The house at 6981 Baker St. was one of those that had been a house, and then was a business office, and now was a house again, it as light blue with white trim. The rooms we were being offered on the second and third floors, and consisted of two comfortable bedrooms and a large airy room, illuminated by two windows the size of French Doors, plus the use of all electricity, the kitchen, and the bathrooms. Meals, and cleaning were our own responsibility, and we were expected to help some of the housework. Our landlady, a Mrs. Birdy Garrideb, was one of those women who liked to serve, but wasn't overtly doting. After all, we were her tenants, not her children. The place was so comfortable that we sealed the deal on the spot and within a month, we had moved in.
As for Elise Escott, I began to realize what Stamford had meant by "kinda weird." Her habits were pretty regular, She was in her room by 9 each night. And I would almost never hear a noise from that room again until 7 or 8 the next night, when she would play German and French music, or Italian or Spanish operas. Violin music was most prominent. I could never be sure if it was her playing or a new CD for I never saw an instrument in her possession. She was gone each morning after I woke up. On weekends, she could either be found, in her room, the large room we'd made into a kind of sitting room/study, or out on long walks that took her "nowhere."
What made me doubt was her personality itself. She would have days when her energy was so high, I wondered if she were crazy or suffering from cabin fever. On these days, she gladly doing almost anything Mrs. Garrideb asked her, just to do something. Musetta's Waltz and Toreador would call loudly on days like this, and te violin would dance with joy. These would be followed by days were she'd have drag herself out of bed, and every moment looked incredibly painful.
There was warnings of course. The manic days were signaled by the weather, the Santa Ana's making her the most wild. She would become normal after the energy had been spent. The depressive moods were signaled not by the weather, but by a noise. Her room being above mine, noise sometimes drifted through her floor, my ceiling. So I could hear, in the still night, the violin crying, or soft sounds of Che Gelida Manina, or some other sad classic. But the biggest indicator, would be the footsteps. I would go to bed to the sound of restless feet, pacing one portion of the room, pausing for a few moments, then continuing again. Once or twice, I was woken up by a sharp cry.
**********************************************************************A/N: That's all I can find for now. Please, possess yourself in patience. Or go crazy if you want. Either way do me a little itty bitty gigantic favor: press that review button type thingy and...well...review... Advice welcome, but if you're just gonna poke rag on me I'm gonna send Guido after you.
As for Elise Escott, I began to realize what Stamford had meant by "kinda weird." Her habits were pretty regular, She was in her room by 9 each night. And I would almost never hear a noise from that room again until 7 or 8 the next night, when she would play German and French music, or Italian or Spanish operas. Violin music was most prominent. I could never be sure if it was her playing or a new CD for I never saw an instrument in her possession. She was gone each morning after I woke up. On weekends, she could either be found, in her room, the large room we'd made into a kind of sitting room/study, or out on long walks that took her "nowhere."
What made me doubt was her personality itself. She would have days when her energy was so high, I wondered if she were crazy or suffering from cabin fever. On these days, she gladly doing almost anything Mrs. Garrideb asked her, just to do something. Musetta's Waltz and Toreador would call loudly on days like this, and te violin would dance with joy. These would be followed by days were she'd have drag herself out of bed, and every moment looked incredibly painful.
There was warnings of course. The manic days were signaled by the weather, the Santa Ana's making her the most wild. She would become normal after the energy had been spent. The depressive moods were signaled not by the weather, but by a noise. Her room being above mine, noise sometimes drifted through her floor, my ceiling. So I could hear, in the still night, the violin crying, or soft sounds of Che Gelida Manina, or some other sad classic. But the biggest indicator, would be the footsteps. I would go to bed to the sound of restless feet, pacing one portion of the room, pausing for a few moments, then continuing again. Once or twice, I was woken up by a sharp cry.
**********************************************************************A/N: That's all I can find for now. Please, possess yourself in patience. Or go crazy if you want. Either way do me a little itty bitty gigantic favor: press that review button type thingy and...well...review... Advice welcome, but if you're just gonna poke rag on me I'm gonna send Guido after you.