A/N: I realise this may be horrendously anachronistic- I wrote this in twenty minutes in an effort to cast my mind away from revision, a respite from the oppression of exams.
This is from Margaret's perspective and it would be wonderful to hear (or, rather, see!) what people may think ^.^ Thank you!
He was sat, his back facing outwards, at his desk in that orange light, in the night, his fingers gripping the back of his neck. Musician's fingers, I thought, which was why violence had- on that one occassion- been that much more stupefying. His other hand was pressed on top of his head, as though he was desperately trying to halt any escaping information.
There were beads of candlelight on his black waistcoat and as I watched him roll his shoulders, they skittered and were drowned in the starched-white of his shirt-sleeves at his elbows. His movement, subtle as it was- as most of his communication had always been- ignited recollections of our wedding night.
I had caught sight of his back on that instance too, but no black had obscured his flesh then. Greys had played upon the contours in the flickering auburn from the hearth, the fire sympathising- it had seemed- with my heart.
I had to breathe deeply to regain my concentration as I stood in the courtyard, rubbing my palms in my cotton-gloves- the finest, I was proudly sure, in Milton- realigning my underskirts as I made to move, blinking the recollections away...
Like beads of candlelight on white.