Iron & Ice #ONC2024

Epilogue: The Witchhunter

 It's late when John Caius Avienus finally makes it home to his flat near Hyde Park. He's been gone so long that it takes him a moment to remember which floor he lives on, and even longer to remember which neatly-painted door leads to his flat.

For so long, he'd lived outside Britannia. Until a year ago, he'd lived in an airy villa in Sicilia, the villa his daughter was born in, the villa his wife died in. His new flat in London was smaller, more opulent, and far less like home.

In Sicilia, he'd been able to come home every night, to have dinner with his daughter, to watch her grow and learn. He'd seen her hit every milestone, every bump in the road.

But now, it's been nearly two months since he's seen her. Two months of unending travel, of brutal work that he doesn't enjoy. Two months in the bitter cold of the North Atlantic. Two months scouting the Norwegian coast.

How much will Siena have grown in the time he's been gone, he wonders?

He checks his pocket watch. Half-past twelve. It's too late for her to be awake. He won't get to see her until the morning.

He slides his key into the lock–it's the plum door, he remembers, not the chartreuse one, or the teal. The plum one with the slightly-wilted potted plants out from. The only reason he remembers is because Siena helped to pick out that pot, the yellow one with the bromeliad that looks like it's given up on life in it.

He thinks he's been quiet as he steps through the door, and he should be disappointed when he hears the pitter-patter of bare feet running on the wood floor. It's late; Siena really should be asleep.

He flicks on the electric light switch, and the chandelier in the entryway turns on.

And then there she is, his little girl.

She flies towards him, barefooted, her honey-brown curls bouncing. She's wearing only her white nightgown, and she must be cold. She's used to the warm, Sicilian climate, not this bitter, arctic cold.

She launches herself at him, and he catches her in his arms. She smells like the lemon blossom soap she loves so well. She says it reminds him of home–does she still call Sicilia home? He doesn't know. It's been two months; there's so much he doesn't know.

He hears the shush-shush of slippered feet and looks up to see Siena's nursemaid bearing down on them, a disapproving frown on her face. When she sees him, though, her face softens. She came with them from Sicilia; she was his wife's nursemaid when she was young. She's a part of the family now, has been since she came with his wife into his life.

He waves her off, and she smiles and disappears back into the depths of the flat, leaving him alone with his daughter.

"You should be asleep," he murmurs in Siena's ear.

"I was!" she protests. She still has a hint of an Italian accent. When the neighbors brought their children around after John and Siena moved in–good, Patrician families with good, Patrician children–the little English kids teased her mercilessly for it, poking fun at her and calling her names.

She'd refused to go to school after that, afraid that the other kids would treat her the same way, so John hired a whole passel of tutors for her, at her nursemaid's urgings. Going by the nursemaid's letters, and Siena's own quickly-scribbled missives, she'd taken to homeschooling like a fish to water.

"I woke up when you came in!" she tells him. "I heard the door. I was listening for it because Martha said you'd be back today. But you weren't back today, because it's already tomorrow!"

"It is, isn't it?" John says, showing her his watch. "Which means you absolutely should be in bed right now. Come on. It's late, and I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted."