It was late. Far later than Octavia Lestrange would have preferred to remain awake, especially on a night such as this, but there were some matters more pressing than sleep at hand. Her husband of more than three months (a miraculous feat in her eyes, being that they didn't even think they were going to get to the wedding) was out incredibly late. She knew for certain he was not working, because he hadn't gone in to the Ministry at all this day. Instead, she arrived home to find a note left with one of the House-Elves, that the master of the house had gone out--he would be out late, and she should certainly not wait up. Octavia's lips curled in cold amusement at his use of master, knowing full well the implications it carried. Having received the same note about five times in this short time span, she would have disregarded Rabastan and his worthless message entirely, had it not been for a certain piece of information that had reached her ears.
Being the owner of a restaurant meant that one was privy to a slew of gossip, all of which pertained to staff and patron for all the dining establishments in the area, be they bars, four-star destinations such as her own, or a sidewalk cafe. What should reach her ears but the suspicious if not largely discreet behavior of her husband, in the company of other females.
To say Octavia was astonished was not far from the truth. The man had, after all, gone on and on about propriety and public image, and all such rot when she told him to break off the engagement. That he should cavort about with women from only-Merlin-knew-where was nearly staggering. But no one--no one--scorned Octavia Alexandra Borgin, and walked away from it unscathed. Her husband, even with a rumored reputation such as his, was no exception.
Octavia had seated herself calmly in one of the large, high-backed armchairs in virtual darkness, the flames in the fireplace extinguished. The white of her nightgown glowed softly in the weak moonlight streaming in from the uncovered windows, and her fingers stroked the small vial of potion she had taken to wearing around her neck. The clock struck ten to one.
She waited.
Being the owner of a restaurant meant that one was privy to a slew of gossip, all of which pertained to staff and patron for all the dining establishments in the area, be they bars, four-star destinations such as her own, or a sidewalk cafe. What should reach her ears but the suspicious if not largely discreet behavior of her husband, in the company of other females.
To say Octavia was astonished was not far from the truth. The man had, after all, gone on and on about propriety and public image, and all such rot when she told him to break off the engagement. That he should cavort about with women from only-Merlin-knew-where was nearly staggering. But no one--no one--scorned Octavia Alexandra Borgin, and walked away from it unscathed. Her husband, even with a rumored reputation such as his, was no exception.
Octavia had seated herself calmly in one of the large, high-backed armchairs in virtual darkness, the flames in the fireplace extinguished. The white of her nightgown glowed softly in the weak moonlight streaming in from the uncovered windows, and her fingers stroked the small vial of potion she had taken to wearing around her neck. The clock struck ten to one.
She waited.
7 comments | Leave a comment