It is ever so strange to let Sloane wander her home. She will appear in the library, the kitchen, any place Lydia least expects her that day. It feels less disruptive these days, like having left your favorite book somewhere and finding it again in a different place than you remember. It is a surprise, but does not quite classify as disturbance.

She cannot fathom how it has happened. Perhaps Irene's infatuation with the journalist has rubbed off on Lydia herself. Or perhaps her perception changed after she had held the trembling woman after Martha's spirit had tried to strangle her. Her own wish for Sloane to just leave had been quite violent back then, a sort of guttural reaction to the possible change it heralded. She suspects the incident may be partially her fault.

"Do you think I might still be able to apologize?", she asks Irene one night after they have finished their nightly routine.

"For what?", Irene inquires, head tilted ever so slightly towards Lydia.

"The perpetual state of duress our guest finds herself in when she remains in that halls of my home.", she answers, eyes downcast.

Her maid snorts. The following grin exposes gleaming white teeth, A tease.

"She seems to be handling herself quite well, all things considered.", Irene throws back, an easy going lilt to every word.

Silence stretches between the two of them. Lydia worries at her lip with her teeth, twists the fabric of her dress between pale fingers. It will leave unsightly wrinkles in her clothes, but at this very moment she cannot force herself to be bothered. Irene is quick to notice her distress and her grin is replaced by an expression most tender.

"Oh.", she murmurs, reaching out across the space between them to hold Lydia's hand in hers, "You truly feel guilty then?"

She swallows, nods. 

"She has been attacked in my home. I bear the sole responsibility for it.", Lydia whispers, the admission nearly too heavy to make it past her lips.

"You are not their keeper. Such spirits will always be angry. It is not your fault." Irene's voice has taken on a very specific edge. Protective, as always. 

"It is my duty of as lady of the house."

"Your lord father certainly did not think it was his.", the maid spits. 

There is venom in these words. Venom Irene would never dare use against Lydia. The downwards twist of Irene's lips betrays only a fraction of her hatred. Lydia nearly feels obliged to feel angered for her father's sake, but the late Lord Reed has always been a sore topic between the two of them.

"That is different.", she huffs, averting her face.

"Is it?" The other woman has softened her voice once more as if she is afraid to cause harm.

Lydia appreciates it, but she still cannot answer that question. She does not think she ever will be able to answer it. Instead she says the following.

"I will apologize to Ms. Aldrich. She sought shelter and found so little of it."

And that breaks the moment. Both straighten again. The warmth of  Irene's hand in hers disappears. 

Her sleep that night is without dreams, but restless nonetheless.

Sloane, as she finally shows herself that following evening, gives off the distinct energy of someone freshly, properly terrified. It is in her eyes, the subtle yet hectic way they flick towards even the smallest of sounds. Lydia feels the guilt stir and twist in her stomach and yet decides that the other woman may need peace more than an apology.

That following day the reporter refuses to be found within the mansion. Strangely enough, to Lydia the house feels emptier because of it. The irony of a haunted house feeling empty is not lost on her and she smiles to herself throughout most of the day. Most of it she spends reinforcing wards around specific rooms and placing down twice the amount of offerings for the spirits. She hopes it might appease them enough to remain peaceful for a while.

Sloane returns late for dinner that night. She apologizes, of course she does. Irene waves her off, while Lydia herself has to stop herself from asking about the journalist's day. No one appreciates a noisy individual after all.

Day two makes itself a copy of its predecessor. Once more Lydia strengthens wards and places offerings. Once more Sloane returns late for supper and just like last time she looks haunted.

On day three her mood may begin to droop a little. Sloane has left yet again without a word. By now Lydia thinks it may be something she needs to take personally, but then the guilt settles in. She knows the house is terrible, understands why someone would want to leave, but at the same time she wishes the other woman would stay. Sloane, when she is around, brings a breath of fresh air, a specific kind of warmth to the dead place Lydia calls a home. It is interesting, new. She would like to experience more of it, wants for it to burrow beneath her flesh so she does not forget the feeling of this warmth.

She has to apologize tonight, has to bring back the warmth before the want for it turns into an obsession she may not recover from. She has to make sure that Sloane is not so terrified as to stay away permanently.

Only that Sloane does not return that evening. It may have made the situation easy for her, to apologize over dinner with enough space between them that Lydia would be able to take rejection without personally seeming affected. She tries not to let the agitation she feels because of it overtake her. No, instead she forgoes her usual routine and waits in Sloane's room like one might await the arrival of a dearly cherished person. At around ten a gentle sort of rain begins. It leaves long, watery trails along the window of the room. The sound of it is relaxing, soft.

It appears to placate the spirits as well, for they remain tucked away in their dark corners. Or perhaps they are terrified of the rain washing them clean of their grievances. They would have no reason to stay then.

By the time the grandfather clock downstairs strikes midnight, the ring deep and echoing, the gentle rain has evolved into a mighty storm. Fat droplets throw themselves against the glass panes of the window. The wind howls outside, something guttural, like a wounded, dying animal.

Mere minutes later Sloane stands in the doorway. Her clothes are drenched, a puddle already forming beneath her. Frankly, she looks like a drowned rat, but Lydia is not vindictive enough to mention so when all she can think about is Sloane being back, being save.

"You're in my room.", the woman says, not unkindly.

She inclines her head, smiles softly. 

"I must admit that I may have worried when you did not return."

She watches as Sloane nervously scratches the back of her neck. She is looking at anything but Lydia.

"Well, I'm back now."

Lydia shifts in her seat by the desk. Her fingers twist into the fabric of her dress, worry at the loose stitching she finds there. Finally she finds her voice again.

"I may also have waited with ulterior motives. I wished to speak to you.", she says quietly.

It still seems to startle the journalist, who with nearly mechanical movements, sits down on the bed as stiff as a board.

"Oh, yeah sure. Is it about me leaving? I knew I should probably not expect you to let me live her for free forever. Uhm, sorry about that. If you give me-"

"No, it is not about that." It is not kind to interrupt, but once more the prospect of being left leaves a specific kind of bitterness. "I wanted to apologize. For the things you have experienced in my home."

Sloane looks confused for a moment, the nods. "Cool, cool, but it isn't your fault specifically is it? I mean, you have warned me, in a way and you can't always be there to stop these... things."

Lydia huffs. She should. She should stop these things. The dead should only wish to disturb her, to drag her to an early grave. She thinks she may deserve it after all.

"It is my duty as lady of the house to keep my guests in good condition." Lydia nearly cringes as she says it. That was perhaps not the most stellar choice of words.

Sloane smiles anyways and waves her off.

"And I get myself into stupid situations all the time. So no worries, we're all good."

Lies, all of it.

"If it were all good as you've said, then way don't you stay? Do you wish to spare my feelings with blatant lies? I know when I am being avoided." Old hurt seeps into her words, twists them into something angrier.

Now the other woman looks truly stupefied. 

"Me? Avoiding you? No, no. It's... I have this friend in town who is helping me with a few things and recently we got so into it that we keep forgetting the time. I'm just stupid and probably should have told you."

"You're not! Stupid that is. Perhaps we both have not dealt with the situation in the best of manners."

Sloane laughs quietly. It is such a nice sound. Lydia would make herself into a fool if only to hear it again.

"Yeah, probably. I'll be sure to keep you up to date. Can't have you worrying about silly old me."

Lydia regards her, the way her hair is plastered to the flushed skin of her neck. Her eyes nearly trail lower before she realizes what she is doing. 

She quickly clears her throat, hoping to hide her embarrassment.

"On accounts of worrying, perhaps I should leave you be so you may dry off before catching a cold." She rises from her chair, keeps her eyes averted so she may not be tempted to let her eyes wander again. "I will be sure to let someone know to bring you another set of clothing by tomorrow."

Lydia leaves the room in a hurry, eager to leave the situation behind.

Back in her own rooms she allows herself the realization that she may find certain aspects about the journalist desirable. It does not startle her as much as it perhaps should. She must be tired, so tired in fact that she opts out of fully undressing. The chemise will be comfortable enough for tonight.

Her heart warms as she spots the sleeping form of Irene beneath the covers. She does not know where she would be without her. 

Quietly, Lydia slips into bed, ever so careful as to not wake her sleeping partner. It proves futile when Irene turns to her, arms reaching out to pull her in. She finds her neck nuzzled as Irene breaths intangible words into the exposed skin there. She hums an affirmative, hoping the other woman too drowsy to wish for any form of clear conversation. The arms around her midsection tighten, one last word is uttered, soft and gentle, and then the redhead is claimed by sleep once more.

Lydia herself breathes deep until it matches with Irene's, calms her thoughts until they are nothing but a quiet murmur somewhere deep in the back of her mind. From there, just before she herself can slip into the sweet void of sleep, blooms the thought that forgiveness such as given by Sloane has never been as easy to come by when it had been Lydia and her own father.

The next day she wakes wrapped up in Irene's embrace. For a moment she allows herself to imagine that they are not trapped in the cold of Mawbrook. They are simply two women in a small house with a small garden. Something cozy and alive. When Lydia tilts her head she sees the figure in the shadows, watches it watching them, and she knows that thought will always only ever be that, a thought.

She will never not be haunted. Even if she were to leave, go somewhere warm, those shadows would always cling to her. It is better to stay here, where she can contain them in the carcass of her home. She will die here and then perhaps everything else will follow too. The arms around her tighten. A kiss is pressed against the exposed skin of her shoulder.

"You're letting them consume you again." Irene mumbles, her breath hot against her flesh.

Lydia hums, not quite an affirmative. "It is nothing new. It won't ever change. I'm just.... I'm getting tired, love."

"Then we leave. We can go anywhere you want, somewhere none of this can follow us." She sounds so sure, like it truly could be a possibility. Irene has always been more of a dreamer.

Lydia turns in her arms, meets warm honey eyes with her own. 

"You know why we can't." 

It hurts both of them when she says it.

Something in Irene's expression tenses. She is closing herself off as she withdraws from the embrace. Lydia watches as she slips from the bed. The cold feeling the action leaves settles somewhere deep in her flesh.

"I will go an prepare breakfast."

Irene leaves. Lydia once more realizes that she is without the ability to keep warm things. Some may call it self sabotage, but she knows it is merely ingrained in her bloodline, has trickled down through all past generations to reach her too.

Breakfast is a quiet affair. No one speaks,even though for once Sloane is present instead of having left early. This too, feels like Lydia is at fault. She does not know how to apologize for this.

She finds some form of comfort in the library, among books that let her peek into lives far more well lively. Irene does not disturb her, but she joins her in her room after the nightly rituals. The warmth returns and even if she is unable to continuously keep it, Lydia knows they will be alright.

And perhaps it is that thought that brings upon itself a change. Her routine cracks each day, just a little, but enough to accommodate Sloane when she is there. They have idle chats during their dinners, spent quiet time together in the library. Irene ropes them into a friendly game of cards one night. Of course she only does so because she knows that no one can win against her. Lydia has yet to find proof that the woman is cheating, but she knows for certain that Irene has far too much luck for it to be natural.

Still it all feels awfully domestic, the three of them closely pressed together, each of them trying to figure out how to sneakily look at the cards of the others. It is the most fun she has had in years, the most light she has felt in years too.

Now not all of the mansion will find itself cloaked in the creeping cold. It may still follow Lydia, but even she cannot deny how warmth has been pressed into the crevices of some places. The affection there oozes heat, scorching against her cold fingertips. She is not forcing herself to keep it, to clutch it to her chest and hoard, like she might have done when she was younger.

Perhaps she should have hoarded it like a treasure, because like most things, she ruins this too with her own curiosity. It starts with a thought in the back of her mind. Why exactly is Sloane still staying on the island? It is a thought that will not let go. Lydia tries to forget about it. She desperately tries not to think of it every waking moment, but it is all she ever thinks about when she sees Sloane, when they pass in the hallways, when they dine together.

The curiosity, that question, it rests in the spaces of her throat like a particularly heavy stone. 

And like a fool, she chokes it out.

"Why do you stay?"