Such A Nonsensical Thing, Little Girls (PocketFullOfPosies)

(This is a roleplay based in an original Victorian-era setting.)


All he could do was sigh.

Sigh, and tap his fingers.

He had summoned her to his office, his niece, Lydia, and had her sit on his couch. Preferably she would be sitting on her hands, quiet as a mouse and attentive as he spoke. Preferably. That wasn't to be the case, here. Lydia. Little Lydia Darling, a girl whom used to bounce in her uncle's lap amidst a flurry of giggles when she was six years old, that a full nine years ago now. Little Lydia Darling... He hadn't seen her in so long. He hadn't seen any of that side of the family for quite some time outside of often letters. It wasn't due to ill feelings, there had never been a spat of any sort, but due to his profession, a relatively recent field known as psychology, Doctor Simon Burke was either traveling to tend to some of his more noteworthy patients or traveling to meet and understand others in his field and their personal methods, not to mention the occasional travel for a vacation so he wouldn't go loony himself.

Little Lydia. She had just... shown up, several days ago. Just like that. Now at the age of forty-two Simon had gained enough renown not only among his peers but among the people, for word of his abilities had in time spread, that he was something of a well known person. And at the behest of his colleagues he decided to settle down rather than keep traveling about, having purchased a lovely estate not two months ago at which he would enjoy the privacy of the country while he wrote books for fledgling professionals in his field to learn from. And no sooner had he begun to settle and notify family of such than his young niece appeared at his home with a note all but begging for her to be cared for. According to her parents she wasn't quite right in the head, and they knew no other they could trust with their child. Though more telling of the young woman's condition than the included letter was the fact that, when he happened upon her, when a servant fetched him to the front explaining the peculiar surprise, she had chosen to abandon her carriage. Rather, Lydia had taken up residence in one of his fountains, soaking wet and determined to name every last frog.

She was positively daffy, it seemed, this young lady.

The last few days had seen her largely left to her own devices, with the estate's various servants told only to report in on her actions, not to hinder them. The best thing Simon could do at such a stage was to learn about his patient, specifically about what he needed to restrict so he could start helping her.

"I love you, Lydia," he began, sitting behind the rich mahogany desk in his first story office, looking to her on the couch. "Your parents love you too, very much. They're worried about you. They're worried you might not get well soon enough for a suitor to wish your hand, or even yet, worried you might not get well at all. That's why you have been sent here, to me. Did they tell you that? I know your mother. She's my sister, and we were close when growing up. I'm certain she cares about you greatly. I am certain she wants only the best. It's important that you recognize that you're sick, that you need help, sweetheart, and that I'm here to help you." He breathed in slowly, then breathed out. He couldn't help but feel unprepared for this, knowing nothing of his niece's arrival until she had already arrived.

"We're going to talk about some rules, you and I. I have heard some... very improper things, that you have been doing around and outside of the house since your arrival. The issues which went undetailed in your mother's letter you have done well enough with elaborating upon with your actions. These are going to stop, first and foremost. It seems I have been entrusted with the task of not only helping you get better, but of turning you into a lady, as much as a gentleman can manage that is." Sitting up straight, he let another long, full draw of breath come and go, his blue eyes never once leaving the fifteen year old. "I would like if we could work together in this, Lydia. Do not think of it as... you against me." He smiled then, the doctor. A warm smile. Though... a different kind of smile. Confidence, exuberating. "Think of it as you and I working together against this temporary problem, so we can get you back on track to being the lovely young lady who couldn't wait to see her uncle whenever he'd visit and bring her sweets." Simon leaned forward against his desk, smiling still, arms folded atop the wood, "How does that all sound to you?"

Preferably.

Preferably, Lydia would not have been so scrawny as a child. Not so pale nor so meek. As an infant she barely cried, a blessing to most households, but suspicious in an aristocratic one. It was not common for a child not to cry, and to barely make a sound was all the more peculiar.

Preferably, Lydia would not have remained so peculiar. She would have developed a charming personality like her brother Fergus, attended finishing school and excelled in all of the domestic and lady like arts. Whilst she was quite a proficient at the harp and piano, and managed a rather eccentric talent for sewing, Lydia refused to cook anything but sweets. As far as her studies were concerned, she was removed from Madame LeBelle’s Girl’s Academy for ‘failure to adapt’ to her surroundings…

She had set her bed alight, and told her bedmate that she could hear the frogs being kept in the laboratory screaming at night…Those frogs were soon set loose, after a few found their way into the Headmistresses’ desk during study hour one Friday afternoon.

Surely, a good switching would ease any troublemaking a little girl had to offer…

And preferably, Lydia would have been just a naughty little girl that good old fashioned Victorian discipline could straighten out..

But Lydia Rose Alexandria Darling, was not simply a misbehaved little vixen.

Something was..off. Missing, gone. Whatever tight laces strung together fashionable and respectable society were lost upon Lydia, with no boundaries or filters in sight to keep up the façade of a pretty little girl. And Lydia was pretty, a beautiful little doll of a girl. On the cusp of womanhood as her curves began to take shape in the most flattering ways. One whose mood changed with the weather, who made friends with flora and fauna rather than children her own age, and who seemed a total burden upon her parents whom were at wits end with what to do with her.

So, as per the proper treatment of nuisances to society, Lydia was sent off..Though not to an asylum or some far away land, but to her Uncle’s house in the countryside. A four day carriage ride, a non-stop carriage ride mind you…for she couldn’t be trusted to rest anywhere, to the house of a man she had not seen in years.

At fifteen, she should be giggling to her girlfriends about officers to wed, not whispering to flowers about the temperature of the rain! Her mother had written, in a lengthy six page note that had been left upon the carriage seat along with several bundles of cash. Simon, I am at a loss. I do not know where else to turn. Please…Can you save her? Penned with feigned sincerity. The child was her brother’s burden for now, and Helen Darling could focus upon her new dull and doting daughter-in-law, who was all the things that Lydia was not.

Called from the gardens into her Uncle’s office on her fourth day there Lydia, dressed in a pale blue gown with a shimmery iridescent trim, carefully made her way inside without so much as a hello or a curtsy to greet him. She wore several layers of petticoats, which seemed to puff up her gown in the fashion of a girl half of her age. Her black boots were scuffed and dirtied, which was not a welcome condition as when she sat upon the couch, she crossed them beneath her, showing off her lack of stockings as the skirt of her gown rose up above her ankles. Whether or not it was quite obvious to her Uncle, whom did not seem to have a woman residing with him, Lydia had chosen to leave her corset in her dresser as well, alongside of her stockings and bloomers. Her blonde curls were a tasseled mess, flowing down to her mid back with a few white ribbons tied in seemingly random strands.

The moment he began talking, she started chewing on her nails. Looking around the room at the numerous bookcases..Watching dust particles floating in the sunlight near the windows. Heavenly sunlight, heavenly sunlight, flooding my soul with glory divine…

Absentmindedly humming the tune of the hymn as he continued to speak, Lydia’s knees bounced slightly as she continued to chew upon her fingernails, looking around the room until she caught him smiling.Her eyes narrowed slightly. She had heard what he had said…She was listening, but she hadn’t heard him..Save for the last bit about sweets, of which she spotted none upon his desk…What was this Uncle business? He had claimed such before but…

“You’re my Uncle?”

That tiny, silky voice chimed with perhaps the first full sentence she had spoken to him since she arrived…

As he watched her, as he observed his young niece in all her glory, the improper way she sat, how she chewed upon her nails, how she fidgeted, how the look in her eyes betrayed the direction they faced, for it was very obvious she was not truly paying attention, he felt encouraged. Each served to further underline the obviousness of her issues and the many tasks he had set before him. She was more a boy than a lady. He half expected the blonde to pull a frog from her skirts or to recite some raunchy rhyme young men were so known for. The boots had made him sigh, slight and to himself, eyes closing for a quick moment before opening back again, setting to his task. But then she came at him unexpectedly, innocently, for sure, but no less harsh in its delivery:

"You're my uncle?"

"..."

Simon's eyes closed. Partially, temporarily, combined it was no more than the length of a few blinks, but they closed, soon opening again. She didn't mean it like that, he knew. His hands came together, fingers sliding into one another, and he forced a smile with the exhale of breath. Any falter in his face was as brief as the rest had been. "Yes, Lydia... I am your Uncle Simon." It had been so long, especially for her. In truth, he wished it had hurt more. It had stung, but the past decade away from his family dulled such a blow to a regrettable degree, ironically enough. His clasped hands raised, a finger from each stretching up to rest against his chin. "You were just a little girl when you saw me last. You always came running when I arrived at your home, hugging my leg for minutes at a time, making me walk with you like that, carrying you." The forced smile became a little more genuine. "I would always be sure to stop at a bakery before I arrived to bring a dessert of some sort for the house, to be polite, but I would get an extra treat just for you. It was our secret. And we were caught when you learned to search in my pockets as soon as I arrived." His lips turned even warmer, accompanied with a small laugh. "Your mother scolded me for that. You got away scott free though. As a matter of fact, even better, I think that was the day of your sixth birthday?... I remember because I got for you a little rocking horse that you could ride on."

Would she remember such things? Maybe. They brought some warmth to him, at least, recalling them now, even if she didn't. But with the next breath he shook his head softly, Simon sitting up straight, then coming to a stand. They could reminisce later, if she cared to. For now there needed to be firmness. Discipline. Rules. It wouldn't do to go off track. Slow, heavy footsteps took him around the bend of his desk, his hands clasped behind his back. "Anyway. Shall we talk?" A smile, warm and friendly. Simon came to stand at the head of his desk, leaning casually back against it, fully aware of what he was doing. It was a technique he was writing about for his first book, about being in control. This way, rather than being seated behind his desk, he was both closer to his patient and standing, the second of which giving him height, and height equalled power. It was subliminal. It didn't need to be acknowledged. These were truths that simply were, and being aware of and knowing how to utilize such truths were important tools.

"You are going to become a lady here, Lydia. Proper and sweet. Not..." he smirked, chuckling, gesturing to her with a hand, "this. I have already talked with some of the workers in the house. Tomorrow morning you will report to Eleanor in the kitchen. You will help her with making breakfast, and return to her at the times she says to assist with lunch and supper. When she does not need you then you will find Miranda, whom I am sure would like your help washing the floors and dusting. These may not be as appealing to you as playing in the dirt and dancing in fountains but they are necessary for you to learn the fundamentals. A classy lady does not do such things, but first you will learn a woman's role, and second, once I believe you ready, you will be relieved of certain duties and gifted with nicer things. Until then we will work on your manners, on your speech, on your posture, and above all, your attitude."

He gestured with his chin, with an incline of his head and a wander of his eyes over to a large grand piano in the back of the room, books set upon shelves on either side, a large window behind which reached from the floor to the ceiling of the first floor, sunlight pouring in. The finish was black. The seat was black. Everything about it was gorgeous and new. "There are two things on top of the piano for you back there. One is a box with some clothes in it. Don't get too excited, as they're all quite simple. Servants clothes, things that will get you through the next few days until I bring you shopping for something new. What you have now... Like it or not, you cannot argue that your current attire is in any way appropriate for a lady or servant." Simon smirked, arms folding across his chest. "The other item waiting there for you is a pair of books. Dictionaries. I will turn around, Lydia, and when I do I want you to remove what you have on now... those silly boots included... and put on one of the outfits in the box. Place your things on the floor for now. The same maid I had bring you here should be finishing up in your room by now, gathering the other items you brought with you, clothing and any other inappropriates, so that I may inspect them and decide what, if any, you actually need. Anyway, once changed I want you to let me know so we can start with your posture. Once you can balance both of those books on your head for ten seconds, without using your hands, mind you, I'll allow you the rest of the day to yourself. ...Fair?"

Uncle Simon?

“I wasn’t told I had an Uncle Simon…” She claimed whilst nibbling at a particularly long hangnail. Little pearly teeth grinding slightly from between glossy pink lips as her lovely blue eyes stared unenthusiastically towards her so called Uncle. This was of course, not the entire truth. Lydia was aware her mother had an older brother, but she hadn’t seen him in ages…And her mother wasn’t exactly someone that she trusted, at all….

He was probably just another Doctor…This time, posing to be a relative instead of ‘just her friend, who she could trust with anything…’ Some new ridiculous front made in an attempt to earn her trust. But, he mentioned her rocking horse…Lydia doubted her parents even remembered that tattered old thing still set up in her room at home to recall whom gave it to her.

Perhaps he was her Uncle.

He did have Mother’s eyes…

As he rose from his desk and approached her, the petite youth upon his couch seemed not at all influenced by this psychological technique. She continued to look at him, with a glazed boredom in her sienna eyes that only a teenager could muster. Her hands dropped from her mouth onto her lap, pulling and twisting at the wrinkles before she laid back, against the arm of the coach, so that her mid back was pressed upon the top, her head dangling over the side, and that golden curtain of hair pooling upon the carpeted floor.

“If we must,” She sighed at his inquiry to start a conversation, which he would continue no doubt, with or without her approval. As he spoke of chores and the proper place for a lady, she imagined her mother speaking..Her mother with her shrewish,, mouse like face…covered from the neck down in lace and a putrid color of red that matched the makeup stains upon her lips..A mouse…Lydia giggled slightly to herself as the shape in her mind transformed into a mouse in a gown, squeaking nonsensically to another bored looking mouse dressed in a blue gown with blonde curls. The littler mouse was drawing something on the floor…

Lydia’s hand absentmindedly rose in front of her, her pointer finger extended, drawing as she continued to smile at the silly image.

Uncle Simon had paused in his speech, Lydia supposed her attention was needed for a moment…Typically it took a simple nod of her head or brief eye contact to convince her parents that she was paying attention to one of their numerous lectures. Uncle Simon had looked away however, and Lydia’s eyes curiously followed his glance towards the piano. She loved music…Not lessons, but freely playing whatever melody came into her mind.. Sliding off onto the seat of the couch again, Lydia tugged at the trims of her skirts, already considering her escape…But her expression did not give such plans away. She looked at the boxes upon the piano, watching his confident grin from the corner of her eye. Surely, he expected her to listen.

Perhaps..

She stood up, walking to the piano, barely making a sound as she crossed the floor. Removing the lid from the box, she waited until her Uncle turned before folding the different articles of clothing over her forearm. “Uncle Simon,” She said finally, as she had not been instructed to refer to him as anything else “Do you suppose that mice mothers send their daughters to finishing school?” And with that question, she slowly, quietly backed up…Away from the piano….Away from the couch.

And out the door.

"Do I suppose that mice mothers... ... finishing school?"

He blinked.

Back turned to her, Simon blinked, his eyes narrowed, his head tilted to one side in thought. What a peculiar question.

He thought to reprimand her for changing the subject, but she had called him Uncle Simon. That brought forth a smile, thinking about it. So maybe she remembered after all? Or, at least, she was willing to accept him as they built something new. But later. What exactly was she talking about? "Lydia?" he asked. And waited. "I'm sorry, but can you ask me that again? I don't believe heard you right. Lydia? ...Lydia?"

He had a feeling. Before he even turned Simon closed his eyes, took a long breath and sighed.

"Lydia Rose," he breathed, opening them to see her quite positively not there. Not at the piano. Not on top of it. Not beneath. Not behind. A strong, quick stride took him to the large open box whose contents consisted of its own brown bottom. She was resisting it. Of course. Nobody wanted to be made to change. Did they, and his services would largely be unnecessary. He should have expected this, Simon's mind was quick to chide him. He had let his guard down. Mentally he had allowed himself to wind down, expecting time alone to write instead of having to deal with another patient. And what of his mind was still on that professional track had been blinded by their blood relation, by the fact that he knew this girl since she was a bump in her mother's stomach and he wanted to believe she wasn't going to make his life difficult. Green mistakes, his mind rang over and over. Not irreversible ones, not very big deals, but he should have been sharper than this!

No use dwelling on it now.

"Miranda?" he called out, striding out of the office at a brisk pace. How far could she have gone? Where would she, was the more apt question. Simon's head whipped left. It whipped right. Brows narrowing, he called out again, "Miranda," walking steadily down the foyer, past the stairs, and down an adjacent hallway. She took the clothes with her. To hide them? To destroy them? Simon's booted steps clicked against the floor with the weight of each heavy footfall. Stopping just long enough to lean his head into the den as he passed by, he glanced at the fireplace, noting no sign of her, the clothes, or any attempt of use. So she wasn't burning them. Hiding them? Hiding herself? "Mir-"

"Yes, Sir?" came a hurried voice, the thirty-something reddish-brown haired woman called out quickly, coming from the other end of the hallway. "I am here!"

"Lydia has-" escaped? gotten away? She'd like to imagine such horrid words, he was sure. "-disappeared. Have you seen her?"

"Not since I sent her to see you, Sir! Did she not speak to you?"

'Yes, she did. Briefly. Have you seen her since? Just now?"

"Why, no Sir, I-"

"She took some clothes with her. Did you see those?"

"No, Sir."

"...Hm." His lips twisted to a side. "I'm going to check outside. Go take a look in her room, see if she isn't searching for any of the items you confiscated - that is taken care of, is it not?"

"Yes, Sir, just now. I set them all aside like you asked me to."

"Good, good. Check her room. If she isn't there then go through the rest of the house. Rooms. Bathrooms. Closets." This... This was an annoyance, nothing more. And this was temporary. If his niece thought she was safe for long, if she thought this was going to be a repeat performance past this day, she would soon have another thing coming.

At half past noon precisely, Lydia had dashed out from her Uncle’s office with a bundle of clothes in hand.

At two seventeen, one of the servants found her needle and thread missing, but thought nothing of it.

At five o clock, the sheers in the kitchen were thought to be misplaced.

At six thirty precisely, the servants were dismissed for the evening. Even Miranda, who assured the good Doctor she would stay late, reluctantly returned to her cottage near the estate. Lydia had successfully hidden herself for the entirety of the afternoon, and the majority of the evening, snugged comfortably away in a hiding spot no adult would ever think of. Not even a Doctor, whose mind was too clouded by logic to think like a child rather than for one.

The estate was very quiet. The monotonous ticking of the numerous clocks positioned throughout the halls and rooms echoed silently in synch. And then,…a soft voice. A gentle, lulling sound resonating through the hallways. A girl’s voice; Lydia’s.

Traipsing down the stairs in the wrong direction, with two large books and a quill pen atop of her head, Lydia seemed nearly finished with a nonsensical poem she must have been reciting from wherever her hiding spot had been.

“'You are old', said the youth, 'one would hardly supposeThat your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose -What made you so awfully clever?’”

She seemed to be singing, smiling as she crooked one arm up to make certain the books did not fall during her rather impressive feat. One that would perhaps been more acceptable, had it not been for her chosen attire. The servant’s clothing meant to humiliate and humble her, were hardly ….there at all!

The dull black maids gown had been torn and hemmed so that it came up to her mid thighs, showing off her bloomers and petticoats that once again acted to puff out the skirts of her newly designed gown which was masterfully tailored for a girl of her age, had it not been for the length..or the fact that the midsection was missing entirely, as well as a section of the back. The apron had been cut as well, shorter than the dress itself. Tied in a large bow behind her, Lydia had cut fringes around the edges, and the shape of a rabbit’s silhouette in the center between her breasts, for stylistic purposes of course.

A bit of the extra black material had been tied around her neck like a collar, a few pieces twisted into ribbons within her hair alongside of the white ones she had arrived with..

Those dirty boots still were daintily tied around her ankles, and her golden hair was still a wild mess.

“'I have answered three questions, and that is enough,' Said his father, 'don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!’”

And with the conclusion of her poem-song, Lydia grabbed both books atop of her head to keep them balanced, and jumped down with a childish skip to the floor from the bottom step, smiling brightly to herself. Truly, a moment of childish innocence at it’s most sincere…

Perhaps.

This house, this estate was still a thing very new to him, its hallways and gardens possessing an in between feel that wasn't quite yet like home. Even had it been, the property was vast enough that one might have grown up there, might have lived there all their life and there could still be a place or three left undiscovered. Combine such a truth with a little girl that didn't want to be found, and she simply wouldn't. Simon knew this. He knew it but that didn't mean he could go without trying, having first the maid, then the cook join in the search, followed by the gardener and anyone else he came across in those hectic hours. They would try. It was all in vain, he knew after the first hour had passed, but they would try. It wasn't until somewhere around suppertime that he personally chose to retire from the search, his meal consisting of a simple hunk of bread and some still somewhat fresh milk, the cook having been too busy searching to actually cook. He was capable of more, of course, or could have asked the woman to prepare something simple before dismissing her and the others for the night, but his mind was too enamored by this, by Lydia, to even care to bother. This was a challenge, this teenager. She had not outsmarted him, she had simply taken advantage, simply gotten the better of him in nothing but a temporary sense.

And so he would wait.

It was inevitable that she show herself. Cruel the thought might be, but it was a truth, an absolute in that she had no other means to take care of herself other than this home. Food, shelter, she would have to come out if she was in hiding, or come back if she'd run away, unless she was somehow able to make the lengthy trek back to her parents, one that took four days by nonstop carriage and would take far more at a casual walk. So he would wait, and once Simon decided that he would wait it became clear to him as to where. When Lydia revealed herself there were many places that she could go, but few that she actually might. The kitchen was a solid guess, but perhaps too out in the open. It was far more likely she would retreat to her room, seeking the privacy and safety such a thing provided. And in doing so she would find her uncle, her doctor, sitting there in a chair against the wall, quietly reading.

stomp.

stomp.

stomp.

Simon blinked.

stomp.

stomp.

The smile etched across his features was not of a cat that had caught the mouse, but of a cat to whom the mouse was coming to of its own choosing, albeit unknowingly.

stomp.

stomp.

Though, that sounded as if it were moving... away?

stomp.

His book closed, quietly, eyes on the doorway as he rose slowly as to fold the cover closed and place it on the seat. So he had guessed wrong, so she wasn't coming to her room, it seemed. At least not first. As his own light steps approached Lydia's doorway he could hear her voice, inaudible at this distance, though it served to further give her up in case those horrid boots hadn't done the job. Stern-faced, he took to the hallway quietly, but not sneaking, for he would do no such thing in his own home. Palms clasped behind his back, he did everything he could to keep his footsteps light as he progressed along the rug. Turning a corner, he-

-stopped. And just sort of stared. Bewildered. Watching her descend.

Speaking to herself in riddles? She truly was mad. And that outfit! Simon's lips were fixed together but his eyes went wide. What a... what a... what... "Harlot," he spoke, loud enough to be heard. Just short of a yell. Shuffling his steps, moving to the top of the staircase without peeling his eyes from her, Simon called out, "Lydia!" Deep breaths. Calm, deep breaths. If he became too fierce he would scare her off. "...Lydia. What are you- nevermind." Another breath. Mentally he did what he could to remain in control, but this? Those clothes were more than just some behavioral problem! "Come up here, Lydia. Back up the stairs. Please." His palms squeezed hard into one another behind his back. He did everything he could, though, to keep his face calm, to keep it from going red. "You caused a very big ruckus today, apparently destroyed what I had given you, and embarrassed and insulted me. I believe we both know that you owe a sincere apology."

“Harlot!”

The appalled sound of the man’s voice alerted Lydia to his presence. She smiled, cheekily, still as she seemed unfazed by the word. The furious knitting of his brows as his face seemed to flush worse than mother’s when their tea had been served cold. She had never seen anyone so…angry. Father usually sighed at her antics, Mother turned up her nose in detest…And Fergus…

Well, she had never seen anyone’s veins start to visibly pulse, that was certain. It was almost thrilling, to know that she had wedged her way beneath his skin with just, what she believed to be a simple game of loopholes. He had told her to dress, but not how nor when. He had told her to balance her books for ten seconds, and descending a staircase certainly took longer than that. And she recited a poem whilst doing so, which should positively amount for something!

How could he possibly seem so irate?

It was his own fault for not detailing his request properly.

Surprisingly, she ascended the staircase to join him instead of fleeing off to some other secret spot for the remainder of the evening. She joined him, giddily in fact. Her breasts and curls bouncing as those little boots tap-tap-tapped up the stairs. Books clutched against her chest, the quill pen tucked behind her ear, Lydia reached her Uncle, panting as if she had just run a mile.

“Did you see me? Were you watching!” She exclaimed, his anger and the near-beast like craze in his eyes seemingly not enough to disturb the young nymphette in midst of her glee. One hand reached up to tug at the man’s sleeve as she gestured to the stairs with her eyes, those little bright orbs darting back and forth to make certain she had attention, with such childish enthusiasm between the staircase and her flabbergasted Uncle.

“I walked down all twenty-one steps backwards, with these books upon my head!
She held said novels up towards him, seemingly random choices that she must have taken from the shelves in the library. “I balanced them for far longer than ten seconds Uncle! Do you think that’s a record of sorts?

She paused, inhaling slightly as she drew her lip inward, wetting it with her tongue. Her porcelain skin gleaming with keenness from her accomplishment, and a bit of sweat as well from the concentration needed to attain such a feat. It seemed in this moment of pause, that Lydia’s memory seemed to catch up to her finally. Her hand reached up to twist at one of those pretty curls, her brows furrowing slightly as she registered what had been said.

Destroyed? Embarrassed? Insulted?

Where had she been when this all occurred?

Apologize?

That sweet expression seemed to melt away, and it was then she took note of the anger in her Uncle’s face. The novels clutched tighter against her blossoming breasts, one bootstep backwards…Away.

“Why should I apologize?”

A question posed with utmost sincerity,

As Lydia hadn’t a clue that she’d done anything wrong. Nothing he wanted…but who was he to tell her what to do! Her Uncle? No. He didn’t seem like one…Not at all.

The shadows in the hallway seemed to surround him, cloaking him like some dreadful apparitions from beyond...Enahncing the darkness of his eyes, the scowl upon his face.

He didn’t seem like an Uncle at all…

More like….

More like a viper.

Snake-like, Simon's hand darted out when Lydia took that single step away, as if she were a frightened animal and he the hunter. It was a horrible thing to think, for while many patients looked to him as the enemy early on in their treatment he was, in fact, nothing more than a doctor. He would suffer their slings, suffer their arrows, suffer any hatred sent his way all in the name of helping them get better. Now it was little Lydia, a young woman whom he could still remember as a child bouncing upon his lap in golden-haired gigglefits... What he would do with her, to her, would hurt them both more than any other patient before her. Could she still love her uncle when it was all over?

It was his job to be disliked, sometimes, so long as it meant her getting well. This was the truth, his duty, sad as it may be.

And so he snatched her wrist, jerking it forward and her with it. One of the books was set into a rather obnoxiously loud tumble down the steps, all twenty-one of them, the other falling at their feet. She was adorable in her childlike actions, in a sense, but she could not be so childish forever! Perhaps this behavior was why she was partway to sixteen without a single serious gentleman caller. "Was I watching, Lydia?" He twisted her wrist slightly, raising her arm in the air and pulling her close to him. "Was I watching when? When you continued to make a mockery of me just now?"

Be the villain. Be hated. He told himself these things, for she was sent here as a last hope. Should he fail to cure her...

His hand squeezed down harder.

"Was I watching when I gave you food?" She was standing on the right of him. Simon lowered her grasped hand and jerked it left, pulled her thin form in front of him as he dropped down to one knee, stepping forward with the other. And right there was where he pulled Lydia, forcing her into a sudden bend across his knee! "Was I watching when I gave you shelter? Is that what you're asking?!" Now his hands moved, one to the back of that mess of gold, pinning her head down, the other to the slutty abomination that remained of her skirt. "Or are you asking about when I gave you clothing?" His teeth grit tight. "When you ran off and chose to molest them with a pair of shears. Is that what you are asking if I saw?"

Simon's hand didn't have to go far in reaching up her skirt, for there was not much there. When his touch reached her petticoat and bloomers they were tugged down, down to her knees, her lily white backside bare.

There was no pleasure to be had in this.

spank!

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"Did you make your own rules with your parents, Lydia?" Stern. Angry. But his tone, his face; he was in complete control.

spank!

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"Will you be doing that here as well, do you think?"

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"My name is Doctor Burke."

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"I am a very respected doctor. I wish for you to love me as a niece loves her uncle, but that is simply my wish. My demand is that you show respect."

spank!

"And acknowledge that you are my patient."

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"And that you are sick, Lydia."

spank!

"That you have a sickness. That there is something very wrong with your head."

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"And you should apologize because the sooner you acknowledge this, that you have been bad and that you need help, the sooner you can begin to get well."

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"Otherwise you will be staying with me for a very. long. time."

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More like a monster…

His grip upon her fragile young wrist seemed more like needles piercing into her flesh, though he had no jagged nails to speak of, the force of his fingertips buried into the flesh..almost touching the bone in fact, already seemed to call forth a bracelet of bruises upon her fair skin.

She squirmed, which was naturally to be expected. Her elbow twisting, hoping to dislodge herself from his vicious grip. Those pretty eyes dimmed of all their light, replaced with a trembling distress. He jerked, and she stumbled forth over those scuffy boots, the curve of her form pressed against her Uncle’s side as the books she had tucked against herself went tumbling down in different directions. Lydia made no action to catch them, nor reaction to the rather loudy clattering the first novel made whilst toppling down the staircase. Her eyes watched those pages flip and flutter in the air however…it felt like her own spine bouncing against the edges of the steps…

Those soft lips quivered, before those wide dark eyes returned their focus upon her…

“Let go!”

She tugged back pitifully, with as much strength as the breeze in ones hair on a summer afternoon. Albeit, even summer breezes could turn into perilous storms without warning. As she was pulled and twisted about, Lydia seemed to..hiss in her dismay. She stepped, hard, upon her Uncle’s shoe which seemed to have backfired ever so slightly, for she was immediately sent over his knee. Petticoats, curls and lace fluffing everywhere behind her no doubt..

Perhaps there had been a spring in his shoe which had launched her forth with such an unexpected force.

The moment the good Doctor’s hands seized those golden locks upon his niece’s head, her dainty little fingers began clawing at his wrists. Her lithe little body squirming and kicking about, hopping to jostle herself off of his lap with enough leverage that she could make a quick dash down the stairs and off to another hiding sp--

Upon that first blow, the balls of her feet dug down into the floor, ceasing their flailing assault upon the air. Her fingers mimicked his force upon her wrist onto his own, digging down into his flesh..but with nails cut jagged from a little girl’s nibbling. She gasped, audibly, her knees tucking beneath his thigh as though it may help cover herself from the next blow….or the next…or the next.

Whimpers.

Pathetic sharply drawn inhales and stammered exhales came rapidly with those strikes that had almost instantly begun turning that porcelain white skin the rosey shade of the blush that had been set out for supper that evening. Her knees buckled, pressing against one another as she bit down upon her lip, squinting her eyes as if combating with herself to not sob, to not give him the pleasure of her tears….

Monsters thrived off the tears of little girls….

“There is nothing wrong with my head!” She defended loudly, “Perhaps there is something wrong with your head Doctor!” Oh the word was not merely laced, but saturated with spiteful poison..Dripping it seemed from her lips with the complete and utter opposite of the cheer she had whispered Uncle, with, not moments ago. How a little girl who seemed so insatiably bubbly seconds ago, could muster up such malice was rather monstrous in itself…

Perhaps monstrosity was a family trait…

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The little bitch. Lydia's nails digging into his wrists caused his grip to begin to falter, but not fail. Simon's lips upcurled in a sneer at the sharp pain. She would dare strike back?! Animals did so when cornered, but only to a point. She was in that stage now, a bratty little female dog in the process of learning whom her master was, whom the alpha was, hunched into a corner with her teeth still bared. After a time she would learn, though. She would learn to cower. She would learn to seek peace even if it meant her complete submission. And then, then when she was finally willing to acknowledge that she had an issue, when she would finally come to accept his authority as absolute, then he could begin training her on how to act properly. Such had been the case with each and every patient before her. Such would be the case with Lydia Darling.

spank!

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Standing, Simon let her small frame slump forward, off of his knee and to the hard wood - though not completely. One hand still gripped that mess of honey-colored curls. The other joined it, gripping Lydia's hair to begin a show of force even more violent than the last, for it was important she learn her place, even if, regretfully, this was the best way to get through to her. "You spoiled cunt," the doctor grumbled out in a rare show of obscenity. His wrists were on goddamn fire. Jerking her upward by two fistfuls of hair, Simon gave his niece no chance to regain her footing, instead choosing to drag her sideways through the hallway. Gritting his teeth. Sneering. Thankful the help had all returned to their homes for the evening; that this dramatic incident need only be for the two of them.

"I am taking you t-...nggh! ...to your room, Lyd- Let. GO!!" Only several steps down the hallway and Simon already stopped, staggering his stance to gain solid footing before whipping his arms about wildly, and her head with them! A shower of curls, left and right as he jerked her head about, trying to free his throbbing wrists from her vicious grip! That this may have only caused the nails to dig further did not even occur to him.

But it seemed futile. Retaking up his steps, Simon had no choice but to end this one way or another, taking back up the walk to her room which, at this pace, was nothing short of agonizing. And her struggling did nothing to help, causing Simon to stagger and bump as he pulled her by the hair, bumping into paintings, knocking a vase over. He even had to let go at one point! A sharp cry pierced his lips as he felt her effort increase! Releasing her head of hair from his grip, the doctor, a man critically acclaimed for his methods, staggered back some, looking to a pair of throbbing wrists which were not only bleeding, but had been for some while. And that did nothing to help the little girl's cause.

Heavy boots stomped the short distance between them. Simon snatched Lydia up by the hair again, unwilling to let such respite continue any longer than it had to. He even stopped after jerking her a few more steps down the bend of the hallway to dig his knee into her back, temporarily pinning her between his weight and the floor, each as unmovable as the other.

A few more steps. Then a few more. Grunting. Brow furrowed, coming together in anger. In malice. When they reached Lydia's room he quite literally threw her through the doorway, twisting his body to build a sharp momentum before releasing the wretched girl's hair, even giving her a kick on the bottom to send her tumbling forward!

"I'll see you..." huff... huff.. "I'll see you in the morning!" he yelled, a shaking hand coming to rest on the doorknob. Red was smeared around his wrists, some on his palms, some on his forearms. Some, just a little, falling upon the innocent white carpet of Lydia's bedroom. "You WILL report to the maid tomorrow to assist her!" Spoken through firmly clenched teeth. His shoulders rose and fell with each heavy, furious breath. "And you WILL do so dressed in something respectable... And by God, Lydia, you will refer to me from this point as Doctor, Sir, or... or..." He paused, glaring at her. Thinking. "Or next time I'll be using something beside my hand to beat you with!"

SLAM.

The moment the door closed Simon slinked against the wall with all his weight, abandoning the hard look in his face and his shoulders to instead wince, each hand grabbing painfully at the opposite palm. Gritting, breathing hard, he bunched up his shirt around his wrists as best he could, dropping to a kneel in pain.

Panic.

Desperation..

Terror…

Such frantic emotions fueled Lydia’s futile attempts to fend herself off from the beast holding her down. The span of but a few feet down the hall towards her room, intensely lengthened into a terrible display of power. A dance of control, dominance, and the unyielding will of a little girl sent to live with an Uncle whom turned out to be far worse than the nightmares that plagued her.

She screamed, wailed with a banshee like caterwaul that seemed otherworldly. She clawed at him, swiped at him with those scuffed up shoes, and threw herself to the floor in attempts to slow him so she may escape…for good this time, she swore.

Monster She bellowed, in a piercing cry that took the entirety of the breath in her lungs. Lydia’s lithe body crumpled, tears streaming down her flushed face as she dug her heels into the floorboards. A horrid screeching sound erupting as the floor was marked up with black smudges that would give further evidence to the dreadful scene the next morning. As she was thrown inside of her room, tossed against the footboard of her bed’s frame, Lydia remained still. Her golden curls a ragged mess as she slumped, breathing heavily, glaring with eyes as fearful as a feral cat cornered in an alleyway.

“You’re just like them…” She hissed, choking back sobs it seemed as the door was slammed shut…

And that was last noise to escape the room for the remainder of the night. No hysterical sobs echoing sadly through the halls..No shattering sounds of anything broken…Not a peep.

The next morning, the head maid was ill and could not come, but one of the others discovered a rather elaborate portrait upon Lydia’s vanity.. Two empty tubes of lipstick, bright red, cast aside on the floor..Used to draw what seemed to be a very monstrous, fearful looking creature, almost werewolf like in it’s appearance, dressed in a waistcoast with a pocketwatch, towering over a girl curled up on the floor at the monster’s feet, surrounded by books and broken vases…

The maid had not been certain of what to do with it…The Doctor was having breakfast at the moment, and could not be consulted…

Lydia was also at breakfast, but was not having anything at all. Dressed in a light beige bodice with a stomacher embroidered with lilacs, her short sleeved chemise was much more reserved in it’s appearance than her attire from the previous day, though the bodice made the swell of her young breasts undeniably noticeable. Her skirt was of a rustic green shade, and instead of those boots she wore very tattered black shoes…Those sun kissed curls were still a tattered mess however, as if she hadn’t brushed them at all since their..antics, of the former night.

Lydia sat at the far end of the table, having moved her plate there, silently, without touching a morsel of their meal. When her Uncle was finished, she left the room, passing a meek looking maid in the doorway, before walking out to the gardens…Her pace becoming much more brisk upon feeling the fresh air upon her face. She walked,ran perhaps, towards the reflecting pool, falling into a puddle of her own skirt amongst a patch of wild daisies, which she promptly began weaving into chains…

That beautiful face, uncharacteristically statuesque and vacant.

That night Simon hadn't found his sleep right away. Too furious from the events of the day, too aggravated by the painful throbbing of his cut up wrists, too thoughtful of what he would do next to correct her. Not too guilty though. Such a thing never even entered into his mind. And so when the first three finally subsided, when he was too tired to think, too exhausted to notice the pain, and too quiet for the anger to linger, he slept, and he slept very well.

The next morning he was awoken by a maid whom, upon seeing broken pieces of a vase she usually cleaned and specks of blood along a floor she was used to scrubbing, came to his bedroom in a panic. Simon brushed the topic off tiredly; dismissively, even if he hadn't been. There was an incident, is all he would say. Draw me a bath.

At breakfast the good doctor patiently waited for Lydia to arrive, dressed in a relaxed long sleeve burgundy shirt with similar brown trousers and shoes. His hair was neat. His face and neck were freshly shaven. His wrists were each bound by several layers of gauze which he made no effort to hide, they mostly white. When Lydia arrived at the table Simon simply smiled and wished her a good morning, and, having received no response, gave no further effort at conversation after that. He sipped at his tea. He ate his bagel. His eggs were fluffy and moist, quite perfect really, and the smell of the sausage before it even came out of the kitchen had a little smile at the edges of his lips. At noticing the pouting little brat across the table and how she made a point of not eating at all, he in turn made a point of eating extra, stuffing himself full if only to rub it in, even calling the cook over to the table to compliment the woman on such a marvelous morning spread.

When breakfast was concluded and Lydia left without a word Simon remained seated there with a bit of a smug grin to him. He wasn't happy about this exactly, but he had remained in control of his emotions while all she could do was pout. There was a sense of victory to that, even if it wasn't a victory to be particularly proud of, that of both physically and emotionally dominating a teenage girl. He relished that moment after breakfast anyway, privately, smiling to himself. Soon he would have to begin his work for the day, but right at that second he could relax at the table, enjoying the last of the breakfast tea as he simply savored it.

That was, until one of the maids came to him with a hesitant voice, a crude lipstick drawing held nervously at her side.

It was... unsettling, to say the least. Simon dismissed the woman, sent her away so he could observe Lydia's... artwork, by himself. Fingers closed into a palm and that calm fist rose to rest against his lips.

He breathed in. He breathed out. So he was a monster to her? ...Fine. Fine, then he would be a monster. Professionally, he was willing to. Dr.Burke was known for undertaking personal sacrifice if need be to ensure the wellness of his patients. But... but no sooner had he resolved to be that monster she drew him as, sneering at the picture, his anger very much a defense mechanism, than he started to falter. And started to think. He could be that if he were only a doctor, if she were only another patient, but as an uncle... Nine years was not so long ago to him. Simon's stern features faltered. His hand began to shake just slightly as he moved to set he picture on the table, face down. His other palm spread its fingers as it pressed up to cover his face, as if he were only sighing against his hand and nothing more. As a doctor, sure. But as an uncle he still remembered a time when she loved him dearly.

Again, all he could do was breathe. His hand eventually drew down to cover only his mouth and nose, Simon's eyes scanning the room. It had gone quiet. A pleasant smell still lingered in the air but breakfast was finished, he was alone in the room, and everything had gone quiet. Simon simply exhaled against his hand, deep in thought.

"Eleanor?" he called out after some time.

"Yes, sir?" came the response. It wasn't very loud, but a second later she appeared through the kitchen doors, eyes attentive, a soiled towel draped over one arm.

"Are there any of those lemon tarts still around from yesterday?"

"Um... yes, sir, I believe there is two or three still."

"Are they still fresh?"

"Fresh enough, I would think."

"Excellent. Wrap them in a handkerchief for me?"

It didn't take very long to find Lydia at all. She was unmistakable around the place, sticking out like a sore thumb; one need only ask a servant where she had run off to and be pointed in the right direction. The flower patch out by the long, shallow pool at the head of the estate came as no surprise as something that would attract little girls. When Simon descended the wide steps a the front of the house, shoes setting upon gravel, his first sight of his niece from behind brought a hard pang to the very core of his chest. A wince accompanied it, sharp and expected. Taking a breath, he approached her from behind quietly, taking care to not necessarily sneak, but to not make too much noise with his steps, not wanting to scare her away.

The gravel behind him now and his feet setting upon the dirt, Simon took several more light steps until he was right up behind her, standing in the flower bed itself. He searched for the words, even wet his tongue, looking down at that head of gold from behind. He paused at length. He thought. He considered. But anything that came to mind was cast aside in favor of simply taking those last few small steps up behind her, of dropping to his knees in the bed and of placing his palms lightly upon her shoulders.

"Lydia," he breathed out softly, fingers rubbing back and forth in small circles upon her shoulders. Simon's gaze cast down. Then his eyes closed entirely. Leaning forward, he hunched just a little bit over her, the hands on her shoulders evolving to arms, encircling her collarbone in the gentlest of hugs. He even nuzzled against her, first at her hair to brush the thick curls aside with his nose, then his right cheek against her left, finishing up with a whisper and a kiss.

"I remember... a time," he breathed, "before you ever hated me, when you could not wait to search through my pockets."

First, pierce the flower’s stem with your fingernail.

Next, apologize.

After, thread the second flower’s stem through the hole..

Pull close.

Repeat.

Simple, childish steps for a simple, childish task. Weaving Daisy chains was by no means an art, but it did require a certain amount of skill and…Well, not everyone could sit amidst a flower bed and lay plucked daisies upon their lap and manage to look quite as innocent as a little girl. Said little girls grew up into young maidens, who continued to practice such youthful delights, but there was an almost alluring manner in which those nimble hands moved. How they bit down upon their plump lips, narrowing their pretty eyes in concentration, as if they were creating some masterpiece out of stems and petals.

And so Lydia sat as such, her fair skin glowing in the morning sunlight. Her skirts pooled around her, her hands steadily at work. Those golden curls bouncing and swaying lightly in the breeze, beneath a lovely crown that had been set atop her head.

Picturesque.

But there was a stillness in her eyes that was most unusual. An absence seemingly, of the lively flames that had been dazzlingly bright since her arrival at the estate…but not entirely.

Such a flame could not be so easily distinguished.

The heavy steps upon the gravel interrupted whatever music had been playing in her head. A sharp, scratchy halt that made her grip upon the flower stems tighten ever so slightly. Her body tensing as her eyes focus turned to the shadow that seemed to be encompassing her…Blocking out the sun…Making the air suddenly seem very cold.

And despite a sharp pain in her side reemphasizing its presence, Lydia did not turn to acknowledge her Uncle. Not even a glance over her shoulder. She continued weaving a new chain upon her lap, silently as if he weren’t there at all…or rather that his presence there did not matter to her, which was slightly more the case.

When those large hands came to her shoulders, Lydia visibly shook, despite her built up composure. A small, but noticeable flinch that didn’t exactly cause her to shy away, but she did not lean back to embrace him. As he sat behind her, nuzzling with soft affections, Lydia felt something course within her…Like lightening set loose in her veins. There was an almost…pleading, sound to his voice. A faltering that made the lips of that little nymphette curl into a most elegant smirk.

Setting her flowers onto her lap, Lydia’s hands moved back. She did not turn her head, but she placed her hands upon her Uncle’s knees, pressing upon them until he moved to sit with his legs slightly crossed beneath him. Lightly, she perched herself upon his lap, her legs tucked to one side of her whilst her skirts slightly raised from the move, showing off her bare, stocking less skin and the lean muscles of her lower legs. She reclined, resting her back against her Uncle’s chest before picking up her chain and resuming where she had left off, still not raising those pretty little eyes to look up at him.

“If the roses are said to be the monarchs of the flower kingdom, who do you suppose serve them in court?”

It wasn't the reaction he was hoping for, Lydia nudging him back into a sit, his legs slightly crossed, as she shuffled into his lap, but it was a positive reaction nonetheless. Was that time over, he thought, when she'd search him for presents with wide-eyed diligence? Perhaps they were to be his memories of her youth and nothing more. That was a bitter pill to swallow, but the surprise of hie niece sliding backward into his lap was pleasant enough that Simon's mind was plenty occupied. This was entirely unexpected. He'd half thought the girl would run screaming from him, claiming him a horrible monster in a pitched voice that might later drive him to a moment of private tears back in the house. The doctor had braced himself for such, as much as a loving guardian could. This was unexpected though, and brought to his chest a surprised warmth as her backside shuffled into his lap, her skirts raising up around her.

His hands never moved from her shoulders, elbows outward.

"I... the monarchs?" he questioned, not having expected such a silly thing. Little girls could be such...little girls sometimes, couldn't they? Though Simon knew he shouldn't encourage such, he did experience an overcoming smile, and knew in his professionalism and in his heart both that he needed to be kind to her right now. "I suppose," he thought a moment, pausing between words, "wouldn't... some sort of wildflower? I don't know a great deal of foliage." His palms traced over the curves of her shoulder, from Lydia's collarbone to the tops of her arms, back and forth in a slow, familiar rub. "The gardener may have a better answer to that one than I."

He looked past her. Resting his cheek to the softness of her curls, poor Lydia's demon of an uncle sat with her there amidst the flowers, rubbing her shoulders, content in the moment of silence that followed his answer. He watched a few stray petals dance upon the surface of the water in front of them. The water itself was relatively still, the fountain off, but if one watched closely it could be seen how the petals still moved the slightest bit here and there, no doubt the remnants of ripples from when some young maiden decided such were of no use for her decorations, instead casting the flowers to the serenity of slight waves.

Simon breathed. Nuzzling her young, beautiful golden tresses, resting lightly to the side of her head, Simon showed her his silent regret in what limited ways a man largely inexperienced with affection knew how. ...no, it wasn't exactly regret. It sort of was. He regretted the previous evening was necessary, but not his actions per se. Frowning, he thought back to the sweets he had tucked into a pocket, something which was no way a proper breakfast but would hopefully do well in place of a vocal apology. Simon's right hand slipped forward from her right shoulder, slipping around Lydia's front, below her collar and above her breasts, holding her steady while his left dipped back to reach into his pocket. Pulling out the wrapped tarts, he-

-noticed something. Her legs. Blinking, staring a moment without really thinking, Simon noticed something. And remembered something. And realized something. From her raised skirts he could see enough of the skin of Lydia's legs, a visual sight that reminded him all too quick of what one of the maids had mentioned to him yesterday in a hushed, seemingly embarrassed tone - that beneath the skirt she feared the young woman didn't were anything at all! No petticoat. No stockings. Not even bloomers! And were he something greater than a man perhaps he could have resisted what came next. His arm frozen, dangling in the air to the left, wrapped food in his hand, Simon couldn't help his face go a deathly white as all the blood seemed to drain from it, followed by the hasty rush of it back tenfold, making him go quite, and undoubtedly red.

Would she notice it? His heart raced. His mind filled with worry. And the more he tried to ignore it, or will it away, in those desperate seconds he could do nothing for the arousal between his legs not only coming into existence, but coming to strain against his trousers. Lustful. Sinful. Shamefully disgusting! Simon swallowed the saliva in his mouth. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled though barely parted lips, closing his eyes as if that would aid him in any way. He was hard. He was suddenly very, very erect, with his fifteen year old niece's bare rump resting between his knees. With any luck in the world she was sitting just far forward enough to not notice.

What was that? Oh, right. The tarts.

Breathing, just breathing, Simon placed the handkerchief of lemony sweets on Lydia's left knee, careful not to upset any of the maidenly creations she was in the midst of creating. That arm, for lack of a better idea, wrapped around her just as the other, though this one around her waist while his right remained just above her breast.