[center][h3]~The Summerson Estate~[/h3][/center]

[i]Wednesday[/i]

Max stood with his back against the door frame, his mother pacing around the empty room. She was the epitome of elegance, of class, brilliance, sincerity, everything. Max held no one else with higher regard. Margott Summerson, pronounced Mar-got as opposed to Mar-go, born Margott Hazelbury had the grace of a governess, even in her older age. Time had treated her kindly, Max had always considered it a kindness repaid, as Mother had graced Time with her presence. She placed a hand on the windowsill and looked about her. 

"I'll clean the room, and I'll call the movers to meet you at the warehouse, be sure to get everything on the list." Her voice was clear, and rang with undeniable authority, but the order was spoken as softly as a timidly asked question. Max scanned the list on more time and then asked finally.

"Why didn't we just keep the furniture here?" He spoke half jokingly and half seriously, her eyes flicked to face him, one hand on the windowsill. She studied him for the briefest of moments before her nervous stare softened into a tired gaze. 

"You're a spitting image of your father, Max." She said in a melancholy, nostalgic tone. "All you'd need to do is not be a sarcastic so and so." Max chucked and Mother snorted, much to her son's delight and her embarrassment. "Go! I don't want your cousin sleeping on the floor tomorrow!" 

With that Max strode out, shaking his head and laughing, "Don't stress too much, Mother." She watched him go before turning her attention back to the room, setting a crooked painting straight again.

[center][h3]~Old Harbor, Wares District~[/h3][/center]

Max watched as they loaded in the last of the furniture, a chest of drawers that his mother insisted he bring. He couldn't fathom what his cousin would put in it but he put that thought out of his mind. "Alright, boys. We best get this stuff home before Sam falls asleep." He referred the doorman, gate keeper and gardener, Sam Wellington had worked at the estate since Max's father was a child. Perhaps he stuck around out of loyalty, or maybe it was because no one would hire a man at such an advanced age. It wasn't like the Summersons forced him to stay, he just had no where else to go. 

Climbing into his car, he pulled ahead of the moving van, and duo of automobiles drifted out of the Warehouse District and into a more residential area. His head scanned about him, the apartments were tasteful but not for him, he preferred horizontal space as opposed to vertical space. Which was ironic, because he loved heights. The drive ahead was uneventful, and Sam was thankfully awake to open the front gates for the arriving convoy. 

Furniture moved upstairs, and arranged to his mother's satisfaction, Max tipped the movers and saw them out. And once sure his mother had settled down for the day, made his way to the airfield.