A/N Hello... Said I would post soon! Turns out I seem to be posting one every night at 12... HMMM... OKAY! I'll get to the soppy stuff. HERE YA GO.
DISCLAIMER
The candle wavered slightly in the midnight breeze as Agnes turned to put the glass into the sink. She spun a little too quickly and the delicate glass shattered into hundreds of deafening pieces reflecting the moonlight flooding in from her window in the kitchen. "Aggie? What's wrong? You've been awfully quiet these days..." Her brother came out of the door across from her just as she bent down to sweep the glass into a corner to be thrown away later on. The glass reminded her of her heart. So vulnerable and fragile, but for anyone to take. "I'm alright George. It's just all the work with Doris being away and all." She explained. George remained standing at the doorway, disbelieving of what she had just whispered in the dark.
Four days ago, she had asked for an assistant for Doris' absence. She did not expect her assistant to be her old mentor, Henri Leclair. She couldn't say no. Not because he was a good-looking man, but because it was Mr. Selfridge she was talking to. Let alone the fact that it was clear as the glass that shattered that Henri was still attached to her in some way. He must stop liking me. I can't do this again. Not after what he did to me last time. My heart will not take it. "No, I don't know. I like him very much." The exact words she had said to Miss Ravillious after she caught the pair in the window design set. What rubbish that all was. She knew exactly how she felt about him at the time, and she lied. Indeed, she did love him. So very much, and to think that he was here now, was unbearable. She needed Jackson. Someone else to help her get over him.
Henri lay up in bed, thinking of her. Not Valerie Maurel, but innocent Agnes Towler. Not so innocent anymore. He said in spite of himself. How could he expect her to still like him, even smile at him after what he had done to her. He wondered what this man was like. The one whom she proclaimed to be with. He must be one nice guy. Much better than I could ever be. He continued to think in a bitter stream of composition. Why was she so sad if she didn't love him? Did he really mean that much to her? He groaned as he hauled himself out of bed and got dressed. He loosely buttoned up a white shirt and grabbed whatever coat he could see. He didn't care for style anymore. He was just a poor Frenchman living in London with no-one but your own creative mind. He sauntered out of his flat and took a walk down to the closed market. They would not open until 6 in the morning and he had 5 hours left. Good. He thought. More time to regret. And with that, he hummed an old French lullaby his mother would sing to him. Little Lost Birds.
A/N I kind of like this one! More of their thoughts about what had happened. BAI
JAYSTER