20 Dec 1922
Late Evening
The fireplace was lit in every room on the ground floor of Blackthorn Hall. The lights dim, giving off a warm glow. Everything was precisely as it should be. Or at least that was the lie Thatcher Ravenstone was determined to maintain.
The grandfather clock in the foyer ticked steadily. A bottle of whisky sat untouched beside him, currently three fingers less than before he sat down. Expensive, aged, smooth as silk when it entered his mouth. The glass turned slowly in his hand as amber liquid caught the firelight.
Christmas was just around the corner, but the house didn’t hold that same excitement as previous years. Margery directing the house elves and making last minute changes to the menu. The house elves would be putting up decorations while Alice and Everleigh helped decorate the tree. Everleigh would be checking over place cards, making sure everything was spelled correctly and the utensils were symmetrical. No, this year things were different.
Instead the house sat quiet. Far too quiet. Thatcher took a small sip, relishing in the warmth as the liquid coated his throat. The silence was beginning to irritate him. Margery had left for Paris, making excuses that she had a friend in need. In actuality, she was livid that he had told Alice in such a callous manner. She never wanted Alice to learn about her mother, but that was unrealistic.
For a brief moment he considered what version of Alice would walk through the front door. Angry? Defiant? Suspicious? Probably all three. The thought drew another sip from his glass. Alice had always possessed a stubborn streak. One he had once admired. Intelligence and determination were useful traits when properly directed. The problem was, she had recently developed the unfortunate belief that her opinions actually mattered.
A falsehood he intended to correct.
Alice had spent the better part of a year reacting to information without understanding it. The truth could wait until she had remembered how to listen. A pair of headlights appeared through the darkness. There were other modes of transportation he could have employed, but giving her time to think and calm down in a muggle car was a calculated risk.
Thatcher rose from his chair and crossed the room, taking one final swig, he downed his drink and setting the tumbler aside. His reflection stared back at him from the window glass, watching as the mist settled around the car, making it impossible to see his daughter walking up the walkway.
As always, Thatcher was in perfectly tailored robes. Posture perfect. Composure Perfect. His salt and pepper hair exactly as he liked it. Perfection was expected in all aspects of his life. Something Alice would do well at remembering.
.
By the time the front door opened, there would be no sign of irritation. Alice was home. And whether she realized it yet or not, things were going to proceed according to his timetable now.
The black car pulled away before Alice had fully processed that she was standing in front of Blackthorn Hall. She stood there for a moment, looking up at it. It’d always been dark, her friends said it was spooky. Despite that, she hadn’t seen it that way; it’d been home, where her mother and father were. Where her bedroom was.
It looked exactly as it always did. The hedges were immaculately trimmed, the many windows were glowing warmly from the lit fireplaces inside. The last time she’d left this house was because her grandfather rescued her and her sister with the help of Magical Law Enforcement. She’d promised herself she’d never return.
Alice went inside.
The foyer looked the same in every way except one; Blackthorn Hall was always decorated for Christmas. This year, the absence of the tree that usually greeted her when on Christmas holiday was a stark reminder that nothing was the same.
Nothing would ever be the same.
She noticed that the usual scent of evergreen was also missing. So not only was the tree in the foyer not there, but it seemed no one had felt the need to decorate for what used to be her favorite holiday.
Alice listened momentarily to the eerie silence. Everleigh was still at St. Mungo’s, of course… completely oblivious to what was unfolding without her. Her mother – Margery – was nowhere to be seen either.
Thatcher was in the sitting room, though, sitting in the silence. She could feel him before she saw him. Alice removed her coat and handed it and her bag to the waiting house elf, giving the smallest of smiles that she could muster, before entering the room.
Alice noted where he was sitting, noted the glass with him. She made her way to the shelf that held bottles of spirits and pulled down a bottle of merlot. She picked up a wine glass from the shelf below it and made her way to the chair across from her father. She continued not speaking as she sat down, uncorked the bottle, and poured some wine in the glass.
Once she had her glass of wine, Alice took a sip and then scooted back in her seat and sat up straight, looking him straight in the face. She did not smile. She did not speak. He would have to start.
For a moment, Thatcher simply watched her.
The wine was an interesting choice. She was of age, so there was no reason to reprimand her, although it would be interesting to see if she could hold her liquor.
"So, you've developed a taste for red. Good choice. Quality vintage. Just so happens to be your mothers favorite."
His voice was calm, observational. He didn’t clarify which mother liked the 1901 Château Le Pin. He wondered if she would ask. He wouldn’t tell.
As though he had not completely wrecked her entire understanding of family a few weeks ago in the middle of Hogsmeade, he poured himself another glass of whisky, two fingers this time, and watched her every move. Every reaction.
"Margery won't be joining us. She's spending time in Paris.” The explanation ended there. He had no intention of discussing his marriage. That was none of Alice's concern. Margery was not pleased with the way things were playing out, but it wasn’t up to her how he ran his family.
“She will be back for the Christmas Eve dinner with ‘her’ family. We will also attend. I expect you to act accordingly.” Settling back into his chair, Thatcher studied his daughter over the edge of his crystal highball glass.
"You've had several weeks to think. I assume you used them productively. And before you ask, no. The answers you came here for can wait." His jaw tightened, his molars grinding with tension.
"You've spent the better part of a year reacting before thinking. I see no reason to encourage that habit. Tonight, you will have dinner. You'll sleep in your own bed. Tomorrow morning we will discuss your mother." His expression remained perfectly neutral.
The grandfather clock ticked steadily somewhere in the house, filling the silence between them. What he didn’t say was that the information he was willing to give about Seraphina was short. She chose to leave, she chose to deposit Alice on his doorstep. She forfeited all rights to his daughter, and that included the possibility that Alice may want to know her.
"So, you've developed a taste for red. Good choice. Quality vintage. Just so happens to be your mothers favorite."
Alice took another sip and then bit her tongue. Which mother? She wasn’t going to ask, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of her curiosity. Instead, she filed the fact away to deal with later when she was alone. Like how she’d been dealing with all of this fallout.
"Margery won't be joining us. She's spending time in Paris.”
Also flagged in her mind was the fact that her father used his wife’s name here. So perhaps it was her biological mother who loved the red wine. Interesting.
The lack of her mother’s – Margery’s – presence was why it felt different. While the fire from the fireplace was warm enough for her to feel wrapped up in it, there was a coldness that she had only begun to notice over Easter break. Now it was unmistakable.
How had she spent most of her life oblivious?
“She will be back for the Christmas Eve dinner with ‘her’ family. We will also attend. I expect you to act accordingly.”
Alice’s face remained still, though the knife in her heart was twisted. The Nordstrom’s weren’t her family anymore – had never truly been. She imagined Allegra being relieved. But also horrified. She thought briefly of Matilda, of Bram, but waved those thoughts away with another sip of her wine.
"You've had several weeks to think. I assume you used them productively. And before you ask, no. The answers you came here for can wait. You've spent the better part of a year reacting before thinking. I see no reason to encourage that habit. Tonight, you will have dinner. You'll sleep in your own bed. Tomorrow morning we will discuss your mother."
Alice watched her father, the ticking of the grandfather clock filling the space between them. She couldn’t eat. She’d pick at her food at best. Being in the presence of such darkness made her stomach uneasy.
“Of course,” she finally responded. “Tomorrow morning.” Another sip. She’d had wine before. It was another one of those things she wasn’t sure she liked or not. She had no candy, which had undoubtedly been the source of her reaction weeks ago, so this would have to do.
Blackthorn Hall
21 December 1922
7:30am
Thatcher sat at the formal dining room table, as he did every morning for breakfast, reading the latest edition of the Daily Profit. The house elves would prepare his desired meal, deliver it, and keep his coffee hot. It was a foolproof system, one that hadn’t failed him yet.
Today, unfortunately, could be that day.
Waiting for Alice to bring herself downstairs, Thatcher perused the articles and read the sports updates about the recent quidditch matches.Wales had won, no surprise there. They had the newest model of Ravenstone Flightwork brooms. Tweaked and tuned specifically to make sure losing wasn’t an option.
When they won the championship, it would be a win for him as well.
Taking another sip of his coffee, he heard the soft footsteps before Alice came into view. It was the only sound in the house, making her steps echo throughout the empty halls. As she came around the corner, Thatcher assessed her, judging every inch of his daughter. She looked so much like her mother, something he tried to not notice.
“Alice,” he said, folding up his paper and setting it beside his plate. “Sit. I don’t have all day to discuss matters that I never intended on telling you in the first place.”
His eyes followed her as she crossed the room. Cataloguing every change that had taken place over the last year.
When she finally sat, Thatcher reached for his coffee and took a measured sip. “You wanted answers. I am prepared to provide some.” The statement hung in the air between them. No warmth. No concern for how those answers might affect her. Just another item on the day's agenda.
“I trust you've realized by now that there are gaps in the story you've been told. Some intentional. Most necessary.” He set the cup down carefully.
“Your mother was not a subject I intended to discuss with you. Certainly not under these circumstances. However, that decision is no longer mine to make. She recently contacted me, taking it out of my hands entirely.”
His gaze settled firmly on hers. “So before we begin, I need to know whether you've come here looking for the truth. Or looking for something else to blame me for. I will tell you what I can, but I won’t tolerate your insolence.”
Alice didn’t sleep the night before, not restfully anyways. She tossed and turned. Her mother liked red wine. What else did she like? And, more importantly, did that mean Alice liked it that much more? Or perhaps she detested it now. She’d drunk just enough to make herself sleepy. She drifted off very briefly, but ended up being awake most of the night.
So when seven thirty came, Alice was not quite prepared. She knew her father’s routine like the back of her hand and knew that he wouldn’t tolerate tardiness. She rose and washed her face, then covered the remnants of her tossing and turning with makeup. She put on a simple dark crimson dress, something to keep her warm in the house that held no warmth. She wore her dark brown hair in waves and made her way downstairs.
“Alice. Sit. I don’t have all day to discuss matters that I never intended on telling you in the first place.”
She sat and bit the inside of her cheek. Alice had been trained for situations just like this; maintaining composure in the most uncomfortable times. She looked at him, giving him complete attention. While she didn’t trust the man, she needed any and all information he would provide to her.
“I trust you've realized by now that there are gaps in the story you've been told. Some intentional. Most necessary. Your mother was not a subject I intended to discuss with you. Certainly not under these circumstances. However, that decision is no longer mine to make. She recently contacted me, taking it out of my hands entirely.”
Alice raised a brow at the thought of her mother – a complete stranger she had no idea even existed – reaching out to him. About what? Well, she instantly put herself in the space occupied by that question. So the woman was alive, which meant that Alice could potentially find her.
Her father’s cold eyes locked onto hers. There was no warmth there. It was gone. When had that happened? She thought she remembered seeing more life there as a child. That seemed like a whole lifetime ago now.
“So before we begin, I need to know whether you've come here looking for the truth. Or looking for something else to blame me for. I will tell you what I can, but I won’t tolerate your insolence.”
The slightest narrowing of her eyes was all Alice gave as a show of disapproval of how he had worded things. She wasn’t going to be insolent. Not about this.
“I came for the truth,” she responded, her voice even. She felt more in control now than she had that day in Hogsmeade. “That’s all.”
“I came for the truth. That’s all.”
Thatcher took a slow sip of his coffee before setting the cup back on the table. The faint clink echoed through the otherwise quiet dining room. For a moment, he simply watched Alice across the table.
"There are truths you are looking for that I don’t have. You may never get the answers you’re after, but I will tell you what I know.” His fingers folded neatly on top of the table. He agreed to tell her the truth, and he would, but that didn’t mean he would give her the entire story.
"You want answers because you believe they will simplify matters. They won't. They will only complicate them further." The statement was delivered matter-of-factly. Simply a fact as far as he was concerned. His eyes drifted briefly toward the window before returning to her.
The backstory on how Thatcher met Sera would not be discussed. The affair he had with the younger woman was not a discussion he would have with his daughter. She was smart, she knew when her parents were married, she could do the math.
"Your mother did not intend for you to be raised here." A piece of truth. Small enough to tell without giving away too much. Thatcher watched her reaction carefully before continuing. "She arrived at Blackthorn Hall in April of 1906. You were seven months old. I didn’t know she was pregnant or that you had been born until she knocked on our door." Another carefully measured offering.
"She was by herself. She looked exhausted. Thin. Frightened." For a brief moment his expression shifted before settling back into its usual neutrality. "Sera believed she was doing the right thing." The nickname slipped out naturally. As though he had used it a thousand times before. Thatcher continued before he could stop himself.
"She'd convinced herself there were no other options." A pause. The grandfather clock ticked somewhere in the distance.
"She left you with us." Not abandoned. A deliberate choice.
"Margery was the one who made the decision to keep you. To raise you as her own. I would suggest you remember that." His gaze settled firmly on Alice. Margery was his wife. They were having troubles conceiving, and then suddenly a baby was dropped in their lap.
"You seem determined to blame her. The truth is, she had every reason to refuse, but she didn’t" His fingers tapped once against the table. Thatcher reached once more for his coffee. "If you are looking for some dramatic revelation, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. Your mother arrived. She left. Margery chose to raise you." It wasn’t a mistake that he left himself out of that statement. He needed an heir, Seraphina brought one to his doorstep, his job as the head of the Ravenstone family had been fulfilled.
He lifted the cup. "And for the next sixteen years, that was the end of the matter."
Alice watched Thatcher closely, reading nothing but containment from him. Controlled. That’s how her upbringing had been.
"You want answers because you believe they will simplify matters. They won't. They will only complicate them further."
She nodded very slightly because what he said was completely true. Alice wasn’t expecting answers that would solve all the issues she had. She had a lot of questions, but he was not willing to answer many. She had to be selective in what she said during this conversation because the wrong move could totally blow up in her face.
“Your mother did not intend for you to be raised here… She arrived at Blackthorn Hall in April of 1906. You were seven months old. I didn’t know she was pregnant or that you had been born until she knocked on our door.”
Truth. Alice filed this away into a new area of her brain that she had designated for information like this. She kept her eyes on her father’s, refusing to give anything she was thinking of feeling away. Measured composure. Measured responses and reactions. Perfect.
"She was by herself. She looked exhausted. Thin. Frightened."
Alice noted the shift in her father’s face, despite how brief it had been. She could feel – something. Sadness maybe just beneath his surface. But just as quickly as she’d sensed it, it was gone.
"Sera believed she was doing the right thing."
Sarah. That’s what Alice had heard. She bit the inside of her cheek, committing the name to memory. Her mother’s name was Sarah. She missed the next little bit as the name made its way into every part of her. Unfortunately, the name Sarah was incredibly common. It wasn’t enough to help her find her mother.
"Margery was the one who made the decision to keep you. To raise you as her own. I would suggest you remember that. You seem determined to blame her. The truth is, she had every reason to refuse, but she didn’t. If you are looking for some dramatic revelation, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. Your mother arrived. She left. Margery chose to raise you. And for the next sixteen years, that was the end of the matter."
Alice was silent as she took what he said in. Thatcher was giving a lot of credit to Margery, she noted, and none to himself. Margery had wanted her. Margery is the one that chose to keep her. And Thatcher?
“You didn’t mention you,” Alice mentioned. The name ‘Sarah’ continued to bounce around her mind. “What would you have done if mo – she hadn’t wanted me?” she asked. She’d known Margery as her mother, but now she didn’t know if it was completely appropriate to refer to her as such.
“You didn’t mention you, What would you have done if mo – she hadn’t wanted me?”
Once again, not giving Margery the respect she deserved. Thatcher looked at his daughter with disappointment in his eyes. This was not a new look, he wore it often.
He didn’t respond to her question immediately. Thinking about his answer before speaking. This wasn’t an easy answer, not because he was trying to hide something or bend the truth, but because he didn’t have a concrete answer.
“I don’t know what I would have done if your mother weren’t there. I'd like to tell you I would have made the same decision regardless, but that would be speculation.”
Thatcher paused, picking up the coffee urn on the table to fill his mug. Once full, he took a long sip, eyes focused on the table, thinking. Remembering. “We were young. I was building a company, building a name, your mother desperately wanted a baby. Then, out of nowhere a woman I hadn’t seen for over a year is on my doorstep with a baby, saying it’s mine.”
The memory was vivid. He could smell the fire burning, the roast in the oven, the look on his wife’s face. “Margery took you from Sera before I had even processed the situation. You were in her arms seconds later. There was no question. No debate.”
Taking another sip of his coffee, Thatcher drummed his fingers on the warm mug. A small breath escaped from his nose. “Your mother could be remarkably stubborn when she wanted to be.”
Returning his eyes to Alice, he marveled at how much she looked like Sera. He hadn’t allowed such thoughts until now, there was no reason to dredge up old memories, but the eyes, the hair, certain expressions were all her.
“So, to answer your question. I don’t know if I would make the same choice, and I think it’s a good thing for you that we didn’t have to find out.”
Alice could feel the disappointment radiate off her father briefly and she bit the inside of her cheek. If she wanted to get more information from him, then she ought to take what she was reading from him and do whatever she could to not disappoint him again.
“I don’t know what I would have done if your mother weren’t there. I'd like to tell you I would have made the same decision regardless, but that would be speculation.”
Honesty. Alice kept her eyes on Thatcher’s face briefly, and then looked down at the coffee urn as he poured more of the dark liquid for himself.
“We were young. I was building a company, building a name, your mother desperately wanted a baby. Then, out of nowhere a woman I hadn’t seen for over a year is on my doorstep with a baby, saying it’s mine. Margery took you from Sera before I had even processed the situation. You were in her arms seconds later. There was no question. No debate.”
Her brown eyes looked back at his face. He’d told her to be kind to Margery. This was why. She was the whole reason she had the life she had. Thatcher hadn’t wanted her, and would have likely turned this Sarah away. Who knows what would have happened to Alice.
When Thatcher looked back at Alice, she could sense his assessment of her. Just like the disappointment from before, she could now sense the recognition. She looked like Sarah.
“So, to answer your question. I don’t know if I would make the same choice, and I think it’s a good thing for you that we didn’t have to find out.”
Alice nodded slightly, accepting that her father didn’t want her.
“Do you love me now?” she asked, before she could even stop herself. Her heart stopped briefly at the realization. “Or am I still just the thing that mother insisted on keeping?” She remembered to call Margery mother. Apparently she was more of a parent than her actual father was. Surely the woman loved her.
But then why would she drug her?
The question caught him off guard, not visibly. Years of practice prevented that. But internally, it hit harder than any accusation Alice had thrown at him. Do you love me now?
For several seconds, Thatcher said nothing. The silence stretched, awkward and charged. He was thinking. This situation was volatile. He was good in a board room, not in a kitchen trying to talk his daughter down from a ledge. What the Ravenstones didn’t need was another scandal.
Finally, he leaned back slightly in his chair. "I assume you are measuring love by affection. That is an immature view at best, and completely false in this scenario.” His tone wasn’t defensive. More curious, as though examining a problem.
"You seem determined to believe that because I am not your mother, because I do not wear my emotions on my sleeve, that I care less. That is a foolish conclusion."
The words weren't gentle, but they weren’t meant to be. Gentle was a word never used to describe Thatcher Ravenstone.
"I paid for your education. I provided this home. You have never wanted for food, clothing, books, tutors. You have had endless opportunities, because I provided those for you."
His expression tightened slightly. "You think love is a feeling, emotions, hugs and kisses and laughs. I think it’s a responsibility. You were my responsibility the day I learned you existed.”
Silence settled between them. "You are still my responsibility."
Not an I love you. Not even close, but probably the most honest answer Thatcher Ravenstone was capable of giving.
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