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With everyone out for the banquet, the mansion is far, far too quiet. Distantly, Pyro can hear a brassy record playing from the sitting room, but it does nothing to combat the distinct sense of emptiness. No creaking floorboards. No clatter of plates. No voices as Mr. Pierce gives orders, nor of his siblings causing their usual ruckus. Nothing.
Out of the corner of his eye, a white shape crosses the main drive. Ah. There she is. He’d been wondering where she’d gotten off to. The letter in front of him has started to swim, bad eye be damned. Perhaps the words will come better once he’s cleared his head.
It feels like far too long before he hears the front doors creak open, and an even longer amount of time to hear them shut. Though, this should be expected. Ivory gets distracted by the little things. He’s seen her staring off into the forest more than once, gaze lost somewhere between the swaying branches and the tall grass. If that had been the case, Pyro wouldn’t be surprised.
He’ll be casual, he decides. Welcome her back in and feel a little bit more human for it.
“There you are, Ivory!” Pyro says with forced enthusiasm, walking down the main staircase. “I was just looking for you.”
And then he’s looking at her, which is a lot different.
Ivory stands shaking at the foot of the staircase, pale as her name, her eyes the size of dinner plates. She’s clutching her stomach with one arm; the other hangs loosely at her side, the strap of her torn, dirty apron limp near her elbow. Her hair is in total disarray, twigs and leaves caught up in it, and her dress is in a similar state. Her tail lashes behind her, her breathing labored. Pyro’s heart drops so far he fears it may never be found.
“Oh, my God–”
She’s covered in blood. It’s mostly dried, crusting reddish-black down the side of her face and sticking in her pale pink hair, a large gash across her forehead. There are smaller cuts all her face otherwise – across her cheekbone, on her lip, dangerously close to her eye, to name a few. There are too many to count. The hand at her side is covered in crimson, the white of her apron stained brown towards the edges and a more lurid red near her arm.
Pyro is running down the stairs before he knows it, heart pounding in his ears.
“What the–” It doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t make any sense. “What happened? Ivory, oh my God– Ivory– a-are you okay? Come here–” She flinches when he draws near, eyes wide with fear. He stops a few feet away from her, hands hovering and frantic, panic clouding all of his better senses. “Oh my God–”
“Sir–” Her voice is rough, thick with blood. She manages a single step forward before her knees give out, and Pyro is only just able to catch her as she collapses against his chest. “I’m– sorry–”
“It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay.” He can barely hear himself, can barely think; he’s smoothing back her hair and she’s flinching and he’s apologizing, he’s apologizing, her fingers are curling weakly in his shirt, he’s clutching her tight and trying desperately to keep her upright and she needs help, she needs help– “Oh, God, Ivory–”
“He–”
“No, no, don’t–” He gets his arm under her shoulder, nearly carrying her as he goes towards the stairs. “Come on, come on, we can– Oh, God–” Over his shoulder, down towards the sitting room, he yells, “Ross! Div! Call for a doctor, now!” Ivory cringes again in his arms; without thinking, Pyro presses a protective kiss to the side of her head, the uninjured side, and pretends like it wasn’t what his mother would do when he was hurt as a child. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, that was loud. Come on. Let’s– we need to– you–”
Clean up. They need to clean her up. A horrible, wretched part of him wonders if this was what had happened to Mysty, too. She feels so fragile against him, so light. She’s trembling. He might be shaking, himself. “Come on,” he says, though he doesn’t know if he’s talking to himself or to Ivory, “it’s okay. It’s okay, you’re going to be okay.”
His quarters are the closest. All for the better, really, they’re the ones she’s familiar with. He might be a bit hysterical, in retrospect. Pyro gets her to the bathroom and helps her sit on the decorative chair beside the sink. He can’t imagine it’s terribly comfortable, but with the way Ivory is making low, wounded noises with every breath, he can’t imagine that she particularly cares, either. He cares, though. He cares. A glance in the mirror shows him that he’s now covered, too, in her blood.
“May–” It’s horribly improper. It’s horribly improper and he feels horrible for even suggesting it, for the thought even coming to mind. “May I– Your apron, and– the–”
“I– I’m sorry, sir–” Ivory coughs a few times, blood flecking her lips.
“You have nothing to apologize for.” It’s the first firm thing he’s been able to say. When he meets her eyes, he finds one pupil to be bigger than the other; she immediately looks away, squirming uncomfortably. Pyro kneels before her, taking both of her hands in his own. “Would you allow me to take off your apron and move your dress?” Ivory tenses like a frightened animal. “I need to look at the wound. I mean you absolutely no harm or trouble. Would you allow this?” After a few beats, she nods. Just once. Pyro lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Okay. Okay. Thank you. I promise that you are safe.”
With the utmost care, he peels the dirty, bloody apron off her and telegraphs every single movement as he undoes the buttons keeping the front of her dress closed. She makes a tiny, terrified noise, but allows Pyro to unbutton it down to her waist, remove her arm from the sleeve, and pull up her camisole just enough to get a look at the wound. The other side of the dress remains clutched to her chest. It doesn’t appear to be very deep, thank God, some sort of slash rather than a stab. Based on the freshness of the blood and the jagged look of the torn clothes, this one was entirely an accident. The imprints on her cheekbone that look like the facets of a ring and the purpling bootprint on her exposed arm are certainly not.
“I’m going to clean this up, and then the one on your head, and then I’ll leave you alone for a bath, alright?” He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. She nods. He smiles as best as he can, but it feels fake. “Thank you.”
Four washcloths, a few spoonfuls of hydrogen peroxide, a couple bandages, and much, much fumbling with Pyro’s shaking hands and bad eye later, Ivory’s wounds are clean and her face is free of dried blood. There is still plenty crusted to her skin and in her hair, but she can take care of that herself. The entire time, she doesn’t speak a word.
When he’s done, Pyro stands and steps back, rinsing his hands in the sink. Ivory looks small on the uncomfortable chair, one arm still crossed over her chest to preserve modesty. Pyro sighs, turning off the water.
“Do you need anything else, Ivory?” he asks gently.
“No, sir.” Her voice is soft, distant. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
“...Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.” She doesn’t look at him. “I’m fine.”
A beat. Another beat.
“I’ll run you the bath,” Pyro decides. Nothing else is going to happen if he doesn’t make it. “Tell me when it’s full enough?” She nods. He’s not likely to get much else from her right now. “Alright. Thank you. Please tell me if you need anything.”
She might mumble something that might be “Of course, sir,” and, really, that’s all he can hope for right about now.
The tub takes an eternity to fill. The water steams. It’ll be good for her. When she gives him the signal, he shuts off the tap and, with one last look over his shoulder, leaves her be. The door closes behind him.
It takes every ounce of his willpower for him to wait until he’s reached the bed to have a breakdown.
He sends Ross and Div to get Ivory something to wear before the doctor arrives. By the sounds of it, she doesn’t have much, but the nightgown they bring him will work well enough. He keeps his gaze averted as he leaves it on the chair, in and out of the bathroom in mere seconds as to keep up the appearances of propriety. The last thing he needs is Ivory being scared of him again.
When she does come out of the bathroom, now in her nightgown and with a fresh bandage on her forehead, holding onto every surface to keep her balance, Pyro is doing his usual act of pretending to read and acting like he hasn’t been freaking out for the past thirty minutes. The doctor is set to arrive in fifteen or so. Pyro immediately stands, rushing over to take Ivory’s arm and steady her; she sways into him, stumbles, and immediately apologizes when he catches her. He doesn’t know how many times his heart can break, but at least he’s no longer in a bloodied shirt.
There is a morbid part of him that thinks his father would praise him in this moment, for being alone in his bedroom with a woman, for guiding that woman to sit on the edge of his bed while holding her hand. That, logically, would not happen; his father has been disappointed in him for north of a decade now, his status as the eldest notwithstanding, and the fact that this woman is a maid would be grounds for a hiding the likes of which hadn’t been seen on the Hemlocke estate in years.
Now, Pyro thinks, he should grab Ross and Div. They can lead Ivory back to the sick ward, and then the doctor can see her. Things will be fine. Things will be, he swears it, fine. Ivory has been staring at her lap for a little. Her hand sits unmoving in his, cool to the touch.
“It was the detective,” she says softly.
“...What?”
“The detective,” Ivory says. “He was the one who did this. D-Detective Bormethius. From the police station.” The anger that builds in him is only just stemmed by the fact that Ivory keeps talking, her words coming faster and faster as she works herself up. “H-He said he needed to ask– to ask more questions and I got in his car and he– drove past the police station and when I asked where we were going, he told me to stop talking, and we went out to his favorite forest and he– he asked how I killed Ms. Mysty and I– I didn’t and he had gloves on and– and started–” She gasps for air, next words coming out in a sob. “Started attacking me and hitting me and I don't– remember–” Without thinking – what need is there to think? – Pyro pulls her into a fierce hug, mindful of her injuries and horns as he holds her close. It's a gamble, Zam has always been better at those than he, it could go horribly wrong, but Ivory collapses against him like she did in the foyer, like her strings have been cut, sobbing miserably into his shoulder and clinging to him with surprising strength. “I didn't do it–” she pleads, “I didn't kill her, I didn't know her, it was my first day–”
Pyro is going to kill that man. Simple as that. He combs his fingers through Ivory's hair, hushing her gently.
“I know, I know you didn't,” he's saying, a mantra to keep away the otherwise blinding rage. And then another awful thought occurs to him. “Ivory,” he says. Ivory takes a shaky breath, steadying her voice.
“Yes?”
“...How did you get back to Whitepine? You said he drove past the police station. You must have been on the other side of town.”
“I– I walked, sir. The detective and his car were gone when I woke up.”
Pyro is absolutely going to kill that man.
“Okay!” he breathes, the brightness in his voice surprising even himself. No. No, that’s not the right mood. He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, and holds Ivory for as long as she’ll let him. “Alright. Thank you.”
She stops crying, eventually. Pyro offers her a kerchief. She takes it. He’ll have to make sure the doctor gives her some water. All that crying certainly couldn’t have been good for her head.
“The doctor will be here soon,” he murmurs. Ivory nods. “Do you want me to get Div and Ross? I’m afraid I don’t know where the sick ward is, myself. Damned big house." She nods again and hides a giggle behind the kerchief.
Really, that’s all he can ask for.