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Jul. 12th, 2009 09:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fiery_ringCarlotta sighs and puts the letter in the secret compartment of her desk drawer. Blow Will for making things hormonal and awkward - she'll have to punch him on the arm a couple of times when she next sees him to straighten him out.
'Dear Will,
I want us to carry on as we were before. You are the only friend I can trust right now not to give away my intentions after leaving school, and even were I old enough to think of romance I don't know if that would be wise right now. You should keep looking out for girls your age, and I'll let you know if my feelings change...'
She hears the click of the electric light on the landing. That means Harris is going to bed, and Harris always goes to bed last. The poor man seems to work terrible hours, she notes.
She waits half an hour, then slips her torch into a bag on her back, slides the window open, and climbs out onto the drainpipe. It would be far too risky to pick the lock on the room she's trying to sneak into; climbing in from the outside on the second floor is likely to be easier. So long as the drainpipe is well attached.
She makes it easily up onto the roof, and pads across it like a cat. Her father's bedroom is the one in the front right hand corner, therefore the locked room that she thinks belongs to her mysterious uncle Michael must be next to that. Thankful that the windows have large ledges on them, she carefully lowers herself down to the window she thinks is correct, drops down onto the ledge, and hopes she doesn't fall two storeys.
Luck is on her side tonight; she lands lightly like a cat and examines the window. It's open a crack, presumably to keep the room aired, and she easily gets her fingers under the gap to open it. It makes a creaking sound and she freezes, in case her father wakes. But no light shines from his window, and she proceeds.
The room is dusty and full of cobwebs; nobody has been in here in a long while. Odd; most of the rooms in the house, even the several unused ones, are kept clean. She closes the curtains and turns on her torch, not wanting to attract neighbour attention. It looks like the room of a young person, someone not long grown up - in the wardrobe top there is a model train set in a box. The clothes were trendy about fifteen to twenty years ago. A box of letters is in the bottom of the wardrobe; Carlotta doesn't touch these. Reading someone's personal letters is too far, even if she is trying to find out about her mystery uncle.
In the bedside locker, she finds a large box of photographs, showing her father and uncle together as children. Some of them look like they were displayed in the house before he left - they're faded slightly in the centre, like they were framed.
She learns one important fact - her father and uncle were non-identical twins. This is a relief, because it means that whatever happened, it probably didn't involve Michael impersonating her father to her mother. The very last one is a family portrait - her grandparents, her parents and Michael. They're all smiling, for a wonder.
With full intention of returning it, she stashes the photo in her bag; she can get a copy at the bar and put it back another night.
She is about to leave the room when she spots one more thing; a piece of paper just poking out from under a pillow. She pulls it out carefully and has a look.
'John and Mother,
I know you will never forgive me, but I still intend to do my best for the business. This is my new telephone number...'
Carlotta writes down the number in her notebook, then tucks it under the pillow again. She makes sure everything is exactly as she found it, then slips back out the window into the cool night air. Getting back to her room isn't quite so easy as the first journey, but she manages it uneventfully until the drainpipe suddenly detaches above her windowsill.
She misses the ledge, falling ten feet and attempting to land on the one below, but only managing to get one foot on it to slow her fall before tumbling the remaining fifteen feet. She concentrates on the landing, ending up landing heavily on her feet and bending her knees to take as much of the impact as possible. It's not a good landing, and she does well not to yell.
A light goes on in the servent quarters. No time to worry about injury; she uses the three of her limbs that aren't too painful to pull herself up the remaining working drainpipe and back into her room.
'Dear Will,
I want us to carry on as we were before. You are the only friend I can trust right now not to give away my intentions after leaving school, and even were I old enough to think of romance I don't know if that would be wise right now. You should keep looking out for girls your age, and I'll let you know if my feelings change...'
She hears the click of the electric light on the landing. That means Harris is going to bed, and Harris always goes to bed last. The poor man seems to work terrible hours, she notes.
She waits half an hour, then slips her torch into a bag on her back, slides the window open, and climbs out onto the drainpipe. It would be far too risky to pick the lock on the room she's trying to sneak into; climbing in from the outside on the second floor is likely to be easier. So long as the drainpipe is well attached.
She makes it easily up onto the roof, and pads across it like a cat. Her father's bedroom is the one in the front right hand corner, therefore the locked room that she thinks belongs to her mysterious uncle Michael must be next to that. Thankful that the windows have large ledges on them, she carefully lowers herself down to the window she thinks is correct, drops down onto the ledge, and hopes she doesn't fall two storeys.
Luck is on her side tonight; she lands lightly like a cat and examines the window. It's open a crack, presumably to keep the room aired, and she easily gets her fingers under the gap to open it. It makes a creaking sound and she freezes, in case her father wakes. But no light shines from his window, and she proceeds.
The room is dusty and full of cobwebs; nobody has been in here in a long while. Odd; most of the rooms in the house, even the several unused ones, are kept clean. She closes the curtains and turns on her torch, not wanting to attract neighbour attention. It looks like the room of a young person, someone not long grown up - in the wardrobe top there is a model train set in a box. The clothes were trendy about fifteen to twenty years ago. A box of letters is in the bottom of the wardrobe; Carlotta doesn't touch these. Reading someone's personal letters is too far, even if she is trying to find out about her mystery uncle.
In the bedside locker, she finds a large box of photographs, showing her father and uncle together as children. Some of them look like they were displayed in the house before he left - they're faded slightly in the centre, like they were framed.
She learns one important fact - her father and uncle were non-identical twins. This is a relief, because it means that whatever happened, it probably didn't involve Michael impersonating her father to her mother. The very last one is a family portrait - her grandparents, her parents and Michael. They're all smiling, for a wonder.
With full intention of returning it, she stashes the photo in her bag; she can get a copy at the bar and put it back another night.
She is about to leave the room when she spots one more thing; a piece of paper just poking out from under a pillow. She pulls it out carefully and has a look.
'John and Mother,
I know you will never forgive me, but I still intend to do my best for the business. This is my new telephone number...'
Carlotta writes down the number in her notebook, then tucks it under the pillow again. She makes sure everything is exactly as she found it, then slips back out the window into the cool night air. Getting back to her room isn't quite so easy as the first journey, but she manages it uneventfully until the drainpipe suddenly detaches above her windowsill.
She misses the ledge, falling ten feet and attempting to land on the one below, but only managing to get one foot on it to slow her fall before tumbling the remaining fifteen feet. She concentrates on the landing, ending up landing heavily on her feet and bending her knees to take as much of the impact as possible. It's not a good landing, and she does well not to yell.
A light goes on in the servent quarters. No time to worry about injury; she uses the three of her limbs that aren't too painful to pull herself up the remaining working drainpipe and back into her room.
