Vienda, Smike's End - 177C Lesser Larch Street
The 33rd of Dentis, 17 minutes past the 29th Hour
L
ittle Bird.
The phase still ringing in his ears, still haunting the corridors of his mind. He knows what it means, at least on paper. He knows nothing else. How can he? A laugh, low, and long, and bitter. A laugh he means only for himself. There is no one else to hear it. Sneed has gone out for the night, off on some private errand of his own. Burglarious? It is likely. It is expected. It is the boy’s true profession, one he tolerates, one professional to another. It can hardly be otherwise. The boy is useful. The burglary is the price he must pay. Another small and private chaos. What does that matter now? Now that he knows what it is that he knows?
A monstrous thing, enough that he should tear his hair and wail to the heavens until long after he has gone hoarse. It is too much. Too much noise and tumult. Not at all in character. It is not the done thing. It is not sound. He will be sounds, must be sound. So, instead, he weeps in silence. His tears falling, drop by slow drop into his untouched glass of brandy. He weeps for Dorehaven, for the dead, for Levesque.
For his own broken soul. Are men such as he afforded a soul? Perhaps it is best his is broken. He can cast aside the pieces, sweep them all away, and carry on. Carry on to what?
The brandy, now slightly saline, swirls in the snifter, catching the light of the little oil lamp. It glows in warm and comforting browns. Tonight the brandy gives no comfort. Comfort is not the object. The ritual must be performed. It cannot be otherwise. Brandy and letters, his ancient pairing.. It tells him these matters are personal, that they belong to Basil Shrikeweed of Lesser Larch Street, not to Mr Shrikeweed of Stainthorpe Hall. The curtain between those two is growing thin, the masks melding into each other.
Little Bird.
The Incumbent, both ‘He’ and ‘I’ share this nameless sparrow. There is something there. She, and he is sure it is a she, holds some part of the secret, some piece of the pattern. It may prove to be nothing at all. It may prove to be everything. She will need to be questioned, a civilized chat over coffee or tea. He does not wish to be a threat. He is already a threat.
A sip of the brandy, the salt is negligible.
How to hunt down this Little Bird? He has neither name nor address, nothing but the fragmentary words of a panicked man and the mockery of a madame. He could go through Trevisani. Yes, and show all his cards, make himself, make the Incumbent, a target. He will need another way to trace her.
What do men give their paramours? Perfumes, clothes, secret apartments kept well hidden from wives, jewelry. Jewelry. He considers it. It is distinctive, more so than all but the most ostentatious of clothes. It can be purchased more easily in the absence of the recipient. It is worn in public. It is meant to be seen, to be commented upon. The Incumbent will have a jeweler. That will be a link in the chain. Yet he cannot just ask the Incumbent. It would be too obvious. Another route must be taken.
He smiles to himself. There might just be a way, a backchannel. He takes out a new piece of paper, sharpens his pen, and begins writing.
Miss Gosselin,
It is with moderate hope that I may be remembered to you. Our conversation on the 13th
of Hamis, concerning coats and charity, was most interesting, and though our views differ in no small degree, I found our conversation to be of interest. I therefore ask that you accept these, the usual pleasantries as to your health, the success of your academic career, etc etc. I am, as you may have come to understand, no great social correspondent, and my skill at pleasantries is rather lacking. Still, I do mean what I say when I address your person and your studies. You are, in my estimation, a young lady of some parts, and I can only hope that these will serve you well in your current station of life.
I am well aware that this is a most unusual letter for you to receive, but I nevertheless find myself in need of your services, as you once were in need of mine. Allow me to preface my request by stating that I have watched your charitable actions with some interest. I am strangely pleased to discover that they are proceeding apace and that your society is performing efficacious work. I am leery of charity myself, being sadly surrounded by venal ladies and gentlemen who seek to use such matters to bolster their standing rather than provide any real assistance. Still, it seems that you are free from such narrow ends.
It is therefore that I find myself trusting in your powers of discernment and in your generous nature.
In matters of taste and refinement I am no expert. Certainly I can select a cravat or pocket watch, but beyond such simple matters I am all to seek. Sadly, this is also the case with my esteemed father. It is under his aegis that I am acting. Filial piety and all that.
The 19th of Ophus is my mother’s sixty-fifth birthday and my father wishes to commission for that occasion a fine and elegant lornette and matching brooch. My mother is fond of such decorations but her tastes are rather singular. It is my hope that you, as a young lady of station and means, might be able to recommend several jewelers with whom I may consult regarding this commision.
You are, of course, free to decline to assist in such matters, or inform me that you are as befuddled in these matters as I. Still, I hope that the assistance I provided to you may be returned in kind. Happy reciprocity is the tissue that binds society together, after all.
Do think it over, and if you have any recommendations, I would be very much obliged to you. I would, in no small part, owe you a favor that might be redeemed at some date of your own choosing.
I remain, miss, your most humble obedient servant,
Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed
He lays down his pen, reviews the letter. It is not his best work, but then his social correspondence has never been sprightly or engaging. Then again, neither is he. It will serve, it will do.
The phase still ringing in his ears, still haunting the corridors of his mind. He knows what it means, at least on paper. He knows nothing else. How can he? A laugh, low, and long, and bitter. A laugh he means only for himself. There is no one else to hear it. Sneed has gone out for the night, off on some private errand of his own. Burglarious? It is likely. It is expected. It is the boy’s true profession, one he tolerates, one professional to another. It can hardly be otherwise. The boy is useful. The burglary is the price he must pay. Another small and private chaos. What does that matter now? Now that he knows what it is that he knows?
A monstrous thing, enough that he should tear his hair and wail to the heavens until long after he has gone hoarse. It is too much. Too much noise and tumult. Not at all in character. It is not the done thing. It is not sound. He will be sounds, must be sound. So, instead, he weeps in silence. His tears falling, drop by slow drop into his untouched glass of brandy. He weeps for Dorehaven, for the dead, for Levesque.
For his own broken soul. Are men such as he afforded a soul? Perhaps it is best his is broken. He can cast aside the pieces, sweep them all away, and carry on. Carry on to what?
The brandy, now slightly saline, swirls in the snifter, catching the light of the little oil lamp. It glows in warm and comforting browns. Tonight the brandy gives no comfort. Comfort is not the object. The ritual must be performed. It cannot be otherwise. Brandy and letters, his ancient pairing.. It tells him these matters are personal, that they belong to Basil Shrikeweed of Lesser Larch Street, not to Mr Shrikeweed of Stainthorpe Hall. The curtain between those two is growing thin, the masks melding into each other.
Little Bird.
The Incumbent, both ‘He’ and ‘I’ share this nameless sparrow. There is something there. She, and he is sure it is a she, holds some part of the secret, some piece of the pattern. It may prove to be nothing at all. It may prove to be everything. She will need to be questioned, a civilized chat over coffee or tea. He does not wish to be a threat. He is already a threat.
A sip of the brandy, the salt is negligible.
How to hunt down this Little Bird? He has neither name nor address, nothing but the fragmentary words of a panicked man and the mockery of a madame. He could go through Trevisani. Yes, and show all his cards, make himself, make the Incumbent, a target. He will need another way to trace her.
What do men give their paramours? Perfumes, clothes, secret apartments kept well hidden from wives, jewelry. Jewelry. He considers it. It is distinctive, more so than all but the most ostentatious of clothes. It can be purchased more easily in the absence of the recipient. It is worn in public. It is meant to be seen, to be commented upon. The Incumbent will have a jeweler. That will be a link in the chain. Yet he cannot just ask the Incumbent. It would be too obvious. Another route must be taken.
He smiles to himself. There might just be a way, a backchannel. He takes out a new piece of paper, sharpens his pen, and begins writing.
Miss Gosselin,
It is with moderate hope that I may be remembered to you. Our conversation on the 13th
of Hamis, concerning coats and charity, was most interesting, and though our views differ in no small degree, I found our conversation to be of interest. I therefore ask that you accept these, the usual pleasantries as to your health, the success of your academic career, etc etc. I am, as you may have come to understand, no great social correspondent, and my skill at pleasantries is rather lacking. Still, I do mean what I say when I address your person and your studies. You are, in my estimation, a young lady of some parts, and I can only hope that these will serve you well in your current station of life.
I am well aware that this is a most unusual letter for you to receive, but I nevertheless find myself in need of your services, as you once were in need of mine. Allow me to preface my request by stating that I have watched your charitable actions with some interest. I am strangely pleased to discover that they are proceeding apace and that your society is performing efficacious work. I am leery of charity myself, being sadly surrounded by venal ladies and gentlemen who seek to use such matters to bolster their standing rather than provide any real assistance. Still, it seems that you are free from such narrow ends.
It is therefore that I find myself trusting in your powers of discernment and in your generous nature.
In matters of taste and refinement I am no expert. Certainly I can select a cravat or pocket watch, but beyond such simple matters I am all to seek. Sadly, this is also the case with my esteemed father. It is under his aegis that I am acting. Filial piety and all that.
The 19th of Ophus is my mother’s sixty-fifth birthday and my father wishes to commission for that occasion a fine and elegant lornette and matching brooch. My mother is fond of such decorations but her tastes are rather singular. It is my hope that you, as a young lady of station and means, might be able to recommend several jewelers with whom I may consult regarding this commision.
You are, of course, free to decline to assist in such matters, or inform me that you are as befuddled in these matters as I. Still, I hope that the assistance I provided to you may be returned in kind. Happy reciprocity is the tissue that binds society together, after all.
Do think it over, and if you have any recommendations, I would be very much obliged to you. I would, in no small part, owe you a favor that might be redeemed at some date of your own choosing.
I remain, miss, your most humble obedient servant,
Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed
He lays down his pen, reviews the letter. It is not his best work, but then his social correspondence has never been sprightly or engaging. Then again, neither is he. It will serve, it will do.
