Carlisle had no idea where she was, Alma. He knew that the children were with this Miss. Avocet that Alma had placed complete trust in. Beyond that, he knew nothing. He knew not of the past that she seemed intent on running from and the man that would not seem to let her go after whatever had happened.
He'd asked Alma what the past the two shared was, but she found the he might have been safer had Lyle not known. He worried about her and took solace in his writings. He reread most of them, already knowing the plot twists and turns, the deaths and the new found loves, the morals and what to take away. He knew that and nothing else.
He worried for her and her charges. He knew the latter were more than likely safe but the former had run off and he hadn't heard from her since, not a single word. Alma left a few months ago and he felt in his heart that she was near, not in the physical sense but on a mentally emotional level. However, this only served to make him feel more alone than ever, as he had stopped being a boy that liked to play, finding that it hurt her memory somehow.
Miss. Peregrine abandoned the house where she once lived, leaving everything that she and her charges were unable to pack to gather dust. She made sure to lock the door behind her and hid the key in a place that only herself and Carlisle knew.
The lawn that was once filled with daisies, vegetables and fruits were no longer as they had no one to tend to them and in there place stood weeds growing taller with each passing day, reaching for the tender only to find that there was none.
Carlisle poured himself another glass of brandy. He looked at the cup that sat next to the book on the table. It stared at him, wanting to be drunk. It taunted him, and with every drop taken, Carlisle felt he was slipping further and further from himself.
He turned his attention to the picture that he'd seen on the mantle of the house that belonged to the woman he once knew. Before she left, he'd taken it and suspected that Alma wouldn't notice but nothing ever passed her. She knew, and let him take it anyway. She didn't quite know why but let him nonetheless.
We need to leave. We aren't safe here…her voice rang in his ears. He replayed that fateful night over and over in his mind, it started off perfect, too perfect. Little did he knew that it wouldn't have lasted.
Carlisle worried for Alma; his mind told him that she was more than likely dead but he refused to believe it. He didn't want to face the fact that the woman he knew he loved was gone and that she had left him entirely. He didn't want to live without the hope that one day, he might see her again.
He needed to know that she was okay, but without word from her, that hope was slimming more with each passing day.
Yes, they had only been together for that one night but he knew that she was the one, whatever that meant, whatever that was good for. He knew that he would have been more than content spending the rest of his life with that enigmatic, crazy, amazing woman, but he took what he had for granted and was only left with the memory that too began to fade.
He saw her in his mind's eye, he became lost in those eyes of hers, he followed the curve of her lips. He studied the dark, curled hair that sat atop her head, sometimes, it flowed in twists and turns like vines off an exotic tree. His exotic woman from a far off land, from a place that he knew to only be in the fairytales he wrote.
She was straight out of a book. She was the one that got away. Alma didn't leave for something that he had done, but something she was to keep a secret for eternity. He felt the beat in his heart that longed for her. He wanted to runaway with her, but never would she let him for fear of the safety of his life.
He was afraid. He had no control and he was never one to sit by and let things happen.
Where was his love? The one that he'd written about so many times, the one that made him younger and older at the same time. The one that made him stronger and weaker. The one that made him want to be a better man but finding that staying at home was easier as he had Alma by his side, only he didn't.
He never did.
What did Alma have? A pathetic drunkard of a man who knew not of her whereabouts and whether or not she was even still alive.
Without thinking, he took the glass and drank down every last drop. His stomach tightened in protest, feeling that he was just about to spew the food he hadn't eaten and alcohol he continued to drink. His body gave a shiver and he shut his eyes wanting to be rid of not only the physical pain but of the one he felt when she left.
He poured himself another brandy.