The rain lashes against the window, running in rivulets down the lead between the panes. The grey is absolute at this time of night and seems both endless, fields and fields of rain, and an immediate wall, impenetrable.
The Mistress sits in an armchair, threadbare in places, and stares out of the window.
There is no fire in the grate and no light aside from that which escapes through the thickness of the storm clouds rolling overhead. The room is grey with this lacking.
The Mistress holds a glass.
She leaves it half empty, suddenly feeling the urge to be somewhere warmer, to allow herself some kind of rest which isn't directly from the numbing of alcohol.
There's a light which cracks through her bedroom door, a single lightbulb, bare above the bed.
Even in this poor lighting it does little. It's weary orange light does not falter but Missy sees it dying anyway, surrendering completely to its own darkness.
She shivers, steps inside. Cold tile meets her feet.
She turns the light off with a snap and as her eyes adjust to the dreary, hidden moonlight she sees shapes, figures weaving in the shadows of the room.
Tiredly, she ignores them, climbing into bed and pulling the covers close over her.
It's cold still.
She curls up smaller, hoping that her heat will start to warm the bed.
It's comfortable and contained and quiet aside from the rain. It rages outside still as if it could best through the walls and get to her.
And then her eyes open again.
She can't sleep.
The taste of wine is heavy on her tongue and the alcohol blooms in her veins, suddenly keeping her awake rather than casting her down into sleep.
There is nothing there but she can feel spectres hovering over her bed, claw-like hands waiting to grab her, dig deep into her flesh, spill her blood on the sheets, already so red but black in this light, death on their breaths, a foul stench which hasn't quite reached her yet.
She ignores her paranoia, swipes her hand through the air- look, nothing!- and turns over, pulling the blankets even tighter around her.
The cold air on the back of her neck feels like premonition and she squeezes her eyes shut, determined to sleep.
She pulls the blankets completely over herself and the world goes darker and quieter.
She remembers talking to him about the formation of stars, back when they were small enough that it was remotely new and interesting, later on life touches in the dark, soft, wistful, brief things.
She remembers promises that they had made, broken five minutes later, as was their way, and his smile.
At that thought the Mistress throws the blanket off of her and springs to her feet, almost tripping on the corner of the blanket still caught around her foot in her haste to leave.
She snarls at it, kicks it across the room so it's not in the way. It slides.
She knows the route even though she hasn't been in this house for a while.
It's colder than she remembered now though.
She pulls her dressing gown closer to her, curls her shoulders inwards, and ignores the cold against the bottoms of her feet.
The wine is dark, as black as her bedsheets appeared in this light.
The glass she'd left is half full but that is nothing to her. Maybe she'll finish it in the morning.
She savours the bitterness, the way it burns down her throat.
She wonders if it's all her fault.
The Mistress opens her eyes and stares at the dark ceiling.
She wonders if she'd always wanted this.
The curtain over the doorway parts easily, a flash of light burning her eyes for a moment. In the pale aftermath she finds her way to a chair, hard, wooden, unpadded.
Thunder growls, the chaser to the light, and the rain batters loudly against the window after.
She pours herself another glass of wine, drinks that down, considers the bottle for a moment before its mouth is at her lips and she drains all that she can from it, a sweet burning in her mouth and throat, headiness flooding into her, dragging her further down into the depths below the rain, a deep ocean of regret and lack of direction.
She feels cold, shudders at the faint breeze which works its way through the edge of a loose window or the floorboards, pulls her dressing gown tighter around her, flimsy fabric doing little to help her.
She gets up and is in the kitchen. The cork pops on another bottle and she puts that to her lips, tastes something which she hopes is absolution in the droplet on the granular wood.
The bottle is left on the side, open.
The Time Lady goes through the process of making tea, watching the stream rise in the darkness like her breath, taking her time as she waits for the herbs to steep. The smell should be calming but things like that are shut away.
The rain beats rhythmically at the walls, punctuated by the grumbling of thunder and flashes of lightning.
Her hands shake as she pours from the teapot to the teacup and she puts the pot down, stares at her hands for a moment, trembling and alien.
She puts her head in her hands, headache building as she laughs and cries as herself, the patheticness of herself all alone in this house, drunk and seeking comfort that she can't have ever again, that she can't deserve right now
Her eyes hit the door and she can't look away though she knows she should.
There's a flash and the crash of thunder a moment later. It sounds far away as her vision focuses only on that door, the front door, umbrella stand empty bar a single parasol.
There's a boat down by the docks, a small thing, a rowboat. Beneath the water there is a box, small, metal, watertight.
The box beats like a heart in her mind, glowing under the water, a golden light.
She could get it back, she could find it, she doesn't need to breathe.
The door yawns dark and cavernous as she looks up from the boardwalk over the gritty stretch of sand in front of the house. The moonlight is shallow but does enough that she can see the surface of the water, the spray eating into the air, a mist being born.
The water is a shock, ice cold which rips air from her as she swallows it down, feels it in her eyes, her nose.
She splutters, surfaces, is thrown under again a moment later, still gasping her last breath and closing her eyes tight as she is spun.
The water thrashes against her and her hand hits something hard.
The spike of pain is enough to orient her for a moment.
She swims in the direction of the box, unknowing whether it is down or up, and then it is in her hands, warm, sharp corners digging into her chest as she holds it tight with one arm, fighting her heavy body, the cold in her limbs, the burning of her last watery breath as she pulls herself up, kicks against the ice encompassing her.
The water pulls at her as she breaches it, sucks at her body as she oozes onto that gravel beach, feels the sands skin her where she slips on it, warmth blooming from it sickly. It's dark even in the poor light, the lightning shows it red.
The box is easy enough to break open when she is higher on the beach, safer.
The key inside is undamaged, perfect, a welcoming shape as she clutches it close.
She can almost hear her ship through it, the hum of familiarity, despite the echoing of thunder which drowns out even the crashing of the sea against the beach, the splintering of the little rowboat against the cliffs.