1.
For eleven years she dreamed of fire. Trees ignited as she passed them; oceans burned. Smoke clouding her mind as the flames embraced her in a dangerous tango, she bolted awake. "James," she uttered, brushing the loose hair from her face. Mary could hardly believe it had been nearly six years since she had last seen her grandson. The time apart suited her fine and she dreaded the thought of him staying for the summer. She was one of those people possessed by a desire to have the world just so. The relationship between her and her grandson was not always distant. In the early years, Mary was fond of the boy - a round and bubbly babe. James reminded Mary of her own son George at that age. However, a year after James was born; the Crawley family received an official letter informing them of George's death. She knew she should be proud - George died with honour fighting for King and Country, but Mary couldn't look at James the same - She couldn't look at anyone the same.
After dressing and making herself presentable she returned to the desk in her bedroom studying the baubles that lay before her, each object bringing with it a distant memory. She turned her attention to the Wireless Telegraph Apparatus. It was as cold as it was silent. With a sigh, she pulled out a booklet filled to the brim with loose papers. Brushing the leather binding carefully she flipped to the next available page and continued writing her two-day tempest of compositions, causing her to miss breakfast and lunch. With a graceful sweep of her hand she dismissed anyone who presented themselves, - whether it a maid offering tea or some other distraction. When her thoughts were transcribed on paper, she had nothing to do but contemplate her finished draft and wait for the appearance of her grandson.
