Both mother and daughter nod, as they walk in.
I recover the remaining steps and close the door behind me with steady hands.

On the right side of the room, there is wooden stove lit aflame with a small metallic kettle hanging upon it with a rod.

The stove is also the only source of heat in this apartment.

Along with it, there is also a tin tub joined next to it for convenience.

"Papa, why is there a tin tub here?" A little blond boy asks.

The man ruffles his hair, but doesn't answer.

The kettle's clanging brings me back.
My shoulders lower a bit before anyone can notice.

How were you even able to afford my fee if you live here?

Mrs Penrose sits on a rocking chair-- moving to and fro with knitting needles placed at the side of the chair. A few stray pieces of cloth-- not wool-- are placed in the far left corner. Miss Penrose increases the flame by striking a flimsy poker into the stove. A weak glow spreads all across, but it is enough for the sun is still giving its last rays outside.

Mrs Penrose motions for me to sit on a spare chair on opposite of her.

I follow her orders without further ado.

Though my gaze stops at the wooden shelves on the wall in front of me.

Not because of the few stray bottles of spices it has-- but because of the wind-borne books lying there. Their paged spine looks at with, not their covers.

My head tilts to the side, as the kettle lets out a shriek.

Mathilda Penrose takes a patched cloth and bends down to remove it from the flames.

The dark brown liquid pours itself into two small teacups.

Letting the kettle cool on the floor, her finger tips caress the cups as she carries them towards her mother and me.

Mathilda Penrose gives one to her mother, and passes one to me.

"Thank you," I say.

Shaking her head with a smile, she sits on the free chair next to me. My eyes point to the empty hands on her lap.

Mathilda Penrose wipes her hands on her skirts-- straightening the non- existent wrinkles.
"I am not in the habit of drinking tea in the evening, while my mother adores it for some unknown reason."
She shrugs.

Mrs Penrose takes a sip from her cup-- mine stays in my hands as I nod.
"I see you were looking at the book collection, sonnie."

My head turns to her-- looping my finger into the handle of my tea cup.
"They intrigued me, madam."

I finally take a sip from the tea cup.

"Wonderful, then! Tilly loves books so much."

Miss Penrose chucks in a breath at the mention of Tilly.
I pretend I didn't notice anything and take another sip from my cup.

Mrs Penrose places her tea cup next to her rocking chair. Holding tightly onto the arm rests, she stands up.

Both Mathilda and I shift in our chairs, but she stands with her palms pressing into her back before we can.

"I think I shall lie down for a bit in your room, Tilly. It will be beneficial." She takes a deep breath and takes the cane from her side-- walking over to the short distance into the room in the corridor.

"Fatigue. Fever."

"But I shall be back in a while," she announces as she takes to a narrow corridor leading to a room.
Mrs Penrose's cane hits a rolled pallet leaning against a wall, knocking it down.

My tea cup clanks against its saucer, as the owner of the set stands up. Her hand spiralling around an old book with withered pages.

But the smile on her face by merely touching the book makes it seems as if it was bought only yesterday.

Waving my back to the side, my hand places the tea cup on the wooden floor. Then I stand with arms crossed behind and walk over to the shelf.

It has no more than a fifty books, but they seem to be read far more than the thousands of books in home libraries.

"Do you read Mr Dickens's work, Doctor?" Mathilda Penrose asks-- sparing a glance from the book protectively wrapped around her fingers.

My eyes focus on the bit of text showing:

"You are in every line I have ever read."

"Yes, and I consider myself to be an admirer of his work.
You have Great Expectations in your hand, am I correct?" I say while trying to see the other titles on the shelf.

A few others are Emma, Pride and Prejudice, David Copperfield, Frankenstein, Jane Eyre, The Vampyre,  along with many more.

"Yes, quite so." She puts the book back and stands to face.

"Though, I do enjoy all of his works, but Great Expectations shall always be my favourite." The warmth from the jovial flames seem to spread all across her-- creating an altogether different shade on her soft features. And for a moment, her smiles are more genuine than out of plain civility.

"Mine, though, is Great Expectations and David Copperfield.
What is your favourite part of the reading?"

A half laugh comes from her.

"We are discussing Mr Dickens, Doctor, of course the characters and how they are all weaved into one story."

My head turns to her-- as she nods at me. My hands caresses the spine of David Copperfield. A momentary frown comes upon my face.

"Yes, but some argue that the characters are tied by the most flimsiest of threads and that the are either very good and or very evil."

A mischievous smile grows on her face, as she comments,
"Perhaps but, in my perspective, it is those connection that make his fiction so close to reality. We never expect who may become so important in our lives.
As for the good and evil part, I have always found both of them in the characters, except for a few select.
Pip and Estella are prime examples as flawed characters-- with their own opinions that guide and misguide them."

I stand still-- the book still in my hands, as she watches me with a tilted head. My head shakes, as I put the book back in its place. At the exact moment, she reaches out to take another book. And our fingers brush against each other. For a few moments. Before pulling away. The book staying in the shelf.
"Forgive me, but my own opinion is much similar to yours.
And the imagination has always been fantastic."

Then my eyes go to Emma. Mathilda Penrose eyes widen a bit.
"I did not see you as a person who would appreciate Jane Austen." She puts a finger at the corner of her lips.

"One of the main characters have the same surname as me, so naturally I was attracted." I laugh ans she shakes her head.
"But I also find her books to be poetic justice," I say.

"Care to elaborate?"

"I'm not blind to fact that books written by male authors usually have female characters who only talk about the opposite sex." I shift, placing a hand on the spine of a Jane Austen book.
"Her stories contain male characters who often talk about their female counterparts."

The corners of her lips quirking up give me enough of an answer as to what she thinks.

"And what do you like most about her, Miss Penrose?" I ask, leaning in a tad bit.

"For me, it is that her books are always deeply moral, but she needs not to overwhelm the reader with it.
The characters repent and try living to those standards."
Smiling, she brushes back a careless lock escaping from her plaited bun.

My thumbs rub the cover, as she quotes,
"Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken."

The smile on both of our faces seem to be permanently embroidered on.

"You seem to adore the truth, Miss Penrose."
I ascend an arm to the shelf to place the book back.

Mathilda Penrose says with a tilted head,
"But so many half- truths have been spoken, Mr Knightley, that they may seem like lies over time."

My arm hangs there for a bit.

Half- truths...

But then the door blares open, as night cascades down outside.

Oh no, the time...

Mrs Penrose strolls in with a renewed passion.
"I hope my daughter did entertain you, lad. Forgive my absence."

"Of course, Mrs Penrose. This evening was quite enjoyable." I take a few steps forward to catch my top hat hanged onto the chair.
"Now, if you would, I would like to be excused."

With the hat in my hands, my head points to the darkened window.

Mrs Penrose nods.

"I would have invited you to supper as well, but I must also think of how worried your mother must be, the poor creature."
She waves a hand-- no cane with her anymore.

I only place the hat on my head, as soon as I step out.

Mrs Penrose waves her palm at me by the doorway as my footsteps echo on the stoned street.

My head turns around to find Mathilda Penrose looking through the street from the window. The glow from the lights reflects upon her face.

There's someone at the corner of the corner of the street who turns away as soon as I look at him.

But my attention goes back to the faint smile of her lips-- which transfers to my own for the rest of the night.

Okay, so I admit that I geeked out a bit regarding Charles Dickens and Jane Austen here, mates. Don't judge me okay XD
And the quotes here my or may not be important later on. ;)

This chapter is dedicated to thebirdwhisperer <333

Oh and here's the question of the week(gah, i always forget this):

What/whom did Matthew see when he came out of the Penroses home?

Don't forget to vote! ❤️

Anyway, have a great week!
Love,
MS Zame