[Closed] [Closed, Mature] Loose Threads (Ava)

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Woven Delights

The Thirty-third of Vortas 2719 - Eleven to twenty nine minutes past the Eighteenth hour

"B

lack.” The adding of milk, of sugar, does not appeal. Not unless the tea is vile in and of itself. The fragrance here promises no such thing. Steam rising from the pot, from the stream of tea as it falls, from the cup. The Weaver tends to her own tea, adjusts it. Sure and practiced. Delicate and graceful. The motion of her hands, the economy of movement, that too seems familiar. Familiar from an altogether different quarter. Sebele’s motions as she performs the art of her coffee. Swift, smooth, turned to beautiful fluidity, to mechanistic efficiency. Such elegance, such paring away of unnecessary movements, it takes ages and long practice. How many posts of tea has she poured in this place? How long to learn such a ritual?

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?”

[Ava Weaver]

Afternoon, 33 Vortas, 2719
Woven Delights, The Painted Ladies

H
e sits for a long time, still but for the slow, rhythmic movement of his fingers on the cup. Ava feels as if she can see him thinking, can see the gears of his mind moving behind his eyes, in the turning of his hand. His face is very nearly blank; she does not know, but she wonders if he is skilled enough to feign such blankness when what he feels is horror, or disgust.

Ava sits, too; she knows much of waiting.

In time, she, too, feels nothing like shock. The words have been spoken; they cannot be taken back. She learned a long time ago how useless it is to wish for that which has passed to be undone; she has nothing to spare for such frivolities. Ava finds her hands are steady once more, and she finds, too, that she is ready to go on.

She picks up her cup before he does; she takes a small, noiseless sip of tea. It has not cooled; it has not been so long as that, however it feels.

“You’re welcome,” Ava says, when he thanks her for the tea. She smiles once more; she says nothing else, asks no questions, and does not rush him. She takes another small sip of tea, and sets the cup back down, without the faintest clink of porcelain on porcelain. She sits upright still, even and calm, her hands resting gently in her lap.

Ava inclines her head, delicately, when he speaks once more. She did not expect less, but she lets him see her gratitude all the same; she glances up, looks at him out of the corner of her eye, something like vulnerability lingering in the softness of her mouth for a moment before she smooths it away. It is not as if she does not have reason to fear. It is kind, she thinks, of him to say lady; she was not so crass as to use the word which really describes it best.

She straightens out once more; she waits. Whatever thoughts he has had inside, she does not think they are so few; nor does she think he will share them all. He does voice some, orderly, one after another. Is there blackmail? She would know, Ava thinks, if there had been any recent demands. It is, she could say, almost more the other way; he had something on her, although I’ve never known what. We still don’t.

That is too far, for today, Ava thinks; perhaps it will always be too far. She does not think this man capable of understanding the connection between them; she knows that to reveal it would be to reveal too much of him, dangerously much. She too takes another sip of tea, slow and even, and sets the cup back down.

“Thank you,” Ava picks up the saucer, and sets it down, closer to him. “Ours is a complicated situation,” she allows, with the faintest amusement lingering underneath her tone. She looks down at the cup; she looks back up at Shrikeweed, the legislative assistant – the chief of staff. She doesn’t quite smile, although it isn't quite not a smile, either. It isn’t hard to feel strange about it all. It isn't hard, either, to feel warmth for him, as angry as she has been. And she has, Ava thinks ruefully, been angry.

“I don’t know of many… like us,” Ava says, quietly. She glances at the color of the tea; she does not add more milk, but she does add half a lump more of sugar. She stirs, gently, the spoon never touching the side of the cup.

Ava sets the spoon down, carefully, on a plate on the tray; a little pale liquid spills from the edge of it, even with all her caution. She picks up the cup up once more, holding it between her hands. She does not take another sip, just yet; she studies him, sitting opposite on the soft, fabric-wrapped couch, drinking his still-steaming black tea.

Ava takes a small sip; she sets the cut back down. She straightens herself up, and she takes a deep breath. “For me,” she says, evenly, “the story begins a long time ago.” She knows her age is hard to gauge; she works hard to make it so. All the same, he would have to be blind not to know she cannot be much more than half the incumbent’s age.

“If you would know what I can tell you of the man as he was before, as you call him,” Ava says, carefully, “my price is that you must the hear the whole of it, or at least its beginning, such as I can explain.”

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Woven Delights

The Thirty-third of Vortas 2719 - Thirty-six to forty-eight minutes past the Eighteenth hour

E

verything in her movements, her expressions, is studied, controlled. It is by praxis that the Weaver is brought into being; an angle of the head, a particular smile, the motion of the hands, the tone and timbre of the voice. A mask, and an old one, grown comfortable. And behind that mask? Who will she be when he goes, when no one else is in this shop, when the streets are quiet and the lamps flickering out. Who are you, he turns the question over and over, when there is no one to see you?

What does a man like the Incumbent, the man as he was, want with such a paramour? Comfort, grace, an ear to listen, a vessel into which to pour the tumult of his days? Were it not for her station, the Weaver would make for an excellent hostess. No. She is an excellent hostess. Only her scope is circumscribed. It is unfortunate she cannot invite the few ladies of the conspiracy, the others’ wives and sister and daughters to take tea in her company, to draw from them by quiet conversation information they would not think to give in another setting. A pity. A pity he cannot use her so.

She has other uses. There is no virtue in lamenting impossibilities. She is a source. An intimate of the Incumbent. A source familiar with his thinking. And so he puts one mask aside, the political agent drops away. He casts aside the lawyer, the mask his father had so carefully fitted. Instead, he borrows another family mask. His mother’s, the journalist.

The inside pocket of his coat, it holds a small drab notebook, a small pen. He cannot draw them out now, cannot take notes so clearly. So openly. That is no matter. The minutes can be composed after. He will remember well enough, he will ensure it.

The room now. Its drapes of fabric and its plush couches, the arrangement of the tea things upon the table, the smell of the air, the temperature, the dimensions, all these he takes down, files each away in the pigeon holes in his own private archives. Labeled, indexed, recorded. A memory aid, the first part of the construction.

Papers in his mind now, sheet upon sheet. A memory of writing, the old familiar sound of pen on paper. The time worn recollection of the feel of his own writing. He will take his notes, put it all down, even if only in thoughts.


The rest will come. Notes of conversations, marginalia, commentary, synthesis. For now, just information. Raw intelligence. It will need to be verified, cross-checked, confirmed. Can that be done? ’She offers certain services to those who climb high enough in the Pendulum, and elsewhere’. The Incumbent’s words again. The words against Trevisani. Back and back to her and her influence. Back to the Pendulum. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he will go and sit in the coffee room, listening to conversations, letting himself see and be seen. Already he has attracted more attention that he likes. He prefers none at all. He will require the opposite.

“I will hear what you have to say,” he says, raising the steaming cup. “I will make no judgments.” A lie, and not a lie. Moral judgements are useless. Judgement of veracity, of motive, those will be required. “What you say here to me will be held in confidence. It is poor form to damage your trust.” What little of that there is. He has no illusions. Trust is earned, not granted for nothing. There will come a price. There always does. He will have to pay it. When the time comes.
Now and now the gears are turning, the field spins up, the rotors and cogwheels begin their motions. The ink is ready, he lays the notes out before him. A record of what is to come, set first in his memory, then to paper later. Confidences will be maintained, names masked, sources and methods protected.


Memorandum of Conversation - The Thirteenth of Vortas 2719
Location: Woven Delights, The Painted Ladies Vienda
Participants:

• B.A. Shrikeweed, esq - Legislative councilor and acting chief of staff
• Miss Ava Weaver - Proprietor of Woven Delights, friend of Incumbent Vauquelin

The words are fixed in his field flow, the form of the memorandum prepared. It will all be set down, made real. For now it is all still unmade, unmarked, unwoven. The Weaver will resolve some of the irrealis. He will have to resolve the rest.

“In your own time, Miss.”

[Ava Weaver]

Afternoon, 33 Vortas, 2719
Woven Delights, The Painted Ladies

T
he tiniest flicker of a smile twitches over Ava’s lips when Shrikeweed promises no judgments. She will not hold him to it; in fact, she is rather counting on the opposite. She lets him see it, because she knows what is coming, and because he does not.

She does not trust him. Much of what she will say - of what she has said - could be used to hurt her. This account, published in a newspaper, would be as good as killing Ava Weaver.

What she knows - what he does not - what few do - is that she can strip off Ava Weaver, if need be. She can unpick the stitches, small, tight, bloody work; she can set this face aside, however much of herself comes with it, clinging. She would rather do so than to lose Silk; that would be like cutting out her heart. Perhaps it can be done; she has not found it easy, these last weeks, to keep it from beating.

Ava inclines her head, when he tells her to begin in her own time. She takes another small sip of tea, and sets the cup down. She straightens; her hands are smooth in her lap, one folded on the other, with no tension or grasping in the fingers.

Her face is smooth, too, for now. She will decide later whether to cry.

“Mrs. Trevisani bought me from my family shortly after my twelfth birthday,” Ava says, evenly. “For men who can afford it, in coin or otherwise, she provides women: beautiful, graceful, well-trained, and human.” She does not balk at calling herself beautiful; she knows.

“She has houses, in quieter parts of Uptown, where they are kept, and trained,” Ava goes on, steady and even, “and where men come, too, to meet them.”

“It was at one such in Bellington where I met Anatole.” His name is soft - just a little soft - on her voice. It isn’t disgust on her face, not quite; it’s something almost tender. Now her gaze lowers, just a little; there is the faintest blush of color on her cheeks. This is a more familiar mask; she wore it for him for years. She lets it twist at the edges; she lets a little uncertainty creep in at the edges.

“He had some leverage over her, then,” Ava says, quietly. “I never knew what, or how, but he took me away from there. He had an apartment in Smike’s End where I lived for many years, where he would visit me. I was - I am - grateful to him, for that.” She says it firmly, staunchly, as if she thinks she will not be believed, as if she, herself, sometimes needs convincing.

“Nearly three years ago,” Ava says, “he told me it had become to dangerous, for us. This is when I sold the necklace, and some of the rest that he had given me; I used the money to set up this place.”

“I did not see him again until last rainy season,” Ava’s face tightens; something like confusion, or hesitation, flickers across her face. She shifts. “He is much changed,” she says, quietly.

“I care for him,” Ava goes on. She looks up at Shrikeweed; she meets his gaze once more. Her lips flicker at a tiny, genuine little smile. This is very easy. “I tell you this because I don’t believe there is any man who could fail to judge. It is complicated and strange between us,” There is no uncertainty, now, in her voice. “I fear for him too.”

“And I -“ Now Ava lets something flicker and break on her face; her lips press together. There is the faintest gleam of moisture in her eyes. She catches it; she closes them for a long moment, and when she opens them, it is gone. “I’m afraid of her.” Ava says, quietly; she looks back at Shrikeweed, then.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Woven Delights

The Thirty-third of Vortas 2719 - Fifty-one past the Eighteenth hour to Seven minute past the Nineteenth Hour

E

verything is fungible, including life.

The Weaver lays out her purchase history. Detached, straight-faced, matter of fact. First bought, then trained and traded. Like a racing moa, like livestock. No, not quite. More like fanciers’ pigeons or show dogs. But with no arena in which to be displayed. It makes no sense. He is missing something again. Something critical. It is no time to ask, not now. The Weaver continues in her tale, commenting as though the girl that was bought and the woman speaking never shared a being. ‘She’ and ‘I’, ‘I’ and ‘She’. Another with a shattered psyche, one who could make a clear demarcation between past and future. Like moths, the transformations were abrupt, radical, irrevocable. Nothing like slow degrees of becoming, of only realising all too late that who you had become was not who you were when first you set out. A becoming with no beginning, no end. Neither the Weaver nor the Incumbent have any such luxuries, such bewilderments, such continuities. Only short, sharp shocks.

He should feel disgust, anger, outrage. He feels none of that. The machine devours all such feelings, if he is capable of them at all. Here and now is no place to attempt. Such reactions will only cloud matters. The facts first, the feelings of others. His are immaterial.

She is frank in her account. No pretty words to disguise what she was, what she was sold to be. No false modesty about her value, her aesthetic appeal. Right and proper. Sound. Modesty is another form of lie, and one which would cloud the facts.



Miss Weaver, speaking on condition of legal anonymity states that Mrs Trevisani, a lady of status and position, maintains a number of establishments in which she houses and trains purchased human girls to be what is best described as ‘prostitutes’. Though they are trained delicately and with refined manners. Unpresentable courtesans? Miss Weaver being former property of Trevisani bears this out in her own elegant presentation.

Several houses. There will be tax records, deeds of ownership. Papers of incorporation? File task - Archival review to be appended to this memo. Property records in full.

“Your pardon, Miss. I have several questions. About what you know, what you witnessed.” He marshalls them, lines them up in a long queue. Too long. Stick to the most salient, the foundational questions. “These houses, does she disguise them in any way? A reformatory perhaps? A girls school? Charities?” There would be papers on such things, proper papers, notarized and filed. The premise and attestations will be false. A crime all its own. “Or does she rely upon the depth and extent of her clientele to provide protection? Were I her, I would think joint strategies would be called for. She cannot well expect to gain the custom of every man of influence in Uptown.” He pauses, considers. No, the reasoning is sound. “If, for no other reason than that you say she only runs girls.”

He has no experience with brothels, with the houses of courtesans, the dealings of madames and their charges. What does one ask? How does one learn of such places? And fine houses in Uptown with elegant girls to ‘meet’, that is curious all on its own. To visit such a place, to enter into any form of companionship with the product, the scandal alone would be great. Why not run galdori girls of lower status and lesser expectations? There is no shortage of embarrassed families with more breeding than cash. And such women can be taken out upon the town, taken to the opera and boating on the river. Or whatever it is that men do with their mistresses.

Human girls? Companion girls? Low brothels in the Dives would cater better to galdori with a taste for human women. Anonymous, sordid, far less chance of being discovered.

“Another question, if I may.” He pours still more tea, watches the steam rise and forms his thoughts. “Such establishments would be dangerous to attend, for the clients. Trevisani would have to ensure she would not be exposed, that those who cross her threshold are already, in some sense, compromised. Do you know the price of admittance? What surety does Trevisani extract?”

There must be some surety. The Weaver was purchased at about twelve. How long ago was that? At least ten years, perhaps more. That is no small length of time to be in such a business. Not a whiff of scandal, not a word in any circle he knows. No, quite the opposite. The Pendulum is full of Trevisani’s clients. How did that come to be?



Previous information from Incumbent Vauquelin, indicates that Mrs Tervisani maintains an extensive client list, many of which are members of The Pendulum Club. File task - Acquire membership rolls. Mr Seppings, the general secretary can be approached about this. With caution.



“Leverage?” he asks, leaving aside the mental notes at the sudden shift in the power dynamics. “The Incumbent has leverage on Trevisani?” It will have to be acquired, noted, dissected. Used. If the man still recalls it. Fortune has not been kind. It will likely have passed into oblivion along with ‘Him’. Or the man as he is will hold it close, clutching it out of fear, until some new disaster sprouts forth. “Interesting. It would have to be significant indeed if it allowed him to take you into his charge.” Was it a purchase? A gift? A loan? Payment for silence? To part with the Weaver cannot have been profitable.

Smike’s End. Home. The Incumbent had kept his little bird in a cage on some street he knows. There is not a street in the End he has not walked, no lane or alleyway he does not know. Three years the Weaver liked in the End. He will have seen her, perhaps many times, and thought nothing of her. Just another person about their business. Another shape to be seen at the Marlowe Street Market or in one of the little squares surrounded by shops and merchants. He has no memory of her. It is not reasonable to assume he would.

Smike’s End.

“Where in the End is this apartment? It may be nothing, but with all the properties involved, it is best I get a sense of where everything is. The house in Bellington as well, and any others you know of.” A map of the city now, districts picked out in colors, streets cut through as bright lines. Smike’s End, Bellington, Ro Hill, the Clockhouse. And across the River, Painted Ladies. Points he knows, streets he walks, places he has seen. Seen but never understood. Vienda is one place, but it is a multitude of cities. Invisible cities. His is the city of agreements and arguments, of paper, ink, and coffee. There are others, he has always known that. Today another one takes its shape. It too must be mapped out. “ If you have no addresses, that is no matter. A good description may be enough, at least to start.”

She returns to the Incumbent, her face tense, her expression confused. ‘He is much changed’. That is the start of it all. They are not the same words he knows. They are the same sentiment. ‘The Incumbent is not sound.’ “He has changed, yes. More so than I think most suspect. He is not the same man he was before. He wears the same face, carries the name name, but something is changed utterly. Sometimes, Miss, he speaks as though he is two different men, with two different histories. He is hiding something. I cannot tell if out of fear, shame, confusion, or bloody-mined contrariness.” Perhaps all.

And there are other matters. Discontinuities. Indications, measurements, reconstructions, all point to the Incumbent having something to do with the King of the Rose. It makes no sense. The records of the Incumbent’s postings, his actions, do not bear this out. “And sometimes, Miss, I have come to wonder if the new man is new at all.” Can a mind, newly born into old flesh have its own past? A separate past? “Has he told you anything, any little detail of his memory that seems unnatural, unlike him? From a parallel life?” He does not know what this means, what any of it means. The data is there, the thoughts are layed out. The work in Plamondon Hall had confirmed all this. He trusts the measurements, the data. Yet the contradictions remain.

Entities need not multiply themselves beyond necessity. Yes. But there is a corollary that so few people realise. Necessity may require the introduction of new entities. The Weaver and the Mistress have been collapsed, that branch has been pruned. Yet ‘He’ and ‘I’ remain. It would be simpler if they were two separate men. The data would sing in harmony. There is only discord. “Perhaps it is from that parallel life that his leverage over Trevisani comes? If I had a better notion of where I might look, then perhaps we could find that lever, and give it just a little tug.”

[Ava Weaver]

Afternoon, 33 Vortas, 2719
Woven Delights, The Painted Ladies

Ava can make out very little on the smooth frown of Mr. Shrikeweed’s face. She wishes it were otherwise; she would be glad to have some – any insight – into his thoughts on the matter, and perhaps more importantly – perhaps less – his feelings. But she knows precisely how much these hopes are worth, and she accords them correspondingly little value.

Ava knows, too, better than to read too much into the subtle changes: does it deepen, slightly, here? Does it ease there? She cannot say, and she does not try to wind back through the moments, knowing her own memory is not enough.

She feels, nonetheless, a considerable weight from her. This, the first hurdle, is done; she has taken the chance to be the one – the first – to tell him this story. She expects questions; she expects him to doubt, and wonder. There is that which she can prove, and that which she cannot. She has told no lies; she does know whether he might be able to tell, somehow, if she does.

Ava inclines her head, when he speaks of questions. They, at least, are a sign of interest; whether he doubts or not, she thinks, at least he asks. School, he says, and she controls the desire of her mouth to flinch. She cannot forget, even for a moment, that he is a galdor.

“Charity homes for impoverished girls, I believe,” Ava says, “or, at least, so one of the girls said she had once heard.” She does not mention the jokes about teaching them a trade; even to think about strained, smiling faces, desperate for a few moments of choked laughter, is all she can bear. “I do not know whether they would be her endeavors directly, or whether some, at least, might be owned in a more complicated manner.”

Ava pauses, thinking it over. “I shouldn't be surprised if joint strategies were employed,” she says, inclining her head. Who does he think is checking? All the same, Ava knows something of the importance of reputation among galdori women, Uptown; she hears enough of it, implicitly and explicitly, in the business in which she is now engaged. Plausible deniability would not be quite enough, she suspects.

He pours more tea; there is not as much steam, anymore, but there is still some, the liquid thicker and darker than before as it strains out into the cup.

“I don’t,” Ava shakes her head. “This, I think, she guards closely. They are not… so many, the men who come. It is an expensive price, I think; it is not a place into which one wanders, unawares. I do not know if all of them know who she is, though many must.” She thinks of the Pendulum House, months earlier, and Trevisani glittering in bright red, smiling, in the midst of all of it. She could guess – a spec? a signature and a thumbprint? some sort of monic impression, something done by casting? She does not know; she only knows that whatever he gave, once, he managed to get away from.

“Has, or had,” Ava says, evenly. She inclines her head, lightly, answering his question about leverage with a nod. She suspects he will come back to this; his eyes brightened, as he spoke of it. She has come back to it, many times. She does not wish to be able to ask him, for all that it might be worth.

“Of course,” Ava says, when he speaks of addresses. This, she thought he would ask. She knows the street address in Smike’s End, and she gives it, unhesitatingly. She never asked if he rented or owned it, if he planned to sell it again at the end of it all, or keep it for some other purpose. Of the house in Bellington, she can describe to him the place; her eyes close as she tells him what she knows, the pub sign at the corner, the row of walnut trees, the faded yellow trim of the house opposite. These things she glimpsed out the window, many years ago; she does know whether they would still exist.

“I did not ever try to find it,” Ava says, evenly. Her lips press together, thin and soft, painted dark red. “I should rather not,” she says, evenly, her throat moving in a subtle swallow, “but I can, if need be.”

There is another property she tells him of, in another part of Bellington; she visited once or twice. “I remember the trees opposite because they were macadamia nut,” Ava says, evenly, “and I recognized them, and told one of the others girls what they were. I don’t know how many such there are in Vienda along the edge of the river, or whether they are still there.”

He goes back to him. Ava listens, watching intent, her eyes wide and dark and all her energy towards listening. She lets a little confusion creep into her face at two different men, lets it widen her eyes and wrinkle her brow, very slightly; she wonders how he knows, or if, perhaps, despite everything, it cannot but be known.

“Is new…?” Ava asks, softly. Shrikeweed goes on, into his question. Ava’s brow wrinkles; she looks down at her hands. “It’s very hard to explain, I think,” Ava says, softly. She looks back up at Shrikeweed; there is something stubborn in the set of her mouth. “I don’t like talking of him this way,” she says, softly, and does not go on, there. She takes a deep breath.

“He’s forgotten things,” Ava says, scrupulously honest, her eyes never looking away from Shrikeweed’s. “Much, maybe. I know he has. And yet… however different he might be, it’s him, in there, at the soul.”

Her forehead wrinkles a little in concentration. “It could be,” she agrees when Shrikeweed speaks of a parallel life, “but I don’t know anything of it, if so. I… I suppose I always thought it was something to do with Brunnhold. Anatole had connections there, as I understand it, from his school days – from his parents, too. I…” she frowns more now, her face pinched, as if struggling. “I thought it was… something he wasn’t meant to know, something he knew by chance. He spoke of it once, that way – Alioe’s gift. That’s as much as he ever said, really, and I don’t know what he meant by it.”

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Woven Delights

The Thirty-third of Vortas 2719, Twenty one minutes past the Nineteenth Hour

O

wned in a more complicated manner. And so he thinks too. Phantom landlords. Ghostly trustees. Ancient old codgers, long since retired to their graves, their names given a second life as owners of properties they never knew. Charities that exist only in signs and false records, legal fictions to hide an illegal truth. She will have lawyers, executors, solicitors, all on her payroll. All in her pocket. And there will be bankers, her own monetary beetles. And above all, there will be paper.

Each document will be a lie, carefully constructed, even elegant. Each new document, a new falsehood in the chain. But lies upon lies cannot be sustained forever. It will fail. There will be mistakes. In the end, they will all be true.

"And you are sure you know no surety? No gentleman," he nearly spits the word. The patrons of the houses do not deserve so much consideration. "Forgive me. No gentleman ever alluded to such a thing? No arguments in the drawing rooms, or wherever, that might give some indication?" Perhaps there is no surety, perhaps the clients think themselves, know themselves, to be insulated from scandal. No. Reputation is everything. Were this to break, it would be worse the death. Disgrace, The end of careers. He cannot bring it to light. Not yet. He needs these men where they are, conspiring in places he knows.

The Weaver is forthright, frank, and still guarded. Practiced and precise. He is no longer sure that is a mask, not one that can be removed easily. The mask has merged with her skin, she wears it now as her own face. She was made this way, trained to be thus. A girl turned first to a commodity, then perhaps something like a pet. And now? She is a source, a repository of secrets, a weapon. And first and foremost, a weapon of her own.

There is no point in trying to wield her in secret, without her knowledge or ascent. She will have to be convinced. That at least will not be so difficult. She hates Trevisani. She fears her. The old hack phrase is not true. The enemy of my enemy is not my friend. But, we may share a goal for a time. Only for a time. The Weaver is still a weapon. Best to treat her with care, with caution.

And now she speaks, giving addresses, places, descriptions. The apartment up in Smike’s End, the apartment he has passed many, many times. “I know the place,” he says, nodding. “A decent part of town, local shops. Your basic needs all within an easy walk.” Tolliver’s Books. The little wine shop on the corner of Hazan Street. The Black Raven Bakery. Caseby’s Greengrocer, where he buys his produce in season. Oranges in the winter, peaches and cucumbers in the summer, asparagus and mushrooms in spring. He must have seen her there, likely more than once. Seen her and paid her no mind. And seen the Incumbent, and paid him no mind. Where else would the man be? Who was he when he was not at home?

Leave the thoughts for now. Come back to them later. There will be time. There are other matters.

The house in Bellington raises no memories. It does not need to. The Weaver’s description will more than suffice. “Walnut and macadamia trees together cannot be common, and less so in proximity to the pub and a house with yellow trim. It is as good as an address. Better perhaps. I believe I can find it on my own.” He cannot blame her for her aversion to the place. Care and caution. No need to drag her along. He is thankful for that. The pub will be a jewel, even if it serves nothing but sour beer and week-old pies. But it is Bellington, and no place would last there were it not of some quality. A decent place to perch. To wait. To watch.

There is a tenderness when she speaks of the Incumbent, even now. Another thing he does not understand. She was his possession, purchased by him just as Trevisani had done. Purchased with what coin? Perhaps to be petted and pampered, given her own space, to be used by one man alone, was enough to seem a charmed life. It is not for him to say. Let her have her happiness, however fleeting.

“Brunnhold,” he says, to himself and the empty air. A bitter word for a bitter place. It is not his city, he could feel nothing in its streets, among its stone lanes. Dead and dead, the haunt of scholars playing at politics. What use are they in this? What use is he to them? He will leave them to their studies and theories, their own machinations. They will not leave Vienda to its own. “It has been a long time since I have much considered that place. I have little love for it. Yet if the threads lie in that direction. . .” He pauses, leaving the thought unfinished, to die in the stillness. He cannot go there, cannot go back. It may be inevitable. For a while he is silent, drinking the tea, now growing cold. “Alioe’s gift?” Another sip, and the last he will take. Who are the Incumbent’s connections there? ANd who are Trevisani’s? Find them, plot them out, lines stretching across paper. Lines that must cross somewhere.

“I am as much in the dark as you.” What gifts does the Lady of the Hours give? What object, what secret, what person, might wear that name about them? It is meaningless. He will have to find the meaning. Temples, Everine priests, religious texts. The fanciful names of jewels. It could be any of these, or none. “The name means nothing to me. Beyond a surface read I mean. Did it seem to you a thing? An object? Some oblique reference to an event?” Another ‘Gioran Matter’? A name to misdirect?

He leans back upon the soft cushions, trying to stitch together his thoughts. Too many dead ends, too many new avenues. It will have to be untied, sorted, measured, and tied all back together into a proper shape. He takes up the cup again, thinking. And he turns it, once, twice, three times. Clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again.

[Ava Weaver]

Afternoon, 33 Vortas, 2719
Woven Delights, The Painted Ladies

Ava shakes her head, slowly, as Shrikeweed goes on; her lips turn up in the slightest of wry smiles when he pronounces gentleman like an epithet, and then apologizes – for the word? For the harshness? Ava has not forgotten, earlier, that he called her a lady, for all that she has not forgotten, either, what he is and what he represents.

“No,” Ava says, “not that I can recall. You must understand; even her name was a secret from us. We called her madam, and we were grateful not to say it very often.” She does not say that she was sixteen when she left; she does not say that she had other concerns, then, and that it was only later that she learned to listen more purposefully. She had never tried to learn such things; she had not, really, even understood them.

Ava nods when he speaks of Smike’s End. She wonders what Shrikeweed imagines of her time there; there are very few humans who live in Uptown. They are mostly vendors, there – greengrocers, bakers, butchers, and the like, who are fortunate or brave enough to rent a shop there amidst the galdori. Such privilege comes with its own price; this is as true in Smike’s End as it is in Ro Hill.

She wonders, idly, if he imagines her walking around; she wonders if he imagines her life there involved such freedom. Secrets, she might say, don’t wander freely down main streets. She puts it aside; such tellings don’t serve her purpose. She knows that hiding too much of it – hiding the apartment, her time there – will only make it more interesting to him. She would rather point him elsewhere; she would rather point him towards her.

Ava inclines her head, and lets there be gratitude on her face, when Shrikeweed says he can find the house on his own.

He takes up the offer of Brunnhold well enough. Ava sits, watching; there is not much tea left in the pot, but she adds the last of it to their cups, the last of the steam curling, however briefly, up into the air. The pot, enclosed, holds the warmth better than the porcelain, but it must be poured out to be useful.

“It was a long time ago,” Ava says, quietly. She sits back, looking down at the smooth hands in her lap. Her brow furrows, lightly. Now, truly, she does cast herself back, for all she does not quite wish to. Her eyelids flicker shut, although the tension of it thrums through her, and she does everything she can to maintain the appearance of calm. He, too, is thinking; she sees the cogs of him turning once more with the cup in his hand.

It was a long time ago, but this question interested her even then. The knack of pressing, too, of nudging, she learned slowly over time; she knew even then to be oblique, to flatter and praise, and not to ask directly. It was my life, she might have wished to say, that you bought; don’t I deserve to know its price? She never would have; there was no point.

Ava turns over what she can remember of it, and stops when she knows she is filling in the gaps, rather than seeing them. Her dark eyes flicker open, and she looks once more at the red-haired man sitting opposite her, frowning into the middle distance.

“If I had to guess,” Ava says, quietly, “I would guess an event. But I’m not certain; even the idea of Brunnhold is only an idea, though I’m nearly certain he mentioned the city in connection with the secret. I’m sorry I don’t know more.”

She thinks they both know he does not know; she thinks Shrikeweed assumes he does not remember. Well, she supposes, a man cannot remember what he has never known; it’s true enough, but she doesn’t wish to push her luck. Ava exhales out, slowly; her tea is cool, now, in the cup, the last of the warmth which the kettle held onto gone. She takes a sip of it, anyway, to wash out the taste of these memories from her mouth.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Woven Delights

The Thirty-third of Vortas 2719, Twenty nine minutes past the Nineteenth Hour

A

handful of years is not so long. The Weaver knows more than she is telling, remembers more than she knows. He can draw it out, fill the spaces in those gaps with likelihoods and probabilities, with reconstructions and facsimiles. He has done it before, to himself, to the Incumbent. No. There is no field here to sense, no tame mona to swirl and flow like bees in attendance of flowers. What is it like? To always be surrounded by silence, to be unable to feel the shifts of mood and place? To go through every day half-asleep? To live with a mutilated soul? If such wonders as souls are real. Like being deaf or blind perhaps. The deaf have their own languages, and the blind manage all on their own. The world is not made easy for them, yet they endure.

She would have stood out on Smike’s End, though not on account of her race. Maids and page boys, shopkeepers and small merchants, traders, and even the most menial of clerks, all would be afoot, and most of them human. Among that throng she would not have been remarkable. No, the symmetry of her features, those repetitions of the golden ratio, by that she would stand out. And by her bearing. She moves like a galdori lady, her manners and habits fit for a morning or music room. It would have been noticeable. An elegant galdori from a distance, something altogether more unsettling up close.

So she has been made, made by a woman whose name she rarely spoke. Was it by her at all, or are there others to take up these duties? Galdori in Trevisani’s employ? Governesses and music teachers, dancing masters, and teachers of deportment? There are several houses, the Red Madame cannot be at all of them at once. “I take it Trevisani is no kind mistress to her creations?” It fits her character, her lofty disdain. It is poor practice. Better to teach the girls well, keep them in line, let them know their place, but let them flourish in it. An enterprise as many parts, and all need to work in harmony. “No, I suppose she is not. She seems rich enough that she can piss money away acquiring new purchases and then throwing them away when they no longer serve her needs.” He shakes his head. Wasteful.

Would an efficient operation be any better? Would it scrub off any of the sordid grime? No. It would be as low and crass, as debauched as ever. Perhaps more. Waste. He turns the word over in his mind, looks at it from all angles, looks at the Weaver. Not waste, not precisely, but cast off, discarded. There will be others. “Have any of the other girls acquired the favor of a particular gentleman? That you know of? I assume it has happened before and will again. And what does ‘madame’ do with those in her stables,” he can think of no better word, and perhaps that is still to propper, “who no longer serve her needs? Does she cast them aside? Sell them off before they are quite used up?” Cast them into the Arova, there to join all the other bodies that it daily swallows? “Perhaps I might locate one or two, and see what other ways there are to keep Trevisani in check.”

A little pressure here and there, a little fear, and perhaps she might grow careless. Sloppy in her records, less artful in hiding her purpose. What does it gain him to undo her now? Delight in destroying such a person is not enough. The Red Madame is a threat. She is also, in her own way, a source. Sources must be cultivated. Encouraged. Brought into confidence. An oblique blow to her organization, nothing significant, but enough to rattle her, shake her. And then? Make himself useful to her, and turn by turn pick apart the conspiracy. She stands, perhaps not at the center, but she can view the center from where she pleases. He will have to stand in all those places, see what it is that she sees.

Know what she fears.

Alioe’s gift. Another cryptic phrase. This matter is full of them. Signs of signs, and all too florid. They stand out among all the other words. Bright flowers of conspiracy. The Black Protocols are not adhered to. Names should be dull, prosaic, easily overlooked. The conspirators have need of a man like him, a man who knows. How fortunate then, that they have none.

She says she does not know what it means, says it may be an event, and nothing to do with Brunnhold. That would be a blessing. The subject must be broached of course, the words spoken to the Incumbent. His reactions gagued and measured. He will evade, as he always does. They will stalk around each other, trading feints and failing to land any blows. Good exercise at least. Something to occupy the hours until the next tragedy.
There will be more. There can be no doubt.

“Thank you,” he says, putting down the cup. “For your time. For your candor.” The barest of smiles. “For the tea.” He rises now. He has pressed her enough. For today. There is more here, always more. Care and caution. He needs her, not to trust him, but neither to fear him. They have enemies in common. Let that be enough for now. It will have to be enough. There is nothing more. “I may well return. And when I do, I believe I should like to purchase some cloth.”

[Ava Weaver]

Afternoon, 33 Vortas, 2719
Woven Delights, The Painted Ladies

Ava does not answer, when Shrikeweed supposes she was no kind mistress. She sees little point in confirming. She is glad, when he goes on to speak of wasting money acquiring new purchases. Her smile holds, evenly, her hands settled together in her lap, and she voices no complaint at the disdain in his tone, and does not have to wonder where it is directed.

This, she reminds herself: this. For all that he has been courteous, for all that she thinks their goals may align, Ava cannot forget for a moment what he is, and what she is worth to him. There is no way to do this without it.

She does not flinch either at the harshness of his language. It is true enough. Quite used up, Ava thinks, turning the words over. Well, she has never been fool enough to pretend at something other than what she was. She was frank; she has invited frankness. She does not wish to discourage it now.

It helps. There is a burning core inside her, a fire, and she has fed all this to it over the years like kindling. She crouches now next to it, and offers these words one by one, the frowning, thoughtful look on Shrikeweed’s face and his careless, precise language. The fire flares up, and warms her through, and helps her keep her back straight.

“Most girls had regulars,” Ava says. “It was not unusual for a man to have a particular favorite; in fact, it was typical.” Where he was unusual, Ava knows, was in wanting there to be no one else.

“Girls left, sometimes,” Ava says, meeting his gaze. “They were transferred between houses, and sometimes they were never seen again. Some were younger, some were older.” She cannot bring herself to speak the phrase used. “I‘m afraid I don’t know what happened to any of them.” She is, Ava thinks, afraid; they were then, all of them. Rumors and whispers swirled, none of them so kind as what happened to her.

“I don’t know,” Ava says, evenly, “whether there are any to find.” She hides nothing; she looks across the room at Shrikeweed. Something breaks in her face; her nostrils flare, slightly. She feels it, and beyond that, she wishes to remind him that she is more than a horse. Tears gleam in her eyes, and do not fall; she looks off to the side, as if she cannot bear it.

Perhaps she cannot. It is no mask that this tears at her; it is no mask that the words, her own and his, too, pluck at exposed nerves. She keeps them well covered up, lays silk in layer after layer over them; today she has stripped them off to be laid bare, and she finds she cannot bear much more of the prodding.

“I would be very glad if you found others,” Ava’s breath rasps slightly, but her tone is even and smooth; she lets him hear the effort of it, for just a moment. She takes a deep breath; her eyes shut, and her heart pounds in the darkness. She does not go so far as to fetch out a handkerchief, though there is the faintest edge of moisture left in them when she looks at him once more.

He calls it to an end. Ava rises when he does, and inclines her head. It is not over; she does not want it to be. She has offered him a weaving, and she thinks it is in his nature to pluck at all the threads of it, teasing at them one by one, until he finds something he can pull loose.

It shall take time, perhaps; he shall return.

“You are welcome,” Ava says, quietly. Her eyebrows lift, a delicate, subtle arch, when he says he will purchase fabric next time.

“Of course,” Ava says, her hands loose before her. “And the silk with the botanical design?” Her tone is as smooth as it was before, her smile even; her head tilts just the faintest bit to the side, and settles once more. “Do you still wish for several yards today?”