(note)

No chapter numbers on posts this year, because I have little to no clue where (if) these bits will fit into what's already written.

Also not necessarily posting here daily, so far it's been at the end of each chapter instead. Easier to re-read later, aaand easier to gloss over that day I only managed like the hundred words.

...yeah no, it's just as well I haven't customized the template with word count widgets and things, it's not going terribly well yet. Not giving up though! I actually managed 1900+ today, and only think about half of it is stupid, and stumbled into something interesting. So there's hope. And either way, there are some new details to my babies and their story, so yay.

(...though I haven't even tried getting their voices right yet, the content/pov is all I can manage after several years neglect and no time to re-read! That's what non-November months are for. ;)

Veri

How can it feel so hot in here when frost obscures the outer window panes? I have had the fires put out. No candles burn - though I must leave some light in the place or I shall go mad, the gas lights shall have to do. (I have not yet felt up to having the walls of my sanctuary torn apart for the sake of these electric lights Meres prosthelytizes.) The servants say nothing, but the shawls and jackets they have put on speak well enough. The house is not warm, it is only I that burn with a raging fire that will not cease. I have called in a physician, who asserted I bear no illness he can see, yet I felt as though his fingertips should bear scorch marks from their touch to my flesh. It is all in my mind, then, some metaphysical ailment, and still I feel it seething below my skin as blood brought to boil. I suppose someone could have lain a curse on me - but I should have noticed such a charm being applied, the magics of this place and time are such pitiful remnants of the older arts.

I suppose I shall just have to wait until it passes, and see what relief I can find while I wait. How tedious. I have already gone out, but the air felt no more chill, only damp, ashy, clammy. Remaining in my own rooms, with the wait staff best trained to my needs, is my best chance of relief. It is not an excellent wait staff, but I have hired and fired and cursed and coaxed for some time now, and they generally suffice. I instructed Michaele to do whatever he could think of to cool the place, and he has been surprisingly apt. I am met in each room with a cool breeze, whether from a window opened or a discrete servant with a fan. Rugs and carpets have been removed, that my feet may tred on the cool wood and tile floors. In some distant corner, someone plays a zither or dulcimer, some light stringed instrument, that trickles a light chiming through the air. There are ices and lemonades set out on tables here and there - I lift a small crystal bowl of minted ice, taking small bites of it as I pace the rooms. If I walk at just the right speed, the air carries away some of the warmth from me, without my body building up excess heat through its efforts. Silk is cool but traps too much warmth now, I am wrapped in a light and gauzy robe from my last visit to Azal’s palace in the desert - I shudder to think of the burning hell that place would be to me at a time like this! Certainly, England’s climate is far from ideal - I often remind the others how pleasant we have found Venice to be - but it is temperate enough here that I rarely find more than slight discomfort at the temperature. The damp, though, seeps into one’s bones… though I would be grateful if it would do so now!

A slim girl draped in gauzes of the palest blue floats down a passageway, the fabric fluttering as she moves, causing soft breezes to whirl around her. Not a bad effect, but I am in no mood for acknowledging the presence of anyone, so I let her pass in silence. A scent of cool mint and crisp lime follows in her wake, a sound of rustling as snow across a frozen lake.

As I pass into the next room, a light mist settles over me - ah! of course, it is the sprinkler pipes set to keep the tropical room humid for the orchids and birds. It is evening, so the room has been allowed to cool somewhat, most of the lamps and devices for heat put out or set low for the night. It is still quite warm in here, but that sudden touch of water shook my intangible fever a little at least. I meet the eyes of a servant waving a fan from a corner, and nod.

She lowers the fan and takes a single step toward me, curtseying and casting her eyes down. “My lord?”

“Have a cool bath drawn for me - in the tiled bathing room, and no heat put on in the room.”

“It shall be done.”  She slips away on silent slippered feet, and I take a long breath of the damp air. The delicate spice of an orchid in bloom drifts into my lungs, and though it is a warm scent, its sharp edges are enough to keep the sensation crisp instead of cozy. Meres would know which particular flower it was, but I do not, so shall have to do with a bit of mystery in my evening. Far preferable to having to actually speak to someone.

I awake with a start, cool water splashing against my face with the sudden motion. I had not intended to doze off in the bath - and am surprised I have done so, for the water is quite cold, and the air in the room colder still. The porcelain tiles retain cold quite well, and with no fire or warmer left in the room, the only source of warmth is me - and that is little enough by now, I am sure, my skin has taken on the lightest cast of blue. I suppose it is unwise of me to subject this weak flesh to such dramatic changes, but I could hardly do otherwise tonight, the burning I felt would have driven me half-mad. It seems to have gone now, I feel almost comfortable, aside from the shriveling of my skin at the extended time left in the water. Reaching for a towel, I rise, slowly stepping up out of the bath onto the blue and white patterned tiles. The towel is thick and pleasant, a pale blue gentle to the eyes as the plush material is to the skin. Truly, it is the little details that make a place satisfyingly comfortable. Leisurely dressing myself in padded silk slippers and a fresh robe, I leave my hair damp, letting it fall cooly about my shoulders and back. A window must be open nearby, a slight breeze passes my cheek and makes me shiver just enough that the light clothing makes me feel cozy.

----- ----- -----

A solo flute melody drifts in from some other room, and I feel my body relax into the sound. Sweet and low, just a little melancholy. I pull the robe closer around me, and shiver pleasantly. A cup of something warm to drink would be ideal now, I take a step toward the door---

And my foot slips out from under me, the water from my hair having puddled on the slick tile floor. I crash to the tiles without a cry, but the pain is no less for my silence, it explodes from my hip up my spine and I feel it in my teeth and my fingertips. Curse this frail flesh! Never do I find comfort for a moment before it’s torn away from me again. Am I fated to find only pain in this world, which once promised such pleasures?

A servant, having heard my fall, appears at a respectful distance, waiting just outside the open door. I sigh heavily, not yet bothering to get to my feet. I am being overdramatic about this, it’s only a silly slip on a wet floor, yet it does seem at times that even the forces of nature are determined to keep me trapped in misery. It is hard not to obsess when the pains are constant, slight though some may be. “I am all right. Have tea brought to my bed chamber. And the house may resume its normal temperature - though gradually.” The girl bobs and disappears.  Slowly, slowly, I rise to my feet. My knees begin to make slight tearing sounds, my bones feel far too heavy for my scant energy to manage them. Yet I will not be carried about my own home as a complete invalid. When visiting or travelling, certainly, when the mood strikes, for it is silly to over-exert myself unnecessarily, when there are persons and objects in place to alleviate me as well as adequately elevate my perceived status. But within these walls, no, I will not be slung about by manservants as though a cripple or an old man.

As I stand, my eyes fall upon my feet - the slippers are not high, and only partially hide the tracery of blue-black lines that writhe and twist from the soles just past my ankles. I quickly look away, not wishing to think on such reminders, nor look at such hideous blemish, but the image remains in my mind all the same. As stains left by the smoke after a fire’s passing, as broken veins that haven’t the strength to carry lifeblood, the discoloration is darkest at the bottom, and eventually fades upward. Whether it is the burn of a body plummeting downward at speed, or the poison of walking in a place toxic to the self… it matters little what caused it, there is nothing that will remove it now. (I have consulted with Azal, and though he can devise ways to discreetly cover the blemishes, there is nothing that will permanently hide or cure.) Does it seem a little farther up my calves than it was before..? No matter. Have I not just been fretting over how endless these physical troubles are? When one ends, another begins, and so shall it ever be.

In my bed chamber, a low fire - barely more than coals - glows unobtrusively from the grate. The windows are closed, and though only light sheets cover the bed, there are warmer blankets folded at the foot, should they be wanted. The room is quiet, but for the occasional crackle and pop from the fireplace. If I listen hard enough, I can still hear the flute at a farther distance, faint as a dream half-remembered. A small celadon pot and matching cup rests on the small table beside the window, a cushioned chair drawn up beside it. I pour myself a cup, and hold the cup below my face for a long moment, closing my eyes and feeling the steam press against my face, nuzzling soft as a kitten, warm as a breath. Inhaling slow and deep, I find it is a subtle green tea, with just the lightest touch of jasmine, perhaps just a little mint.

I sit down in the chair and sip the tea slowly, staring blankly at the low-burning coals, then out into the dark night. Little can be seen, between the fog and the murk that drifts endlessly through this city, but the increased warmth of my room has melted the frost away, and the street lights burn their pallid holes in the dark air.  My window is far enough from the street that no sound of it reaches me, but I can make out the motion of dark shapes of man and carriage. I wonder idly if any of the cloak-wrapped shadows belong to persons I know - most walk with a purpose, a home to reach or appointment to keep, though some stroll in company or in solo idyll, despite the freezing bite of the air. Moving toward some hope, or away from some dread…

Ah! It seems I do know one of the mysterious forms after all, for someone has gained admittance at the gate, and is crossing the small garden before the front door. Yes, it is Meres, there is no mistaking him now. I have watched that stride a thousand, thousand times…

A few sips of tea later, and he sits at the table across from me, a second cup coaxing the night’s chill out of his hands. I have had the fire stoked a little higher, and his familiar face is warmed by its glow. He has been to some old chapel where he plans to hold his next soirée, and is going into some detail telling me of his plans, but I hardly listen, for it is clear enough that it is not the real thing on his mind. Several times in the space of ten minutes, I see him drop a hand to his side, patting at a jacket pocket, checking that its contents are still in place. I let him wear out the decoy topic on his own, taking polite interest but responding only perfunctorily.

Eventually, he stops mid-sentence and laughs, setting his cup on the table and leaning back, looking directly into my eyes. “Of course, dear Veri, you are right, I waste both our time with this. How is it you can chide me so adeptly without a word?”

I roll my eyes and let a smile touch my lips. “Do I know you so little, that I should need to put effort into it? I can read you like a book, as the saying goes.”

“But you do enjoy books.”

I cannot help but laugh. “Yes, I do, so you have some good fortune in the end after all. Now, come, what is on your mind this evening?”

“It is connected to the chapel and the party, I wasn’t entirely avoiding the topic. But, there I go again. I’m afraid it’s not really an adequate topic for a conversation though.” He reaches into the pocket he has been worrying, and pulls a dark stone from it, a little smaller than his hand, fitting comfortably within it. It reflects the firelight sharply, its edges slightly dulled by long years but clearly capable of being sharpened to a razor-edge. Its surface is highly reflective, and I can see there are markings of some sort on it, though they are unclear at a glance.

What is clear, is the sudden chill that comes over me as he sets this thing on the table between us, as though a wave of cold travelled with the sound of its slight weight falling against the wood. And here I was nearly at a comfortable temperature at last…

“I suppose asking you what it is would be pointless?”

“Unfortunately. I found it in the chapel - though clearly that wasn’t its place of origin, it’s far too old. I haven’t had a chance to make a study of it, this is the first I’ve looked at it since picking it up.”

...though not the first you’ve thought of it, clearly. And I would have reacted the same, there is something about it that draws me as well. But it’s tainted somehow… The power is too faint to be distinct, but I feel a small tug of desire for it, while also recoiling from having it too near me. I wonder which urge was the intentional one, and which is my subconscious reaction against it? “Azal?”

He nods. “I had planned to see him tomorrow about some !__random party thing__! in any event, I shall see what his thoughts are. Whatever charms were imbued within or created by it, time seems to have worn away too far for me to get much from it. Seeing it in a better light, I might make out some of the carving, but even there, Azal will stand a much better chance of reading it than I.”

“You’re concerned about it.”

He falls silent a moment, considering. His graceful fingers lift the stone, turning it slowly, letting the firelight catch its facets and incisions, casting sparks of scarlet and cream and vermillion out from its shadow. “I could not have passed it by, nor could I have left it there. If a thing sets itself to be in my path, and especially to be retained by my person… yes, I am concerned about it. I can’t imagine it holds much power now, but I am certainly curious to know what its purpose was set to be.”

“Mmm.” I refill my cup from the pot of tea, absorbing the scent anew.

Meres chuckles softly, shaking his head in self-deprecation. “You are right, I’m certain it’s silly, it is only a stone. But it is a thing carefully crafted by someone’s hands long ago, you know my weakness. I should like to know the story of this strange little artwork so out of it place and time.”

“Of course you would. And I see no harm in so doing. I am merely tired by the thought of all the effort and time you and Azal shall spend in researching the language and the depth of the carving and the style of the character formation and…”

He laughs, waving a hand to cut me off, his other hand sliding the stone back into his pocket. “Yes, yes, you know my weaknesses full well, and I know they bore you. I shall not trouble you with this one any more. Would you have something to eat? I have had a rather long walk this evening, and find I need something a little more substantial than tea.”

“Certainly. Let us go into the library though, I do not feel I shall sleep for a time yet. And I should like to have you look at the paintings that just arrived for the room, I cannot seem to decide which to position where.”

“I shall be delighted.” Meres stands, and steps beside the table to offer me his arm.

His assistance, I will accept, even within my home, for I can rest easy knowing that his judgement of me is always kind. I realize that I do indeed feel comfortably warm again, and I am certain the effect is not solely from the tea.

I ignore the chill on my side as his jacket brushes against me - silly thought, it is only an old stone, there is little effect it can have on me.

Azal

A series of dull knocks sound over my head. Sighing, I try to ignore them and continue my reading.

THUD.  THUD THUD THUD.

If only they were in any kind of rhythm, I could ignore them.

THUD THUD. THUD THUD. THUD.

!__foreign curse__! Throwing my book aside - I needn’t worry about losing my place, I’d lost the train of thought long ago - I get to my feet and head for the stairs. Not the main stairs, or any of the several sets of servant’s stairs, but the ones hidden away at the rear of the closet in my study. There are several such deceptions in the house, halls that don’t lead quite where they ought to, stairs where they are not needed, doors that open to nothing, windows without rooms and rooms without windows. I suspect the original builder was heavily superstitious, and set the mazes and lures to bewilder any spirits that might be roaming the place. Superstitious, and probably with a guilty conscious, as well. I am under no such illusion - whyever would an incorporeal being be deterred by a lack of a door in going where it wished? But I find the house charming, and, as Luce has found with his garden labyrinths, it is both amusing and occasionally useful to have persons unable to find their own way in or out.

I suppose I could have left the old man in a less secluded room, where I could easily send any of the servants to shut him up at times like this. But I prefer to keep his activities unknown, and limit the risk of his concoctions falling into the hands of others. Should he produce something pleasant, I should hate to have it wasted on a servant’s bribe, and should he produce something foul, I should hate to have to replace a servant, it’s such a bother while they acclimate to my requirements. There is one who knows of this room, to bring his meals and remove his waste, but she has proven herself trustworthy over long years - and is mute, besides.

The smell hits me as I unlock the closet door, making me take an involuntary step back. I am familiar with many strange substances, but this must be a side-effect of some rare combination, the odor alone has destructive powers. My head remains clear, though my stomach turns a bit as I mount the stairs, breathing as shallowly as I can manage.

“Can you not do your work without threatening to burst the ceiling over my head? Are there not tables and carpets enough that you might pound on something that dulls the sound?”

“Hrmph. Couldn’t get enough leverage. Needed the floor.”

I’d sigh, but sighing requires breathing in more than I’d like to do right now. Now able to see the man as I reach the end of the stairs, I note that he has wrapped fabric around his nose and mouth, though I can’t imagine that does much to avert the odor.

THUD. THUD THUD THUD THUD. “Nearly done though.” He gives the large stone mortar and pestle another few heavy blows, then resumes pressing and stirring. The smell grows a little more intense, though not exactly worse.

“Splendid.”

“Then I’ll need to try exploding it. That might get a little loud too.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I do not recall asking for a compound that would explode.”

“Didn’t say it was supposed to. Said I need to test it. If it’s wrong, it’ll blow up.”

“And if it’s correct?”

“It’ll just keep smelling bad.”

“Continue, or worsen?”

“Continue, I think. Until I add the sheep’s gall, then it’ll smell worse for a bit. Unless it blows up after.”

“You are keeping records of all your attempts? Amounts, timing, full instructions?”

The man waves a hand vaguely at me. “Yes yes. And you can take the green book there by the kettle, it’s full now. Bring back the red one though, I want to check something.”

I take a few steps into the room, carefully skirting the many tables and overflowing shelves, that I might reach the indicated book. Fortunately, the old man and his nauseating concoction are at the opposite side. The tables are covered in clutter, bottles and jars with handwritten labels and murky contents, candles that burn in different colors, old books, shriveled dry bits of plants and animals.

“List there, too, things I need.” THUD THUD THUD.

I spot the ink-blotted sheet near the note book, and take both from the table, careful to disturb nothing else. A covered iron cup seems to be trembling slightly - whether from a living thing or chemical reaction, I do not ask, either is as likely as the other. I long ago made my own forays into alchemy, chemistry, but found the investigatory research to be far too tedious to be enjoyable. I have long kept someone on retainer to do so on my behalf, and Phineas is as capable a one as I have encountered in some time. Which is why I have made his employ a permanent situation - my presence may a fairly private one here, but I do have a few enemies that might be clever enough to use men like him. A small risk, but easily avoided. And truly, the man should be grateful for a patron such as I - glancing at his list, I see it contains a few items that are far more rare or expensive than he could have hoped to gain access to without my support. !___random creepy/pricy things___!

“Keep to that side of the room, now.”

I remain in place, folding my arms with a wry smile. He removes the pestle, leaving the mortar and its contents on the floor. After taking a few steps back, he takes a set of remarkably long tongs from a shelf, and uses them to lift a vial from its stand. Delicately, he tilts the glass tube, adding a few drops to the mortar.

Nothing happens.

He grunts in satisfaction, and dumps the rest of the liquid in. A small puff of gas billows into the air, and it certainly does smell worse in the room. Phineas coughs, but his hand remains steady, holding the vial in place until empty, then setting it and the tongs aside before approaching the mortar. He grunts again, then lifts the stone with its slightly bubbling contents, and moves it onto another table. His gnarled stained fingers skim over the page of an open book, he nods and drapes a linen cloth over the bowl. He shuffles across the floor and prods the fire with a poker.

The moment of crisis having apparently passed without incident, I flip casually through the pages of the notebook. “Anything of particular note recently?”

The man shrugs, moving to a shelf and holding a few jars to the window, inspecting their contents. “Some promising avenues. Nothing certain.”

“Mmm. Anything of use in the book I brought you last week?”

“Still reading. Might be.”

“Well. Your conversation is stimulating as always.”

“Ain't like I get much practice anymore.”

“I offered to bring you a companion if needed.”

He snorts, dumping a jar into a refuse pot. “Too old for whores, sir. Too cranky for chatter. And who’d put up with the stinks I make anyway.”

“Yes, well, that is a valid point. Those windows can be partly opened, you know.”

“Huh, I know. And ‘partly’ ain't hardly enough for a rat to escape through, not that it stopped me tryin’ once or twice.  But don't want any ash getting into that pot now, hell knows what things get into this city's air.”

“True, I suppose it could affect the more delicate chemistries. Well, carry on, I should have most of these items for you within a few days.”

“Huh. I wouldn't promise that, you read the things on there yet?”

“Yes, I have, and I meant what I said.”

There is a moment of heavy silence as we stare at each other, each of us perfectly arrogant and certain of being the stronger man. Of course, I know his true nature far better than he knows mine, so I am confident I am in the right.

Our stubbornness, however, is well-matched, so it's a relief to us both when a pot over a low flame starts to bubble over, and Phineas darts over to calm the hissing violet liquid. I take the opportunity to return down the stairs, being careful to lock the door behind me before seeing the alchemist's notebook on my study table.

Meres

I feel the smile growing on my face as I turn slowly about, gazing upward at a summer sky as daintily detailed as a china plate in rich blues and shining white, billowing mountains of cotton clouds, their edges translucent and enhancing the luminescence of the azure around them. A rumble of thunder echoes faintly in the domed space, reminding me that I am seeing the fresco in its worst light - yet another day of gray rain, leaving the many skylights dim and the paintings murkily lit by candles and gaslight.  For all that, it is as lovely as I had hoped, and even should the weather be as poor as this for the party being planned a fortnight from now, we shall have a pretty enough setting to enjoy ourselves. And I can’t recall the last time we held one of our soirees in an old chapel, the ironic touch is quite pleasant. Of course, it being a chapel no longer in public use, being largely neglected (though reasonably maintained) under private ownership, it’s a little less cheeky, but the paintings make up for it.  Cunning trompe-l'œil makes it feel much larger in size, and the still-vibrant colors maintain a sense of warmth to the old stone walls. I wonder which would produce a nicer effect, to light it all in ancient ritual candlelight, or bring in electric and lime lights, making it brighter than a summer’s day during a night indoors, letting the paintings be seen in more clarity than ever before?  ...I suppose I’ve decided already then, haven’t I? Will the colors be as lurid as a carnival under those lights, or glow with colors more vivid than life?

Turning back from the pulpit to look over the main space, I suppose we shall have to do something with the pews. They’re beautifully carved in an auburn mahogany, and appear thoroughly attached to the tiled floor. Moving them would doubtless result in unsightly damages… I suppose we could layer a few rows in cushions and furs, though they are rather narrow for lounging comfortably upon.  Perhaps a stage could be built over the rest - yes, I think so, a large platform will allow more space to work with. I suppose the acoustics are designed so that the musicians ought to remain near the organ and choir area, but this would be a sufficiently large area for dancing. Or perhaps a centerpiece of some sort, an elaborate buffet, actors in some tableau, or…

Startled, I turn, feeling a chill breeze across my neck.  Is there a window open? I certainly hope it is only that, and not some damage to the stonework, or, worse still, the richly hued stained glass of a window.  The only doors are before me - despite the paintwork illusions, it is a rather small chapel - but they are firmly closed, and having been recently replaced, are snugly fitted. In any event, it did feel as if it came from behind me... I move to the wall of the chapel, looking to see if any light (or, rather, dull gray murk) appears where it shouldn’t. Past the small but lovely organ, across the open space below the immense stained glass set in the center of the back wall, toward the choir area. Again, a chill breath touches my left cheek, the back of my hand, and I turn quickly - but can still see nothing. I take a few steps back, then forward again, then jump as a ringing sounds and my foot connects with something unseen.

I am relieved there are none other to see me, I fear my reaction was visible - and so silly! It is only a small metal decoration, I lean to pick it up from the floor. It is certainly colder than I would expect, for the layers of fresco and wall hangings let only a slight chill breathe from the stone walls. I suppose the tiled floor wouldn’t hold much warmth though, and goodness knows how long it’s lain there, the space being so rarely used.

I look again to see if I can locate the source of the breeze, but there seems to be nothing. Perhaps I only imagined it, or am just unused to being within a stone building.

I had thought it was iron, but on closer inspection I see that it is instead stone, but of a glassy black volcanic type, light enough to have bounced a bit on the tile as my boot bumped it. I handle it with care, for I know this type of stone can hold an extremely sharp edge, but it seems that if it had any, they have been worn away with time. For it is old, I feel that at once. I step back to the window in hope of seeing it more clearly, but the light which penetrates is little help, casting only eerie muted rainbows on the glistening uneven surface.  I can see that it was purposefully shaped - I can feel that, in fact, it fits so naturally and gracefully in the hand - and I can see that there is some carving to it, but what it is, I cannot tell. It is far, far older than this place, far older than anything I have touched in quite some time. Of course Roman coins and the like are always being found by over-excited farmers in this place, in this time, but this stone is not Roman, it bears nothing of their style. And it’s too old.

A little unnerved, I slip it into my jacket pocket. I shall have to consult… oh, Azal, I suppose, might recognize something about it, if I don’t catch something on my own in a better light. So many styles of art have come and gone, been adapted or forgotten, forged or imagined. And I have seen them all, but there have been so many, I fear I may not know this one at a glance.

There was a time when things were not forgotten, when all knowledge was instant and complete, when---

I shiver, pulling my jacket closer around my neck. There must be a gap in a window somewhere, where the wood has pulled away from the stone after years of wet and dry, hot and cold. I shall have to find drapes, or something with which to line the edges, that no icy wind shall disturb my guests at the party. It feels as though something cold rests against my hip as well, but no, it is only the stone, and the sense of its unusual presence there. My body will not warm it much, but it will undoubtedly lose some of its chill before long.

I pass down the aisle quickly, I have seen enough to confirm that the venue will suit my needs. Time enough to determine the decor after I have made arrangements with the owner for its use. Despite my rapid stride, I notice that despite the lack of church services, water still stands in the small basin near the entrance. Normal enough, with so much rain in the air it’s not as though the air is so dry it would evaporate quickly in the shadowed chapel. And the ripple must have been only from the weight of my foot on the floor.

Adir

“Can you not stop him from playing with those?  Really, now, some basic manners and respect for the property of others.”

“Heyyyyy, I was playing with thooooose!”

“Yes you were, and that is precisely the problem.  Keep your clumsy dirty fingers away from things that don’t belong to you, particularly when they are gold, ancient, and mine.”

“Adrian, he’s only a boy, he doesn’t mean any harm.”

“If he’s old enough to speak, he’s old enough to be respectful.”

“Well! You needn’t be so harsh about it.”

“Why on earth did you bring him along in the first place? I planned for a private tete-a-tete, and now I’m forced to play nanny to a drooling little mess in perpetual motion.”

“I hadn’t any choice, I told you - and I did send word this afternoon, if you’d only read messages I send once in awhile. My sister had that meeting with the duchess, and with the servant being injured in the---”

“Oh please, woman, hush, if I didn’t care enough to read a short note, I certainly don’t care for a dissertation on the subject.”

“Adrian! If I had known what a mood you would be in, I wouldn’t have come.”

“I wish you hadn’t, with this creeping thing trailing after you.”

“He’s really an excellent child, intelligent and well-behaved, you’re just a--- well, I can’t even think of a name horrid enough to call you at times like this.”

“And that is also precisely the problem, how kind of you to point it out.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Again, precisely the problem.”

“I don’t need to sit here and take this.”

“No, you certainly don’t. Gregory will see you out. And then mop up after the creature drooling on my Turkish rug.”

“Henry! Come along.”

“But Auntie, come see this funny little monkey, it’s so clever, it can--- OW! Oh ow, ow ow ow, oh Auntie, it bit me!”

“Adrian! It bit him! Adrian?”

“I’m sorry. You’re still here?”

“Your fingernails are more important than my little nephew bleeding?”
“Unless he is bleeding on my Turkish carpet, yes. Gregory, do see them out. Now.”

“Adrian! What if the thing is diseased?”

“Then the monkey shall become sick as well, I suppose.”

“Oh! You awful, awful man. You shall be hearing from my solicitor, this cannot stand.”

“Ha! You mean your husband’s solicitor? I suspect you will hear from him yourself, when little Henry tells Uncle that Auntie meant to visit a strange man alone this evening. Now, good bye, Georgia.”

Ah. Blessed silence.

No, curse that bell! I swear I will simply have it removed. Which reminds me.

“Martin? You may cease to hide there, and go return the monkey to its master. Do keep it on its leash, it may have contracted distemper from its last meal. Pay the man five percent extra for its excellent performance, it suited the occasion quite perfectly. Ah, Luce! A sight for sore eyes. Please, sit, shall we open that Tokay? Gregory, if you would.”

Luce raises a slim dark brow as the monkey is guided away. “I have missed the entertainment, it seems.”

I wave absently, and gratefully take a glass into my hand. My nerves could use the soothing. “Oh, nothing so grand as to be worthy of your time. A quick remedy for a tedious guest, who was thoughtful enough to forewarn me of their arrival.”

“They can be quite clever if trained properly, you know.”

“I'm afraid there was little hope in this case. I discovered the woman had the heart of a ninny last week, I merely forgot to bother keeping her away.”

“I meant the monkey.”

“Ah well, little difference, the chatter sounded so similar to me. What brings you to grace my door this evening?”

“I wondered if you had encountered any singers of late. I need a voice I haven't heard before - character is more important than quality, I think, something to catch one off-guard with its uniqueness, rather than trained virtuosity.”

“I'm certain you will evade the answer, but would Mephisto not be the better one to consult on such a matter?”

“Ah, but the only name that will pass his lips these days is David.”

“Still?”

“I believe this is quite a thorough infatuation.”

“Again. How is it that he never tires of re-living the same dramatic arc, when the rest of us tired of even hearing it centuries ago?”

“And this Georgia you just dismissed, did she bring to your life the same quality Rebecca does? Or, dare I compare, as---”

“No, you do not dare.” My fingers are wet - the wine has sloshed from my glass, my hand is shaking with the sudden tightness of my grasp.

Luce quirks a smile, that smug self-satisfied grin of his, content in thinking he can read us all as open books. “That was unkind, Luce.”

“I merely find it interesting that you should mock another for a fault you so clearly share with him.”

“If you are here only to sport with me, I would ask that you leave, it has been a trying enough day.”

“Then perhaps you do not tend to try enough.”

“Save your superior banter for the mere mortals, I have heard it all before.”

“Then simply answer my query, and I shall be on my way, if my presence wounds you so.”

“Oh, let me see. Aileen Monterey, out of the theater on Beech Street, might serve. Interesting texture to her voice. There is also a Percy Turner, recently arrived from a failed career in America, if you require a little more crass than class. But your presence is only troublesome when you attempt to play me like one of the little people. I really wish you wouldn't.”

“I appreciate your input, my dear, and will certainly investigate those options. And I do apologize if my words are soaked in condescension, I have had a bit of a day myself, and only wish I had thought of a cantankerous monkey to help me ward off the worst of it. Did you borrow him from the organ grinder on Seventh Avenue? I thought as much, he never has looked happy about dancing for human entertainment. Even dumb creatures have their standards, I suppose. You are tired of me, I shall go. But one more small thing, if I may? It only just occurred to me that it might interest you.”

I nod tiredly, waving my nearly-empty glass distractedly. “I could hardly stop you, I'm sure. Especially since it will likely be the actual reason for your visit. Not very original, Luce, I'm a little disappointed in you.”

“There is a notice in the late paper, a Miss Norset in the next county has been engaged to be married. No first name given, but I thought you might have means of your own to…”

His voice falls away as I dash for the door, calling to Gregory for my coat and that damned paper, consulting the rail timetables in my head to decide which station to head toward when I reach the street.

There is a laugh behind me and the sound of a glass refilled, as the door flies open before me. But there is only one person of concern to me now, and she may be only a county away.

(note)

After a NaNoRebellion and a failed attempt at pansting... here I am again, back with my Phistos/Grigori. Eee. I missed them. Since I haven't re-read the story in full, I'm nowhere near confident I can get their voices right from the get-go, and I also haven't hauled out Ye Olde Outline yet to see where there are definitely gaps that need filling in. So there are going to be some totally random chapters and bits and things this year, partly to fill in, partly to wander around and find my way back in, partly to see if anything interesting happens of its own volition.

The baby - whose 6-8hours of mealtime every day are totally what I'm blaming last year's NaNoFail on - is now toddling around, so needs chased frequently, but is growing capable of sometimes sitting for ten minutes at a time entertaining himself leaving my hands free. Freaking miracle. So, with a phone and a just-inherited tablet and a few laptops and desktops, I'm gonna try again this year. Lot going on in life generally, which means no, I totally don't have time, but oh man, does my soul need a little something for itself.

Luce

----- LUCE -----

“Cerise? Is that you, child?”

The girl's shoulders fall as she exhales in defeat. “I am certain her deafness is only a ruse, for convenience when a conversation is one she doesn't want to bother with.”

“A useful tactic. Though it would be difficult to keep the façade intact in perpetuity.”

“That's probably where the feigned senility comes in.”

“Ah. Naturally. I presume it would be best if she were unaware of my presence?”

“Yes, I'm afraid so. She'd keep us up all night with accusatory questions, instead of just half the night if I'm alone.”

“Then adieu, Mon Cherie. I shall call again soon?”

“The sooner you call, the lighter my heart shall be. Good night, dear Luce.”

“Sleep well, sweet child.”

She slips through the door at the end of the hall, where she must pass the landlady's chamber before reaching her own, poor dear.  I remain in the hall, where only the faintest light spills in from the window at the door. I should not need any extraordinary level of hearing to be privy to conversation between these thin pasteboard walls - and while our conference at the doorstep was hushed, the landlady feels no need to restrain her aging voice.

“Now, I ain’t your mum, and I ain’t kin. You keep your end of our arrangement up right well, and never give me no complaint about what help I ask of you or what food I feed you. But even in a city big’s this’un, folks is nosy, and folks will talk.  You may not be kin but as long as you’re associated with me an’ my roof, your reputation reflects back on mine, young lady.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“How you can look so pure and sound so sweet, when I hear some of the strange folks you been keeping company with - old Missus Champers! Really! And I see you come back at all hours with strange men, who don’t never wait around so’s a body can put a question to them.”

“Ma’am.”  I smile - the tone in Cerise’s voice makes it clear in a single word that she hardly needs my help with this silly busybody. “My reputation is as clear as it was the day you welcomed me into your establishment.  I gave you no false pretenses - though, I should hardly be the first if I had. Your investigations might be more fruitfully made about Mr. Barrows on the fourth floor.”

“Harumph. Ain't none of your business, and he's made it clear ain't worthwhile for me to make it mine.”

“While my associates may not be ones with whom you are well acquainted enough to judge fairly, that does not mean they should be categorically judged poorly.  Mrs. Champers was quite well positioned in society before her husband passed, and her eclectic interests brought only amusement to her peers.  Growing old and being neglected by one’s family are hardly crimes, nor is visiting a lonely widow whom you’ve found to be a distant relative.”

“Well. I don’t profess to be expert on society types, who never were kindly to me. But I do wonder what your parents would think if---”

“My parents took no part in my arrangements with you, my business is my own.  And the men of whom you speak are gentlemen of quality, ma’am.  They are prominent in their own circles, where persons do tend toward showing more discretion than in yours, I think. Should you wish to be introduced, I would gladly do so - I fear only boring my companions.”

“Well! Your pretty words hide ugly thoughts. Your true nature comes out to be different indeed than what you first seemed.  You'd best keep that tongue wrapped up tight if you want to keep your place here, little miss. Or perhaps your fancy associates plan to supply bed and board for a sassy little---”

“I shall remain here for the time, I do not like to break an agreement, nor do I wish to impose upon friends as new as these are to me.  But, please,” and here her voice slips from confident woman to winsome child, the guise she wears for most she meets. I can hear the shy and sweet smile, the warmth in the wide violet eyes.  “Can we let my private life remain private? I do promise you, there’s nothing unseemly in it, and should there be at some time in future, I will publicly agree that you warned me against such an ill-advised path.”

“Now, now,” and the ploy has worked, the older woman is mere clay in Cerise’s deft hands. “You are right, I am sure you’re not involved in anything unladylike.  At least not of your own doing, that’s all I’m worried, you see?  But there, I had an awful day with Miss Coraline and her heathen children, it’s left me in a mood to set on anyone.  Go on to bed with you, and don’t come in so late of an evening if you don’t want an old lady to set to scolding.”

“That was my own silly fault tonight, I was determined to have a look at that new fountain, under such a bright lovely moon tonight, though it was terribly out of my way home!  I shall try to worry you less in future, it was quite silly, and probably stupid, of me.”

“Well, now, young things should get what beauty they can in this world while they’s young enough to have it.  Get you to bed now, child.”

I remain in place until I hear two doors close in turn - it wouldn’t do to have the proprietess hear her house’s door open and shut again now, though I can likely pass through without any sound she could hear.  I consider for a moment passing on through to follow Cerise to her chambers, from sheer curiousity as to what she would do on finding me there.  But for all she has learned of late, I doubt it would be anything interesting yet, merely innocent bewilderment.  There is plenty of time, I shall leave her to a chaste and contemplative solitude this night. I have seduced so many in these long years, and I think she will lead a far more interesting game than that.

Passing through the dim city streets, I breathe in deeply, letting the dank indigo air suffuse my being.  It is smoky, dingy, the scent of ash and mold on old brick, coal and gas and refuse mingling in the discard of these strange days of change, where animal and machine both play servant to mankind. I suspect this transition will soon pass, and the efficiency of the machine replace so many things… and while growth brings so many fascinating novelties into our hands, there are always things we shall mourn the loss of. Well! Or pretend to mourn, while indulging in the newest luxuries.  I certainly could never live in a peasant village again, not having once been in a city where I can pay a few coins to have a boy bring me any imaginable thing to eat or wear in an hour’s time.  One could always do so, of course, but the amount of coin needed is so little now, and the choices so vast - there was a time when cinnamon could hardly be found for even a king’s table in this country, and now I have grown tired of it, I have consumed its warm spice so often!

I sense an intangible warmth to my left, one of us approaching; it takes only a moment before I recognize the pattern of the footfalls as Mephisto’s. I slow my pace that he might match mine, and nod a greeting as he falls into step beside me.

“You have just seen Cerise home?”

“I have.  This is an unusual corner of the city for you to be in.”

“A new theater group debut,” he replies, waving a hand in airy dismissal.  “I knew of a promising one in their number, but the rest fall far short of his lead.  They shall not last a month, amounting to nothing.”

“We all appreciate your efforts in seeking out new entertainment, but I fear you must suffer quite a number of inept fools in your search.”

He sighs wearily. “I do.  There was a time when I would take it upon myself to lend them some aid, some advice or inspiration, or at the very least a scathing enough review that they would abandon their folly and go pursue their actual talents.  But I do grow weary, Luce, now I merely sigh and walk away from them.”

“They will learn or they will not. Their lives are so short it hardly matters either way. You cannot possibly tax yourself over every misguided youth, most are not worth even the time you’ve already given them.”

“True, true.  And yet… Luce, I know there is greatness somewhere in this world, or at least its potential. And with all I have learned and seen and known over these long years, I could create something of true beauty. If only I could find the right vessel for my care and attention.”

“Or you could simply take the stage yourself. Why bother training another, when you possess all that is needed and more, within yourself?”

Mephisto narrows his eyes, peering intently at me, then laughs long and loud as my smile peeks through.  “Ah, Luce… the light of your eyes sees through me again. I suppose I could do so again, one of these years, these centuries. It would be good to feel that power again, catch so many souls up in the tapestry my voice creates. But I think that time is not yet.”

“I suppose you have that boy in mind?”

“And I suppose you mean David? Of course. The irony of his name wounds me every time it passes my lips, but it will make for a lovely mythos in the advertising, don’t you think?”

“Certainly. The copy writes itself, really.”

“And so much is in the advertising these days. I have half a mind to make a sensation of a talentless mess such as I just left, merely to make a point.  But then I should be expected to patronize the latest darlings of the stage, and I haven’t the energy to suffer mediocrity.”

“Ah, the burden of the true artist.  He is forced to create, that he might have something in the world that satisfies his own standards.”

Our laughter hangs heavy in the smoky fog around us, the air too thick for an echo, our breath and mirth becoming a scarf close about our throats.