The Thirty-third of Vortas 2719 - Eleven to twenty nine minutes past the Eighteenth hour
A ritual of his own now, just as time worn and fluid. Fingers spread along the rim of the cup, heat rising, flowing. The cup is too hot for comfort, too delicate to grip with any force. So he keeps his fingers as they are, drawing in a little heat, a little discomfort. More than a little focus. And so he turns the cup, feels the oscillations of the tea, the drag of fluid, the pull of the force. Once, twice, three times. Clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again.
He looks at her, takes measure of her face, the set of her features. Calm upon the surface, but here and there, ripples, hints of things beneath. He cannot make them out, cannot understand them. Loyalty, that at least he knows well enough. He expects that, sees something like and yet unlike it in the Weaver’s face. Deeper concern? Affection? Fear? All are possible. None quite fit. The lady, he thinks, has been fortunate in her choice of agents.
There is no such lady.
The turning of the cup stops, his fingers tighten. All along his skin he can feel the twisting drag of his magic. The machine turns again, rotors lock in place. A new setting. A new baseline. Useless reasoning, spurious thoughts, awkward compensations, unforgivable blindness, phantom connections, all are purged, all are discarded. Connections need not multiply themselves beyond necessity. The lady is unnecessary.
For a while he says nothing, only turns the cup between his fingers, over and over again. What is there to say? Shall he express his shock? He cannot. Shock is not the sensation in his mind. Disgust? It would be conventional, expected. It would be the moral thing. Morals do not interest him.
Considerations, stratagems, leverage, those are another matter.
Such things have happened before. Must have happened. Any number of serving girls warm their masters beds and produce their master’s by-blows. Unacknowledged of course. Acknowledgement would be admission of degeneracy. That cannot be admitted. Yet it is understood. But a mistress? A proper mistress? A confidant and companion? The Incumbent has given the latter impression. At least the man as he is now. And before? He already loathes ‘Him’. Loathes the man, his actions, his willingness to invite chaos, to betray good order and law.
The Weaver is another violation of law, of good order. A private failing. It unsettles him, sends thoughts flying, untethered. He should find it monstrous. He has had his fill of monstrosities.
He raises the cup at last, takes a long, slow, soothing drink. Heat, the faintly floral, earth taste, the rounded feel of the tea, slides down his throat. “Thank you for the tea. It is very good.” Banalities. Civilities. He is buying time, trying to form new thoughts along new lines.
- Item - The Incumbent maintains a mistress
- Item - The mistress is human
- Inference - The Incumbent’s desire to conceal said mistress is understandable. The scandal would be great
- Action - The scandal will be mitigated. How?
- Item - ‘Half Uptown’s in her debt, as I imagine it.’ The Incumbent’s words. Words about Trevisani
- Inference - There are others like the Weaver, like the Incumbent. Ladies and gentlemen who dance on the blackmailer’s strings
- Query - Is this how the conspiracy started? Fomenting disastrous scandal, then manipulating the entrapped?
- Query - Who benefits? Trevisani could extract money, power, position, yes. That explains the method. It does not explain the ends.
He takes another, longer, drink of the tea. Cogitates more, the gears turning, then sets down the cup. “I said earlier that the lady would have nothing to fear from me. I intend to honor that statement.” His affect is flat, his expression as blank as her’s had been.
Did you begin this, he nearly asks, as bait? As a trap to draw in men of standing? Were you one of her creatures? The Weaver’s face is symmetrical, her proportions well within the range that may be considered beautiful. As an artist’s model she would do well. Yes, she could be accounted to catch the eye. More important, her nature. Composure, elegance of movement, studied gentleness. Much sought-after qualities.
Whatever connection between the Weaver and the Madame, it is frayed, perhaps snipped entirely. A woman of her own means. Her own ends. Can he turn her toward his own?
“I see now, why the Incumbent wishes to keep you secret. The potential scandal is considerable. His position threatened, his reputation ruined.” His compliance to the blackmailer assured. He is but one such man. There will be others. The Judge? Oh wouldn’t that be a treat? The great man himself, the very paragon of disdain for the lower orders keeping a mistress such as this. The Judge would not be half so concerned about the wellbeing of his paramour. The Incumbent, ‘He’, is altogether different.
“I see no virtue in ruining the man. He is already shattered as it is. Has already come to ruin enough. No. The object of my visit here remains the same as before. I need to understand the man, as he was, as he has become.” No virtue at all. The Incumbent ruined is worse than useless. The line into the conspirators nest would snap, and by it they would both be hanged. No. The man must remain protected. At least for the foreseeable future. “I hazard, Miss, that you may know of others in perhaps similar situations? Others without friends such as you, and agents such as I.” He reaches for the teapot, pours himself another cup. The pot is still in his hands, he nods towards the Weaver. “Would you care for more tea?”