certain light one might find Sloane's reactions to said flirtations even adorable.

And perhaps she may understand what about Sloane Aldrich has gotten Irene this interested.