#it's not technically a slow burn (I myself am not that patient) but bear with me for a while

[motiveandthemeans]

Laurelworth

Chapter I: Mrs. Holmes

Margaret Louise Holmes (nee Hooper), known as Mrs. Holmes, Mistress, Missus ‘olmes, Missus Molly, Doctor Holmes, Doctor Molly, or just Molly, woke to early spring mist clouding the large, frost-tinged window adjacent her bed in her room at Laurelworth Manor. The room was quite large and one of her favorite in the entire 13,000 square foot house. Complete with a lovely window seat overlooking an ancient oak tree and side yard, a large fireplace (currently nearing embers), an impressive closet for her everyday clothes and shoes, a wardrobe for her finer things and a vanity. Several book shelves lined the walls littered with books, pictures and knick-knacks, a sitting area and a beautiful marble tiled en suite; she really could not ask for more. Her large canopy bed served as the loveliest of escapes from real life and each night she looked forward to her feather mattress.

A little over a year ago, Molly had come to Laurelworth seeking refuge and had not returned to London since. The 23 room manor upon a 10,000 acre estate was a wedding gift from her brother-in-law, Lord Mycroft Holmes. The estate was a three hour carriage ride from London, it contained two lakes and a large pond, 16 orchards and grew (that they knew of) 59 varieties of plants. Surrounded by mountains, Laurelworth Manor itself was at an elevation of 1,400 meters. The sweeping landscape never ceased to take Molly’s breath away, no matter how many times she saw it.

Her husband, the infamously brilliant (and equaling infuriating) William Sherlock Scott Holmes, spent his days in London at 221 B Baker Street solving crimes and conducting experiments with his closest friend and confidant Dr. John H. Watson. Her father Sir Charles Barrett Hooper, a respected and knighted Colonel Physician in Her Majesty’s Royal Army, God rest his soul, had arranged for the marriage with the hearty consent of Lord and Lady Holmes. Her father had been a war hero and his living children were considered to be the most eligible bachelor and bachelorettes when they had been introduced to society.

Molly let out a sleepy chuckle, remembering the letter her father had sent while she was abroad in America at the Women’s Medical College of Pennsylvania informing her of the engagement. She was stunned, she’d never met the man, only reading about his many cases and brilliance in newspaper articles. Begrudgingly, she left at the end of her spring semester and returned to England within a fortnight. Two months later they married, she twenty and Sherlock twenty-five, in a small ceremony, much to the displeasure of the paparazzi and gossips in London society.

With the apathetic blessing of her new husband, Molly returned to America five days after their wedding to complete her education. She attempted to keep in regular correspondence with the Consulting Detective, but found he only wrote short replies back to satiate her desire to know he was doing well and breathing. After two more years of continuous study, Molly returned to England a Doctor. However, she was only allowed to practice in obstetrics at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital as it was a “womanly profession”. She was grateful to be able to put her skill to use anywhere and enjoyed her career, but her heart had always been in the field of pathology.

In the fourteen months she’d been at Laurelworth, Molly had made a happy life for herself, free from the constraints of social niceties and peerage. She ran the estate like a well-oiled machine and was loved by all in its employ. Every third day she spent at the village surgery looking after the women of the surrounding areas and delivering their babies if on duty at the time.

 Molly’s gaze drifted to the pictures on her bedside table which contained four framed photographs close to her heart. The first in an old, simple frame was a picture of her family when they lived in India before her mother and younger brother Rupert had died of Malaria. In her mind’s eyes, she could still see the fiery red of their hair.

The second photo in a lovely painted frame was of Mrs. Hudson and their dearest friends John and Mary Watson (nee Morstan) on their wedding day. Mary was a nurse midwife she’d met during Molly’s time at St. Bart’s, the two had become instant friends. Sherlock and John had been on a case involving the murder of a heavily pregnant woman who had been under Molly’s care. Despite the rather gruesome circumstances, love had blossomed between John and Mary and within six months, the pair were married. The blonde beauty had visited her at least half a dozen times while their husbands had been out for days on end chasing a case. However, she’d not visited since entering her third trimester at the behest of both John and Molly, not wanting to risk her well-being during this delicate time. Mrs. Hudson, the beloved landlady -not housekeeper- of 221 B Baker Street had visited three times and would have come more often had it not been for her troubling hip.

The third photograph set in a gilded frame was of Molly and her two living siblings in the parlor of their London townhome 10 days prior to the announcement of her engagement to Sherlock was put in the papers.

Standing in proper English fashion behind his two seated sisters was her elder brother, Mr. David Charles Hooper, his cocoa-colored hair slicked back and mouth set in a firm line. He was an Oxford educated solicitor and now a founding partner in one of London’s top law firms.  At twenty two he married Sarah Jane Turner, the daughter of the Lieutenant Colonel in their father’s regimen. The pair were childhood sweethearts and would have married sooner if David hadn’t been so determined to make something of himself to support Sarah on his own without the financial aid of their parents. Molly loved her sister-in-law and their three children dearly. Their eldest Andrew David was 6 and a half, Margaret Jane (known as Maggie), four, and Eleanor Kaye was now 18 months old. The family had come to visit twice and only two weeks ago Sarah had written they were expecting their fourth in October!

Her younger sister, Viscountess Camilla Marie Poitier had visited for three months while her husband, the Viscount Raul Poitiers was in Parliament at Paris ardently fighting for the rights of the lowest class. Molly could only roll her eyes and smile indulgently, remembering how sixteen year old Camilla had begged David to let her marry the obscenely handsome, romantic, enlightened, artistic twenty-one year old aristocrat who was in England visiting his mother’s family. Raul had fallen hopelessly in love with her beautiful golden haired sister at first sight; they spent the evening dancing together as if they were the only two in the ballroom.

The older siblings, however, were not ignorant to the Frenchman’s reputation for being a serial philanderer. So it came as no surprise that when the offer of marriage was made two weeks later, Molly sought out Mycroft for his opinion on the Viscount’s character. She was disheartened to discover that even the British Government’s sources had reported that while he was a religious man and much loved by the people, fidelity was not in Raul’s nature. David had reluctantly given his consent (after many rounds of tears and threats of elopement) and the two were married within a fortnight in a grand ceremony. The pair had not yet been married a year and were already expecting their first child in August.

The last picture was of her and Sherlock on their wedding day. Molly’s chest constricted at the impassive expression juxtaposed with the earnest hope so evident on her face as she gazed up at him. Sherlock had only stayed at Laurelworth twice since she’d taken up residence there permanently, the first time was at Easter, the second at Christmas and neither were of his own volition. In the year she spent at Baker Street, the young obstetrician had fallen deeply in love with his genius and (under several layers of sarcasm, impatience and a surely disposition) kindness. The latter had never been directed towards her but she’d witnessed it on several occasions in his interactions with Dr. Watson, Mary (who he’d taken a genuine, friendly shine to), Mycroft’s wife Anthea, and even on occasion Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

Molly’s reminiscing was broken when a knock sounded at her door.

“Come-in!” She called, rising from the warmth of her sheets as her ladies maid, Anna, entered with a tea tray in hand.

“Good Morning, Mistress Holmes. Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thank you. I dreamed of lemon cakes and swimming on the moon.” Molly laughed at the amused expression on Anna’s lovely face, her wheat colored hair in a tight bun, the standard black ladies maid dress she wore was adjusted to accommodate the slight swell of her belly. “What did you dream of, Anna?”

“Ducklings, ma’am. Odd, I know but I’m told it’s normal to have funny dreams when expecting.” She replied, setting the tray down on the coffee table and helping Molly into her berry colored dressing gown before scurrying off to replenish the fire.

“No stranger than swimming on the moon, I assure you.” Molly chuckled, settling down on the chair with her leather bound diary, sipping her tea. “Anna, if you so much as put a log on that fire I will force you to take an extra week’s leave fully paid when the baby arrives.”

“Mrs. Holmes, you know I’m perfectly well enough to lift a few logs.” Anna admonished. “I like to earn my keep, ma’am-“

“Anna, you do not have to prove your worth to me.” Molly said earnestly, rising to grasp her hands. “Your place at Laurelworth is set in stone, my dear. Having a baby will not prompt me to eject you from your positon, I assure you.”

Anna’s eyes shone with gratitude. “Yes, Mrs. Holmes…Thank you.”

Molly nodded with a smile. “I think the blue riding habit with the white linen blouse will do today, a bit dressy for me, I know, I’m scheduled to inspect the orchards and ensure none of those confounding beetles have eaten away the peaches, but I’m also to visit the estate’s accountant so I suppose some effort couldn’t hurt.”

“Yes ma’am.” The lady’s maid gave a rueful smile. “What would you like for breakfast this morning?”

“Scrambled eggs, sausage, tomatoes and porridge with cinnamon sugar. I’m positively famished this morning. In the sunroom as well, it’s too lovely a day not to look out at the view.”

“Right away ma’am. I’ll be back in a mo’ to help you dress.” Anna smiled once more and left the room.

Molly went to the washing bowl and splashed her face, cleaning herself with a soaped wash cloth. Anna returned just as she had finished, helping her into her petty coats, corset and blue riding habit. They had just finished brushing Molly’s thick, sandy auburn locks into a simple ponytail when a knock resounded followed by a series of barks.

“We’re decent Mrs. Lyle, you can come in!” Molly called.

First through the door were Molly’s three favorite companions, her beloved pets. Brutus, her 90 pound three year old Great Pyrenees-Shepherd who always wanted to play and somehow always managed to find mud puddles to jump into (frustrating Mrs. Lyle to no end). Freida, her 30 pound seven year old beagle mix that loved to cuddle and worm her way into places she had no business being in (much to the amusement of the groundskeepers). Third was Toby, her 10 year old tortoiseshell Calico cat that spent his days lazing in the sun, ignoring everyone (save for Molly, he always made a point to know her location if she was in the Manor) and chasing mice for cream.

“Good morning, my loves!” Molly greeted each with several loving belly rubs and affectionate kisses, laughing at their licks on her cheek. “Shall we go and see what wonders Mrs. Honeycutt has made of our breakfast?”

“Mrs. Holmes, I wanted to inform you that Mister H-“ Mrs. Lyle, the head housekeeper, started but Molly was already gone, racing the dogs down the main staircase, greeting various members of the household staff by name and with a warm smile. They in turn greeted her happily and chuckled watching their mistress race her beloved mutts, Toby - aloof as ever- maintained a decent pace behind. The glowing smile was still upon her face as the four rounded the corner to the sunroom; laughter echoing in the halls of the house, she entered to see a familiar, yet estranged figure seated at the head of the table. He looked just as he had the last time Molly had seen him, dressed in a finely tailored dark suit under a scarlet dressing gown, sipping coffee as his blue-green eyes looked up from his paper and locked with hers.

They never ceased to take her breath away.

“S-Sherlock!” She stuttered confusedly. “I-I mean, Mr. Holmes. Welcome back.”

He smirked, obviously satisfied with his surprise appearance. “Good Morning, Mrs. Holmes.”

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #29: Names

Prompt: free write (identity) | Master Post | On AO3

WARNING: Spoilers for throughout Shadowbringers MSQ!

She wondered, sometimes, if her parents had had another name for her, one carefully considered and picked. Would she have been named after a relative? A grandmother, perhaps, or a great-aunt or even a close family friend. Perhaps a name from a story, one that caught her mother’s fancy, or maybe something her father heard in the marketplace. Was it a name they had always called her? Was it a name they had whispered to themselves in the dead of night after the soldiers of Eulmore came for her?

Or, from the moment of her birth, with a tuft of blonde hair on her head and fathomless cerulean blue eyes, had she only ever been Minfilia?

To General Ran’jit and the soldiers of Eulmore, she had only been Minfilia or Oracle of Light or, more simply, Oracle; perhaps, my lady to the nervous new recruits or the respectful veterans. Lady Minfilia, to the servants who came to her luxurious prison deep beneath the City of Final Pleasures with food or fresh laundry or a set of books (approved, and censored as necessary, by Ran’jit, or more likely by one of his lieutenants). Once, when she had been presented to Lord Vauthry when she had been…eight? Perhaps nine summers? She had been addressed as Lady Oracle and oh, she had hated it, the way it oozed off Vauthry’s tongue, condescending and triumphant. Something to call a pretty caged bird.

But it hadn’t been incorrect. She had been a pretty caged bird.

The superfluous titles had mostly fallen away after Thancred had stolen her away from Eulmore and Ran’jit possessive grip. Oracle of Light became, primarily, not a term of address, just a description of who and what she was. Minfilia, though…

That name suddenly acquired a new weight.

To Thancred, and Urianger, and Y’shtola and Alphinaud and Alisaie, Minfilia was someone else, first and foremost. They had known the first Minfilia, the original, the savior from another world who gave up her identity and her life to save Norvrandt from the Flood of Light.

When Ran’jit, and many other residents of Norvrandt, looked at her, they saw a legacy, an unbroken line of girl-children warriors against the sin-eaters, born to fight and die and do it all over again in the next life. When Thancred looked at her, he saw regrets and missed chances, the shadow of a woman for whom he had wished he had done more. Urianger looks at her with sorrow in his eyes, too, but that doesn’t stop him from speaking kindly to her, to throwing open his library to her voracious appraisal.

It’s not until the Crystal Exarch brings the Warriors of Light of the Source to the First that she began to feel…well, herself.

Rereha accompanies her for their share of the chores the pixies give them in Lydha Lran. After the third bit of ridiculous busywork, she was tired and frustrated, and ready to scream. As one of their pixie ‘hosts’ gave the pair their third task, however, she remembered a story she read in Urianger’s library, from a bookend of Lakeland fables.

“I’ve never done this before,” she said earnestly, making her eyes as big as possible, her expression as innocent. “Could you show us how to do it properly?”

Rereha took her cue from her, the dwar—lalafell smiling and nodding agreement. “Aye,” she said, “we don’t want to cause a mess!”

The pixie had narrowed their eyes at them, before slowly nodding. “Well, all right then,” they said, “you do it like this.”

And after the pixie had shown them how—

“Oh, I’m not sure I understood, I’m so sorry. Could you show us again?”

And again, and again, until the chore had been done. The pixie had sulked as their friends whooped and laughed and lauded her for a trick well played.

As they had gone to rejoin the others, Rereha had said, “That was brilliant, Minfilia!”

She had blushed and shrugged, suddenly shy and unsure once again. “I had read about something similar, once,” she said, “a story about a fox named Reynard outwitting his foes and tricking his friends and laughing the whole time.”

“Well, you might not have been laughing,” said Rereha, grinning, “but that was well done, little fox kit.”

Synnove had been the next to give her a nickname, on the journey back to the Crystarium. The older woman had been patiently answering her questions about the Source, about arcanima, about the carbuncles. How did she make them? What did they eat?

“Technically, anything,” Synnove had laughed. “As aether constructs, they don’t have the digestive system of a beastkin. But they do have preferences, and what I cook for myself, I feed to them, too.” She had gently stroked Galette’s tails, the emerald carbuncle draped around her neck. “Be careful with this one, duckling, she’s got a sweet tooth the size of a mountain and no shame in getting her next fix!”

She had tilted her head curiously at Synnove as they had walked. “Duckling?”

“It’s something I call the baby first year arcanists,” Synnove had said, a rueful smile on her lips. “The braver ones follow the senior assessors and professors around like ducklings, quacking questions and gobbling up the answers like bread crumbs, though their shier classmates trail along, too. If you don’t want to be called that—”

“No!” she said, then almost immediately ducked her head. “No, I don’t mind. I rather like it, actually. I like the idea of being a student.”

Synnove had smiled, warm and gentle. “Well, then, so long as you don’t mind, I’ll keep calling you that.”

Her third nickname had been straightforward. A few days of walking under true sunlight in Il Mheg, Lakeland, and then wandering the Crystarium had turned her pale skin bright red and achy. Dancing Heron had come across her in the market, taken one look at her miserable expression, and hustled her to Heron’s room in the Pendants.

“Oh, poor Sunshine,” the roegadyn had said ruefully, braiding her hair out of the way before helping to slather her face and shoulders in a thick, clear salve called aloe vera. “You aren’t the first person here in the Crystarium to get a sunburn.”

She hadn’t reacted to the name, mostly because like the others, she liked it. It was just about her. She had also had more important things on which to focus. “The sun can burn you?” she’d said, absolutely horrified.

Heron had laughed. “Aye, it can! Too much of a good thing can quickly turn bad, even the sun. Pale skin especially is more susceptible, but even someone as dark as I am needs to be careful; on you, at least, it’s easy to see when the damage occurs! Synnove and Rere have been showing the folks at the Mean how to create sunscreen—that’s a cream you put on your skin that helps prevent a burn from happening at all. In the meantime, we’ll get you a wide-brimmed hat, and you’ll need to keep putting on the aloe vera. That’ll soothe the burn and the itch when the skin starts healing, and keep your skin moisturized, too.”

Oh, the itch had been awful. And the peeling skin had just been…gross.

Alakhai, of course, had eventually given her a nickname, too. The Xaela was quiet, in the way of someone who just didn’t prefer to talk, at least not when it wasn’t necessary. In the shadows of the Rak’tika Greatwood, Alakhai had shown her a few more knife tricks, the proper way to bend and flick her wrists to get her knives to dance.

“Thancred’s good with his blades,” Alakhai had said quietly, demonstrating the movement in slow motion, “and he didn’t do half-bad training you. But he hasn’t been as short as you or I in a long time, günj, and there are just some things he can’t properly demonstrate.”

She heard ‘günj,’ but in her mind, thanks to the Blessing of Light, she knew the word meant princess. It had slipped out, the same way it had with Synnove and Heron, tinged with soft, genuine affection, and again, she decided not to draw attention to it.

Instead, she went through the move Alakhai had just shown her slowly, at first. When Alakhai nodded, she did it again at full speed, her knives driving into the target at neck height on an adult male hume with the right and at kidney height with the left.

Alakhai had grinned, proud and vicious at once. “Very good, günj. Now, again, and again, until it’s as second nature to you as all the rest.”

It had been those nicknames, bestowed on her without a second thought, for a girl they had barely known, that had helped sustain her through Amh Araeng, when the doubts began to eat at her and who she actually was. Those nicknames, that were just for her, that rang in her head when the first Oracle of Light, the first Minfilia, had asked her what her choice was. When she accepted the chance to be her own person.

Red hair and grey eyes. A surge of power, of Light that was gentle and warm. A purpose, and the determination to carry it out.

Thancred, after they had vanquished the Lightwarden of Amh Araeng, had taken her aside privately and said, “There are no words to express the depths of my sorrow for how I’ve treated you these last years. I will do better. I hope one day you can forgive me, but know that you don’t have to. Not know, not ever. That’s my burden to bear.”

She had thought he had hated her for so long, but he had been sincere. She knew she could trust him, and the forgiveness…the forgiveness would come one day.

After all, he had given her a name.

And as Ryne well knew, names were precious things indeed.

[thegodthief]

Do Magick: Day 1 – I Wasn’t Ready (But I Did It Anyway)

To get to the quick of it: The notebook wasn’t complete. What was originally envisioned as a dedicated note book became something else by the end of the last day of preparation.

It had become a grimoire.

The first few pages were a walkthrough of the ritual in step by step order but only naming the relevant passages rather than writing them in line. Then a page listing the tools I was starting out with, and the rest of the page intentionally kept empty to list modifications as they arrive. Following that was a handwritten copy of each and every prayer and incantation referenced in the initial “How To”.

In ink.

And block lettering.

Because I need to be able to understand what the hell I wrote down during the early morning hour that I will be performing the ritual as that is the only time during a twenty-four hour period I will be guaranteed solitude and silence from others in the house.

At the end of the third hour of continual but intentionally slow-paced writing, I realized what the book had become. I already had a high-level understanding of why the Book of Oberon was (dis)organized like someone had dropped a binder full of notes and hadn’t bothered to reorder the salvaged pages. But now I was experiencing it.

I had only intended to copy one version of “Hail Mary” because “who needs more than one, anyway?” I copied two. I had meant to fill the pages after the incantations with day-by-day notes of the experiment. I found myself adding other “little things” to copy over from the Book of Oberon to keep closer at hand during the experiment.

If I had all the prayers and incantations in digital format, either by blog posts or text files, why not just print them out and make a mini-pamphlet?

When I made my first mistake in the thin brown book, I understood why.

The word was supposed to be written with red ink. I had become distracted and had continued using the black ink I had started the sentence with. When I realized my error the moment the word was completed, the pain that arced through me made me cry out. It wasn’t just that I had marred a (relatively) perfect surface. It was that the book had become a mirror, and I just scratched it.

The act of writing out the words also wrote them to memory. I had practiced them before when I was marking the timing and choosing how best to fill the limited time I had for the ritual. But now as I wrote them, I not only chiseled the sounds to my tongue, but the very sight of the words were now burned into my sight. To say them was to call the shape and color of each letter into my mind where it would be expressed in my own silent way.

I could not allow myself to memorize the visual error even though it would have no effect of the sounds coming from my mouth. I hashed out the wrong colored word, muttering an unkind rebuke against it under my breath. I paused, listened to instinct and crossed myself, took up the proper color pen, and continued transcribing the prayers.

When I saw I had “only” two incantations left to inscribe late last night, I was happy. When I saw that one of them was the meat of the ritual, and more wordy than all seven of the Planetary Day Prayers, I was disheartened. I could either finish the notebook, or I could be awake enough in the morning to perform the ritual before getting ready for work.

But I could not have both.

I printed out the “conjuration most necessary” and the modified “License to Depart” and tucked it into the notebook to bring with me into the circle in the morning.

Fear kept me in the bed for a short time after the alarm went off. Thunder in the distance reminded me that obligations still have to be met.

I found the difference between a walk-through and a rehearsal. Steps that seemed right in a thought exercise had me getting in my own way when actually doing them. I made mental notes to further modify the list of steps in the notebook.

I chose a candle rich with the scent of mahogany and cedar for this first attempt. It’s nothing like frankincense, but it reminds me of old churches with wood plank floors that creaked as you softly stepped to the pew and how the wood paneling would warm during services to release the scent of all the oils used to polish it over the generations. It’s a solemn scent, a sacred scent.

When I lifted the lid and set it aside, my room became thick with the scent. I could only imagine how much more the scent would pervade if I actually lit the candle.

I looked as foolish as I felt as the show went on without an audience or a response. I had remained standing for all the incantations, but after completing the “conjuration most necessary”, I sat down at the chair contained with me in the circle. The table with the also encircled Book of Oberon bearing the shewstones remained just outside of my space.

I did not have a prepared speech for this inactive moment. I expected nothing to happen, and unfortunately, nothing is what I prepared. So I spoke to the shewstones instead.

I admitted my ignorance and my hubris. I admitted where I was missing and where I was too focused. I spoke of this action being a direct result of the Birto working and that I could be easily misled due to my eagerness to challenge my beaten in fears of Christianity and its trappings.

“So, I guess I’m trying to say… I need to know if I’m on the right path with this. I need to know if this is how I start.”

I did not realize my eyes had closed until I failed to open them. I did not realize my hand was stretched over the shewstones until I failed to pull it back.

But in my false sight, I saw the room bright and clear. Each item was where I had left it.

Except the candle, was lit.

The scent changed from heavy mahogany and cedar to something that gripped me softly in my chest. I watched with false sight as the smoke from the lit candle bent towards the shewstones and wound around and between them as if it could not make up its mind which stone to steal for itself. The smoke then turned up and wound around and between my fingers. The warmth of the smoke gave it a sense of firmness and flesh and I had the sensation of something softly shaking my hand in greeting.

In the sizzle of the false flame, I heard a voice.

«It’s a start. But you are not halfway. Keep reaching.»

The false flame extinguished itself and my eyes opened without any will from me.

My allotted time for “wonders” had ended. I spoke the License to Depart followed by Psalm 54 and the “cutting” of the circle.

As I went about my day, I wondered if my excitement and eagerness for anything to happen caused me to see as I did. After all, Birto himself said that the only reason I saw him was because others in the group exercise had done all the proper work and I was riding in their wake. But the more I reflected on what happened when my eyes closed, the more I felt secure that this was my “thing” after all.

This evening, after work, I finished transcribing the “conjuration most necessary”, the modified “License to Depart”, and a modified “book blessing” into the thin brown book. It took three hours to finish it. Technically, it is a complete set of prayers and actions for the specific purpose of summoning [Patient Caller]. But with the listing of the Planetary Prayers and the book blessing, it has purposes outside of its initial scope.

I set out to summon a spirit and am winding up writing a personal grimoire.

Funny how magic works, isn’t it.

[carrioncrows-readers]

You are not in a position to negotiate; you end up doing it anyway. Old habits die hard.

Content Warnings: kidnapping, interrogation

Jacob Frye drives you personally to somewhere in Lambeth that you can't bother to pay attention to. You're too busy beating against the roof and doors of the carriage to try and escape. Damn the stupid things and their lack of internal handles because you're stuck here, and you're probably going to die here.

You resort to begging — you're desperate. You plead with Frye to tell you where he's taking you, but your only response is the hard line of his back.

So you sit. And you wait.

Eventually, the carriage stops, and the door opens. Frye looks almost remorseful, seeing your puffy eyes and swollen cheeks. He drags you out even still and shoves a burlap bag over your head; you almost swear you hear him say  sorry,  but you must have misheard.   How could he be? You're dragged through a cold building and shoved into a chair before he deigns to rip the bag off your head, mussing your hair and taking strands with it. The light puts paper cuts on your eyes, already sore from days on days spent crying.

You are sitting in a bare room, surrounded on all sides by yellow limestone. The only light source is a kerosene lamp on the floor, casting long shadows everywhere it can't touch. Frye's face is bathed in flickering gold, and you can't tell much about his expression, but he's definitely standing near the door. You don't bother trying to run for it. There's a snowball's chance in Hell that you'll make it out.

"Who are you?" He asks, arms folded across his chest.

"What do you mean  who am I?  You know who I am!"

"Do I?" There's a heavy silence that hangs between the two of you, where you realize between one heartbeat and the next that you don't actually know each other at all. "How do you know Thomas Morvell?"

"What is this? Do you interrogate all your clients before taking a job?"

"Answer the question," his voice is dark, and he takes a half step towards you that makes you lean back in your chair. This has never happened to you. You don't know what the etiquette is for this situation you've blundered into. You don't know what he's capable of (murder, actually), and you certainly don't know what he wants from you. Your eyes flicker to the door again.

"He is — A family friend." Used to be, anyway, before Father got sick, which makes his betrayal all the worse. You need to think of something that might satisfy him. Something that might make him take the job — maybe that's what he's looking for. "He killed my father."

"I don't like excuses." He's on you before you have time to blink, hands gripping the arms of the chair until they creak, caging you in. His body blocks out the light. You lean as far back against the chair as you can and try not to tremble. You realize, then, that you are trapped — alone —  in a room with someone who kills for a living. You have no weapons. Even if you did, you'd have no idea how to use them. Your mouth goes bone dry.

Helpless.

Useless.

You are going to die.

Something in the central hollow of your chest snaps in half. The vibrations rock the nerves at the base of your brain.

Your eyes might actually bleed if you cry again, so you take a different, less-traveled road: you start laughing. It's a chuckle at first and then devolves into a full sail, maniacal cackling, curling in on yourself, and covering your mouth with the back of your hand. If this is where you end, you might as well make it a memorable experience. Losing your mind is memorable, right? Right.

"Is something funny?" Frye looks less than pleased, maybe even on the verge of killing you just out of annoyance, which only makes you laugh harder.

"You don't scare me," you say, bubbling and broken voice cut into pieces. A bit like your mind, actually. You feel the floor start to slip out from under your feet, melt like candle wax and stain your shoes. Your arms and face buzz with bees and wasps, the chair vibrates, the world turns in on itself in agonizingly slow microseconds.

"Oh?" His eyes narrow.

"No. No, you — you don't. You don't! I am about to lose everything, " you cover your mouth with both hands as it dawns on you that this is insane. You are insane. Trying to do this was insane. You should be throwing yourself to the floor and begging Frye to forget you ever existed. You should be screaming. You dig your fingernails into your cheeks to keep from shrieking so loud your vocal cords snap in half, and when you speak again, your voice is a whisper out of fear that you might break yourself.

"Killing me right now would be a kindness." He only looks at you, letting you slowly strangle the laughter trying to come out of your mouth until you're calm again. "My father was Morvell's friend. I- I grew up with his daughter — we kissed once, while we were hiding from the cook after sneaking all the tea cakes. He used to take me rowing at their summer home." You put your head in your hands.

"And then suddenly he wasn't our friend anymore. He ruined us. Ruined me." You look up at Frye through your fingers, feeling your jaw cinch itself into steel. "I want him dead so badly it aches, Jacob Frye. Do you even know what that feels like?"

You don't like the look on his face — the pitying softness of his eyes that tells you he does. He hides it well, but not much slips past you nowadays; you've become prone to looking for knives in every hand and guns in every shadow. After a long, dead silence, he steps away from you and opens the door. You take that as your cue — you exit the stage and follow him, stepping up a tall, winding staircase at the end of a long hallway until you reach a well-lit room. The sudden reintroduction of gas lamps to your eyes burns them so severely you cover them with your hand.

When you can see again, you find Frye standing by a lit stove, watching a kettle come up to temperature with his arms folded. The room you're in is barren of anything vaguely resembling furniture. The wallpaper is slowly peeling from the plaster in sheets, and the place looks like it hasn't been dusted in years. The only evidence that it's been lived in at all is the lit lamps and the kettle.

"What is this place?" You ask, more to yourself than to Frye. He looks up anyway.

"An interrogation building. Used to be an old house with a deep cellar, but we repurposed it for," he motions to you — rather, the door behind you. You find yourself wrapping your arms around your torso, a chill down your spine when you realize just how close you'd been to dying today. You might not even be out of the clear yet — people don't just let someone go after they've seen the inside of their creepy interrogation basement. Frye sheepishly opens a second door, besides the front, into a singular bedroom with a bare cot.

You balk.

"I'm sorry-"

"You're keeping me here." Silence. "You're keeping me here, and you don't even have the good graces to offer me a goddamned proper bed?"

"To my own credit, I tend to sleep on the floor if I have to use this place at all." If. So many  ifs  coming out of this man's mouth. You want to slap him. You want to run.

"Please don't go for the door — I don't want to chase you down, and I'm sure you don't want to run after the day you've had. Just — wait for the kettle." You sag. "I apologize that you can't go just yet, but I have to speak with some associates first. Get the all-clear. At least you're not in the basement?"

"It's not much better if I don't have a bed."

"I swear on my life I will get you a proper bed." You are resigned to waiting, standing awkwardly by the bedroom door as the kettle whistles and Frye hands you tea in a chipped cup. He goes through the trouble of dusting it out with the corner of his shirt before he pours the water in. "Don't have any sugar or cream to serve with it, unfortunately."

"I'm more of a coffee person, myself," you say, trying not to bare your teeth.

"Ah, like the common laborer. Expected you to be the fancy tea type." He stares at you hard, the lines of his face deep as he frowns. "If you're not gonna drink it, give it here."

You do not. You stare Frye in the eye as you take a deep draft and feel it burn the back of your throat. It tastes like hay. You try not to make a face, but he laughs all the same, shuffling from one foot to the next, his arms swinging back and forth. He seems to be thinking. Painfully loudly, you should add.

In a moment, he disappears out the front door with a promise that he'll be  right back; please don't go anywhere, there's no point in it, and you are left alone. You briefly consider taking some of the coal from the stove and trying to burn the place down, but that wouldn't do you much good, would it? It's technically not running — but you're not willing to take your chances.

Instead, you wait, patiently staring at the wallpaper slowly degloving itself to expose the plaster musculature underneath. There's a water stain shaped vaguely like the head of a dog — you think it might be some kind of pointer. You sip your deeply unfortunately flavored tea and take an exercise in picking out the details and ignoring your circumstances — something you've practiced for decades now. There's an ear there. A nose. That splotch of discoloration could be a facial marking.

When you get bored of that, you move to pace around the room until the weariness of the day bears down on you. You don't want to go back into the basement to grab a chair; you also don't want to sit on the bare bed frame. So you sit on the floor, knees curled to your chest and your head lolling against the wall.

Maybe some part of you wants to stay here — that's the only explanation you have for falling asleep the way you do and why you don't make a run for it.

You try to rationalize that running from a man who has his fingers in all of London's pies is not your wisest choice.

You wake up to something cool and soft, patting your cheek, gasping and flailing, trying to smack whatever bug has wandered onto your face away. You meet air. You blink the sleep from your eyes and look up.

Frye is squat down in front of you with his arms over his knees, and two other figures are standing in the doorway, staring at you sleeping on the floor.

"That can't possibly be comfortable," he says.

You scramble up, ignoring the pins and needles in your feet and pressing yourself into the corner. You don't know who these people are — you don't even know who Frye is. You don't understand why he's brought them here or what they want. Your mind can only race with possibilities you don't want to think about.

The more your eyes adjust to the waking world, the more you realize these people are likely the self-same brand of roguish criminal you're in trouble with in the first place. Somehow that makes you feel worse. One is a well-dressed Indian man with the kind of dazzling face women swoon over; the other is Frye's near spitting image. A rounder face, less aquiline nose, darker freckles — but the resemblance is unmistakable. You wonder which one is the older twin.

Frye's sister (you can only assume, but what else can they be?) holds out a steadying hand, smiling gently at you. It's the kind of practiced ugliness you see in the mirror almost every day. It hides its true intent well, but not well enough.

"It's alright. We only wish to ask you a few questions." You almost relax. Almost.

"I'm not answering anything," you spit, "I wish to go home."

The three of them look at each other. Then they turn. And they leave. You want to scream — tear your hair out. You don't know what's happening to you, you're scared, and now they're going to leave you here. Frye's sister is the last to go, letting you shake in the corner while she stands with one hand on the door.

"When you're ready to talk, we'll be outside," she says, still smiling so saccharinely. Her smile feels like an illness to you.

You spend a total of four days languishing in that fucking room. Jacob and Evie (you learn her name later, not by choice; the walls are thin.) Frye are kind. They bring you coffee, cotton nightshirts, a chair, and one-sided conversation to try and wring their answers out of you. After the second day, you decide to strike a deal: Thomas Morvell's head on a pike, and you'll tell them everything they want to know.

They staunchly refuse.

On the fifth day of your imprisonment, you're sitting by the windowsill, watching the first snow of winter come down hard on Lambeth. When you were little, your father used to take you skiing for the winter holidays. You torture yourself, wondering how much debt he fell into making sure you had a fond childhood. You try and crack open the window to feel the winter breeze on your face, or maybe freeze to death, but it's nailed tightly shut. You resign yourself to laying your chin on your arm and staring out through the gathering frost.

When the door opens, you turn your head a fraction to see two silhouettes. You go back to looking out the window, watching the snow pile in drifts on the eaves of crumpling Tudor houses.

"You know, in some cultures, they say twins are portents of doom," you say flatly, following the trail of a snowflake hurtling towards the ground. Evie tries to engage you again. Something about assassins.

What good they turned out to be.

"Anything you can tell us will be useful," she says, and smiles with her bastard hands folded in front of her, the very picture of poise and that faux-milkmaid honesty that makes you sick. You've been to enough dinner parties and balls to know it's fake. You turn your head slowly.

"I want Thomas Morvell dead before I give you anything." Evie looks to the door, mouth half-open, and her hands fall to her sides. You don't look at Jacob — but she turns back to you with her lips pursed.

"While we appreciate the commitment-"

"Those are my final terms." There's a hefty silence that drapes itself over the room. Eventually, Evie grabs a spare chair from the other room. She invites herself to sit, leaning forward in a way that doesn't strike you as ladylike. Much more befitting of her various occupations as "gang boss" and "contract killer." Her fingers curl in on themselves, and she looks at you like you're a puzzle in need of solving; it irks you. You think you've made the answer to your puzzle very plain — Thomas Morvell's head, and nothing short of it.

"May I inquire as to the reason for this… obsession?"

Obsession. You suppose that's one way to put it, though you prefer revenge.

"He ruined my life," you say, every word punctuated through clenched teeth. Then you relax because negotiating with anger will get you nowhere — that's what Father would say, anyhow. "I believe I deserve a little compensation for that."

"I should warn you that we are not in the business of revenge."

"You're a gang of hitmen. If not that, what are you in the business of, then?"

The silence stretches and yawns while the two bird twins look at each other again, communicating silently as twins are wont to do. She finally looks at you after they have their strange quasi-argument.

"Have you ever heard of the Templars?"