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Death Comes to London

Death Comes to London


{Private} In an alternate universe powered by steam, Ramsey and Associates solve mysteries from the mundane to the supernatural.

2,828 readers have visited Death Comes to London since Aethyia created it.

Nemeseia are listed as curators, giving them final say over any conflict & the ability to clean up mistakes.



Because I could not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me...

I don't know when it first became apparent to me that the world we see was only the tip of the iceberg.

I suppose it might have begun long ago in childhood, when the winter took my grandmother. She'd always believed in strange things—spoken often of Death's messengers, the guardians of passage to the afterlife. Though I was not in the room when she died, I swear I felt the exact moment it happened, as if a chill breeze had passed me by, the cloak of some unseen specter brushing against my arm on its way to the attic where she'd collapsed.

Maybe it was somewhere in a trench, the weight of a single-shot heavy over my shoulders—because I did not pray to God then. Instead I asked those messengers to leave me be for one more day. And then another. And another. Whether they listened or cared, I couldn't say, but it felt right to be asking.

All I can say was I knew it for certain before the first time I ever met one of them. There was something different about him. A subtle thing, like the air moved about him in countervailing patterns. He was dressed like any man could have been: an overcoat, tailored suit and tie, polished boots. Looked more military than I did anymore. But it was his eyes that gave him away, I think. Foggy purple, like a glimpse of something not quite anchored in the same reality I'd moved about in all my life.

But in the same way I knew what he was, I knew he wasn't there for me. So I offered him a place to stay, and did my best to hide the little twinge of amusement I felt every time I considered the thought that Death lived—and paid me rent on the first of the month. One guest room with attached bath, in the heart of London, city of steam and cyanide. One so-called demon, harbinger of the underworld, calling himself Mr. Ramsey. One metropolis packed to the rafters with all kinds of unseen spirits, monsters, and unlucky people just trying to get by. It was certainly a recipe for something.

Perhaps I should have expected the circus that followed after.

The carriage held but just ourselves, and Immortality.

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This is a private roleplay for Aethyia and Nemeseia.

Taking place in...

Steampowered London - 1885 our primary setting

A metropolis of clockwork and steam.

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The Story So Far... Write a Post » as written by 2 authors

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ephraim Ramsey Character Portrait: Charlotte Blythe Character Portrait: Amelia Lancaster Character Portrait: Khalil Jaziri Character Portrait: Beatrix Castine
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London - Circ Della Notte Grounds
June 19, 1885 - 19:17 p.m. - Clear
Amelia Lancaster

Amelia rolled out her shoulders, trying to adjust to her outfit. They'd given her an underbust, black in color, with a plain white shirt to go underneath. Amelia wouldn't even call it a shirt, though. Mostly sleeveless, it was more along the lines of something she'd wear to bed. It did, however, contrast against the red jacket she pulled over it, or what constituted as a jacket. It was little more than long sleeves attached at the back. She understood the mindset behind her outfit; keep the audience fixed on her rather than her talent, but it wasn't like she was here for that. It was actually refreshing to be in something that wouldn't limit her movements too much. Even the red trousers allowed her enough breathing room that she felt comfortable.

Once she was satisfied with her outfit, she grabbed the firearm she was going to be using. The pistol was ideal since she'd be able to aim with better accuracy, however; she glanced towards the shotgun that lay just to the right side of her. Miss Vera had taught her a few other things with the weapon, and she would be lying if she said she wasn't itching to test out her abilities with it.

“Miss Whitaker?" Beatrix's voice pulled Amelia from her thoughts as she turned to the young woman. “Do you have a moment?" she asked, causing Amelia to motion her inside. Beatrix hurried inside, clutching something to her chest. “I wanted you to have this for your performance, tonight. I know you're here for a job, but..." she trailed off, causing Amelia to smile softly.

“What is it, Miss Castine?" she asked. Beatrix, Amelia learned, was a sweet, thoughtful young woman. It wasn't in the same way as Charlie, but she could see similar airs. Beatrix, however, smiled and produced the item she was holding.

“I'm sure it's nothing as extravagant as you may be used to wearing, but I thought you should wear this with your outfit," she spoke, causing Amelia to briefly look confused. Did Beatrix know something about her true name? Pushing the thought away, she took the offered item, and inspected it. It was a thin sheet of material, however; it looked like it resemebled a thick-banded necklace. There was a single gem on it as well, a deep purple that Amelia could appreciate. It was, after all, her favorite color.

“Thank you, Miss Castine, it's lovely," she responded, watching as Beatrix's smile bloomed.

“You're very welcome, Miss Whitaker! We should go see if the others are ready, too, before the show starts. It'll be soon," she stated. Amelia agreed; they should go see if the others were prepared. She fastened the necklace around her neck, first, before she grabbed her materials.

“After you," she stated, following Miss Castine out onto the circus grounds.

The hum and buzz of preparations was all around, something about it seemingly more intense on the nights when Amelia had merely been a spectator. A certain sort of nervous energy seemed to hover about the performers and crew, no doubt exacerbated by the recent murder, and the concern that there could be another. This was a livelihood for most of the people that plied it, but they would not be able to keep the news to themselves for much longer now that there had been an actual body. The police would be drawn here soon, and even if they weren't, rumors would circulate, business might decline, and their very way of life would be in peril because of that.

But still, it was important that this didn't come through, and so even as the roadies rushed about with last minute preparations and performers ran through their warmups, there was a sort of professional stoicism that kept the anxiety from getting out of hand. Mr. and Mrs. Blanchette were helping Charlie with her own costume. While Mr. Blanchette wore a tight-fitting long, striped leotard that reached his knees but had no sleeves, Charlie was meant to be more flowy and flashy, it seemed. She had a short dress with a fitted bodice, not too constricting but secure enough to keep her covered while she tumbled. It had loose sleeves that were more ribbon than sleeve, blue and green glittering to her elbows. The skirt was ribbonlike in the same way, to her knees, but she was wearing a similar leotard underneath, and ballet shoes, so while she'd sparkle and shine as she moved, it wouldn't be too revealing. Her hair was pinned tightly to her head; Mrs. Blanchette was applying more glitter to it.

Charlie caught Amelia's eye and waved, though doubtless she couldn't break from her preparations right at the moment.

Amelia smiled in Charlie's direction, and made her way over. Beatrix trailed behind, apparently content to follow Amelia. She didn't mind, and greeted Mr. and Mrs. Blanchette. “You look lovely, Charlie," she stated, grinning at the woman. Beatrix nodded her head in agreement, causing Amelia to shake her head lightly.

“Is there any word from Mr. Ramsey or Mr. Jaziri?" she asked, noticing the lack of prescence in the latter mentioned name. He wasn't one to just disappear. He thrived on attention, of any kind, and it mildly surprised her that he wasn't here with Charlie. She did appreciate the silence, though. Mr. Jaziri had a very special talent of crawling beneath her skin, and Amelia was almost certain he did it on purpose. From the way his lips stretched across his face when he smiled, to the crass remarks he'd make. He was intelligent, though, she'd give him that.

Charlie hummed, standing very still to allow Mrs. Blanchette to apply a layer of kohl to the outside of her lash-lines. "I'm not sure exactly where they are at the moment," she admitted. "I'm sure Mr. Jaziri has to make sure Petunia is ready for the act. Mr. Ramsey is probably..." She pursed her lips.

"Actually I'm not sure. For all I know he found something to, um." Her eyes flickered to the Blanchettes. "Occupy him?" It seemed to be a way of suggesting that he might be doing some kind of investigation, even now.

That made sense considering that they were here for an investigation. Amelia hummed softly in the back of her throat. “I will leave you, so that you can finish preparing," she stated, giving Charlie one last smile before glancing towards Beatrix. “I should go find Ramsey; he's my other half in this participation act," she stated, watching in mild curiosity as the smile on Beatrix's face lit up.

“Of course he is," she stated in a simple manner. “I'm going to finish helping with the setup. If I hear or see anything, I will let you know," she spoke, curtseying before she left. Beatrix was a strange woman, but Amelia shoved that thought to the back of her mind. Her priority at the moment was finding Ramsey to see if anything else had come up.

He was a bit difficult to locate, actually, but she found him in one of the equipment tents, just adjusting the lapels of his frock coat. He normally preferred a long duster, she knew, but this thing was some interesting mix of flashy and actually quite nice—it wouldn't have been entirely out of place on a member of the nobility. Black silk with a subtle pattern of dark grey, the gold and silver embroidery concentrated around the cuffs would catch the light, making his deft throws look all the more vivid. The coat was fitted reasonably well to his dimensions, though not tight enough to impede motion. The waistcoat was subtler, and perhaps most strikingly he had both two belts and a bandolier filled with knives, their matching, polished handles in neat rows.

He must have noticed her entrance, but he was frowning at one of the cuffs of his coat. It looked like one of the links had become caught on a loose thread.

She felt the edges of her lips tilt slightly upward, but sighed through her nose. Her father always had James help him with his cufflinks. On occasion, she helped when James was busy with other preparations. Rolling her eyes mostly at herself, she approached Ramsey, clearing her throat to get his attention. “Let me see, if you don't mind," she spoke, holding her hand out as she waited for him to comply. Once he did, she set to work fixing his link so that it wouldn't become a bother later on. As she finished, she glanced up in his direction, arching a delicate brow.

“It's been relatively quiet," she spoke, dropping her hands to her side once she was satisfied with the outcome of the links. “There haven't been any new developments, and most of the members seem to be tense," which was a given, really. It was only recently that one of their members had been mauled to death, and others were reportedly missing.

"As one would expect," he replied simply, echoing her thoughts. Gently, he lifted his arm away from her grip when the link was fixed, nodding in what she was relatively sure was Mr. Ramsey's version of gratitude. As it happens, I—"

He was cut off by the sound of a woman's scream, and sighed quietly. "That will be our next warning," he said, seeming quite certain of this fact.

Amelia nodded, and stepped out of the tent. She could see a small crowd of people gathered by one of the nearby poles, the one that was often used for target practice by the members. She made her way to the front, frowning when she spotted the note. Walking closer so that she could inspect it, her lips pursed into a fine line.

Not a fault of it was hers!
If it wasn't for you, her reputation
wouldn't have suffered. Bianchi's a liar
and a thief! Now watch your world
burn as hers did!

What? was the only thought she had. Not only was the handwritting different, the style of the note was different as well. It seemed personal, blaming Mr. Bianchi for something he did. If she had to guess, the her in the note must refer to Mr. Bianchi's sister. She still wasn't entirely sure what happened between the two of them, but it was becoming obvious that they had a falling out of some kind. Whatever it was, resulted in a ruined reputation, it seemed. Still...

“We need to let Miss Blythe and Jaziri know to keep a look out," she stated once she was closer to Ramsey. “If this note is similar to last time, chances are high that something has already happened."

"A wise suggestion," he agreed. "If you find them to deliver the news, I will advise the others to double-check all of their apparatuses before they take stage tonight. The verbiage suggests an escalation, and nothing would achieve that quite so well as a death in the middle of a show." If the killer's desire was to bring Mr. Bianchi to ruin, that would surely do it.

“I know Miss Blythe's current location; I'll go notify her, now. If I see Jaziri, I'll let him know as well," she stated, narrowing her eyes where she knew Charlie to be. She was slightly relieved that she'd checked her pistol and shotgun before she left her tent. She would have known if they had been tampered with. She was certain Ramsey would have done the same thing with his own weapons. With that in mind, she left him to find Charlie, slightly glad that Mr. Jaziri was with her, when she did.

“Whitaker," he stated, his brows furrowed as he called out to her. “What was the screaming about?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest. He was wearing a simple vest, white in color, with a black, sleeveless shirt beneath it. The trousers were red, which Amelia thought clashed a bit. But she wasn't here for those things.

“There was another letter," she stated, watching as Mr. Jaziri mouthed an 'oh'. “If it's anything like the last time, we need to be on the lookout," she continued, glancing in Charlie's direction. “You know what to do if something looks out of place. If you have the time, check any equipment you are going to be using, tonight." There shouldn't be unnecessary risks, but at the same time, they couldn't let the culprit know that they were on to him.

Charlie nodded immediately. "We're part of the opening, so I'll be sure Mr. Blanchette checks his things, too," she said. There wasn't a lot of equipment for their act, but they did use rings hung from the tent beams, and possibly those aerial silk things, if Charlie had learned enough about them in time. Either of those could be a hazard if a line snapped.

She hastened away, probably to try and make those last-minute checks. Mr. Bianchi was out among the crowd now, getting everyone back to their preparations with hushed yelling, odd as the phrase was. The crowd were already beginning to filter into the tent from the other side. If they didn't take their places soon, they wouldn't be ready for the show itself.

“And you will do well to make sure Petunia is in shape to perform." she stated, earning a sharp bark of laughter from Mr. Jaziri.

“Your word is my command, m'lady," he stated, bowing before he straightened back up. His face smoothed back out, though, into something a little more serious. It was out of place on his face, but it seemed concerned and genuine. “But you and Ramsey take care, yourselves, too."

Amelia smirked slightly. “Don't worry, Jaziri."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ephraim Ramsey Character Portrait: Charlotte Blythe Character Portrait: Amelia Lancaster Character Portrait: Khalil Jaziri
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#, as written by Aethyia

London - Circo Della Notte Performance Tent
June 19, 1885 - 20:10 p.m. - Clear
Charlotte Blythe

Charlotte flew through the air in a controlled arc, propelling her body neatly through the metal hoop in a flutter of fabric and a neat somersault. Untucking at the exact moment she'd been taught, she landed feet-down, twisting through the air not unlike a housecat. Her knees bent slightly to absorb the impact, but the landing was light, and she straightened immediately, beaming a smile at the audience as Mrs. Blanchette had instructed her to do.

Shouts of approval and applause burst forth from the audience; there was apparently a reason the flashy tumbling was the opening act of the circus. She could almost sense the excitement thickening in the air, but it was something she put from her mind as Mr. Blanchette came up behind her, sheeting his hands on her waist.

“Upsa-daisy, lass," he said softly, and Charlotte jumped at the same time as he tossed, the combined force launching her straight up high into the air. She stretched one of her legs in front and the other behind in a full horizontal split, tucking them together again and leaning back just in time for Mr. Blanchette to catch her. Then, with a heave of considerable strength, he launched her again, and this time she spun in midair, rolling side-over side with her arms out to whip the ribbons of her sleeves about like some kind of flower.

Again she tucked in just enough time for the catch, and when he caught her this time, he did not toss again, instead lifting her onto his shoulders and holding steady so she could pull her legs up underneath her and stand there, balanced solidly on the much taller man, and give the audience a cheeky bow.

More applause; Charlotte used the slight break in immediate activity to look around as much as she could. She could glimpse a few of the others backstage, but that could easily just be preparation for acts; nothing suspicious on its own.

Mr. Bianchi was situated in the middle of the ring, grinning in a broad manner. He looked pleased with himself, dressed in his bright red tailcoat with gold trimmings. He had his top hat in his left hand, holding it out as if to present it to his audience.

“Benvenuto a Circo Della Notte, the Greatest Show you'll ever see! he greeted, turning around in his position to get a good look at everyone. “With our lovely opening performance," he began, glancing and motioning towards Mr. Blanchette and Charlotte, “I give you our next performer. Hailing from Giza, our very own, Jaziri can tame the most ferocious of beasts, making them bend to his every whim!"

At the introduction, Mr. Jaziri appeared, grinning from ear to ear. Perhaps more-so than Mr. Bianchi had, however; he waved towards the audience with his whip in hand.

That was Charlotte's cue to exit, and she hopped off Mr. Blanchette's shoulders. The two of them hurried back behind the stage curtain, and Charlotte immediately started to shed the more difficult parts of her costume, leaving her in something a bit easier to move in. With her role in the performance over for now, she needed to keep an eye on as much of the rest as she could.

Finding a place to perch herself that wouldn't interrupt the flow of performers and also let her peer out to the ongoing acts, Charlotte tried to make herself small and observe the others as they came and went. It looked like Mr. Jaziri's act was just starting in full through the gap in the curtain, too.

Mr. Jaziri seemed pleased with the reaction from the crowd, their applause causing him to bow. He hadn't started his performance, yet, and seemed to be soaking up the attention. “Ladies," he started, his grin settling to a small smile, “and gentleman, I give you my lovely assitant, Petunia!" With the bear's name mentioned, she roared, waddling towards Mr. Jaziri from the far side of the ring. A few of the audience members inhaled sharply, either from surprise, or awe.

Mr. Jaziri, however, kept grinning, and ushered Petunia towards the middle of the ring. He motioned with his hand that held the whip, though he made no effort to use it. Petunia seemed to understand what he meant, though, and stood on both of her legs. “As you can see, Petunia's a little unhappy with me," he stated, his eyes flickering towards the audience. He might have been scanning the audience for anything suspicious, as well, but he returned his attention back to the bear.

“Now be a good girl, Petunia, and sing for them," he spoke, earning a disgruntled snort from the bear.

Charlotte giggled softly from her perch. Things seemed to be all right out there at least. Turning her attention back inwards, she swept her eyes over the comings and goings. Mr. and Mrs. Blanchette were helping the trapeze artists get into costume, but that wasn't unusual as far as she knew. The clowns were donning their heavy stage makeup, and Mr. Bianchi appeared to be giving directions to the stagehands. He looked agitated by something, but then Charlotte had discovered that Mr. Bianchi always looked agitated by something.

He was a little red-faced, as was Mr. Davis. Mr. Harris looked a bit nervous and fidgety, and kept glancing between the other two like he wasn't sure if he should intervene. Charlotte wondered about that herself, and was just considering trying to get closer to hear what they were talking about when Mr. Bianchi threw his hands in the air and stalked off, ending... whatever that had been.

Charlotte's brows furrowed. She wasn't sure if that was important or just normal show stress. Either way, it was probably getting close to time for Mr. Ramsey and Miss Lancaster to go on.

Mr. Jaziri seemed to be wrapping up his act, bowing to the audience with Petunia. “You've been wonderful!" were his parting words before he ushered the bear off of the stage. Mr. Ramsey and Miss Lancaster's set-up for their act was already on the floor, prepared a head of time to keep the circus going. Mr. Bianchi reappeared onto the floor, any sign of his previous engagement clear from his face. He thanked Mr. Jaziri before he turned to the audience, and introduced Mr. Ramsey and Miss Lancaster.

“Now, we give you a dangerous beauty with a gun, Miss Amelia Whitaker, and her fearless assistant, Mr. Ramsey!" he stated as they took the stage. Miss Lancaster wore a smile almost as large as Mr. Jaziri's, though it did seem slightly strained. She rested her pistol against her shoulder as she glanced towards Mr. Ramsey.

“Shall we?" she stated, arching a brow in Mr. Ramsey's direction and taking aim.

With a slight gesture of his hand, Mr. Ramsey produced a bright red apple, giving it a toss into the air and catching it easily. Once it was plainly clear that the audience was paying rapt attention to what they were doing, he lobbed it high, stepping back and rather unexpectedly opening an umbrella over his head, still with an entirely stoic expression on his face.

Miss Lancaster grinned and aimed her pistol at the falling apple. Once she pulled the trigger, the once whole apple fell to pieces around Mr. Ramsey. Parts of it hit the umbrella while other parts landed outside of the ring. Miss Lancaster looked rather pleased with herself, however; her eyes had trailed the pieces of apple. She was, perhaps, keeping an eye on the audience as well. Once she seemed satisfied with her surveillance, she turned back to Mr. Ramsey and motioned for another apple. She held up two fingers, though, as if signaling for Mr. Ramsey to toss two at a time.

He produced them with the same sleight-of-hand—where was he getting them from?—three rather than two. To Charlotte's surprise, he started off by juggling them quite deftly, actually, then abruptly tossed two at once, followed by the third, a barely-perceptible curl to one side of his mouth as he picked up the umbrella again.

It looked like, for a moment, Miss Lancaster was surprised. Her eyes widened, but she grinned as she kept her gaze on Mr. Ramsey. She lifted her pistol, eyes still focused on Mr. Ramsey, and pulled the trigger. Her eyes flickered towards the audience as she aimed for the last one. Once again, Mr. Ramsey had apple parts falling around him, thudding against the umbrella and the floor of the ring. There was applause throughout the audience, even a few gasps of awe, before Miss Lancaster turned towards Mr. Ramsey.

“One more for the road?" she stated, taking aim slightly above his head.

He sighed audibly. One last apple went onto his head, perfectly balanced. He looked not in the least concerned, either, maintaining perfect stillness and an even, stoic expression. Charlotte, on the other hand, found herself holding her breath as she peered through the curtain, even aware as she was of Amelia's accuracy with the pistol.

Amelia grinned before she closed her eyes. The audience gasped loudly, some of them leaning forward into their seats as she fiddled with the trigger. Her head titled slightly before she finally squeezed the trigger, the apple on Mr. Ramsey's head no longer there. Bits of the apple were lodged into Mr. Ramsey's hair, but most of it was on the floor around him. Amelia mouthed something to Mr. Ramsey, sorry, it looked like. The applause was loud, and she made her way towards Mr. Ramsey and stood next to him. She turned to face the audience thereafter.

Charlotte knew that this was the point at which they pulled a surprise reversal on the crowd, and Mr. Ramsey transitioned into throwing knives, with Amelia in the role of assistant. She would have been interested to see, as this was a talent of Mr. Ramsey's he'd never demonstrated to her before, but as it happened she noticed a movement from the corner of her eye.

It could have been nothing, just a shadow passing from somewhere behind the tent, but... something struck her instincts, and quietly Charlotte made her way down from her perch and around the side of the tent where the performers could enter and exit.

It was quite dark outside, the lamps turned down for the sake of the state lighting inside the tent, but she could see a smallish figure moving in the gloom.

"Hello?" she called, unsure whether this was something to be worried about or not.

She caught a flash of something—wire, maybe?—but the figure darted away before she could study them in any detail. Wire, wire... the trapeze!

Charlotte knew that team was preparing to go on next, but if she didn't manage to follow this person, she might never find out who the saboteur is.

"Mr. Jaziri!" she called in a low voice, knowing his sharp ears would probably pick up on it. "Tell Miss Castine not to let the trapeze team on. She should stop the show if she has to. I'm going to chase someone; please help if you can afterwards!"

And then she was off.

The figure wasn't, she thought, faster than her, but they had a head start and the tents and grounds were a maze. Charlotte did her best to pursue, but between the performers milling about, the curious crowd who hadn't paid for tent-seats, and the rest... she wasn't sure where they'd gone.

“Blythe," Mr. Jaziri appeared next to her, perhaps having found her after he did as she requested. “What did you see?" he asked once he was settled next to her. “If you tell me something that might be of use..." he trailed off, pointing to his own nose as if he were asking for a scent to follow.

Charlotte frowned. Unfortunately, nothing came immediately to mind, except—

"I've been chasing them for at least five minutes," she said, raising one of her wrists as it to let him scent it. It had a costume glove on it, of course. Maybe a nose as sharp as his could pick out the scent from that alone. She'd been running after her target, after all, and that meant into the scent trail they were leaving behind.

"It's someone small, if that helps narrow it down," she added quickly. "Not as small as me, but smaller than you."

Mr. Jaziri made a face, but didn't say anything. He took a deep breath, before his lips pursed into a fine line and his brows furrowed. “Someone small, and five minutes ago," he spoke, but it seemed like he was talking to himself rather than to Charlotte. He took in another breath, as if trying to get a taste of the air before he turned to face Charlotte.

“You didn't see Harris, by chance, did you? He's the only one I can pick out that matches the scent on you," Jaziri seemed fairly certain that they were after Mr. Harris if the look on his face was anything to go by.

"Mr. Harris?" Charlotte took a quick mental inventory of all the people she'd run past in her pursuit, people she knew were not the subject of her chase. "It could be him," she said after a moment. "Can you find him now?"

“Give me a moment," he spoke, his nose wrinkling slightly. “Too many scents to shift through," he continued, pausing briefly to glance in another direction. He was by Charlotte's side after he made a decision, and glanced at her. “He's heading this way," were the only words he said before moving a little faster. They weaved through the grounds, passing more of the members who were either resting, or preparing for the next event. Mr. Jaziri would turn a corner every few seconds, lips pursed as if something were bothering him, or confusing him.

“Damn, where'd he go?" he muttered beneath his breath, though loud enough that Charlotte could still hear him. He paused in his pursuit, briefly, before he took in a deep breath. He was off again, and it wasn't long before Mr. Jaziri's eyes widened slightly along with a grin spreading across his lips. “There he is!" he stated, pointing out just ahead of them to where a silhouette could be made out.

Charlotte didn't hesitate, digging her heels into the ground and accelerating on the straightaway. She felt a brief sensation of heat above her heart, and then her power kicked in and she was practically flying over the ground, making a running leap and wrapping her arms around Mr. Harris.

They hit the dirt in a tangle of limbs, the impact nearly knocking her shoulder out of its socket, but though there was a stab of pain, she rolled over quickly, pinning Mr. Harris's arms behind his back with one hand.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Harris," she said blandly, shaking some loose hair out of her face. "But I am going to have to request your cooperation while we finish investigating the recent murders."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ephraim Ramsey Character Portrait: Charlotte Blythe Character Portrait: Amelia Lancaster Character Portrait: Khalil Jaziri Character Portrait: Beatrix Castine
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London - Circo Della Notte
June 19, 1885 - 22:15 p.m. - Clear
Amelia Lancaster

Amelia stared at the people gathered around her and the others. Her brows were furrowed, and she could feel the frown threatening to pull at her lips. She wasn't particularly pleased about the current affairs. The trapeze wires had been tampered with to the point that someone would have died if they'd performed at all tonight. And if Charlie hadn't sent Jaziri back to warn them... it was a thought Amelia did not want to finish.

She glanced in the direction of Mr. Bianchi, and had to keep herself from giving him a flat look. He was angry and confused; that much was obvious on his face. He, the Blanchettes, Miss Marsh, Mr. Davis, O'Donaghue, and Parker were all gathered inside of the performance tent. It was at Ramsey's and her's request, of course, which was, perhaps, the reason why Bianchi was confused. He finally stepped forward, and this time, Amelia did not bother to hide the expression on her face when he spoke.

“What is the meaning of this?" he stated, though from the tone of his voice, it sounded more like a demand than anything. Amelia merely glanced towards Ramsey, before allowing her gaze to travel back to Bianchi.

“As soon as Jaziri and Miss Blythe return," she began, making sure to keep eye contact with Bianchi, “we will inform you." Until then, he was going to have to be patient. Luck seemed to be on his side, though. Jaziri and Charlie came into sight not soon after Amelia had spoken, and seemed to have the last piece of the puzzle with them: Mr. Harris.

Charlotte seemed to have no issue holding him, despite the fact that she was gripping both of his wrists with only one hand. The only apparent issue was that she was so small she had to force them tightly together to hold. She looked a touch winded, but managed to smile pleasantly at everyone regardless. Perhaps to most it might have looked a touch vacant, but there was a keenness to her eyes that Amelia was learning to recognize. She might seem childlike at times, but Charlie was actually quite observant.

The fight, if ever there had been any, seemed to have gone out of Mr. Harris entirely. Though no few of the other performers looked outright surprised to see him being carted in in such a manner, two faces stood out for not sharing the surprise: Mr. Ramsey and Mr. Davis.

Davis looked oddly relieved; his shoulders slumped as if he'd been divested of some great burden. Mr. Ramsey, however, looked utterly nonplussed, as though this were a development he'd been expecting for quite some time.

Leaning down a little, he spoke quietly near Amelia's ear. "I believe you and Miss Blythe can handle most of this," he said. "By all means, show them who you are." It was an unusual choice of phrase, but there was no ambiguity in one thing: he was trusting them to handle this part, to put the case together with the evidence they had in hand, and to do it in front of this audience of those most closely involved.

Amelia felt the corners of her lips turn upwards, however; she kept herself from smiling outright. Instead, she fixed her attention towards the group, and smoothed her expression out. “Firstly, I'd like to thank you all for your cooperation," she started, glancing at the people's expressions. “We've asked you all here because we were asked to solve a particular problem of yours." Some of the expressions that flickered across their faces all pointed towards confusion, save for Mr. Bianchi who seemed to be narrowing his eyes at Ramsey.

“As you are aware, I am Amelia Whitaker, an associate of Mr. Ramsey's investigative firm," she continued. She could hear the confused whispers as a couple of the suspects murmured to each other. “We were invited by Miss Castine to help solve a case involving the deaths of several of your members," she continued, glancing towards Charlie.

Charlie nodded, and seemed to exchange a few words with Mr. Jaziri, too quiet to be heard. It resolved with him taking over holding Mr. Harris, though not before Charlie put something in the pocket of her skirt.

She stepped forward to join Amelia. "In order to investigate the disappearances of the members of this troupe, we decided it would be best to pose as performers ourselves, so that we might be able to observe everyone without being known for what we were." She smiled, a trifle apologetic, but it was also fairly clear that she didn't think it was something she really needed to apologize for, exactly.

"But only a day after we arrived, a note was pinned to one of the tents, and then Mr. Taylor was mauled by his lion, Sasha." This, she said very seriously. "Alchemical testing confirmed that Sasha had been given a version of the rabies virus, which drives an animal mad, and causes them to attack viciously. Since we know the incubation period for rabies is multiple days, this injection of the virus had to have been administered before the threatening note was placed."

She turned back to Amelia.

“Which means someone knew Sasha would attack Mr. Taylor," she stated, her eyes narrowing slightly as a few of the people fidgeted in their spot. “It also means that the person who wrote the note, was the same one who injected Sasha, or at least knew about it."

“That doesn't prove anything, though. It could have been any number of people who were at the performances, even audience members," one of them stated, Mr. Parker from the looks of it. Amelia actually smiled, then.

“An audience member wouldn't be able to stomach getting close to a lion, let alone injecting one. Besides," she let her eyes slide to Jaziri for a moment, “we have it on authority that Sasha wouldn't let just anyone near him. Only members of the troupe were allowed to get near him without him trying to attack, or people he was comfortable with."

"Which was a very good reason to look closer at people who had been around longer, rather than new members or temporary help," Charlotte added. "Additionally, we knew that the killer was claiming a motivation from revenge. As they believed they had not yet driven their point home enough, we expected that the nature of the killings was likely to escalate, and that the new pattern of sabotage was probably going to continue."

“Tonight's performance," Mrs. Blanchette said, one hand resting absently on her distended abdomen. “If someone died during an act, the authorities would be down on our heads and we'd be disbanded for certain."

Charlie nodded slightly. "So we made sure everyone checked their equipment before the show. That meant if sabotage was going to work, the killer would have to do it during the performance. And since the second note was delivered, we knew it would probably be tonight, rather than tomorrow or the next day."

“Why not tell us this?!" Miss O'Donaghue demanded, her pretty face flushed with anger. She took a step towards Amelia and Charlie, but at that point, Mr. Ramsey intervened.

He wasn't showy about it, merely detaching himself from the tent pole he'd been leaning against and narrowing his eyes slightly. She shrank back immediately, but did not retract her question.

Amelia stared at Miss O'Donaghue through narrowed eyes. “Imagine, for a second, Miss, O'Donaghue, that you were the killer," she began, trying to give the woman the benefit of the doubt for asking such a question. “If you had been told that someone was on to you, what would you have done?" She didn't give Miss O'Donaghue the chance to answer, though, and continued.

“The killer would have immediately known that we were on to them, and we would have, potentially, lost the chance to solve this case. That is a simple fact." More murmurs, more confusion.

“What about the notes, though?" Mr. Parker asked. “Why write them if they were just going to kill someone?" he continued. Amelia frowned slightly at that question.

"Well as we said," Charlie began, sounding a little less certain this time. "The motivation was revenge. We believe the notes were written to inspire fear, so that people would know exactly what was coming and who to blame, and that this as much as the deaths was important for the killer."

“I knew it!" Davis growled, stepping forward for the first time and jabbing a thick finger towards Mr. Harris. “I knew you were sneaking out to get up to no good, you fuckin' shit!"

Harris rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. “You thought I was sneaking out to fuck a woman, you moronic dolt. Don't pretend you knew anything of significance."

Davis's face turned red, but when Mr. Ramsey cleared his throat softly, he lapsed back into silence.

"Erm..." Charlie's face was a bit red as well, but that might have been something to do with the crudeness of Mr. Harris's language. It would seem that even she knew what that meant. "In any case, we knew we had to watch tonight, and during the show I spotted Mr. Harris leaving the tent. He ran, and Mr. Jaziri and I caught up with him. He had this—"

Here, she fished the object out of her pocket that she'd collected earlier—it seemed to be a piece of wire. "Based on this fact, I deduced that he'd managed to sabotage the trapeze equipment, and so we made sure that the trapeze artists did not perform tonight."

“She's right," Mr. Blanchette said, nodding slightly. “Davis and I took a look. The nets and the left hand swing both wouldn't have held up more than a few minutes."

“Why the revenge? We didn't do anything to Mr. Harris," Miss Marsh spoke, finally, after remaining silent through a majority of the explanation. Amelia's expression smoothed out somewhat as she turned to face the woman.

“The second note mentioned a woman being ruined, somehow. We believe that it was for her," she stated, watching as Miss Marsh's brows furrowed.

“What woman? As far as I know, Mr. Harris didn't have a lover of which he would go to that degree, for," Miss March stated, glancing in Harris's direction. That was an answer Amelia couldn't give. She had a hypothesis as to whom it was, however; she didn't want to give out a name and be completely wrong about it.

"Martina Bianchi," Mr. Ramsey replied, stepping into the conversation at last. He gave both Amelia and Charlie a nod of acknowledgment, but without so much as a word to the effect, he'd directed the attention of the entire room upon himself.

There was an eruption of noise at the proclamation; both Mr. Bianchi's and Mr. Harris's faces had turned stark white. They looked, ironically enough, like they'd seen a ghost.

The reaction from the others was mixed.

"But she's dead?"

"—a ghost—"

"Did Mr. Bianchi mur—"


Mr. Ramsey sighed, letting the noise die down on its own, which it did remarkably quickly. Probably because he was glaring. "She is in fact very much alive. Mr. Bianchi allowed rumors of her death to continue because it forestalled questions on her disappearance, when in fact he ran her out of the business after an injury stopped her from performing. Is this not so?"

Mr. Bianchi looked absolutely livid, but he made no effort to deny the claim. Amelia furrowed her brows in his direction, though. Why would he do such a thing? Surely she could have recovered from the injury with time, and could have still performed.

“It was her own goddamn fault!" Bianchi finally snapped, glaring at Ramsey as he did so. “If she would have done everything I had asked of her, she wouldn't have become crippled by her own stupidity!" he spat, causing Amelia to narrow her eyes at him.

“You didn't need to run her out, though," she stated, receiving the glare from Bianchi he had given to Ramsey. “Crippled or not, just because she couldn't perform did not mean she couldn't help out in other ways," she stated.

Miss Castine, who had been quiet throughout the entire ordeal, finally stepped forward, something wet at the corners of her eyes. “But why did our friends deserve to die?" she asked in such a quiet voice that Amelia wasn't certain if Beatrix had actually spoken. “They did nothing to you," she continued, her gaze going towards Mr. Harris.

Harris scowled at her. "What? The chattel? The harlots and whoresons and roadside dirt? What does anyone care, girl? They were his means of making a living, and it's his life what needed the ruining. They were collateral damage, and it doesn't. Bloody. Matter."

"That's enough." Mr. Ramsey's voice cracked sharply over the tumult that had arisen, no few of those present looking at Harris with obvious hatred for his words. "Scotland Yard should be here any moment. Jaziri—get him out of here before they take his tongue." He didn't seem to be exaggerating... and the way Mr. Parker and Mr. Blanchette were looking at him, he didn't have to.

Jaziri nodded his head and guided Mr. Harris away from the crowd. He wasn't gentle about it, either, if the winch on Mr. Harris's face was anything to go by. Amelia sighed softly to herself, and glanced at Beatrix and the others. She felt her hand twitch slightly as Beatrix did little to hide the tears on her face, but Amelia stayed where she was for the moment.

“Given the nature of things," she began glancing at Mr. Bianchi who had his face in his hand.

“There's no way we'll be able to continue. Reputation is ruined, no one will come see us," he began, and Amelia felt she knew where he was going with this. “I quit. All of you... go home. Or whatever homes you used to have," he spoke, walking away from the crowd. Amelia took the moment to walk towards Beatrix, and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Will you be alright, Castine?" she asked, watching as Beatrix wiped the corners of her eyes and nodded. Amelia pursed her lips slightly, but didn't say anything. Instead, she patted Beatrix's shoulder once more, and made her way towards Ramsey and Charlie.

The case was solved; there was nothing more for them to do here.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Charlotte Blythe Character Portrait: Amelia Lancaster Character Portrait: Beatrix Castine
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London - Office of Ramsey & Associates
June 21, 1885 - 17:37 p.m. - Overcast
Beatrix Castine

Two days.

The only life she'd ever known, was gone. After Master Bianchi disbanded the circus, Beatrix found herself roaming the streets of London in search of work. Miss Marsh had stayed behind as well, since the both of them had never really had a home to begin with. Beatrix was a street urchin from Paris, and Miss Marsh had always been a bit of a nomad. She'd never stayed in one place for too long simply because it wasn't where she belonged. The circus had, however, provided a sense of belonging. Now... that was gone.

Beatrix shook the thoughts from her head, glancing up at the building she'd happened to stop in front of. Her eyes widened slightly as she read the lettering, and allowed a small smile to stretch across her face. Without much thought, Beatrix allowed her feet to carry her inside. She owed them so much, and she never got to properly thank them. Once she was inside, she glanced around the office space, spotting the familiar faces of Charlotte and Miss Whitaker, the latter whom looked slightly surprised to see her. There was a third woman, someone she'd never seen before, with buttery blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She was gorgeous, in Beatrix's mind, and she felt suddenly shy.

“Miss Castine, to what do we owe the pleasure?" Miss Whitaker was the first to speak, keeping her gaze on Beatrix.

“I... just..." she began, clearing her throat when she realized something was lodged in it. She smiled something small, and glanced back at the three women. “I happened to be passing by, is all. I thought I'd come and... thank you all once again for everything you, Miss Blythe, and Mr. Ramsey did for me," she spoke, earning a sympathetic smile from Miss Whitaker.

Charlotte smiled, too, though she didn't seem to be aware of the particular edge of emotion in Beatrix's words. Rather, she just looked pleased to see her. "Well that's quite all right, Miss Bea," she said brightly, but then her face fell a little. "I'm sorry though. About the circus disbanding. Do you know what you'll be doing now?"

Beatrix managed to keep the smile on her face, even if she didn't quite feel alright. “For the time being, Miss Marsh and I are taking in London," she finally spoke, and was glad that her voice didn't crack. Miss Whitaker's brow arched slightly, and her eyes narrowed slightly as if she were studying Beatrix. “But after tomorrow, we're... probably going to head back to France," she lied. She felt bad about lying to the people who'd helped her, but they also had no reason to help her any further. Miss Whitaker glanced to the other woman, as if conveying a silent statement, before she stood.

“If you're not adversed to it," she stated, pushing in her chair and walking towards the door to grab her coat, “Perhaps you'd like to join us at the Red Moon."

“Oh, I don't want to intrude!" Beatrix replied, frowning slightly. She didn't know the establishment, and it seemed like the three of them were already doing something. Miss Whitaker merely shook her head, though.

“Nonsense. Oh, Vera, this is Beatrix Castine. She's the one Ramsey, Charlie, and I helped out a couple of days ago," she stated, introducing Beatrix to the woman named Vera. “And Miss Castine, this is Miss Vera. She's a friend of the establishment and my tutor," she continued.

The woman named Miss Vera smiled, inclining her head graciously. She had the first hints of lines at the corners of her eyes, but still looked remarkably young otherwise; it was actually rather difficult to place her age. When she spoke, there was a slight hint of something Slavic in her accent. "A pleasure, Miss Castine. May I call you Beatrix?"

She accepted her hat from Charlotte, who passed Amelia's to her as well before donning her own in anticipation of stepping out into the evening street, no doubt. Summer precluded the need for coats or anything of the sort, fortunately.

“I'd like that," Beatrix stated, managing a genuine smile. “Almost everyone calls me Bea, though, so if you'd like, you can too," she stated, following behind the three women. They set out on foot, something Beatrix found a little strange for someone of Miss Vera and Miss Whitaker's stature. They were of a higher social status; Beatrix could gather that much from them. It didn't seem to bother the both of them, though, to be in such places.

When they stopped, it was outside a rather bland building with heavy velvet drapes. The only noticeable thing about it was a brass-handled door that looked heavier than it had any right to be. Perhaps as a means to give the occupants peace of mind? Miss Whitaker simply opened the door and ushered everyone inside. It was a strange place, however; Beatrix was too enarmored with her surroundings to notice anything else at the moment.

“Welcome to the Red Moon, Bea," Miss Whitaker stated, motioning with a forward gesture of her hands.

The group collectively removed their hats, drawing further into the smoky, dimly lit room. Red and silver seemed to be the theme colors, accented with rich dark wood and delicate embroidery in places. The clientele seemed to be mostly masculine, though there were no few women dotted through the audience as well, and a few people attired and presenting in such a way that it was hard to be sure which, if either, they were.

The group by some silent consensus took a particular booth in the back, large enough to accommodate all four of them quite easily. A shy-looking waitress with dark red hair was promptly with them; Miss Vera took care of the ordering.

"I suspect we'll be seeing the owner shortly," she said after the girl had left. "She's a friend of mine, and knows Charlotte and Amelia as well—though I suppose here they are Sparrow and Lily. It's a bit of a conceit of the genre, if you will. For as long as we're here, we use false names."

Beatrix allowed her eyes to widen at Miss Vera's statement before pursing her lips together. She didn't think she had such a unique name to offer, but she supposed she could think of one at a later time. Her eyes softened at the realization that she didn't have to. She wouldn't be in London much longer, and chances were she'd never visit this place again.

“And what about you, Miss Vera? What do they address you as, here?" she asked, slightly curious. Both Amelia and Charlotte had names referencing a bird and a flower. She understood why the names were chosen: Miss Charlotte had a sort of bird-like sound to her voice when she was excited, and Miss Amelia smelled like flowers.

Miss Vera rolled her eyes, though it seemed to be in a good-natured kind of way. "Angel," she replied with a soft laugh. "It's... something of a joke between Liang and I, I suppose."

"Amusing as I find it, I'd not call it a joke, precisely." The new voice belonged to a different woman, about the same height as Miss Vera, but with lengths of exquisite dark hair and fine, gentle East Asian features. She smiled, a gesture that gracefully curved her painted lips, and slid into the booth next to the Russian woman.

"Lovely to see you again, everyone," she said smoothly, gesturing for the waitress to advance with their tray of food: sweets and tea, by the looks of it. "And I see you've brought the guest I was expecting."

She gave no indication of how she'd been expecting to see Beatrix, but graced her with a warm smile, something a bit more genuine than the artful thing she seemed to wear by default. "Miss Castine, is it?" She reached a hand across the table. "I am Liang Wu, the owner of this establishment."

Beatrix smiled softly, and briefly wondered if Miss Wu was like her, a seer. She nodded her head, though. “Beatrix Castine," she spoke, “but most people just call me Bea." Most people being her friends, at least.

“May I ask why you were expecting me, Miss Wu?" she asked. She would be lying if she said wasn't curious about it. She'd never met Miss Wu before. For her to have known Beatrix's name, she was starting to believe that Miss Wu was, indeed, like her.

Miss Wu gave a light chuckle, shaking her head faintly almost as if she could see the line of thought Beatrix was pursuing. "I have a friend," she said, accepting a cup of tea passed to her by Charlotte and lifting it to her mouth. "Within these walls, he's Mr. Kerberos, but I do believe you all call him Ramsey. He explained you'd be by eventually, and wished for me to meet you."

Taking a sip of the team, she lowered it back into the saucer. "But let us not rush. How has everyone been?"

“Exhausted," Miss Whitaker spoke first, but there was a grin on her face that suggested otherwise. “But it has been an interesting adventure," she continued, taking a drink from the tea settled in front of her. “And what of you, Miss Wu? The last time I was in here, your silent admirer had managed to move tables so that he was closer to you. Any luck with that one?" she asked, arching her brow in an inquisitive manner.

Beatrix did the same thing, and turned to face Miss Wu.

Miss Wu hummed at the question; Miss Vera outright laughed.

"No change yet," the former replied, picking up a light brown macaron between her thumb and forefinger. She contemplated it for a moment under the light, as if searching the smooth shell for imperfections. "Which is a shame; he's really quite handsome. Perhaps I shall contrive an encounter next time his nephew is in, too. Conspiracy does require fellow conspirators, after all."

She nibbled at the macaron. "Kerberos tells me you've a sort of second sight, Beatrix," she continued, tilting her head. A strand of inky hair fell forward over her shoulder. "How does it work?"

Beatrix nodded at the statement, and folded her hands across her lap. “It sort of acts on its own," she began, not entirely sure how she was going to explain this particular aspect of her gift. She'd never been properly trained in it, and Miss Marsh could only do so much. “If I have something to focus with, it makes it easier to see. Especially if it's a personal object that I'm given." She supposed it acted sort of like psychometry, in that sense, however; it wasn't quite the same.

“Other times, it just... sort of happens. Flashes, small glimpses," and it's never quite the same.

Miss Wu nodded at the explanation, sipping at her tea and finishing her macaron. In the time it took her to eat one, Charlotte had eaten about six, but no one at the table seemed to mind.

"Can you read tarot?" The club owner arched a delicate eyebrow. "Or tea leaves or the I Ching? Anything like that?"

“I can read tarot," she replied, her features brightening up. “Miss Marsh was teaching me tea leaves, but we haven't had the time to continue. I Ching isn't something I'm familiar with, but I think Miss Marsh might be. She's the same as me," but more controlled with her gift. Perhaps not as strong, as she'd mentioned once, but still the same.

“She's taught me a lot about my gift and thinks that I'll be able to get it under control in few more years," she continued. That was, of course, if she continued to study underneath Miss Marsh. It was possible that Miss Marsh and her would have to go their own way, and she wouldn't be able to continue her training.

Another slow nod. "How would you like to do that here? You and Miss Marsh? I'm always looking for new things to liven up the atmosphere, and as long as you're willing to do chores like all the other performers do, I think there's a place for both of you here."

Beatrix blinked slowly at Miss Wu. She was slightly grateful that she was seated because it felt like her legs were currently useless. The question hadn't quite registered in her mind, though, and she continued to stare blankly at Miss Wu.

“I think you've broken little Bea," Miss Whitaker spoke, handing Miss Blythe one of her macarons. The statement was enough to cause Beatrix to smile brightly, and she nodded her head, profusely.

“Of course, Miss Wu! I'd love to! I mean..." she stopped, feeling a flush of heat rise to her cheeks. “If it's not too intrusive, of course," she continued, fidgeting in her chair. If Miss Wu was serious, both Beatrix and Miss Marsh would have a place of employment. That would eliminate the need to leave London, quite so soon.

“Have you and Miss Marsh found a place to live, though?" Amelia asked, causing Beatrix to frown.

“We haven't." That, however, didn't mean they wouldn't. Miss Wu was offering them a place of employment which meant that they would be able to afford to rent a place for themselves. It, of course, was all dependent on what they actually made.

"Oh well that's hardly a problem," Miss Vera broke in, smiling brightly. "I've plenty of room in mine. Dear Ephy would never recommend someone for a job he didn't trust. I see no reason not to do the same. I believe my rates are quite reasonable." She winked then took a sip from her teacup.

“You... you'd do that for me?" Beatrix asked, sending Miss Vera an incredulous look. “But... I," she couldn't finish her sentence. She didn't know what to say to that. Miss Vera and Mr. Ramsey hardly knew her, so why would they go out of their way to help her? Miss Whitaker sighed softly, handing another macaron to Charlotte.

“If they didn't think you trustworthy, Bea, they wouldn't have suggested it. If you're opposed to the idea, though, I can think of a few other places that might be willing to provide you with housing, but," she paused, glancing towards Miss Vera before returning her attention towards Beatrix. “I'd say that you'd be in good company if you chose to stay with Miss Vera."

Charlotte swallowed the remains of Amelia's macaron in just enough time to nod with some enthusiasm. "Mr. Ramsey and I live there too, and Miss Vera's son Teddy. It'd be a lot of fun if you lived with us, too!"

Miss Vera's smile nearly became a grin. "Well there you have it. More fun for everyone involved. And truly, I do love having tenants—the house is really much too big for Teddy and I alone."

Beatrix couldn't stop the tears from falling down her cheek. She could feel the smile on her face, but she didn't quite understand why these people were willing to do so much for her. She owed them in ways she'd never be able to repay. Now they were offering her employment, and a place to stay. It was a little too much for her to handle, she supposed, and she merely nodded her head.

“Well, there," Miss Whitaker spoke, leaning back into her chair with a grin that matched Miss Vera's. “It's settled, then. Welcome to the group, Bea." It wasn't quite the circus, however; Beatrix had a feeling that this place, these people... it wouldn't take long for it to feel like a home.

“Thank you."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ephraim Ramsey Character Portrait: Amelia Lancaster
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#, as written by Aethyia

London - Kent Estate
June 28, 1885 - 12:00 p.m. - Sunny & Warm
Veronika Kent

Vera hummed to herself as she went amount piping the last of her little cakes, arranging slices of strawberry in a flower-petal pattern at a jaunty angle and licking the last few traces of icing off her fingers. Making sure the plating was properly squared, she hoisted the cake and balanced the tray on the fingertips of her left hand, taking up the loaded pistol on the kitchen island with the other and tucking it into the holster at her waist.

The cake went onto her dining table, along with an array of other desserts she'd prepared that morning. Amelia had been kind enough to inform her that Lord Lancaster had something of a sweet tooth; as it happened, Vera had a talent for sweets.

She thought they'd be a nice consolation when she utterly destroyed him on the range.

Straightening herself, Vera brushed down her pale blue skirts, straightening the line of her dove-grey corset and making sure the laces were still properly in place. Her hair was arranged into a tight braid in the French style, one that trailed all the way to her waist. It was easier to shoot without extra weight on her head, and as she expected to actually fire on challenging targets today, she'd planned accordingly.

The heels of her boots clicked along the wood of her foyer, and she paused before crossing the midpoint of the room. The drapes were hanging properly, the floor and banisters were polished, the carpet had been run over with the new steam cleaner... Teddy and Ephy were helping get the targets set up in the yard, including some of them in her rarely-used back lot, around the sniper's nest.

Now all she really had to do was... wait for him to appear. The little flip in the pit of her stomach almost made Vera laugh at herself. Had it really been so long since she'd enjoyed the thrill of a real competition?

As it happened, the sound of hooves hitting the pavement signaled the arrival of Lord Lancaster. From the sounds of it, though, it was only one horse. He must have ridden to her estate without the escort of a carriage. It made sense, considering it wasn't Amelia joining her, but rather Lord Lancaster. He didn't need an escort as Amelia did. He was led inside by a staff member, and his eyes glanced over her dwelling before landing on her.

“Lady Kent," he called to her, bowing slightly before straightening back up. “You've a lovely home," he stated, his eyes moving to the side as if he were still taking in the home.

Vera found herself smiling without having to force it, as small talk so often required her to do. "Lord Lancaster," she replied, answering the bow with a curtsy of her own. "Thank you very much. I would offer to show you a greater part of it, but if you're quite amenable I do believe that my boarders have been preparing the set for our challenge this afternoon. If perhaps you'd like to shoot first and have tea afterwards?"

Lord Lancaster's lips twitched slightly upward, though he looked like he was refraining from smiling completely. Perhaps from a sort of confidence in his own abilities without knowing her skills? “That would be considerate, but not necessary. I wouldn't want to impose on your generosity more than I already have," he spoke, his eyes falling back to her. His smile smoothed out at the end of the statement.

“If you'd be so kind as to lead the way," he stated, referring, perhaps, to the area where the challenge was to take place.

Vera only smiled a little, confident that she could persuade him to change his mind later. But still, first things were first, and she led him back out the front door and towards the yard.

It seemed that the others had finished setting the targets at the pistol range, fresh paper ones attached to bales of hay at the end of a long corridor. Presently, it was only Ephy and Teddy, who were seeing to the selection of pistols she'd chosen from her collection, in case Lord Lancaster had not brought his own.

"I do believe some introductions are in order," Vera said with a brighter smile. "Lord Lancaster, I do believe you've met Mr. Ramsey already?"

Ephraim nodded, both a form of confirmation to her and greeting to her guest. "Your Lordship." Titles always sounded so strange in his tone of voice, as though he didn't quite believe what he was saying despite saying it with apparent respect.

"This, on the other hand, is my son Teddy. Or I suppose Lord Theodore Kent, if we're being particularly fastidious."

Teddy scrunched his nose in the familiar fashion at the use of his nickname in front of company, but he did carefully set down the gun he was loading, flipping the safety first and then wiping his hands off on a linen cloth. He strode over as well as he could stride—though fourteen years old, he was already nearly her height, and only about three inches shorter than the gentleman he approached. That said, there was a certain teenage lankiness of limb to him that made his youth abundantly clear.

Still, he stuck out his hand in greeting as he was entitled to do, even if Lord Lancaster was of a much more prominent position than either of them were. "Lancaster," he said with a bit of a grin. "Nice to meet you in the flesh."

“Lady Kent mentioned you during her visit," he spoke, briefly glancing towards Vera before turning his attention back to Teddy. “A pleasure to meet you as well, Lord Kent," he spoke, taking Teddy's hand into his own in a firm handshake. He released it shortly after, and his hand fell back to his side.

“I see that your mother taught you well," he spoke, motioning towards the gun Teddy had set down earlier. “You must be as talented as she is," he continued.

Teddy grinned broadly. "I'm pretty good, but not nearly as much as—"

Vera's eyes widened; behind Lord Lancaster, she made a sharp gesture, bringing her finger to her lips in the universal signal for silence.

"—as my mom," Teddy finished, not entirely smoothly, but not too awkwardly either. "More of a fencer than a shooter, if I'm being totally honest." He had still, of course, learned how to fire and how to maintain a weapon, but Vera was happy to let him follow his inclinations in this respect.

"We've an assortment to choose from for this first bit if you've not brought your own, Lord Lancaster," Vera added. It was quite possible that he carried his own pistol, though he was obviously not currently in possession of a rifle, which would be the next part, so she'd made sure her full arsenal was available for that.

"I do believe the British infantry favored the Hansen rimfire models? I've a pair if you're inclined, but it is rather a disadvantage over my Stepanovs." She winked; as old as military rivalries were, there were plenty of dimensions to go with, and everyone tended to think their country made the superior equipment.

Lord Lancaster raised a brow to that. “Perhaps because the people who handled them were far too indelicate with them," he spoke, the smile on his face smoothing out to something more akin to a smirk. “I may not have favored a rifle in my time with the military," he spoke, pausing briefly to glance over the array of weapons Vera had collected for their challenge.

“But I did know how to handle a pistol and make the best of what I had. Different models require a different approach, as you may be aware, Lady Kent," he continued, a sort of challenge in his tone as he spoke.

Was that...? Vera found herself momentarily thrown, unsure if he'd intended his words to have the double meaning she could read into them. Whether intentional or not, the banter did amuse her, and she didn't think it would hurt to reply in kind.

Keeping her tone similarly ambiguous, she shrugged. "That's all very true, of course," she said, sliding her pistol from its holster and checking the ammunition, as though she hadn't already done so twice already. "But you must surely also concede that some models are just... outright superior." She smiled, just a touch coyly. Let him wonder if there was a bit of entendre to her words.

"And in this particular matter, I'm afraid the experts do agree: the Russian is far more faithful and lovely a companion than her ungainly English counterpart."

He hummed softly, but shook his head. “Faithful and lovely, I will concede, however," he spoke, reaching to his side holster and retreiving his own pistol. “The precision and power behind the English counterpart are all that are required when you have something to prove."

He mimicked her actions, checking the ammunition and the barrel before holding it to his side. “Shall we see which is truly the superior one?" he asked, not bothering to hide the small smile that was on his face. Whether it was intentional or not, he made no show of letting Vera know.

Vera returned the expression, clicking her ammo cartridge into place. "I know it's typically ladies first, but I would feel rather inhospitable if I did not allow my guest his choice of lane and the first shot. Please, milord, do go right ahead."

Lord Lancaster inclined his head and turned his attention towards range. After making a decision, he made his way towards a target. He stood still for a moment, as if he were trying to get a read on the distance from his target, and where he stood. He lifted his pistol to take aim, but did not fire it, immediately. He adjusted his wrist, as if he were going to aim slightly higher, and pulled the trigger. The mark wasn't too far off from the center; even from this distance it was easy to tell. With a satisfied smile, he turned to Vera.

“Lady Kent," he spoke, lowering the pistol to his side and stepping away from his position.

It was an impressive shot, to say the least. Even with the latest advancements, pistols were not typically accurate beyond fifty or so feet in the hands of anyone but an expert, and the target was fifty meters away from the two of them.

Vera nodded in acknowledgment when Lord Lancaster stepped back, slotting herself into the same position he'd occupied, setting the toe of her boot on his mark. Lifting the gun one-handed, she sighted down the elongated barrel with both eyes and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet flew exactly as she'd aimed it, striking her target dead-center. As was duly reasonable, she fired twice more, to ensure it was no mere stroke of luck. The next two rounds, the placed just above and just below the first, so as not to risk ricochet.

Tucking her pistol back into its holster, Vera turned over her shoulder and winked playfully. "Fair's fair, Lord Lancaster. Have two more, and then we'll total the score."

The look on Lord Lancaster's face spoke of mild surprise, but he managed to smooth it out. He returned to his original position, his eyes narrowing slightly as he raised his pistol once more. He didn't fire, immediately, and instead, kept his eyes on the target in front of him. He fiddled with the trigger for a moment before raising the pistol slightly higher. Once he was apparently comfortable, he pulled the trigger, the bullet missing the center by just a few inches.

He frowned slightly and aimed slightly higher. The bullet missed the center, again, by an inch, this time. He sighed softly, and turned to Vera. “I must concede that you, Lady Kent, are a far better shot than I am," he spoke with a sort of rough edge to his voice. It wasn't harsh, but it sounded upset about something.

If she didn't know any better, she might suppose that he was pouting a bit. "If I may say so, Lord Lancaster, I fear I'm a rather high bar." Her response was not unkind, not meant to rub it in, either. Just a fact—with a shot like that, he was leagues better than most. Amelia certainly wasn't that good yet, and she had a gift for it.

The showing with the rifles was much the same, and when that was done, Vera saw the opportunity to spring her trap. "If I may, Lord Lancaster... I fear I've made rather too much for tea, but both my son and my tenant seem to have disappeared." This was, of course, because she had not told them to stay, and no doubt Teddy was following Ephy around, asking him questions about everything he did.

"I would consider it a personal favor to myself if you'd stay just a little while more and take it with me?" She smiled, somewhere between apologetic and hopeful, though she wasn't sure if she'd entirely intended to look that way or if it had just... happened.

His lips were pursed together, as if he were going to refuse her offer, however; a small tilt of his lips suggested otherwise. “Tea sounds fine, Lady Kent," he spoke, his voice softer than it had been before. He shook his head as if to himself, and glanced up so that he was keeping Vera's gaze. “If you'd be so kind as to lead the way, I'm afraid I am not acquainted with your home," he paused abruptly, almost as if he were going to add to the sentence.

He followed Vera to the dining table where she'd set up before his arrival, and his eyes widened slightly at the assortment. They, however, were not the only ones in the immediate area. “Amelia?" he stated, catching her off guard as she held one of the strawberry petals in her hands. She blinked mildly at her father before a bright smile bloomed on her face.

“What are you doing here? I thought you didn't have a piano lesson today?" he asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at his daughter. Amelia merely grinned, and straightened herself back out.

“I came to see Lady Kent's collection of music sheets. She has a large selection to choose from and I thought I'd try practicing more of the advanced techniques," she stated, her eyes sliding to Vera.

Vera grinned, though she tried not to make it too obvious, as it was a tad incongruous with the circumstances. "And you're welcome to any of them, of course," she said mildly, giving Amelia a conspiratorial wink when Lord Lancaster wasn't looking. "My library is modest, but there are some interesting things to be found in it, if I do say so."

It was far more likely that Amelia was reading through her texts on anatomy or history or whatever other subject Ephy had her studying as part of her apprenticeship, and indeed she decided it was likely that the library's interests currently included the demon and her son both, but this of course she would never say aloud.

"Feel free to take a cake or two back with you, dear, in case you get a bit peaky later." Or rather, in case the three of them did.

“Thank you, Miss Vera," she stated, reaching for two slices of cake, and one apple tart. She immediately ducked back out of the room, though, before Lord Lancaster could say anything about her mode of address. She spoke a little quickly, and from the look on Lord Lancaster's face, it probably didn't register.

“She has taken quite a shine to you, Lady Kent," he spoke with a sort of melancholy to his voice, as if he were remembering another time. “Your tutoring has been beneficial for her," he continued, glancing back towards Vera.

Vera settled herself at the head of the table, serving herself a slice of the light, fluffy angel food cake next to the pear tarts and blackberry cobbler. She'd spent quite some time quizzing Amelia on her father's preferences, and while she figured the peppermint-chocolate ganache she'd layered over a small chocolate cake would be the biggest success, she did try to have a little of everything available.

She tilted her head slightly at the hint of sadness in his tone, but waited until Alice, her cook, had brought in the tea itself and left before she replied. "She's a joy to teach, Lord Lancaster," she replied quietly, for once not inflecting her voice with too much flair or humor. "Young women—young people, really—of Amelia's talents and drive are rare. I fear she hardly needs my instruction at all, only a place and time to apply herself to improvement."

“You would not be wrong in your deduction, Lady Kent," he spoke, his smile smoothing out a bit. “I would surmise that is mostly my fault," he continued, pouring himself a cup of tea before setting it down. “She was taught things a Lady ought not to know," he paused, his eyes flickering to Vera for a moment before they settled on one of the pear tarts. He reached for one, inspected it, but did not immediately eat it.

“Her mother passed when she was born. Any tutelage she would have received to be a proper Lady was lost to her, because of it," he spoke a little solemnly at that, though not for the loss of Amelia's mother. Perhaps more-so the loss of what Amelia would have learned if her mother was alive. “So I pushed her to learn other things; things that I could teach her."

It wasn't an unconventional way of thinking about such a situation, though Vera couldn't say she agreed. Not that traditional men were usually the best at changing their minds, but she thought perhaps she had an inroad, if she made delicate use of it.

Pausing to finish the bite she'd taken while he spoke, Vera hummed softly, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. "Well, as someone who has taken multiple meals with her, I do not find her to be lacking in comportment," she said softly. "And I find that her keenness of mind and inclination towards learning is more admirable and necessary than any particular penchant for etiquette and embroidery. Those things can be learned at any stage, but there is no turning a dull person into a bright one. You've raised a very bright daughter, and if I may say so, you've a right to be proud. Both of her and yourself."

He chuckled softly at her statement. “James would beg to differ," he stated, some humor to his tone. “But you are right, I am very proud of her. I'm sure you must feel the same way with Lord Kent. He being without his father," he stated before taking a bite from one of the pear tarts he'd taken. His eyes widened slightly in mild surprise, though he looked pleased about the taste since he took another, quick bite.

Vera smiled, enough that her eyes crinkled at the corners. "I've got things to get through that boy's head yet," she said, letting a bit of levity return to the conversation. "But he's given me much to be proud of, yes." Gently, she set her cake fork down, watching with some amusement as he ate the tart. She was gratified by his enjoyment—few things were as satisfying to Vera as others taking pleasure in something she had done or made.

Well, there was the satisfaction of a precise bulls-eye, of course, but that wasn't much of a challenge anymore unless she went out of her way to make it one.

"We do what we can alone, I suppose," she mused. "Though I daresay between your Mr. Delaney and my Ms. Adams, there's help enough to make it work." Though she had few staff, Vera appreciated their work a great deal, and knew from experience that even having the three made running her household possible in a way it would not otherwise be.

She picked up her cup of tea and took a slow sip.

“In this, you are correct," he stated, having finished off the last of his tart before glancing back at Vera. “My compliments to your pâtissier," he stated, his eyes trailing back to the sweets, and reaching for one of the blackberry tarts. “They are quite appetizing," he added before taking a bite from the new tart. He seemed to enjoy that one as well, since he grabbed another, perhaps momentarily forgetting his manners.

Vera laughed—and she was sure it was a laugh, only somehow the sound that came out was a giggle of all things. She could not remember the last time she'd heard herself do it, and she momentarily stunned herself into silence, blinking and hiding as much of her face as possible behind the teacup. Dear One, was she fourteen again somehow?

Clearing her throat, she managed a more demure smile. "I accept them, in that case," she replied. It was sort of funny, that he should again say something to her about her without knowing. Though perhaps the pastries were a bit less surprising than the sniping.

Lord Lancaster nearly choked on the bite he'd been working on, and tapped his chest. He took a drink from his tea before he managed to calm down from the coughing. “You," he began, taking in a slow breath in order to catch it, it seemed. “You have many talents, it seems. Now I see why Amelia is so taken with you," he managed to clear his throat once more, though his face was slightly red. Whether that was from the near-choking experience or something else, was hard to tell.

“In any case, perhaps..." he paused once more, clearing his throat a third time before meeting Vera's gaze, “we could do this another time. A fencing lesson, perhaps?"

But goodness, his eyes were so very blue. Not a pale, sky-ice version of the shade like hers, either. No, this was ocean-water, azure blue, with a depth to it.

Vera caught herself staring, and it was her turn to clear her throat a bit and glance down, feeling the slightest of heat rising on her cheeks. She was being daft—if she weren't careful, the poor fellow was like as not to think she'd taken some kind of fancy to him!

"Mayhap a match first?" she asked, almost shyly. "I am perhaps due a touch of comeuppance for subjecting you to my own specialty today. I should delight in a lesson after my inevitable defeat, however." Her smile was likewise a little softer than she intended it, but she hadn't chased him away thus far, so she didn't think it would hurt.

If he were feeling shy, he didn't show it. His smile turned into a grin as he continued to hold her gaze. “Perhaps in the same amount of time? Two weeks?" he asked, his brow arching almost in an inquisitive manner.

"It's a plan, Lord Lancaster."

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Character Portrait: Khalil Jaziri Character Portrait: Beatrix Castine
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London - The Red Moon
June 28, 1885 - 22:11 p.m. - Drizzle
Dorian Graham

Dorian sighed heavily into his drink. He could almost hear his nephew laughing at his current predicament. Considering that Khalil was currently amusing himself in the company of two women, it might have been a little strange to some people. Dorian couldn't read minds, and he certainly didn't have the hearing of a dhampir, or what-have-you. He just knew his nephew better than most. And considering the establishment they were currently visiting, he didn't blame Khalil; not in the slightest. The reason for his visit, though, sat at a table not too far from him.

With raven hair, a beautiful smile that could light up a room... it was difficult to even breathe in her presence. The Eastern features to her face only seemed to accentuate the sort of femininity most women couldn't acheive.

And he was a captive fool.

“You know, staring at someone is considered an unflattering trait in people," Khalil spoke, sliding into one of the empty seats in front of Dorian. Dorian merely pursed his lips at Khalil, and gave him a flat look. “I'm just saying; if you were a woman and a guy was staring at you like you were a piece of meat, you'd be put off by it, too," he continued, leaning forward on his hands.

“I'm not... is that true?" Dorian asked, his eyes widening slightly. Was that the reason she didn't talk to him? Because she found him repulsive? Khalil let out a bark of laughter, drawing eyes to their table in the process as Dorian tried to quiet him. “Shh, Khalil! We don't want to seem stranger than we already are!" he pleaded, causing Khalil to laugh a bit louder.

“Dor, have you not seen the place we're in?"

He had a point.

“She'll never talk to me, now, if she thinks I'm a... zahf," he spoke the last word in his native tongue. He wasn't entirely sure how to pronounce it in the language they spoke in London.

“Yeah, Dor, she thinks you're a creep," Khalil stated, rolling his eyes. “Look, just go talk to her; say hi if you can, and don't stare too long that you start drooling. She's right over there."

That was easier said than done, though.

She was presently occupied, it seemed, helping an unfamiliar girl adjust the way her dress lay on her shoulders. She was wearing a little gentle smile, and the way she shifted the garment gently on the girl's shoulders suggested genuine affection and care.

"Qipao are quite new even to me," she explained, shifting her hands up to neaten the fitted collar with long, delicate fingers. "Apparently they're all the rage in Shanghai now, the result of some new innovation in machine weaving. If it turns out to be too uncomfortable, please let me know. It's certainly not your uniform."

Apparently satisfied, she gave the girl a little nod, pulling part of her blonde hair forward over her shoulder. "There. Better?"

The young girl nodded her head and smiled brightly in return. “Yes, it is. Thank you," she started, and Dorian's eyes widened slightly. He was about to hear her name for the first time. Khalil wouldn't give it to him for some unknown reason, but here was his chance. “Miss—"

“Dorian!" and his heart dropped. “I'm talking to you," Khalil continued as Dorian turned towards his nephew, eyes slightly downcast towards the table. “Thought it'd be that easy, didn't you?" he spoke, his lips tilting slightly into a grin. “You've got to ask it straight from the horse's mouth if you want to know her name."

“She's not a horse, you twat," Dorian spoke, narrowing his eyes at Khalil. Khalil simply laughed it off but Dorian took a drink from his cup before setting it back onto the table. It was at this point, the young girl who'd been talking earlier, appeared with her, and Dorian felt his throat tighten a bit.

“Good evening, I'm Sibyl! Could I interest you in a reading?" she spoke, smiling just as brightly as she had been, before.

“What kind of reading?"

“A tarot one, if you're interested. I can do past, present, and future, or even your love life!"

“He wants one."

Dorian didn't have the chance to decline since the young woman slipped into one of the empty seats, and pulled out a deck of tarot cards.

Next to his arm, however, another drink appeared, this one in a fine-stemmed wineglass. From the scent alone, it was one of the oaken, full-bodied whites he preferred, with an unusual note of... vanilla? The hand that placed it led up to the amused expression and quirked eyebrow of her, at least until she let go of it.

"His generosity is noticed, and appreciated," she said, the words themselves suggesting that it was a response to Khalil. Her eyes—dark grey, nearly black—did not leave Dorian's, however. "Sibyl is only just beginning her work with us, and finds herself in need of a friendly face to practice on. I thought perhaps one of our dear regulars might not object." Her voice was like silk, smooth and rich.

"If you've no objections, I should like to sit in as well."

It was decided that the One was, indeed, a cruel One.

Those eyes... he could get lost in them for days. Years, even. The young woman, Sibyl, nodded her head in an enthusiastic manner, though, drawing Dorian away from her and towards Sibyl. “And since Mr. Khalil is someone I am acquainted with, if you'd be agreeable to it, I'd like to practice with you, Mr..." she trailed off, obviously asking for Dorian's name.

“Do... Dori," he tried to sputter out. He cleared his throat, slightly thankful for the darkness of his skin and of the room. He was almost certain his cheeks were slightly heated from his current debacle. “Dorian Graham," he finally managed out, causing Sibyl to nod her head.

“If you'd be so kind as to cut the deck, Mr. Dorian, I can begin working on your reading. Oh, but which kind would you like to know?"

“Definitely the future of his non-existent love-life," Khalil chimed in, causing Sibyl to giggle.

“I'm not sure what you mean by that, Mr. Khalil. Mr. Dorian's love-life just needs the right push, is all," she stated, causing Dorian to clear his throat in an awkward manner. Khalil didn't bother hiding the bark of laughter that left him.

She settled into a spot next to Sibyl, setting her own glass of wine—red, something fruity—down on the tabletop and folding her hands neatly on the surface. Apparently she was content mostly to observe the reading, as she'd said, though it seemed like her eyes flickered towards him more than once.

He swallowed thickly, and allowed his eyes to focus on Sibyl. He did as Sibyl asked of him, and shuffled the cards. He wasn't particularly thrilled with the subject of his tarot card reading, however; he couldn't exactly change it. If he did, he knew Khalil would try and revert it back, or call him some name that'd cause Dorian to suck it up and do it. And that was what Dorian was going to do. He'd allow Sibyl to read his tarot for love. He was beginning to think he didn't even have a chance at a normal one considering the person he was interested didn't seem remotely interested in him. The occasional eye contact didn't mean anything... or so that's what he thought.

“Alright Mr. Dorian, I'm going to need you to focus a bit on the cards, and project your thoughts and feelings into them. Once you do, I'll draw three of them, and we'll go from there. Are you ready?" she asked, causing Dorian to take in a deep breath.

He nodded.

“Great. Now, just focus as I shuffle through them," she spoke, and Dorian did his best to keep his thoughts in the right place. Even if it was a bit difficult with her in such close proximity. Once she was finished shuffling, she drew her first card. “Interesting," she stated, placing it down so that Dorian could see it. “This card is your past, and is The Knight of Pentacles. It symbolizes the virtues of patience, honor, and dependability. Having this in your spread means you possess these qualities as well," she spoke, smiling in his direction.

“You're not entirely off." Thankfully, she ignored Khalil, and continued.

“In this particular position, it tells me that the difficulties you have experienced in your love life have helped you to grow. You shouldn't give up on your aspirations, Mr. Dorian," she stated happily, glancing in her direction.

For her part, the club's mysterious owner smiled slightly over the rim of her wineglass before taking a sip. Oddly, her complexion seemed a little flush, though it wasn't especially warm in the room at the moment. She didn't seem to be intoxicated, either—Dorian was very familiar with the signs of that affliction.

"Aspirations, is it?" she said, so softly he almost missed the words. She arched a delicate eyebrow at him. "Those are always nice to have. What of his present, dear Sibyl?"

Beatrix smiled almost in a knowing way, and nodded her head. She drew a second card, and allowed the smile on her face to stretch further across. “This one, Mr. Dorian, represents your present and will give you some insight to your situation," she stated, showing him the card. “It's the Star." He would admit, he was a little unfamiliar with the tarot reading, but Sibyl seemed to know what she was doing.

“What does that mean?" he asked.

“The Star represents renewal for you, Mr. Dorian. It's a positive sign, especially if you or someone close to you is recovering from an illness or injury of some sort. It's also stating to conserve your energies, that way it'll lead to the best balance of extroversion. Finding someone to love is sometimes easiest when you're emotionally available to others. In your case, Mr. Dorian, it's having the strength to do something first."

He had to do something first? What did that mean? Again, she glanced in her direction, causing Dorian to do the same thing.

She looked back at Sibyl with almost a hint of remonstrance in her expression, about as gentle as it could be. "You don't need my approval, dear Sibyl, I think you're doing quite fine. It's solid advice besides—most people admire a fellow with a little initiative." The subtle reproach became the faintest hint of... challenge? Though it wasn't clear who it was aimed at.

"Perhaps you'd care to tell Dr. Graham of his future now?"

Sibyl seemed a little excited, and drew the last card. She didn't immediately show it, but whatever it was, it caused her to giggle. “This last card is your future, Mr. Dorian. It's the Wheel of Fortune. It speaks to good beginnings. If you continue down this path, this will inevitably lead you to spontaneous events that are rare opportunities to meet someone new. It'll lead you towards companionship, and if you see the value in all things, you will grow," she spoke, causing the familiar heat in Dorian's cheeks to return.

Khalil, however, couldn't seem to hold back his laughter any longer, and had to wipe something away from his eyes. “I told you she'd be good," he spoke, directing his attention towards her.

It... was a lot to take in, on Dorian's side. He was fairly certain she spoke his name, but his mind was currently swimming with all of the information Sibyl had given him.

"Very good, Sibyl," she said with a sly little smile. "Perhaps now you could read Mr. Jaziri's fortune, hm?" It was as if she sensed the need for Dorian to consider things and neatly turned away the two people most likely to crowd him.

In fact, the way the smile gentled when she turned her eyes to him, it was almost certain. "Do try the wine, Dr. Graham. I believe it will be to your liking. Perhaps especially at this moment?"

He took her advice, and grabbed the glass of wine. Perhaps he should have taken his time with it, however; he downed the glass as quickly as he possibly could. It wasn't his finest moment, but his throat was dry, and his own current emotional state wasn't quite where it should have been. Sibyl, however, motioned for Khalil to follow her elsewhere, perhaps to read his fortune from a different table.

That left them. Alone.

He fumbled with the empty glass, refusing to glance at her. Everything Sibyl had spoken of, was, in a sense, true. He needed to do something, say something to banish the awkward feeling he currently felt. It didn't help that he was also nervous. “Thank you for the wine," he finally managed out, though he didn't get a chance to actually enjoy it.

"You're welcome, of course." With his gaze adhered to his hands, he couldn't see her face, but it wasn't hard to tell that she was amused by something. It didn't seem to be mean-spirited though. In his peripheral vision, one of her hands moved, her thumb smoothing a droplet of wine away from the rim of her glass.

"You've been a regular here for... oh it must be about eight months now, yes? Since perhaps November of last year or so?" It seemed like a question she knew the answer to, as her tone suggested musing rather than uncertainty. "I hope it's been to your enjoyment; even if perhaps Khalil is the reason for it?"

Dorian was certain his heart was going to beat right out of his chest. It was thrumming loudly in his ears, and he swallowed thickly. Had she noticed for that long? Taking in a soft breath, he finally forced himself to glance up at her, his eyes meeting hers, and did his best to keep the glance as professional as he could. It figured that she knew Khalil's name, considering that his nephew was the reason Dorian even knew about The Red Moon.

“I didn't think I was that memorable," he finally spoke. “I'm his uncle, Dorian Graham," he finally introduced himself to her. Finally took that first step. And it didn't feel as liberating as he thought it would. If anything, it felt like his chest was tighter, and it was getting hard to breathe properly.

"You are," she said simply, though it was ambiguous whether she was telling him he was in fact memorable, or just confirming that she'd already known his name. Her smile was nothing more than a quirk of her lips, but she did extend her free hand forward over the table towards him.

"And I am Liang Wu, owner of the Red Moon. It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Dorian Graham." She tilted her head, and a lock of smooth hair fell forward over one delicate shoulder.

For a brief second, Dorian felt a little stupid. He stared at her hand before it registered exactly what had happened, and what he was supposed to do. He leaned slightly forward, and grabbed her hand, gently. He could feel a fine tremor go through his body before he placed a chaste kiss to the back of her hand, and settled back into his seat.

Part of him was slightly ecstatic that he'd finally learned her name, and the other part still felt slightly inebriated. Slow. Stupid. He couldn't get his thoughts set properly.

“It is a..." he paused, and cleared his throat. “It's a pleasure to finally meet you as well, Lady Wu," he stated, cursing himself momentarily for the mode of address. But he didn't particularly care, either. To him, she was a Lady.

She drew her hand back gently, ducking her head slightly for some reason that wasn't clear. "Truly," she said, voice soft and perhaps a trifle uncertain. "Miss is quite fine, if a title is needed. All told, I prefer Liang." She took a sip of the wine quite quickly; it would seem that something had pinked her cheeks.

Dorian felt his lips twitch, and before he knew it, he was smiling. “Liang," he spoke, testing out the way her name felt on his lips. He rather liked it. Perhaps too much. “If that is what you prefer, then I shall respect your wishes, Liang," he continued, the smile on his face growing wider. He could feel his eyes narrowing with the force of it.

She almost looked relieved when she smiled that time, something a little brighter, like something as simple as hearing her name made her happy enough to justify it.

"In that case, you've my gratitude... Dorian."

“For you, always," he replied. If he were slightly more sober, he'd have realized the words he'd spoken were a bit more intimate than he'd anticipated. As it were, he was simply happy enough that she'd called him Dorian, and that he had permission to use her first name. First step, perhaps that was what Sibyl meant when she told him that was what he needed.

Perhaps he ought to take more steps, but for now, he'd satisfy himself with this: knowing her name at last.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ephraim Ramsey Character Portrait: Beatrix Castine
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#, as written by Aethyia

London - Red Moon Cabaret Club
June 30, 1885 - 20:00 p.m. - Rain
Ephraim Ramsey

Ephraim paused to hang his hat on an empty hook at the front of the Red Moon, casting his eyes over the room. Though this was just nearing the beginning of peak hours for the establishment, he knew there would not be a large crowd tonight. It was raining, and besides that it was a week night, which always meant less business, considering how many of Liang's regulars had to work early the next morning.

He took his customary seat at the usual table, ordering only a glass of whiskey from the waitress. Jezebel, tonight; someone who liked to wear a rather blasphemous name boldly. No doubt she like many of those who worked here was none too fond of the Church.

He found the specific person he was looking for at another table, apparently reading the fortune of a guest. Miss Castine looked to be comfortable, and in her element. He of course did not disturb her, though he did make brief eye contact and nod, so that she would know he was present. If she did not desire to speak with him or was too busy, that was of course her own business.

As it was, she spotted him and smiled brightly in his direction. She continued with her fortune, finishing it up with a small flourish as the person she was entertaining, clapped softly. They seemed satisfied with whatever she'd told them, and she seemed to excuse herself. Once she was closer to Ephraim, she waved cheerfully and slid into the open seat in front of him.

“Mr. Ramsey!" she greeted, still wearing the smile on her face. It wasn't quite like Charlotte's, innocent, but it was, nonetheless, genuine. “What brings you here?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Somehow he hadn't quite been expecting the direct query. Ephraim blinked, then lifted his shoulders in an approximation of a human shrug. A strange piece of gestural communication that his kind were not natively socialized to use. He still had to think about them, sometimes.

When Jezebel returned with his glass and a smile, he nodded his thanks to her, and tilted it slightly towards Miss Castine in the air. "A few things. This is one of them." Typically he did not have much fondness for spirits, but some of them had an appealing enough taste. Even though he could not himself become intoxicated by them.

"You seem to be settling in well," he observed, studying the pattern of her clothing for a moment. It was certainly more well-made than what she'd worn for circus purposes, but then Liang was herself a gifted tailor and would have insisted upon as much. "Is it to your liking?"

She smiled a little ruefully, but nodded her head. “Miss Liang has been a wonderful host," she began, folding her hands out in front, but keeping them tucked closely to her. “And I do like it here," she continued, but it was obvious enough in the tone of her voice that she wasn't quite used to it. She kept her gaze focused on her hands, and the smile on her lips was nothing more than a thin line, now.

“I suppose in any new environment, I still have a lot of adjusting to do," she stated, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. “But I have you, Miss Amelia, Mr. Khalil, and Miss Charlotte to thank for that, especially you," the smile returned to her face at that statement. “I wouldn't have had a place if it weren't for you speaking to Miss Liang."

She was factually correct on this point, of course. But he wasn't sure her implications were entirely apropos, and considered his next words while he took a slow sip from the glass. As usual, his lenses stopped the presence of his death clock, and so he was not distracted reading the numbers associated with anyone he saw. It was a hard habit to break, and one he found made interacting with humans and their ilk... strange, in a certain way.

He'd seen hers; he just didn't really want to know if it changed. It might well have—her life was no doubt on an entirely new trajectory now.

"Would you do a reading for me?" he asked, tilting his chin at her deck. Perhaps unlike other customers who asked the same question, he did so in full seriousness and with a respect for the gift that would ensure her answers meant something.

“Of course," she replied, holding out the deck in front of her as her eyes narrowed slightly in delight. “It's the least I can do for you after all you've done for me," she continued as she shuffled the deck. She stopped suddenly, though, and glanced back up at him.

“Oh, but what kind of reading would you like, Mr. Ramsey?" she asked, tilting her head with the query. “Many of the patrons here like to know what their love life looks like. I hardly ever get requests for their future, in general," she stated, her nose scrunching slightly at the previous statement. It seemed she found some humor in it all.

He gave this a moment's consideration. Not between the options presented—the idea that he should ask about romantic prospects verged on unintelligible, as he was a demon of all things—but between a few he'd had in mind.

"I'm... looking for something," he said after a long moment. It was not something he'd ever told anyone else on this plane, and even what he could say now would be by necessity vague. "I cannot name it, exactly, because I do not know what it is. I am unsure if you would be able to work with something so unclear even to me. If not, I suppose a read of the future would suffice instead."

Miss Castine hummed softly for a moment, and remained fixed on Ephraim. It was as if she were studying him for something else, some underlying factor of some sort. “Given its nature," she began, her eyes going back to the tarot deck, “I don't think I can be of much use, however; I might be able to give you some insight if it's something you focus on as I divine your future."

She continued to shuffle the deck until she was, apparently satisfied. “Focus on what it is you are looking for as you cut the deck. Also," she paused, briefly meeting his gaze. “If you have something personal, something that you think might be of future help or use, can you place it in the center of the table?" she asked.

“It'll help with my focus," she added, handing the tarot deck to Ephraim.

Ephraim didn't make a habit of attaching sentiment to objects, an extension of his general tendency not to attach sentiment to anything. But if it would help, he supposed the closest thing he had was in fact on hand. Reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, he withdrew a pocketwatch, the silvered face of its cover engraved with the same ornate cross as he sometimes wore on the lapel of his coat.

It was, properly speaking, the Gehennan Cross, though as with many other symbols from before the time of Unification, the Church of the One had appropriated devices that looked similar enough that it was easily mistaken for an expression of mainstream religious faith.

Never mind that it really symbolized something so much older and realer than anything a priest could conjure for the masses.

He set it carefully on the table, detaching the chain from his pocket as well and then cutting the deck.

Where can I find the thing that disturbs the balance?

Once he handed the deck back to Miss Castine, she shuffled it once more. She drew a card and placed it near his pocket watch, a frown adorning her lips. She drew another one, and placed it beside the first card, and repeated the process until she had six cards drawn. She seemed confused about something, and her brows furrowed deeply.

“I don't... understand," she mused out loud, though it seemed like something she was thinking about rather than speaking to Ephraim. “What you seek isn't here," she began, tilting her head in confusion as she continued to stare at the cards. “But at the same time, it's close by. It's almost as if you're in the right place, but it's not quite here, in this time."

She finally glanced up at Ephraim, her head still tilted in a confused manner. Her eyes narrowed slightly at him before they seemed to gloss over. She remained that way for a few minutes before she finally blinked. Her eyes fell to her hands before she glanced away from him. “I'm not sure what time it could be in, though. It's not entirely clear."

"That's fine," Ephraim said, shaking his head faintly. "If it is not now, it is later. If it had already been, we would know." He did not specify who the we was; he hadn't even meant to say it as such.

"Have you any hint as to its nature?"

She shook her head. “I'm afraid I don't, but," she paused, chewing the bottom of her lip with uncertainty. “It... might be connected to someone you know," she finally spoke after a brief period of silence. “I didn't see who it was, but it's someone close to you. If not now, sometime in the near-future," she continued, her brows smoothing out slightly.

Someone he already knew. If true, that narrowed the field considerably, though 'related' was a very vague word. Still, he appreciated that her art was not a science, and only nodded slightly in return. "That in itself is very helpful, thank you."

Turning slightly, he caught Jezebel's eye and motioned slightly towards Miss Castine. If he was going to keep her here, he might as well at least provide a glass of whatever she liked to drink, alcohol or otherwise. The Red Moon also served an extensive collection of teas, coffees, and fruit juices, though as far as he knew, the last were typically mixed with the intoxicants.

She fidgeted in her seat a moment, the frown on her face no longer there, and replaced with something more curiosity than anything. “If I may say, Mr. Ramsey," she spoke, glancing in Jezebel's direction when she'd arrived. “Oh, maybe some jasmine tea, please," she stated before Jezebel had a chance to ask. She returned her attention to Ephraim, afterwards, and smiled somewhat.

“This person... that you're close to. They... don't mean any harm, but I think they're just lost. Confused, maybe, so... when the time comes," she paused, taking in a deep breath before she continued, “don't be too harsh with them. You'll have new friends, by then; people whom you'll trust and will trust you. One in particular who will be... I don't know the right word for it."

“Important? Friend? Something like that. They will help you through this if you let them."

His brows furrowed slightly, but Ephraim nodded anyway. He would take the words along with the others, and perhaps in time their meaning would become clear.

Jezebel returned with the tea, and he remained silent long enough for her to place it down and depart before he thinned his lips thoughtfully and finally responded. "I will bear this in mind, but the nature of the issue is—" He shook his head. He shouldn't say more. While Miss Castine was clearly aware of things beyond human ken, and no violation of the First Law was entailed by speaking to her of these matters, the First Law was not the only thing to consider here.

She smiled at him, though. “It's okay, Mr. Ephraim, I understand. It means a lot that you will at least heed the words. Whether or not you are allowed much freedom to make your own choice... I suppose it'll be enough." She took the cup that had been placed before her, and took a drink, the smile still on her face when she set it back down.

“Besides, if anything else comes up, I will let you know. Reading tarot is not the only gift I have, remember?" she stated cheerfully. “If I happen to see anything, you'll be the first to know. Although," she trailed off at the end, pursing her lips together slightly. “I don't know how inclined you may be, but, if there is something of personal value to you, other than this pocket watch, it might help focus my visions on the particular subject of what you're searching for. Only if you're able to, Mr. Ephraim."

Ephraim frowned slightly, picking up the watch. He depressed the trigger on top, opening the cover to reveal a cracked glass face. It still kept the time faithfully, though the numerals along the perimeter of the face were none a human would recognize, and it was not tracking a twenty-four hour day divided into seconds and minutes and hours. Instead there were a half-dozen hands, each currently oriented in a slightly different direction.

He closed it back over and replaced it in his pocket. "I own nothing else of personal value, Miss Castine," he replied simply. This was the one item that was always on him; nothing else would have near its psychic significance, not even one of his weapons, which he had not brought to the Red Moon. Liang was not particularly fond of them.

“That's okay, Mr. Ephraim," she replied, taking another sip of her tea. “The offer still remains: if I see anything, I'll let you know. Oh, also," she stated, setting the tea cup down and wrapping her hands around it. “I know I've probably said it too many times, but... thank you." She kept his gaze for a moment, the force of her smile narrowing her eyes a bit.

“I don't think I would have made it much longer without your help," she continued, though she didn't elaborate on what she meant by that. “You're a really nice person."

He was quite ready to nod and accept her thanks—unnecessary as he found them—but when she ended, he frowned outright. Nice was not a word anyone had ever used to describe him before. He tried to decide what part of him qualified and decided she must simply be speaking from her sense of gratitude.

Draining the last of his glass, he set it down with care, disinclined to damage Liang's table. "You are welcome," he said simply.

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Character Portrait: Ephraim Ramsey Character Portrait: Amelia Lancaster
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London - Office of Ramsey & Associates
July 2, 1885 - 10:30 a.m. - Drizzle
Amelia Lancaster

Leaving the estate under the guise of going to Miss Vera's was, perhaps, the easiest lie she'd ever had to tell her father. If he actually knew what she was doing, Amelia was certain that he'd have some massive heart failure, or he'd do something like keep her contained within the estate. Somehow, at least. She thanked the carriage driver, and slipped her umbrella outside, opening it so that it could shield her from the droplets of rain that refused to stop. The soft thudding of the rain drops against her umbrella, filled her senses until she reached the door to the office.

Once inside, she shook some of the moisture off of the umbrella before setting it down in the corner, and removed the hat she'd worn inside. Satisfied that she was not soaked, nor bringing in any excess moisture, she turned to glance into the place she'd grown familiar with.

It was slightly less familiar today, though, its layout oddly changed. Mr. Ramsey's desk was still placed in front of the back wall and the hearth as always, impeccably neat in its organization and polished in its shine, with the green wingback chair behind it.

Charlie's, too, was in the usual place to the left, nearest the door to the small kitchen. It was a little less neat, the other girl's notebook open at an angle with a pen still resting along the seam in the middle, and a few pieces of smaller alchemy gear clustered at one of the corners. But the little-used seating area that had occupied the spot across from that had been moved forward, to nearer the front door, and in its place was another desk.

This desk was of a match with the others, a rich, if gently-worn, teak wood, about of a size with Charlie's. The chair behind it was upholstered in a soft turquoise, a subtle variation in the shade making a paisley pattern in the fabric.

Mr. Ramsey stood in front of the desk, just setting down a leather-bound notebook and smooth, dark blue fountain pen in front of the chair. The desk had a large inbox and outbox sitting on it already, both empty, and what seemed to be an organizational calendar, but it was otherwise clear.

He stepped away once he'd put the items in their place, and nodded briefly to her. "Miss Lancaster."

She arched a brow, slightly confused as to the change, however; she nodded her head in return. “Ramsey," she greeted, brow still arched in slight confusion. “Are we expecting another addition?" she inquired, motioning towards the new desk. She quashed the thought of the possibility of the desk being Jaziri's. Ramsey was far too intelligent to do something like that. Jaziri also did not spend as much time at the office as she did, however; the possibility of it being her desk, did not cross her mind.

“If so, should I prepare a proper welcome for them?" she asked, referring, of course, to setting the tea so that it would be available when the mystery person arrived.

For a moment, Mr. Ramsey blinked at her, arching one eyebrow as if waiting for her to make some connection she had not seen. When it was not forthcoming, he huffed a short, soft breath through his nose. "Addition is not quite the correct word," he said, crossing back to his desk and picking up what seemed to be a thin file folder. It was simply blank manila, but he extended it out towards her.

He did not let go immediately, however, holding her eyes instead, intently enough that it was obvious the words that followed were going to be important. "You did good work on the Bianchi-Harris case. There is much you have yet to learn, but you have earned the right to learn it if you wish. This contains the terms of a more formal apprenticeship. You will want to look them over. Perhaps at your desk." He released the folder.

It was the first time he'd said anything regarding her provisional status since they'd come to the arrangement in mid-May. Though she'd offered to pay him the fee he'd asked for, he'd put it off until the end of that month and then just... not mentioned it again. It had been easy to forget about, with all the things she was learning. But it seemed she'd done something right in the month and a half she'd been here.

Amelia was glad that any emotion she was currently feeling, was not present on her face. She took the folder he'd handed her, but continued holding his gaze. She was looking for something; for this to be a jest of some sort. She knew, however, that Ramsey was not the joking kind. He rarely showed amusement of that sort, at least not outright. She'd learned to spot small details here and there, but it wasn't anything quite noteworthy. As he'd mentioned, she still had a lot to learn.

It finally settled in that the new desk was hers, and she allowed herself to break the gaze, moving her attention to her desk. She didn't think the possibility of getting a desk was an option. She'd planned on sharing Charlie's desk, however; it made sense to her, now, it was best if she didn't. If she was going to remain here, on a more formal basis, she would need her own space. And a new desk certainly provided that.

“I'm... grateful," because she didn't know how else to express her gratitude. It was uncouth of her to approach him for an embrace. It would be crossing a boundary she had no intentions of crossing. He was her mentor; she respected him greatly for everything that he's been able to teach her. That she'd be able to continue learning under him was something else entirely. She had no words to describe the elated feeling she currently felt.

“The fee," she began glancing back towards Ramsey. “How should I pay it?" she asked. She couldn't exactly have her father make the payment to Ramsey. It would give way to the truth. If he made the payment to Miss Vera, however, perhaps she could give it to Ramsey?

He shook his head slightly. "It's in the contract. Your wage will be garnished until the thousand is paid, at which point you'll move into full associate status and earn the standard portion of my private-case commissions. Yard consultations are effectively pro bono, but you've seen the business I do. The majority of my clients are paying in some form."

Mr. Ramsey's eyes fell to her inbox. "If you are amenable I would shift the initial filtering of requests to you as well. Miss Blythe means well, but she is not as able to discriminate the problems of one person from another, and so I have been handling the intake myself. It is not the most useful work for me, but it does help tune the instincts—there would be some benefit to you."

She knew she was smiling, now, even as he continued to speak. She was going to be an official associate once she'd paid the fee, however; something he said caught her off guard. “I'm not complaining, but," she began, furrowing her brows slightly. “Wasn't the original fee, two thousand?" She really wasn't complaining. If anything, she wanted to know why the fee had been cut in half.

The work he provided her had been impeccable, and he deserved to be paid the full amount he'd originally stated to her. It wasn't as if it'd be a bother to her, either. After she paid off her fee, whatever money she'd earn herself would be poured straight back into Ramsey's place of business. She didn't intend on keeping it for herself. She didn't need to, after all, considering her family's status. Besides, it was something she wanted to do. Perhaps she could save what she made to make smaller adjustments in the near future?

He shrugged, the motion on a slight delay, as though he had to think about it more than most people would have. "Two thousand is what I would have charged you if you were tolerable, but useless or in some other way a burden." He leaned back against his own desk, hands finding the pockets of his trousers.

"You are not."

Any other person might have been insulted by that statement, however; Amelia was not. She took that as a compliement, considering that Ramsey was not the sort to do so. Observations were more his thing, and that was what this likely was. That she was not useless or a burden had been her intention when she'd first began, after all. She'd dedicated a lot of time and effort to be useful in some manner or another. For him to say that she wasn't useless... well that was another thing entirely.

“Then I shall oblige and pay the fee you've set," she finally responded, setting the packet down on her desk. She would go through it, later, however; she turned to face Ramsey. “I shall continue to do my best to serve you well, Ramsey. Do let me know if, at any time, I fail in that." It would be an immediate correction, of course. That was the last thing she wanted to do, and that was to fail where she was currently succeeding.

He snorted softly. "As you wish. Continue to apply yourself and I foresee no such difficulty." Leaning backwards slightly and snatching up a much thicker file folder, he extended it towards her. "This is the current intake file. Do you suppose you can get it down to three cases?"

She took the file he'd handed her, and arched a brow. That sounded like a challenge, if anything, to her. The file was thick, which meant it had at least over ten cases. Considering that she was still learning, the fact that this felt like a challenge spoke volumes to her. He was entrusting her to bring these files down to three, and she'd be damned if she didn't do it.

“Are you sure you only want three? I can get it down to two, if you'd prefer," because she would if that's what he really wanted. Three wasn't too much to handle, but still... it was his call.

There was an almost imperceptible change in Mr. Ramsey's expression then, a narrowing of his eyes and the slightest alteration to the cast of them. It seemed almost to be a pleased thing, like he was smiling without physically moving the necessary muscles.

"Two and a backup," he said after a moment. "In case one of them is duller than expected and we solve it too easily." He pushed away from the desk and crossed behind it, lowering himself into his chair, no doubt to begin his own portion of the office's work.

"Welcome to the investigations business, Miss Lancaster."

She allowed a smirk to adorn her features.

She had some work to do.

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Character Portrait: Amelia Lancaster Character Portrait: Khalil Jaziri
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#, as written by Aethyia


Outside London - The Former Parish of St. Lukas
July 4, 1885 - 19:30 p.m. - Overcast
Veronika Kent

Vera suppressed a sigh, selecting a small snifter of brandy from the tray as the servant passed. To the man himself, she gave a gracious smile and nod, but she let him get on with his business. Turning around and bringing the glass to her lips, she surveyed the ballroom with a weary, practiced eye. Though a string quartet set up in one corner placed soft music, no one was dancing yet, which was unsurprising. Most of that wouldn't happen until later, when the sun had set and the chandelier had been lit.

Like most of the rooms here, the walls were wood-paneled stone, the wood a relatively recent addition to make the building into a home more than the church it had once been. Almost the entire interior of the building had been gutted and refitted by the late Lord de Jaager, preserving the lovely exterior and rectory gardens, but making the rest into a manor on par with nearly anything in London proper.

Vera hadn't known him as well as she'd have liked to; though he and her friend Anne had been married for several years before his death, it had still been a new development by most standards. Also new was Anne's status as a widow, but that was only a year gone. Vera could sympathize, of course, and perhaps that was why they'd grown closer in the dozen months since. She would hesitate to say she'd mourned Alistair as much as Anne had mourned Thomas, but... there was commonality nonetheless.

The brandy was smooth and sweet on the way down; Vera did sigh then, just a little, and reached over to pat Teddy on the shoulder. "You don't have to keep me company," she said, nodding to a small cluster of younger folk. A private garden party like this wouldn't boast more than thirty or so guests, but at least three or four were around his age.

A look of relief passed over his face, almost enough to make her laugh outright. "Thanks, mum." No doubt he did not want to hobnob with the people her age, and she couldn't blame him.

She didn't really want to, either.

It wasn't more than five minutes when familiar faces entered Vera's view. Amelia stood next to her father, face smoothed into practiced neutrality with just the faintest hint of a smile. Lord Lancaster, however, did not seem to hide the way his lips were slightly tilted downwards, as if he'd rather be elsewhere. Perhaps he did? He was the first to turn in Vera's direction, though, a look of mild surprise crossing his features before he said something to Amelia. She glanced in the same direction, and smiled at Vera as they crossed the floor towards her.

“Lady Kent," Lord Lancaster spoke, first, bowing slightly in a strangely stiff manner. Amelia seemed amused by it, though she didn't say anything to him.

“Good evening, Lady Kent," Amelia greeted as well, smiling in Vera's direction.

Vera immediately felt herself smile, the pall of the evening lifting considerably at the sight of two people she actually enjoyed talking to. She resisted the urge to outright grin at Lord Lancaster's strange stiffness, though she could admit to herself that she found it endearing, in an odd sort of way. Taking up a handful of her midnight-blue skirt, she curtsied in return, letting the silk fall back against its petticoat. While tonight's event was formal enough for a gown, it was certainly no ball, and hers was a simple, unfussy thing, designed to give her figure a delicate, tasteful emphasis only.

"Lord Lancaster. Amelia. I hadn't expected to see you here. Are you also friends of Lady Anne?" Lord de Jaager's title was mostly a courtesy, bestowed to him after his retirement from the vicarage, but it was still the polite thing to honor it, and the one it gave his wife.

Amelia nodded her head, but it was Lord Lancaster who spoke. “We were acquaintances," he stated, his eyes turning towards the open area. Amelia took the moment to roll her eyes, it seemed, at her father's strange behavior and sighed softly.

“I believe what he's trying to say is that we used to see Lord and Lady de Jaager at church. He would, occasionally, converse with them if he had the time," she filled in for Lord Lancaster, who glanced down at Amelia as if to give silent thanks. His attention, however, returned to Vera, and he smiled a bit strangely. Strained, almost, but he seemed to smooth it out.

Ah, that would make sense. No doubt the former priest had remained a religious man; Anne had always been of a bent like that herself. She returned Lord Lancaster's smile, but her own had faded until it was a bit smaller. Perhaps it was thinking of the late Lord de Jaager that was the cause? His hadn't been a natural death, after all—even for soldiers like themselves, civilian murders could feel... different. It wasn't the kind of thing they were supposed to expect in this context.

Seeking to move the conversation away from uncomfortable topics and perhaps cheer him a little, Vera tilted her head, assuming a slightly more playful expression. "Perhaps you would like a spot on my dance card, Lord Lancaster? I suspect it would be a most illuminating preview of our upcoming match." By most standards, it was forward of her to ask him, given their respective genders, but then Vera hadn't gotten anywhere in life being a wilting flower in the corner.

Something in her statement caused Lord Lancaster to blink in mild surprise. He did not immediately reply to her, though, and tilted his head in a manner Amelia did when she was trying to figure something out. Perhaps it was the lighting, or some other cause, but there was a faint hint of pink dusting Lord Lancaster's face. Amelia seemed amused by something since her shoulders were shaking slightly, and she was grinning, however; Lord Lancaster merely cleared his throat.

“It would be my honor," he finally spoke, clearing his throat once more before grabbing a glass of white wine from a passing servant's tray. He took a drink from it, and though it was a slow sip, it seemed restrained. Almost as if he were going to drink it all at once.

A little puzzled, Vera took another sip of brandy herself. Pacing was necessary, as there was to be a tasting later tonight, of the various whiskeys and brandies the distillery on the property produced. Vera was quite looking forward to it.

“Ah, Vera, there you are!"

Instinctively, she turned her head towards the new voice, only to see a rather weary-looking Anne approaching. Vera could not help but notice that the hem of her pale green dress was more worn than it had seemed from a distance, and her friend's red-auburn curls were not sitting quite as neatly in her chignon as they might have been on most days like this one. It was hard to tell unless up close, but it was evident to Vera's keen eyes that she'd applied a thicker layer of powder under her own pale grey ones, perhaps to hide evidence of fatigue.

"Anne," Vera replied, injecting a bit of lightness into her tone mostly for the sake of not letting on that she noticed anything was amiss. "Delightful to see you; your home looks lovely." She stepped slightly aside, allowing Anne to integrate with the conversation—as expected, her friend looked most grateful for this.

“I'm so sorry to intrude," she said, her volume much softer. “And upon you, Lord Lancaster, Lady Amelia. It's just that I haven't had a moment's peace all day and I have to say you looked exactly like sanctuary to me in this moment." Her hands were clasped in front of her; she seemed to be toying with some sort of small object, though Vera could not tell what it was.

“Lady de Jaager, it's a pleasure," Amelia responded, giving the other woman a smile, and stepping a little closer to her father. Lord Lancaster inclined his head as a greeting, it seemed, and gave Anne a small bow. It wasn't as stiff as the one he'd given Vera, though.

“Lady de Jaager," he spoke. Whether he'd noticed the same things Vera had, he made no obvious inclination that he knew. “As always it is a pleasure to see you in good health," he stated, taking a slower drink of his wine now that Anne was with them.

Anne managed a little smile, inclining her head in return. “And you as well, Lord Lancaster. I fear I almost didn't recognize Lady Amelia; it seems you've grown while my mind was elsewhere."

Vera supposed that young women of Amelia's age had a way of doing that—she was still in some sense becoming the person she would eventually be. Not that most people would really understand that, of course. No small segment of the population seemed to believe that once a lady had breasts, she was as she would always be until she aged back into undesirability. Never mind what was in her head.

Anne continued to fidget with the item in her hands. Vera tilted her head slightly and let her eyes fall to it. "If you don't mind saying, dear, what exactly are we sanctuary from?"

Her friend sighed softly, the weariness she was trying to hide coming through in the sound of it. “It's a little bit of many things," she confessed. “I hope it is not uncouth of me to complain, but I daresay my past and my future are colliding, and everyone seems to want something from me of late. I fear I haven't near as much to give as they might expect."

Amelia cast Vera a glance before turning her attention to her father, and placed a hand on his forearm. “Would you be kind enough to retrieve a drink for me?" she asked, causing Lord Lancaster to arch a brow in her direction. She simply smiled at him as he sighed softly, and nodded his head. She turned her attention to Anne after he'd left their side.

“Not at all, Lady de Jaager. If you'd like to explain further, I'd be willing to listen," Amelia spoke, giving Anne a sincere smile. She seemed genuinely interested in Anne's current situation. “After all, I hear it is best to let it all out, so to speak, rather than keep it contained for too long."

Vera recognized that particular conversational move. Genuinely concerned or not, Amelia also sensed gossip in the making. Hiding a smile in her snifter, she took a sip, turning her eyes to her friend.

Anne smiled slightly, exhaling another sigh. This one at least managed to relax her shoulders a little bit. Though she no doubt also saw through the bid for information, she seemed also to accept that their concern was genuine. No doubt she very much wanted to talk, as well.

“It's... well, it's a lot," she said, grimacing faintly. “It's hard to tell now, but the distillery is not doing very well. I'm afraid I just don't know how to run a business of this kind, and I honestly think some of my suppliers are fleecing me, but I can't prove it." She dropped her eyes and shook her head. “So as you may know, I've decided to sell, but I can't seem to find anyone willing to pay what it's really worth. And what's worse is that Edward's being so persistent about what he will offer."

"Edward? Edward Hollis?" Vera's eyebrows went up. She didn't know him for having much business interest in land of all things, but she supposed he was a capitalist, and might well be interested in expanding his holdings. Still, it seemed awfully stingy for a man who had always been well-to-do

Anne nodded, still fidgeting with whatever golden thing she was holding. “Yes. And Mary's such a dear friend—it makes it very difficult to be firm with her brother of all people."

Amelia remained quiet through Anne's statement, her brows slightly furrowed as she tilted her head as if to study Anne. “It's only fair, though," she finally spoke, sighing softly through her nose. “If you know the value and worth of your property, you shouldn't sell it for anything less than that. Even if Lord Hollis is a friend, he should know how much this place means to you," she spoke, a small frown pulling at her lips.

“Should he not pay what you believe is a fair price?" she continued, her eyes narrowing as if she were trying to figure something out.

“I believe he's trying to bargain," Anne replied quietly. “It's not wrong exactly, but he has become quite... persistent. And I fear Sister Mary has become more distant from me as a result. I love her so dearly—I don't know what I'd do without her, really, but..." She shook her head again, and lifted her eyes.

“And then of course Edith has come to visit so unexpectedly," she added. Then, much more quietly: “and Bradford. And the children, of course."

Amelia hummed a soft note, but did not immediately say anything. She seemed to be processing everything Anne was saying, however; the frown that adorned her face was smoothed out into a more neutral expression.

“It seems you have been a gracious host, though, considering that you have a lot to deal with. If I may," Amelia began, pausing briefly to glance in Vera's direction, “perhaps you should set a minimum of what you'd be willing to accept for the property. Perhaps then, Lord Hollis will be more inclined to pay you what your land is worth. As for Sister Mary, perhaps if you explained things with her, she wouldn't be so distant with you."

“I'm certain your sister and brother-in-law would understand if you did not, immediately, cater to them while you first get things in order," she added, keeping her gaze with Anne's.

“Ah, actually..." Anne hesitated, then grimaced a bit. “Well, never mind. They've been pretty patient, it's just having them here in the house is a sort of pressure of its own, even if they don't mean it to be."

"I'm sorry to hear that, dear. Family's rarely a simple thing," Vera said, her tone conciliatory.

“Thank you," Anne replied with a soft smile. “I do appreciate the thought. And I suppose it hasn't been all bad. It's just... at this time of year I suppose everything seems worse."

Amelia inclined her head slightly. “I suppose it would. It was around this time last year that Lord de Jaager passed, was it not?" she spoke, though her voice was soft and not at all matter-of-fact as it usually was. It was more sympathetic, perhaps more-so than she'd intended. It was around this time that Lord Lancaster returned, a glass of something in his hands. It was, perhaps, punch of some sort. A personal preference, perhaps, even if Amelia was of drinking age.

“Well, if there is ever anything Lord Lancaster and I can do to be of help, Lady de Jaager, please do let us know," she stated, taking the drink from her father. Lord Lancaster inclined his head as if he were agreeing with Amelia.

“If there is anything I can do to be of help, I will do so," he spoke, reaffirming Amelia's words.

She seemed a little cheered by the reassurances, and her smile warmed a bit, into something a bit less weary. “Thank you all. Your kindness is a gift. I'd love to stay a while longer, but I fear I'm neglecting my other guests. Please enjoy what little comfort my home can offer, and let myself or Mr. O'Sullivan know if you need anything," she said. With a polite nod, she stepped away.

Vera, intensely curious, caught a look at the item in her hand at last. Was that a... knife? No, too thin, blunt. A letter opener, with a golden handle. What an unusual object to be carrying around.

Shaking her head faintly, she turned back to the Lancasters and smiled. She was parting her lips to speak when she noticed a rather conspicuous looking gentleman entering the ballroom. Conspicuous more perhaps for his obvious difference to the other attendees than anything, though she found it interesting if anything. The deep skin tone of North Africa, dark hair, and the kind of grin that meant a great deal of trouble.

"I wasn't expecting the Prince to be in attendance at this garden party," she mused, lifting her brows and taking another slow sip.

Amelia pursed her lips in confusion, and Lord Lancaster turned in the direction Vera had been looking. “It seems that Lady de Jaager has invited nobility even from elsewhere," he spoke, taking another drink from his glass. Amelia's brows furrowed as she followed her father's gaze, however; it seemed that all color drained from her face when the Prince locked eyes with her. That same grin seemed to widen as he made his way towards them. He was accompanied by another man who seemed to resemble him, though. Perhaps he was a relative of sorts?

“If you'll excuse me, I'm going to see about another refreshment," Lord Lancaster spoke, excusing himself from Vera and Amelia. Amelia, however, seemed relieved that he'd left. Some of the tension left her shoulders, but seemed to return when the Prince arrived. He smiled a cheshire smile towards Amelia, who merely narrowed her eyes at him.

“Whitaker!" he greeted, the furrow on Amelia's brows deepening. “I didn't expect to see you here."

Vera's eyebrows ascended higher if anything; the use of that name for Amelia was something she'd believed Ephy had begun as a method of concealing Amelia Lancaster's involvement in his work. She glanced between the two, sensing that her pupil was not exactly sure how to handle the situation. Vera could buy her some time, at least.

"Amelia, you did not inform me you were acquainted with His Highness," she said, injecting the faintest note of chiding into her tone, as though she were scolding a friend for keeping some sort of secret. "Would you mind terribly granting us introductions?" It was the polite thing for her to do as the mutual, but would also take the focus away from her for a while.

Amelia looked like she was glaring at the Prince, but her expression smoothed out enough that it was formal and polite. “Miss Vera, this is Khalil Jaziri, an acquaintance of Mr. Ramsey and Miss Blythe. Jaziri, this is Lady Kent, Mr. Ramsey's land lady," she stated, turning her attention towards Prince Jaziri. He seemed pleased with the introduction, and turned his attention to Vera.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Kent," he stated, giving her a formal bow. Amelia, however, narrowed her eyes in Prince Jaziri's direction.

"Likewise, Your Highness," Vera replied, a glint of amusement in her eyes.

“I will explain things later, Jaziri, but you will refer to me as Lady Amelia. It's Amelia Lancaster, here, not Whitaker," she stated, causing Prince Jaziri to blink his eyes in confusion.

Vera's smile grew catlike. It was interesting indeed to find that their mutual acquaintance was Ephy. She wondered for a moment if he knew Mr. Jaziri's true identity, but then she supposed he must. It was just like him to not care in the slightest bit about such things, and treat people as their demeanors, rather than their titles, warranted.

"Do look lively, dear, I believe your father is headed back this way," she informed her young friend, polishing off the brandy in her glass and returning it to the tray of a passing servant.

Perhaps this night would be of interest to her after all.

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Character Portrait: Khalil Jaziri
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Outside London - The Former Parish of St. Lukas
July 4, 1885 - 19:45 p.m. - Overcast
Khalil Jaziri

Khalil wasn't entirely sure why he'd agreed to the invitation Lady de Jaager had sent to him. “Please do take care to remember that you're a Prince to these people, and that you should act like one. At least just this once?" Ah, now he remembered. He turned towards his uncle, feigning a mock hurt look, and placed a hand over his heart. Dor just gave him a flat stare, his eyes narrowing slightly as Khalil felt a small smirk creep upon his face.

“You have such little faith in me, Dor," he spoke, causing the frown on his uncle's face to deepen. “Can't you see how much more work I have to do in order to get noticed around here? Whi—Lancaster shoots me down every time, so I have to work twice as hard to make sure I end up with something tonight," he stated. That, or at least someone. It'd been far too long since his last endeavor—since Elizabeth if he were being honest. He felt like he was losing his touch if Whitaker kept rejecting his advances. Blythe... she was too innocent for him to project himself like that on her. And he was fairly certain Ramsey wouldn't exactly take too kindly to him treating his associate that way.

“Khalil, I'm warning you..." he trailed off, however; Khalil was already making his way towards the other side of the room. There was a group of women standing, gossiping perhaps, and Khalil felt the urge to talk.

The group wasn't very large, of course, but then they never were at these kinda of event. It was more of a friendly gathering than anything excessively formal, though of course there was always a layer of manners to these things. This was quite the mixed group, too: threaded amongst their number were a pretty young blonde thing in the blue and white habit of the Sisters of the Church of the One, an older woman with flamboyantly-styled grey and brown hair, a woman who was a dead-ringer for Lady de Jaager except with freckles and a pale blue gown instead of green, and—ah.

It seemed that these three and the other two ladies with them were already in the throes of a conversation with a man, maybe slightly older than Khalil. He was tall and well-built, something distinctly Irish in the lilt of his accent. With wavy brown hair and sky-blue eyes, he clearly thought himself quite the charmer. From the way the women giggled as he told a joke, they did, too.

Khalil waited as patiently as he could, trying his best to be polite. But then again, he'd never really been the polite sort. He grinned once the women settled down, and made his presence known with a soft clearing of his throat. “It seems I have missed out on some of the fun," he spoke, waiting until their attention was on him before he continued. “Prince Khalil Jaziri, at your service," he stated, giving them a formal bow before straightening back up.

It'll be like taking a candy from a baby, he thought as he glanced towards the man. Sure, he was on the attractive side, but Khalil knew his own attractiveness, complimented by his slightly exotic nature would be more than enough to garner all of the attention away from the Irishman.

The perhaps slightly overdone bow earned him a few amused titters; one of the quieter women, a lady with light brown hair in a complicated curly updo of some sort, actually blushed. The older woman with grey hair glanced him up and down and smirked like she knew what he was on about—if she did, she found it funny.

The nun predictably enough had the least reaction, but it was she who spoke first. “How unexpected!" she said, inflecting her tone with what seemed to be genuine surprise. Her dark eyes suggested something a touch more canny than that, however. “I don't think I've ever been in the company of foreign royalty before. Sister Mary Hollis, Your Highness."

Her introduction paved the way for the others to do the same, and they did. The one who'd blushed and her aunt were Catherine and Fiona Morwood, or so he had to assume from the way she stuttered through the introduction, still blushing furiously. The older woman was Lady Elizabeth Carruthers—there were a lot of English women named Elizabeth, so that was hardly a surprise. The woman with red hair and the striking resemblance to Anne de Jaager was Mrs. Edith Hayes, it seemed.

Despite her physical proximity to the Irishman, which bordered on unseemly, he was not Mr. Hayes.

“Seamus O'Sullivan," he said, when the turn had clearly come around to him. Even then, it was at a slight delay, an irritation evident in the narrowing of his eyes. “An honor to meet you, of course." He could probably have sounded less honored if he tried, but not by much.

Khalil couldn't say he blamed Mrs. Hayes. O'Sullivan was an attractive man, and women were not beholden to their husbands. It was a line Khalil would never cross, but when opportunity presented itself... well, he'd gladly do it on their behalf. Maybe that made him a bit of a hypocrite? Regardless, his smile broadened at the introductions, his eyes narrowing with the force of it.

“Please, you can call me Jaziri, or Khalil, whichever you'd prefer," because if he were being honest, they'd probably be saying both by the end of it all. And that was making light of the word. He'd rather they scream it, if he could help it. Perhaps, though, he should see who would be the more willing candidate. O'Sullivan wasn't one, if his reaction was anything to go by, and considering how close Mrs. Hayes was, he was quite certain she wouldn't be interested. Perhaps the others, then? He'd never been with an older woman before; it was always nice to try something new.

“Sorry for the intrustion, but perhaps one of you lovely ladies would like to explain the nature of this party? I'm afraid I am not as well-acquainted with the de Jaager's as my uncle is, and he's failed to tell me anything," which wasn't a total lie, he supposed.

Muttering something under his breath, O'Sullivan grabbed a glass of brandy as it passed by, downing nearly half of it in one go.

Fiona had opened her mouth to say something, it seemed, but Elizabeth got to the answer first. “Well it's a garden party, of course," she replied, a hint of sarcasm coloring the edges of her tone. “If Anne ever gets around to opening up the garden to her guests, that is." She rolled her eyes, rather subtly, and sipped slightly from her glass of wine.

“She, um." Catherine tried, looking towards her aunt as if for permission. Fiona nodded slightly. “Well, she's selling the property, Your High—I mean Khalil." She pronounced his name slowly, making some effort to get it right. She was not very successful, but the effort seemed to be genuine. “I wouldn't be surprised if she were hoping someone here makes an offer."

“It's a lovely property," Sister Mary added, eyes still slightly narrowed at him. “But not worth what she's asking for it, unfortunately."


“I've heard Lord de Jaager's property was worth quite a pretty penny," he responded, brow lifted in slight curiosity. He, of course, knew that Anne was selling the property, but it wasn't something he was interested in. This much land with that much value to it would not be worth the upkeep. And he probably would spend most of his allowance on it if he were to seriously think about it.

“Has something happened to the property that the value isn't quite what Lady de Jaager is asking for it?" He was, if slightly, interested in what the rumor was. The last he heard, Lady de Jaager was adamant about the selling price, but it wasn't bringing potential buyers. If anything, it seemed to be pushing people away.

“I don't think it's quite seemly to discuss such things in any more detail than that," Sister Mary declared, folding her hands together in front of her.

The reminder of propriety seemed to chasten the others a bit, though Elizabeth did roll her eyes again. “In any case," she said, in a much more droll tone. “I—oh, that's interesting." She seemed to be looking at something over Khalil's shoulder.

“Associate of yours, Sister Mary?"

For the first time in the exchange, the nun looked a little unsure of herself. “I—no. I've never seen that man before."

Khalil, the ever so diligent gatherer of information that he was, turned to see who'd taken the attention away from him. Even if it was for a moment, Khalil would be lying if he said he wasn't curious.

The man who'd drawn their attention stood out with an uncommon sort of severity. His face suggested youth, but a degree of harshness was present that aged him a little, so that while he might not have even hit twenty, he seemed as one who'd achieved the middle of that decade. The cut of his black cassock was more military than the typical priest wore, but the clerical collar, white tab at the center, did mark him as clergy of some kind. The Church of the one only allowed its ordained Fathers and Brothers to wear those.

His hair was a sharp contrast with the black, a bright crimson worn medium length but shorn on one side. Hard amber eyes were narrowed on the room, as though he were looking for something in particular.

“You don't suppose he's an inqusitor, do you?" Elizabeth seemed delighted at the prospect. Perhaps not unduly. Members of the Church's Inquisition were rarely-spotted, and almost always preceded the reveal of some kind of scandal.

This managed to capture Khalil's full attention. A reveal of a good scandal was always interesting. It wasn't any of his business, but Khalil never really cared about such decencies. “What do you think it's about?" he stated, grabbing a glass of brandy from a passing servant. He inclined his head in thanks before turning his attention back to the group he was with. There was a strange feeling, as if he were being watched very closely by someone, however; he knew Dorian was mingling with the other people. He'd shake the feeling off, for now.

“The only thing I could think of is Lord de Jaager's death. From what I heard, it wasn't natural," but when had murder ever been natural?

Elizabeth cleared her throat softly, her tone quieting and losing a bit of its witty edge. “It wasn't, no," she agreed. “But anyway it was a year ago, and that would be a strange time for an Inquisitor to appear, no?"

Sister Mary and the Morwoods looked a little pale and drawn, as though the man's very presence intimidated them somehow. That wasn't entirely surprising, either. The inquisition did have a bit of a reputation for mercilessness. O'Sullivan had gritted his teeth, tracking the other fellow as though he were suddenly of more concern than Khalil.

“Can't much say I like him being here unannounced," he murmured.

Of the group, only Edith looked unaffected. “Well you never know," she said with a dull shrug. “Annie's been so caught up with those Churchy sorts for years now. Thomas did used to be a Vicar, after all. Maybe they were friends."

Doubtful, was the only word Khalil could think of. A friend didn't just turn up unannounced for no reason. Unless said friend was Khal, himself. He turned up unannounced just because he could. Church-goers were a little more formal than that, especially if this newcomer was, indeed, part of the inquisition.

“Do you think he may have some new information on Lord de Jaager's death?" that was more a possibility than anything. Perhaps he did, and he was here to inform Lady de Jaager. Khalil pursed his lips, though. That... didn't seem right, now that he thought about it. If they did have more information about Lord de Jaager, they would have been a little more discreet, he would think. Perhaps he needed to spend more time with Lancaster and Ramsey?

“I'll bet you fifty pounds that's not it," O'Sullivan replied. “He's probably here for one of the other guests, using a connection with Lady de Jaager for an in. Inquisitor shows up at your house, you know you're in for it. A party like this, though? No way to know if it's about you or not." He drained the rest of his glass and set it down on the table nearest, reaching past Edith to do it. She didn't seem to mind.

“Quite possible," Elizabeth replied, though the answer looked to have unsettled the other three yet further. “Very mysterious in any case. Perhaps we'll know by who he speaks to as the night wears on, no?" She seemed almost excited by the prospect, an odd little gleam in her eyes.

“You may well be correct in that, Lady Carruthers," he stated, taking a drink of his brandy. He was almost tempted to make a remark, to make her excited about some other prospect, however; he remained where he was. He was much more interested in this new development; he could play at a later time.

“Whatever the reason, I'm sure it'll be exciting," he stated, glancing in the direction of the newcomer.

“In that," she said, “I believe you are most certainly correct."

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Character Portrait: Cassian Sinclair Character Portrait: Amelia Lancaster Character Portrait: Khalil Jaziri
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#, as written by Aethyia

Outside London - The Former Parish of St. Lukas
July 4, 1885 - 20:53 p.m. - Overcast
Cassian Sinclair

Cassian's fingers tightened on the glass in his hands. The purplish liquid inside was only grape juice—he was not a wine drinker, nor inclined to fuzz his thoughts with alcohol, but he was also aware of the fact that he needed to look at least passably like he was here for the party.

He hadn't missed the whispers that had accompanied his entrance. One look at the militant cut of his uniform and they'd all assumed he was an Inquisitor, as though they'd ever seen one before. Perhaps a few of them had, but if so, they'd misidentified him anyway. It hardly mattered—what he was was close enough for the moment.

Go to the party. Drink. Mingle. Inform Hayes we have no more need of his services. Scare everyone a little, and see what you can see.

Cassian hated it when Father Hadrian was that vague. If he'd just tell him what he wanted this would all be so much easier. But no—apparently the fact that Hayes had been spotted buying an elaborate golden ornament or something with Church money had been enough to inflame his famously-cold mentor into one of those low-energy rages of his, and now here he was, having long done the important part of the job but forced to linger because his instructions specified it.

And he felt like a thing in an alchemist's jar. Put on display for these people to gawk at without the first hint of what it is they were really seeing.

Grimacing, he took a swallow of his drink, resisting the urge to spit it out when it was disgustingly warm. He really needed to get a handle on that. Frowning outright, he looked around, but could find no servant. The gardens had been opened up just a little while ago, but were still sparsely-populated compared to the inside for some reason. Cassian didn't care—in fact he much preferred it. Fewer eyes.

He tracked his way down a picturesque cobblestone path, unsurprised to find he was drawing close to the distillery building. He'd already wandered far enough afield to note that there seemed to be poppies growing down by the river. He didn't know enough about botany to say if it was a natural growth or something decidedly less innocuous, and so while he took note of it to report later, he hadn't cared to spend long investigating.

His foot crunched on something irregular; Cassian grunted, withdrawing his boot and stooping to pick up the object. A letter opener? What the fuck was a letter opener doing out in the garden? It had a golden handle, but he was pretty sure it was only plating. Into the side was inscribed a phrase in swirling, calligraphic script, over the top in its flamboyance:

To Anne, with all my love.

With a small, disgusted noise, Cassian shook his head. Instead of letting the thing drop back to the ground, he set it down on a retaining wall instead, turning back around to head for the main part of the garden again. He hadn't made it more than halfway back before a fat raindrop pattered against the shorn side of his head, and he sighed. Great.

Now he'd have to go back inside with the people.

Once he was back inside, a young woman was standing next to an older man. From the resemblance, they were likely related; a father and daughter, perhaps. The expression on the young woman's face seemed neutral, as if she were as thrilled to be at the party as Cassian, himself, was. The gentleman beside her, though, seemed content enough to be chatting with a woman who was, perhaps, a friend of sorts. The younger woman, however, glanced in Cassian's direction, blinked pale blue eyes in an uninterested fashion, before turning her attention back to the group she was with.

On the other side of the room, a swarthy gentleman was chatting away amicably with a group of women. He seemed deeply interested in what was going on if the large smile on his face was anything to go by. The women also seemed charmed by whatever statements he was making as they were smiling as well. One looked like she was blushing, and trying to hide it behind a fan in her hand.

The Irishman who'd been with that latter group earlier was gone, he noticed—so was Lady de Jaager's sister. Cassian didn't think much of it. People moved around at these things all the time, as far as he knew. Scanning the rest of the room, he made incidental eye contact with a man he knew to be Lord Edward Hollis, who went from looking extremely sour about something to a little panicked. He glanced away, resting his eyes on the flight of brandy glasses on the central table for the later tasting, and then quickly to the wall.

Cassian rolled his eyes. Outside, he could hear the rain picking up quickly until it was a steady downpour. In the distance, thunder rolled, low and rumbling. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, a reflexive reaction to the lightning he could feel in the air, that expectant and heady thing that had called to him for as long as he could remember. Sparks lanced down his spine, but he clamped down on the shudder that threatened.

The group from earlier seemed to be getting a little excited about something since one of the women laughed. Loudly, perhaps for a woman, but the gentleman she was with seemed amused by it. The gentleman's hand moved to a passing tray, picking up a glass of wine, or some other drink, before he raised it in the women's direction. He stated something to one of them before taking a drink from the glass. It resulted in another round of giggles.

The young woman from earlier seemed to glance in that direction, narrowed her eyes, and rolled them. Either the noise was enough to bother her, or she knew one of the party members in the group. From the way her eyes had settled on the gentleman, it was probably his obnoxious laugh that had caused her to roll her eyes.

Cassian took up a spot against the wall, finally finding a spot to set down his glass. He crossed his arms, a much more familiar posture than any of the more open things most of these people assumed around each other. As though they really wanted to be speaking with one another. It even looked genuine, in most cases—if he hadn't known better, he'd have been fooled.

Overhead, the halogen lights flickered, sending a murmur of surprise through the guests. Lighting flashed through the windows; another crack of thunder sounded moments later, louder and sharper. Cassian could taste the storm on the back of his tongue through the open window nearby.

Another strike followed, and then the room went dark.

There were a few gasps, but nothing that sounded too panicked. “How unusual," someone spoke, causing another person to scoff. The voices were loud enough that Cassian could hear them.

“It's not unusual for the lights to go out if there is a storm outside, Jaziri," another voice interjected. A woman from the sounds of it. A soft grunt of agreement was heard, and the shuffling of feet meant people were moving around in the dark.

“Amelia, stay with Lady Kent while I go find some lighting," another voice spoke.

“I'm sure Lady de Jaager has back-up for these kinds of things."

Cassian could hear someone stride past him, followed by a perfumed scent—quite possibly the Lady herself. He remained where he was. He could certainly solve the problem if he so desired, but that was nothing he was going to attempt here. Conversation resumed with the assurance that the problem was about to be solved, and the young monk leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and exhaling heavily while there was no one to see that it was him.

He just wanted to be fucking done with this assignment. He'd warned off Hayes, stayed around long enough to be polite, but no doubt Father Hadrian knew that something in particular would be happening here and wanted Cassian to be around for—

A shrill scream cut through the air. Cassian's eyes snapped open; he immediately headed for the door. Footsteps behind him indicated that others were following, but he paid them no mind, least of all when the scream abruptly cut off. It was coming from one of the outbuildings?

Rain quickly soaked his hair and clothes, but Cassian picked up into a jog, heading for the nearest outbuilding. It was unlikely they could have heard it if it had come from the distillery or one of the further buildings. That left the utility house.

Grabbing the handle, he threw it open. Lightning flashed, illuminating the ground. On the floor lay two bodies: a man, near the wire box, and their hostess, a familiar gold-handled letter opener protruding from her neck.

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Character Portrait: Cassian Sinclair Character Portrait: Amelia Lancaster Character Portrait: Khalil Jaziri
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Outside London - The Former Parish of St. Lukas
July 4, 1885 - 22:15 p.m - Thunderstorm
Amelia Lancaster

Amelia paid no mind to the rain when she'd heard the scream, and followed behind a pair of footsteps. She knew Jaziri was behind her, and it wasn't until they were outside did she realize that she'd followed the newcomer. When they'd reached the utility house, and the young man opened the door, Amelia allowed her brows to furrow and her lips to purse into a fine line. Lady de Jaager was on the floor, and a man lay next to her. Amelia didn't have to be a doctor to know that Lady de Jaager was dead. She'd seen a enough dead bodies in her line of work, already, that she knew. Jaziri, however, sucked in a breath, and furrowed his brows.

“Shit," he stated, taking in a deep breath through his nose. “Just when I thought this was going to be the day," he continued, causing Amelia to turn in his direction.

“Jaziri, isn't your uncle a doctor?" she asked, watching as he glanced in her direction. Lady de Jaager wouldn't need the services, but the man who lay next to her might. And from her understanding, the man who'd accompanied Jaziri was that very same uncle.

“Yeah, I'll go get him," he stated, but Amelia shook her head.

“No, not yet. We need to make sure no one else comes inside, quite yet," she replied. They needed to preserve as much of the scene as possible. Her attention turned to the young man with crimson hair. Whether he was part of the church or not, there was no telling how he would react, or if he'd interfere in some way. She was distracted from her thoughts, though, when the unconscious man stirred.

The young Church fellow stiffened as the other man moved, looking quite wary but nevertheless crossing the floor carefully to his side. The maintenance box hung open; Amelia noticed though that the power was still turned on. It would have been foolishly-dangerous to attempt maintenance in that case, even if the power was out. It could have come back on at any time, after all.

A soft sound drew her attention back to the center of the room. The redhead had clicked his tongue against this teeth. "Electrocution," he said flatly, his voice surprisingly melodious for someone of his appearance. "He's coming around, though. You should get that doctor, now. And the local constable. He'll want to detain the guests. No one should leave."

Jaziri nodded, surprisingly enough, and went to find the doctor, she supposed. “And notify Lady Kent," she called after him. There was no doubt in her mind that Lady Kent would want to know of her friend's recent death. From the obvious object in her neck, it looked like a straightforward murder. But Amelia knew that no murder was as straightforward and easy. There were layers to go through, people to speak with to see if anyone saw anything, however; that wouldn't be easy. All things considered, her father did not know what she did. And that's to say nothing of the current guest list. For all intents and purposes, Amelia was nobility... and she had to act the part.

The young man was correct, though. No one should leave until everyone's whereabouts were accounted for. Interviewing them, however, was going to be a bit difficult, and Amelia narrowed her eyes and swallowed thickly. She did not like the current predicament she was in, however; she had a job to do. When Jaziri returned, his uncle was with him, and he was holding a bag of sorts. He'd come prepared, apparently, or perhaps it was an old habit. From what she knew of his nephew, Jaziri didn't really require medical attention unless he was injured quite badly.

“He was electrocuted, according to him," she informed the doctor, causing him to nod his head as he kneeled down next to the man's body.

“He might be a little weak depending on how strong the electrical current was when it entered his system. For now, it's best not to move him too much," Dr. Graham spoke, resting two fingers on the inside of the man's wrist. He glanced towards Lady de Jaager's body, and pursed his lips.

There was hardly any light to see by, so a more precise inspection than that would be nearly impossible. Amelia could just barely make out that the clock had stopped—just a minute or two after ten p.m. At least they had an exact time on the power outage, this way. She could see a glint of gold at Lady de Jaager's neck, but getting any closer to a corpse in the dark was definitely going to break her cover.

“We should leave," someone said from behind her. A fair few people had followed them out here at the sound of the scream. “It's not decent, to stay while she's all—"

"The only place any of you are going is back to the house. Now. No one leaves." There was a weightiness in the Church man's command that could hardly be ignored, even despite his youth. He hardly looked young right now anyway; they could all barely see each other.

Someone who knew what to do with that much authority got most of the people heading back towards the house. "You too, doctor. It might not be best to move the patient, but we can't leave him here."

He wasn't wrong to suggest that everyone return to the house, and not leave. Amelia would need to ask the current guests questions, however; she would need to be discreet about it. With everyone back inside, it would be easier to do so under the guise of gossip. She could enlist Miss Vera's help with that, but she turned her attention towards Jaziri and his uncle.

“We can move him inside, but we'll have to be gentle about it. Khalil, it's best if you do it," Dr. Graham spoke, causing Jaziri to nod his head, and moved to stand next to the man.

“We should see about restoring power, as well," Amelia added, her brows furrowing slightly. Jaziri snorted softly, as if he found something amusing, however; he didn't say anything. Luckily for him, he could see in the dark, but Amelia wasn't that lucky. Instead, she took in a soft breath, and turned to leave the area. It was a good thing that everyone was being coralled inside of the house. It meant Lady de Jaager's body would be left undisturbed until the local constable could arrive.

Once everyone was inside, Amelia did her best to seek out Jaziri. Of all the people here, he was going to be the most useful in navigating the dark. At least for the moment, and she only sought one person. “I need you to locate Miss Vera for me," she spoke in a hushed voice, taking the opportunity when it arrived. Jaziri huffed lightly, but grabbed Amelia's wrist in a surprisingly gentle manner. She didn't expect him to do that, but she allowed him to lead her to where Miss Vera was.

“I need you to be my eyes and ears, Jaziri. Go do what I cannot. Ask the more direct questions with some of the people, and ask your uncle to inspect Lady de Jaager's body for anything out of the ordinary. I'd say use your nose for that, but considering the weather..." his nose would be useless.

“You've a point there, Lady Amelia."

“Miss Vera," she called out softly so as to not draw any interest in their direction.

"Ah, Amelia, Mr. Jaziri." In the scant light afforded by the night, her eyes still managed to seem as though they glimmered. Probably a trick of the angle, but it made her look sharper, almost severe. Her voice was anything but. "I've sent Teddy to fetch some candles; he should be back any—"

"Mum." Theodore's voice was surprisingly close. "I got some matches too... at least I think that's what they are." He shook a box, and it did sound right to Amelia.

Within a couple of moments, they had several candles lit between them.

"I do believe passing these out could make us quite popular for a while, no?" Miss Vera ventured, providing a good cover for Amelia's investigation. "Perhaps, Mr. Jaziri, you would not mind if my son accompanied you? He is quite the hand with mechanics, but I would like very much to have him escorted to the right place, so that he does not lose his way." She gave a subtle emphasis to the words, and in so speaking them, gave Mr. Jaziri a cover story of his own.

"Perhaps while you are out, you could make sure that whatever local arrives takes care to summon Mr. Ramsey? Teddy knows the address."

“I can do that, Lady Kent," he replied, flashing a grin in her direction before glancing towards Theodore. “Let's go see what we can find out, hm?" he stated, leading the way as they left. Amelia shook her head and glanced towards Miss Vera.

“Let's go see what we can find out, Miss Vera," she stated. They could pass out the candles and see what the other members knew. The first group they approached consisted of Lady Hayes and another woman Amelia didn't recognize, immediately. She cleared her throat softly so as to not startle either of them, and held out one of the candles.

“Do either of you need some light?" she asked, doing her best to smile while waiting for the opportunity to ask the question she really wanted to.

“I'd appreciate it." Mrs. Hayes was standing next to a woman in a nun's white habit, so stark it almost glowed in the darkness. The woman nodded slightly as well. Both of them looked a touch uneasy; Mrs. Hayes moreso. But then, her sister had just been killed—it was actually a bit unusual that she wasn't reacting more, but perhaps she just had one of those stoic demeanors.

Miss Vera lit a candle, handing it over to Mrs. Hayes, but before she could shake out the match, the nun halted her with a motion. “A moment, if you don't mind." From a pocket in her habit, she withdrew a box, then slid a thin cigarette out of it. “Mind if I smoke? It's been... that kind of night."

Obligingly, Miss Vera held up the match until the end of the woman's cigarette was cherry-red. The nun inhaled deeply, politely exhaling to the side and keeping the direct smoke well away from anyone's face. “I'm Sister Mary Hollis, by the way. I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you, but... I'm not really sure anything's a pleasure right now."

Amelia had to agree with the woman. It wasn't really anyone's pleasure to be meeting with anyone given that they were all potential suspects. That included Amelia as well, even if she knew otherwise. She did allow her lips to purse into a fine line, though. She might not have paid as much attention to the Church as her father did, but she wasn't aware that nuns were allowed to smoke. Wasn't that against some form of the religion? She'd have to look into that at a later time. Now wasn't the time to be curious about other things.

“I am Amelia Lancaster, and I agree. Lady de Jaager's death was most unexpected," she stated, glancing towards Lady Hayes and Sister Hollis. “It was an aweful way to go," she continued, holding the candle closer to her. She was a bit chilly from the rain, but it wasn't anything she couldn't handle. “Lady Hayes, you've my condolences." As Lady de Jaager's only living relative, it would seem that everything that belonged to Lady de Jaager, would now go to Lady Hayes. It was motive and opportunity, but something didn't sit right with Amelia.

“What of you, Sister? Were you close with Lady de Jaager as well?" she asked. It was possible that Sister Hollis was an acquaintance of Lord de Jaager, but Amelia knew very little of her. Information was knowledge collected, and she planned on collecting as much information as she could. It would be helpful to Ramsey, when he arrived.

Sister Mary nodded a little. “She was—I suppose you'd say she was my best friend," she said, almost too quietly to hear over the other people crowded into the room. “I'd known she and his lordship since he was Father de Jaager. They're the reason I asked to be assigned to this parish when I took my assignment. I volunteer at the library still, even though I was reassigned, so we saw each other quite often." She swallowed, thickly enough for the motion to be visible.

“She must have confided in you," Amelia spoke, smiling just soft enough to appear sympathetic. She was, for the most part at least. She took a moment to decide her next question, unsure of how to ask it without seeming too indelicate about the current situation. A thought struck her. “Do you... do you think she was murdered because of her estate?" she asked. By this point, everyone knew Lady de Jaager was murdered.And it was widely known that she was having difficulty selling her estate.

Amelia would have to rely on how people reacted, and their body language if she wanted to learn anything else. She wouldn't be able to read their body language with so little light, though, but she'd at least be able to tell the different cadences in their voices when they spoke.

Mrs. Hayes frowned, stiffening slightly. Perhaps she was preparing to defend herself? It stood to reason that she'd need to, as the person who seemed to be in line to inherit that estate.

But Sister Mary only knitted her brows. “I can't—I hope not," she said after a moment. “There would be something even more senseless about that."

"How do you mean?" Miss Vera asked, the very picture of innocent concern. If Amelia didn't know she was fishing for information, it would have been hard to tell.

“Well, it's..." Sister Mary visibly hesitated, glancing between the three other women and lowering her voice even further. “The estate's nearly bankrupt as it is. It's why poor Anne was trying to sell it off so high. She needed to just to pay the debts she'd accrued. Whoever inherits..." she trailed off, but the conclusion was clear: the heir would inherit the debt as well.

That was interesting. Lady de Jaager had only mentioned that the estate hadn't been doing well, but she didn't mention it not doing that well. Perhaps she didn't want to thwart potential buyers by telling them that? It would make a fair amount of sense; buying an estate at a high price only to accrue its debts wasn't exactly a profitable investment. Even if the estate had, at one point, been highly successful. There had to be something more, something that they knew that they weren't going to say without the proper prodding. She sighed softly before something finally clicked for Amelia.

“Sister Hollis, you're Lord Hollis's sister," it was a more of a statement than a question, however; Amelia shook her head so as to seem like she meant nothing by it. “If you knew this about the estate, why wouldn't you tell your brother about it? I believe Lady de Jaager said he was an interested party," she continued. That didn't make sense to Amelia. If Sister Hollis knew about the state of the property, why wouldn't she warn her brother away from it?

The Sister's brow creased. “I did, actually." She seemed to bristle a bit at the criticism, her eyes narrowing on Amelia. “But Edward likes taking risks, and it's not as though he lacks the funds. I sort of hoped he would buy it, if only to relieve poor Anne of the burden. I was not, however, privy to their negotiations. I find the discussion of such matters to be..." she trailed off, letting the silence sit for a moment.

“A bit uncouth."

Miss Vera cleared her throat slightly, drawing the attention back to herself. "Forgive us," she said quietly. "I think perhaps it's just been a long day, and Lady Amelia is looking for sense wherever it may be found, difficult as that can be in such times."

Sister Mary seemed a touch mollified by this, and nodded faintly. “Then forgive me as well. It is... still sinking in, that Anne is gone. I think perhaps I am not taking it especially well."

Amelia doubted it, but she huffed softly. “Yes, please forgive my forwardness. I'm just trying to make sense of it all," she stated, though she was doing it for a different reason. Who would know, though? For any one else, it would just seem like ladies gossiping with each other.

This was going to be a long night.

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#, as written by Aethyia

Outside London - The Former Parish of St. Lukas
July 4, 1885 - 22:30 p.m - Thunderstorm
Theodore Kent

Though young, Theodore Kent had not been small in quite some time. With two tall parents, it had always been a sort of foregone conclusion that he'd end up the same. Still, he had to quicken his pace to keep up with the Prince, who had a speed and fluidity to his motion that Theodore knew meant he probably wasn't quite human.

Not that he minded. Honestly he probably wouldn't even mention it, just in case he happened to be wrong.

They made quick time to the outbuilding. The local constable hadn't arrived yet, and the Church fellow had no doubt found it more important to keep the guests contained than watch over a corpse, which Theodore figured wasn't exactly a bad instinct. Poor lady wasn't really going anywhere.

The light from his lantern illuminated a bit more than anyone had been able to see earlier, including the cooling pool of blood Lady de Jaager was laying in. Theodore grimaced, trying not to make it obvious how much seeing her like that unnerved him. His mother hadn't ever really tried to keep truths about the world from him, but... he'd never seen a dead person so close before either. The fear frozen into her expression, her dull eyes... it wasn't something he was going to forget anytime soon.

Still, he had a job to do, and that was to help Mr. Ramsey by getting any information he could before the locals got here and messed everything up like they were always doing. Or so his mum said anyway, usually when she was teasing Mr. Ramsey the way she liked to.

"You, uh... you see anything?" he asked the Prince, not totally sure what the protocol was on a situation like this. Titles seemed kind of stupid in this situation, and this fellow had done more or less what Theodore's mum and Miss Amy had said, so he didn't seem to be too big for his trousers or anything.

The Prince didn't immediately answer, and seemed focused on Lady de Jaager. He knelt down as if to inspect something before pursing his lips together. “Other than the obvious, she was stabbed in the neck. If there were any scents that could have been connected to her, the rain's washed it away," he finally spoke, sighing deeply. He folded his arms across his chest and seemed to be contemplating something.

“The man they found with her, Seamus? He might have seen something," he muttered as if to himself. He didn't seem too convinced, though, and shook his head. “That doesn't seem right. Hey, Kent," he stated, turning towards Theodore. “Come here for a second, and..." he paused to turn back towards Lady de Jaager before pointing to a spot, “stand right there. I need to see something."

Theodore, much more interested in helping with whatever investigating the Prince was doing instead of fixing the power, moved carefully to the exact spot he specified, still holding his lantern. It gleamed off the golden handle of the thing Lady de Jaager had been stabbed with—apparently a letter opener, if he was seeing that right.

"What is it?" he asked, turning his eyes from the body and the weapon and back towards the Prince.

The Prince furrowed his brows. “It looks like a letter opener of some sort. Wasn't cheap, from the looks of it," he stated, however; he moved so that he was behind Theodore. He made a soft sound in the back of his throat before he moved back to Theodore's line of sight. “Lady de Jaager was standing forward, and stabbed from behind. I can't tell, exactly, but that's what the gist is, so Seamus wouldn't have seen anything. Let's see if we can get the power back on," he stated, moving carefully around Lady de Jaager.

“It'll be easier to see if there is anything else that might point in the direction of the murderer," he stated, making his way towards the wire box.

Theodore nodded slightly, throwing the dead woman one last uncertain glance before following the Prince to the box. Making sure that the power was shut off first, he noted that the cover was already off the box, which definitely did suggest that the O'Sullivan guy had been taking a look at it and gotten electrocuted.

"You know," he said, crouching down near the box and taking a look. "If this guy was supposed to be the handyman around here, there should be no way he forgot to check if the power was off. Seems to me like someone flipped it back on after he got here. That's not a lot of time—maybe they were followed in here directly for some reason? Then the culprit flips the switch, waits for O'Sullivan to electrocute himself, and stabs Lady De Jaager afterwards? While she's freaking out?"

It would explain the scream, and why it suddenly stopped. Maybe she hadn't seen her attacker at all, just her handyman getting possibly killed by an electric charge.

He hummed as he examined the wires. "I think the storm really did knock it out though. Nothing here looks like it was tampered with. So it wasn't a trap, you know? I'm gonna throw the backup generator on."

“That is a possibility," he replied, huffing quietly as he shook his head. “It could have just been the perfect opportunity to commit a crime, and return under the cover of darkness. I think..." he paused for a moment, “it would be something I'd take advantage of if I wanted to murder someone. It also looks like a spur of the moment kind of thing, though. Who goes around carrying a letter opener as a choice of weapon?"

“Come to think of it..." he paused again, pursing his lips together, “Why would anyone have a letter opener on them if this wasn't their home? Doesn't add up, none of it." He merely shrugged, though, and waited for Theodore to turn the backup generator on.

Theodore in the meantime had picked his way over to the backup. It was an old, squat thing, and if he was completely honest the copper wiring didn't look to be in the best shape, but as best he could tell in the dim light, it should work okay for now.

Given the recent electrocution of Mr. O'Sullivan, he was careful about it, making sure that nothing he could see was connected some way it shouldn't go, then flipping the necessary switches to start the thing up. It groaned and shuddered a little before its pitch settled at a hum, and with a slightly-worrying wheeze, started to circulate power.

The lights in the outbuilding flickered on, dimmer than they probably should have been, but enough to basically see by at least. From the dull sounds filtering in from the direction of the main house, something similar had probably happened there. "Well," he said, expelling a breath and straightening to turn towards the Prince. "I guess that's one problem solved for now."

“For now," he murmured, his lips pursed into a fine line. The Prince seemed to be thinking about something since he had a furrowed brow, and he was staring at the floor where Lady de Jaager had been found. He shook his head, though, and turned towards Theodore. “Since we have more light, perhaps we should look around to see if anything is misplaced. Perhaps a servant or two saw something out of the ordinary," he began, his face smoothing out in the process. He sniffed slightly before rubbing at his nose.

“We won't be able to find any footprints, not that it'd help, because of the rain," he muttered to himself, it seemed. “Let's go see what we can find," he stated, glancing in Theodore's direction. “If it really was a spur of the moment thing, the person might have messed up somewhere." It was likely in the event that Lady de Jaager's death wasn't planned.

Theodore scratched a bit at the back of his head at the bit about footprints and the rain, but shrugged. It sort of made sense, if that kind of thing was likely to be washed away. Glancing up, he caught side of the electric clock on the wall. 10:10. It was later than that now, of course, but he figured that was probably when the power had gone out. "I don't think the Lady has a whole lot of them," he observed. "Servants I mean. Mum said she'd written a few months ago asking for advice on how to downsize a staff. We don't have very many either, so I guess she wanted to know how it worked."

He also couldn't imagine too many of them having wanted to be outside in the rain, but maybe one of them had seen something weird earlier.

Glancing once more at the poor lady on the floor, Theodore filed out of the outbuilding behind the Prince, taking care to close it tightly behind him. There wasn't much he could do by way of being respectful, but at least this way she wouldn't be visible to anyone who walked by or anything.

“That will make things slightly difficult," he responded, his shoulders slumping as he sighed. “It would be one thing if she had a full staff, but if you're saying she downsized..." he trailed off slightly, glancing towards Theodore from the side of his eyes. “It'll still be worth asking the ones she does have. If there's even a small chance that one of them saw something, we'd have somewhat of a trail." He hummed something in the back of his throat, as if he'd figured something else out, however; he remained quiet until they reached the doors.

The Prince opened them, stepped inside, and glanced around the hall. Some of the guests were gathered in circles, chatting among themselves. Now that the lights were back on, it was easier to see who was around. The Prince didn't seem too interested in the guests though, and seemed to be looking for one of the servants. They didn't spot one until they reached the kitchen area, and he immediately walked up to them.

“Did you happen to be near the windows or doors before the lights went out?" he asked once he had their attention.

The servant, a young man probably only a few years older than Theodore, blinked, eyes going wide. Probably because he was being so directly addressed by one of the guests. “Erm, no, uh—milord. We've all been kind of... everywhere all night, but only inside the house, and erm... focused in, if y'know what I mean?" He had the typical uncertain tone of a service class individual speaking to presumed nobility, which Theodore had learned early on in life wasn't something that went away just because you said it could.

Humming a bit, he tried it the other way around. If there was anyone who'd been seen inside when the power went out, they were probably less likely to have been the killer, right? "Was anyone around you when the lights went out?" he asked.

“Erm..." The youth looked like he was trying very hard not to rub at the back of his close-cropped dark hair. “Well like I said, most of us staff have been in and out of the kitchen all night. What with the serving and all. I think I remember seeing everybody pretty close to then? Oh, and there was uh, Lord Hollis. He was really interested in the brandy for the tasting later, so I saw him just before." The servant shrugged, as if to say this sort of eccentricity wasn't unexpected.

Theodore wondered if maybe Lord Hollis wasn't one of those types that was a little too fond of liquor. A servant would be both too polite and too intimidated to tell an actual lord off for sneaking glasses of the stuff beforehand. But even if that was true, it didn't seem to have anything to do with the murder. He turned his attention to the Prince and grimaced.

"I think we might be stuck until Mr. Ramsey gets here," he admitted.

“Yeah," was the response Theodore received, however; the Prince looked puzzled by something. His brows were furrowed deeply, his lips were pursed into a fine line, and his eyes were slightly narrowed. It was almost as if he were inspecting something in the distance, but he blinked, and glanced at Theodore. “Something still doesn't smell right," he muttered, but said nothing further. Instead, he rolled out his shoulder and sighed.

“Let's wait for Ramsey, then," he stated, ushering Theodore in front of him.

The youth nodded, and led the way back to the ballroom, where it seemed nearly everyone had been gathered.

Mr. Ramsey would know what to do.

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