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The 25th of December, 1893 dawns and grief casts a shadow over the holiday’s typical merriment at the Baskerville country house. The now ten year old Lady Iris has taken up in the library, sitting on a plush sofa with a stack of photographs beside her. As she looks at her father’s face, her mind starts to drift.
For years, before she even had a word for it, she’s known her family feels a grief for him that she does not. She hears the stories, sees the photographs and portraits and yet… she feels little of the melancholy that so plagues everyone around her. A sense of loss, perhaps, but that could hardly be compared to the devastation of her uncle or mother.
An odd thing, for her and for them. To her, she’s always felt keenly how her lack of grief puts them outside her family—though their shared experience is, of course, a dreadful one. To her mother, seeing Iris so unaffected only adds to her ability to avoid grief by focusing so wholly on her. Iris, by now, has learnt to play up her own cheer on the days her father’s death hurts the most.
Her uncle Barok has the most unusual view of all, a push and pull of lessening or worsening his grief every time he looks at her. She never knows quite what to expect or how to act around him. He’s much better at hiding what he feels than her mother, but she can always tell when she’s only hurting him.
Holidays are the hardest. It’s gotten better over the years, as time slowly dulls the ache, but it’s no easier for her to pretend she doesn’t notice the way her father’s memory haunts them.
There is relief, at times, in her uncle Herlock. He knew her father, but he was not nearly as close to him as her mother or Uncle Barok. He’s unpredictable, though, in a way that they aren’t. Still, he’s more prone to good cheer on the days that are hardest. Never quite seems to realize when to turn it off, if she’s honest, but it’s helpful for her.
A knock sounds on the door, followed by a voice. “Iris?” it calls. “Are you in there?”
Her aunt Evie, another kind of relief. More preoccupied with comforting and protecting her mother than most else, but similarly distanced as Uncle Herlock. Unlike him, though, she’s always been good to have a proper conversation with, even when Iris couldn’t really name what troubled her.
“You can come in,” Iris calls back, returning the photo in her hands to the stack.
The door creaks open and Aunt Evie walks through, scanning the room for her. “There you are,” she says softly. “Your mother’s been looking all over for you.” Evie tilts her head. “What have you got there?”
Iris casts her eyes down, folding her hands in her lap. “Just some photographs.” She hears footsteps and then Evie is kneeling in front of her.
“The ones of your father, right?”
Iris only nods.
“Look at me, poppet.” She smiles when Iris does—a proper smile, not sympathy or pity. “Talk to me about it?”
“You said Mama was looking for me.”
Evie exhales, not quite a scoff but not a sigh either. “She can wait a moment, if it gets you feeling better. Can I sit next to you?”
Iris nods again, unsure how else to reply.
“Thank you.” She stands with a soft exclamation, her skirts rustling as she sits. “Now, tell me all about it,” she continues, offering Iris a hand.
Iris takes it, her small hand hardly closing around her aunt’s. “I don’t know where to start.”
Evie hums. “At the beginning, I should think.”
“With my father’s death?” Iris asks, a lightness in her tone she doesn’t feel.
She can practically hear Evie roll her eyes. “Your beginning, poppet.”
“I didn’t know him,” Iris begins, her expression scrunching in thought. “I know I should feel sad about that, but I don’t feel anything.”
“There’s no ‘should’ about any of it.” Evie pulls her legs up onto the couch, turning to face Iris completely. “You’re allowed to feel however you do about your father. You needn’t feel bad about that.”
“How do you feel about him?”
“We’re not talking about me, are we?” Evie clicks her tongue, then pauses. “Would it really help if I told you?”
Iris nods. “I think so.”
“Very well, then.” She inhales deeply, letting out a soft sigh. “I don’t feel much about him either, to be honest with you.”
Iris’ eyes widen, she turns to face her aunt but says nothing.
“He was nice enough, if a little dramatic. I was a bridesmaid at their wedding but really, I didn’t know him that well. We seldom spent time alone together, mostly we were just at the same events.” Evie tilts her head, her gaze briefly drifting to the floor before returning to Iris. “It’s not about me, though, is it? I don’t have nearly the level of connection you do.”
“But that’s just it!” Iris exclaims, tearing her hand from Evie’s as throws her hands out. “I don’t feel connected to him,” she continues, crossing her arms. “And I don’t feel sad about it, either. I wish I had met him, maybe, but…” Iris huffs exasperatedly, her expression rapidly turning into a pout. “I don’t know.”
Evie brings a hand to rest on Iris’ shoulder, gently rubbing her thumb over her arm. “It’s okay, poppet.” She smiles sympathetically, lifting Iris’ chin gently with her other hand. “Why don’t you come downstairs, hm? I dare say Oliver is liable to take your presents if you wait much longer to open them.”
Iris sniffs. “How are Mama and Uncle Barry today?”
“I think this being the tenth Christmas without him is weighing on them,” Evie answers honestly, the ‘him’ in question easily apparent. “But they aren’t too bad, I think. Worried about you, of course, but otherwise well enough.”
“Okay, then,” Iris agrees hesitantly, uncrossing her arms and shifting to set her feet on the ground.
Evie does much the same, taking one of Iris’ hands in hers and bumping their shoulders together. “Good! Well, no time to waste. I hear someone’s gotten you a new typewriter.”
Iris gasps, abruptly turning to look at her aunt who wears a cheeky grin. Evie nods her head in the direction of the door and Iris hops off the sofa, a smile growing on her face at last.