Daddy dearest

Who: Ramona
Where: Bartelucci Manor (outskirts of town)
When: Evening

It hadn't been very hard so far, which was surprising to Ramona. Creating these tiny falsehoods one after the other was actually almost easy with the right motivation, which she absolutely had. Everything with Quentin was bewildering, and all she needed to do in order to make a claim that she wasn't feeling well? Was to drop the manners and let it show.

Her violin teacher had bought it without question, calling her home for a pick-up to be arranged and brewing her tea while she waited. And it had actually helped as she waited, eventually being whisked away by a different driver than before. At home it was definitely harder to actually show that internal distress, it had been too engrained in Ramona that she behave in the presence of her kin, as an example to her younger half-brothers. But she managed, requesting to go straight to her room and have dinner sent up.

Still, bit by bit, she puzzled over the little details needed to create a perfect lie, approaching it like any other problem in her world. What would be clear signs in her environment that her father might see that could give her credibility? And hours later, when she might commonly go see her father in his study? Ramona felt like she'd created it. It all added up to a current of distress, from the untouched schoolwork on the floor by her dress to the half-eaten soup on her night table, a few damp tissues on the top of the trash. They were almost authentic, genuine tears, but ones that had been shed forcing light fingertip bruises on her shoulder and arm. Like she'd been grabbed.

Now? She was waiting with a quiet terror racing inside of her. Ramona knew what might happen, now moreso with what Quentin had told her. She'd seen the servants get hurt before when they were lax, a wanton cruelty from her father and elder half-siblings, and apparently they went much further, if Quentin was to be believed. She just didn't know if she could buy it, and there was no time to research before her father would find her. Ramona had to hope that Quentin was wrong, because then her usual driver might survive.

A soft knock at the door stripped away the quiet of her nerves, making Ramona flinch where she sat, brushing the last tangles from her hair in a night dress. "Who is it?" she called, lips pursing nervously. There was no surprise to be had, either, before a soft, gruff voice answered. "Your father," came the reply, "Open up, dear, I haven't even seen you today."

"Just a moment, papa," Ramona told him as she forced herself onto her feet without hesitation, moving for her robe and knotting it tight. She couldn't spare a second in lingering, Don Bartelucci knew his daughter's habits too well. Swinging her door open with a light smile, Ramona stepped back as her father entered the room. She was quick to move, though, stepping forward to give him a hug as if this was any other time she saw him. "I'm sorry I wasn't feeling well, papa," she said with an apologetic tone as Ramona let go, hands folding in front of her demurely. "I'll be improved by tomorrow, I hope. How was your day?"

Most people couldn't help noticing the stilted manner about Ramona, and some, like Quentin, called her on it. But her father was a man of twisted social views himself, and what he'd created in Ramona was something he imagined a 'better' class of people to be. "My day was fine, sweetheart. That's not what I came to speak to you about," her father answered in a somewhat sterner voice. "James told me you went to a diner after classes with a boy? Quentin? And when he came to pick you up, you were soaking wet and alone. Would you like to tell me what happened?"

That was when it got hard for her, when the panic suddenly turned icy cold and coursed through her. With him watching her, staring at Ramona, she wasn't even aware of just how lucky she was. Because to look at her father, the man who was her absolute constant, her encouragement... and to think he was a criminal? A murderer? It painted a slow picture of misery over her face, and before she knew it, Ramona was forcing words out between choked-back sniffles. "He... he said I wasn't meant to tell," she murmured, "That he was sorry and... and... that we'd both be in trouble if you knew."

And then she gave herself a much-needed reprieve, staring down at her feet as Ramona sat back down at the chair in front of her vanity. She could hear every movement perfectly; a moment of silence, one step to the door before it was shut behind her father, and then he was crouching down to find her gaze. " Ramona, darling, what happened," her father growled in a low rush, "Did this boy hurt you? Try somethin' funny?"

She could believe Quentin with that in front of her, looking at the rise of rage in Don Bartelucci's eyes over his own suggestions of what might've happened. This time, thinking that the focus of it was Quentin? "No!" Ramona snapped at her father, leaning back in her seat to distance herself from him. "Quentin didn't do anything papa! He's my friend!" she yelled with real worry for his sake. "It was James," Ramona whispered in sharp contrast, her face drawn and guilty over what she was doing to the driver. "He... he tried to kiss me, and grabbed my shoulder so hard that it hurt."

Don Bartelucci didn't try to close the gap with his daughter, he was frozen in the kneel on the ground as his eyes bugged out of his head. "He what?" he spat out after a moment, the shock twisting into an expression of utter malice. "To my little girl?" Ramona didn't move, a survival trait around her father when he was mad, and just watched his temper flare again as he stood up. Back and forth, back and forth, Don Bartelucci paced the short space between Ramona's seat and the door, abruptly railing a fist into the door with a loud crack that made Ramona flinch.

That seemed to bring some kind of moment's clarity as he turned back to Ramona, exhaling softly. "Now sweetheart... I want you to tell me exactly what happened. I'm not gonna be mad at you, I promise," he explained patiently, "I just need to know." Nodding like she was supposed to, Ramona tried to tap into the little story she'd concocted, working within the timeframe they'd had. "Quentin bought me a hot chocolate and a slice of pie, we have literature class together but I suspect that he doesn't understand the material, so I wanted to help him as you'd encouraged me to."

She swallowed hard, fighting the panic of lying to her father, the man who knew her so well. "He had to leave early, he said he was needed at home, and when I stepped outside to wait for James, I lost my umbrella in the wind. When James finally arrived, he..." Ramona's brow creased as she struggled with this bit, having no idea what a moment like this should've sounded like. "He was staring at me, and tried to wipe my cheeks. He... he said..." she trailed, thinking in a moment of desperation of what Quentin had said about her. "He said that I should leave my gilded cage more often, and he tried to kiss me," Ramona lied finally, flinching internally. "And when I stopped him, he grabbed me here."

The robe was slipped loose enough to uncover the bruises she'd put on her own skin, and when her father looked away Ramona figured he had to notice the other bits she'd put in place. But he was looking away for a long time, tension gathering in his back and shoulders as Ramona watched him wring his hands together tightly. "Is that all?" Don Bartelucci asked eventually, looking back with fire in his eyes. "No," came the quick answer, "He told me that if I said anything to you, you'd be mad with both of us." Which she'd already said? But her father had asked for everything, and Ramona never left things out.

It seemed like he had to force his hands apart before he stepped back to Ramona, leaning in to kiss her forehead. "Thank you for telling me the truth," he murmured, "You know I'll always listen if something's wrong." Ramona smiled weakly at him, feeling like she wouldn't do better at that until she found a chance to get to the library. "I know, papa," she told him, reaching for her brush like she'd just resume what she was doing when he left. "I'll have the help draw you a bath before bed time," Don Bartelucci said as he opened the door out of her room, waving off the shadow of one of her older brothers, "And we'll have someone else drive you from now on."

"Thank you papa," Ramona told him, as polite as ever, and after a moment of smiling for him she went back to brushing her hair. When the door finally closed, she stopped and set the brush aside. Staring at herself in the mirror, Ramona had been hoping she'd feel better once she knew Quentin was safe from her father's attention. But the idea that there was something about her family to fear? That robbed the hope from her, leaving Ramona more clueless than she'd ever felt.