Snippet #1421496

The princess exhaled softly, placing her quill back in the inkwell before her perfect posture slumped, the back of her head lolling back against her desk chair, purple irises disappearing behind slightly-bruised lids. Now was not the time for this. Pain shot through her temples in a throbbing rhythm, matched to the sluggish pace of her wearied heartbeat, subsiding momentarily only to flare to life again in the next instant. This happened to her occasionally, nowadays, these severe headaches. Amon had suggested she see a doctor or a healer about it, but she had refused. There was no point in it anyway. What would they do but give her painkillers that would dull her mind besides? A mage would be able to relieve the pain without any adverse effects, but she didn't much fancy keeping one around just to treat her every time she worked late into the night or scoured fine print for too long.

That was assuming she could even find one in the first place, and the first location to which she would send any such soul would be her mother. Though she was still hiding it adequately, Minerva was getting worse. There was very little the Queen could hide from her daughter any longer, and Loki knew that though she was in no immediate danger necessarily, she was ailing slowly and painfully. One of many things that occupied her ever-whirling stream of consciousness lately. It joined the maelstrom compounded by Eos's story and her impending speech before Parliament, not to mention her promise to Lord Taylor, which was actually her present occupation.

She forced the heaviness from her lids and righted herself. The child, whomever they might be in the end, wasn't about to find themselves. Loki had a young cousin that might do; her uncle worked for Marchfield, and so the only way the boy would ever have any degree of noble status was if both she and her mother were to die or if some sort of foster arrangement was made. Of course, the same lineage which made him such a tempting choice was problematic for precisely the same reason, assuming her uncle would even agree in the first place.

She was tempted to suggest Taylor find a Delta orphan of some variety, but that would never pass muster with Parliament, much as it might with the man himself. At least, not yet. She had to think that it might be possible one day, else she might begin to believe that all her efforts were for naught, which might just drive her mad.

Assuming she wasn't mad already. The thought brought a sardonic smirk to her lips, and Loki shook her head, not relishing the unfortunate stab this produced in her head. No easy answer, then. Fine... might as well leave it be for now. She had other, more impending deadlines to deal with, after all. Filing away the document in her desk, then, she withdrew another one, a list she'd been making based on informal information-gathering of her own. There were a number of healers in Delta and Gamma, but most of them did not run public businesses. Not that she could blame them, given the way those who admitted they were magi found themselves treated. There were a few, though, and she needed to pay one a visit, to see about getting a consultation regarding her mother. This, she could not trust Amon's people to do. Only the Guildmaster himself knew of her mother's condition, and that was only because she'd been unable to prevent him from discovering it.

Standing, Loki scanned down the new parchment, memorizing what little information was contained there, before stowing this as well and locking her office door. Carlisle, usually her shadow, was notably absent today, and this was not without reason. Returning to her private rooms, Loki donned her disguise: a simple linen shirt, laced vest, and pants, mostly in inoffensive, neutral colors. Releasing all the ridiculous pins from her head helped ease the pain there, and she sighed with relief. She'd have to consider a haircut; it was just so bloody heavy this way. Pulling on her scuffed leather boots, she tucked a long-bladed knife away in each, and a shorter one up both loose sleeves. Adjusting her cuffs to ensure that none of this was visible, she nodded and disappeared out the door, ghosting through the palace hallways until she reached the street. It was time to pay Delta a visit.

---

Edward Walsh was a nondescript man of approximately forty-five years in age, but he was also probably the smartest of the city guard, and hence had been appointed head of the official Parliamentary investigation into the death of Adam Goldwater. Presently, they were following up on a lead which they had quite accidentally stumbled upon. During the Physician's examination of Goldwater's corpse, which Walsh had of course been present for, he'd spotted a strange mark on the man's chest, which the Physician hadn't had a good explanation for.

Officially, the cause of death was respiratory arrest, caused by asphyxiation, caused by strangulation, but Walsh wasn't quite so sure. Something in his gut told him that that puncture was suspicious, though he didn't really have any idea how to go about verifying that. Of course, he was immediately suspicious of scientists given that such strange things as those people did had always offended his more Elisian sympathies, especially that business about creating false magic. Real magic was bad enough, in Walsh's opinion; they didn't need artificial magic as well. Did anyone read the Prophesies anymore?

Which meant he had to get answers from someone. Any of them would do, probably. Walsh didn't really know the difference between one kind of science and the next. Plus, he had the power of an official Parliamentary mandate behind him, which meant that he could basically question anyone. Trying to go straight to Vanderbilt had been his first instinct, but his superiors had informed him that might not be the best idea. Fine then, first bloke he saw, then.

"Excuse me," he said to that person, who happened to be a dark-haired man with some sort of ocular devise affixed to his face. "My name is Edward Walsh, and I'm investigating the death of Adam Goldwater. I have a few questions for you." If there was one thing that could be said of Walsh, it was that he was ever quite direct, a quality not always appreciated, but always upheld.