Molly Hooper was nothing extraordinary. She was plain in the extreme, at least, in appearance and behavior. Her intelligence was not on the level of Aremelia's, or even her newly discovered father's, but she certainly wasn't stupid. Armelia may have been above them all, but she didn't let herself be blinded to intelligence and potential by her naturally inset arrogance. A trait, she had heard, that she'd inherited from Sherlock.
At first, Molly, and she had insisted that the child genius call her by her first name, seemed entirely flustered and unsure of what to do about her. She was the child of Sherlock Holmes, after all. And no one, let alone one so obviously and hopelessly infatuated with the cold man, could be expected to know how to handle her. Still, Molly tried, and Armelia was grateful for it, in her own silent way. If nothing else, she would make sure to keep her poisonous mixtures and herbs safely away from her. That was as far as gratitude could get most people with her. It was one of the few emotions she dedicated a minimal fraction of her energy to. She had little time or care for the rest. Sometimes she considered, actually, that she was lacking several of them.
"You can just put your things here and we'll get you nice and comfy later."Molly said in an overly cheerful, fake tone. Armelia surppressed a sigh. She didn't want to make the poor woman nervous, but she just had that affect on people. Her coal black curls were tied in a loose braid over her left shoulder, and she twirled the end around one finger distractedly as she examined what was to be her new room. The cold child had recognized the room for exactly what it was the moment she had stepped foot inside: previously a guest bedroom which saw few, if any, guests in it's time. It was almost sad to her, knowing that this woman was constantly alone. She pitied her, if anything. Molly was an obviously nice, sweet person and, though it had been her infatuation with her father that had gotten Armelia a home with the woman, she truly wished that the poor lady would stop pining for him. She deserved better than him. How did she know? Because she was very much like her father. She knew how loathsome they both were. She didn't care.
After she had deposited her last box of possessions into the refurbished room, which Molly had been considerate enough to redecorate a little for her. That being that she'd added purple sheets to the bed, purple candles to the dresser, and had put a small potted lavender plant on the cleared desk. It wasn't much, but it was a huge improvement from browns and greens and tans. Of her very limited knowledge of the girl, Molly had picked the right thing to go on: Armelia loved the color purple.
"So ,Armelia, what would you like to do today?" Molly asked, obviously trying to treat the young genius normally. She tilted her head in consideration. She wanted nothing. Strange as it was, she didn't feel bored right now. Could she really be sufficiently distracted by something as simple as moving into a new home? She...she wasn't sure how to feel about that. So she went with something familiar: Nothing.
She was about to tell Molly that she would be fine just resting for today. That she didn't have to make an effort to make her relax or have fun. All her "fun" was safely tucked away in her bag, in the form of a little black journal filled with pages and pages of notes and exactly 44 pressed poisonous plant specimens. At the very first page was her favorite Belladona flower. But when she looked up at the older woman, she caught her staring. Her eyes were wide and seemed to be studying her, taking in just how much she looked like her father. Armelia raised an eyebrow and Molly finally realized that she had been caught. She blushed deep red and apologized with a fluster, waving her hands in a little panic. Before Armelia could sigh and assure her that she was free to stare all she liked, Molly piped up with nervous enthusiasm.
"I know! Would you like to see where I work? I do post mortems, and Sherlock comes in pretty often to work on cases. You might like it there. Of course, I wouldn't usually offer to show a child around a mortuary, but you are his daughter after all. Oh! Not to say I think you are weird, I only meant-"
Armelia held up a single pale hand to stop her babbling. "I understand," she assured her. "I'd like to see it."
Okay, maybe she didn't actually want to go. Dead bodies were of little use to her, unless they had died of poisoning. What she found more interesting were live bodies showing the symptoms of the poisons. But she figured that giving Molly something to do would help her feel more at ease around her, so she would endure it. Besides, the alternative was sleeping or unpacking, and frankly, Armelia was in no real mood for either. What sounded most enticing right now was a very, very large mug of root bear float. The ice cream and soda treat was one childish indulgence that Armelia adored. Though she refused to eat ice cream separately.
The cab ride the mortuary was mostly silent, littered with a few random questions Molly worked up the courage to ask. Armelia tried to be polite and even a little friendly when answering, as her mother had taught her that being friendly was important for fitting in and she had always strived to please her mother, but she was extremely straightforward in her answer, leaving little room for conversation. She didn't mean to be. It was just her way.
"So Armelia, what was your mother like?" Molly ventured to ask. The raven haired girl paused and her icy green eyes slid over to look at the older woman. Molly flinched, probably afraid she'd crossed an unseen line, but Armelia's mouth only twitched up in the faintest of smiles as she replied. "My mother was beautiful and kind, with a voice so sweet it could make angles weep. She would sing me lullabies every night, and taught me to be compassionate, even when I didn't understand how others where feeling. She loved me a lot, and I loved her too." she explained in a soft voice, laced with an uncharacteristic amount of warmth. Only thoughts of her mother could do this to her, softening the ice cold child into a small dark angle. Only in these moments could any semblance to her mother's personality be seen in the young girl.
Molly blinked tears from her eyes. Before she could say how sorry she was that Armelia had had to endure loosing someone so important to her, the girl looked away and asked cooly, "So Molly, what is my father like?"
The woman bit her tongue, speechless. How did one go about describing Sherlock Holmes? "Well," she began hesitantly, "I suppose you could say he's a lot like you. Probably more than any of us realize yet."