Moira watches James as she follows him, understanding that this is a huge show of trust for him. She remembers the headlines when his mother died, tragedy and sensation blending together at the whims of the journalists reporting on it. She had been about eight at the time, and she had only just lost her uncle, Fabrice his father, about two years prior. She remembers watching the funeral procession weave through the streets from one of the largest windows of the house. She remembers her mother's words clearly, the same, cold ones she spoke after the death of Uncle Reginald: "Accidents sometimes happen." At the time, Moira had thought nothing of it.
Years of exposure to her mother's true nature, the late nights she waltzed back home, ignoring their father's questions as to where she had been; the moment Moira recognized her mother hadn't been crying in earnest through the crack in her glamour at her uncle's funeral, the same crack she revealed at her father's ceremony. And then, of course, coming upon her correspondences with the Grimhildes.
"Oh my God," Moira breathes once they enter the secret room, taking in the maps and pictures, the underlined notes and countless pieces of evidence lined up on the walls. She recognizes most of the names, she realizes, a growing horror settling upon her. Nichole Weaver, a seance who'd once viciously argued with Violet, who met a tragic end driving off a cliff. Suicide, the papers read. Moira knows better now.
She closes her eyes briefly, gathering her strength to herself. She shares the same blood as her mother; the potential for evil runs in her veins, and in this room, it becomes more real to Moira than her past suspicions.
"I have something that doesn't prove much, unless we can find someone to translate it for us," Moira shakes herself out of her trance, bringing her book bag around and pulling her own object out. No one, not even Fabrice, knows about it, something she feels slightly guilty about, considering it technically belongs to her cousin.
"My uncle wrote this for Fabrice," she admits, unfolding a letter written entirely in ancient runes no longer in use during this modern age, holding it up to the light and to James. "I am almost certain this was written the night of his death; see the patches of brown in the corner? Blood, possibly both his and my - Violet's."
no subject
Years of exposure to her mother's true nature, the late nights she waltzed back home, ignoring their father's questions as to where she had been; the moment Moira recognized her mother hadn't been crying in earnest through the crack in her glamour at her uncle's funeral, the same crack she revealed at her father's ceremony. And then, of course, coming upon her correspondences with the Grimhildes.
"Oh my God," Moira breathes once they enter the secret room, taking in the maps and pictures, the underlined notes and countless pieces of evidence lined up on the walls. She recognizes most of the names, she realizes, a growing horror settling upon her. Nichole Weaver, a seance who'd once viciously argued with Violet, who met a tragic end driving off a cliff. Suicide, the papers read. Moira knows better now.
She closes her eyes briefly, gathering her strength to herself. She shares the same blood as her mother; the potential for evil runs in her veins, and in this room, it becomes more real to Moira than her past suspicions.
"I have something that doesn't prove much, unless we can find someone to translate it for us," Moira shakes herself out of her trance, bringing her book bag around and pulling her own object out. No one, not even Fabrice, knows about it, something she feels slightly guilty about, considering it technically belongs to her cousin.
"My uncle wrote this for Fabrice," she admits, unfolding a letter written entirely in ancient runes no longer in use during this modern age, holding it up to the light and to James. "I am almost certain this was written the night of his death; see the patches of brown in the corner? Blood, possibly both his and my - Violet's."
She turns to James and waits for his reaction.