[PM to Join] What am I Bid? (Antra, Ana, Abe)

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

The Country, Between Brunnhold and Vienda - At Briarwood Hall

The 29th of Ophus 2719 - Late Morning

B

riarwood Hall, that is the main edifice of solid brickwork, now slowly being devoured by ivy, was more inevitability than anything like a dwelling. It sat, sprawling, hunkered in its own grounds; starting with a hundred sightless eyes of glass out and away across the gardens and lawns. Out and away to the distant, rain-darkened woods beyond.

A fine and picturesque place, brooding, time-heavy and weather-worn, bedecked in sclerotic dignity. The landscape warped around it, twisted, subservient. Smoke rose, pale and twisting for a forest of chimneys. Smoke was dispersed by the rain. Coming up the long drive, past yew hedges and freshly scythed and shorn lawns, he considered that this would be an excellent place to be murdered.

On the gravel of the drive, wheels of the hired coach, the best the Crown and Sprocket could muster at short notice and shorter funds, ground on. The rain was a virtue at least in keeping the dust down. Though the inevitable mud would be very shocking. His over-shoes, flood-patens from home, were high enough to handle a bit of mud, a bit of rain. They were made to handle the street floods of Florne. A little Anaxi rain would not faze them. He would not let it faze him.

He had tried mightily to prevent that. The efficacy of his preparations were still very much in doubt.

The morning had been no great treat. An indifferent bed and even more indifferent sleep had done a world of ill. He had awoken, groggy and cramped, a little after dawn. Attended to his morning ablutions, shaving carefully. The little mirror provided had been cracked. Sandalwood balm to soothe his face and talcum powder to keep him from perspiring. It promised to be a day of frayed nerves. He would assume so. Never let it be said that he was an uncivilized man.

One final preparation, and the most necessary. In his luggage, carefully wrapped in layers of cotton batting, he had brought two large bottles of the horrible Bastian spring water that seemed to act in a way to calm his racing mind, to level the fluctuations of his thoughts. It tasted vile, iron and sulphur, but some other mineral in it, he could never recall which, seemed to have that calming effect. Medicine. The vile taste only served to drive the point home. A glass in the morning, and another before he retired. It would not be quite enough. The buzzing in his head was already building, his thoughts in the starting blocks of their race. It was still far better than nothing.

“Well,” he said to an empty room. “Nothing for it.” Toasting no one in particular, he downed the glass. Rusty rotten eggs, slight carbonation, strangely thick-feeling, the mineral water slid down his throat, splashed into an empty stomach. Empty. That would not serve, the water was better taken with food.

It had been something of a pleasant shock to discover that the little inn actually managed a very passable breakfast. Toast with excellent butter, a small bit of smoked fish. Local, in innkeeper had claimed, and its firm flesh and fine flavor bore that out. He could have done with some soft cheese and mushrooms, but then nowhere was perfect. Then there had been the tea. Not the usual muddy black affair, but a fine sharp green tea scented with bergamot. Just the thing to settle the nerves, clear the fog in his mind.

And his companions? He left them to their own devices. Mornings were never his best hours, not unless he was approaching them from the other end. A poor companion before at least one, perhaps two, pots of tea. Abe knew this of old. She, at least, would not disturb his morning rituals.

In the late morning, the air still freezing, they had piled into the not-quite miserable carriage, and set out for the hall.

Now it loomed and lowered, grim and stately, before them. A few other carriages in the drive, waiting to discharge their passengers at the elegant porte-cochère to the east of the main entrance. Time ticked on and their waited their turn, all trying their level best not to succumb to the cold. The great plumes of smoke at least presaged the warmth of the hall itself. The physical warmth.

On his lap, open but half neglected, the auction catalog lay open. He had tried to read it, tried and failed. The coach had been ill-sprung enough that reading had been a near impossibility. Damnit, but he should have studied it last night. A light perusal before collapsing into the uncomfortable bed had not been enough. He was out of practice in such matters. Too many academic journals. An entirely different sort of reading.

“Borna,” he said, with a vague gesture to the catalog. “Have you formulated any plan of attack, at least as regards authentication? There are far more books than I had anticipated. It appears as if Miss Steerpike is liquidating the whole of the library.”

[Antranig Borna]

Ophus 29, 2719

Briarwood Hall, late morning.

Antranig found himself with some small regrets as to his decision to join his acquaintance on this particular jaunt. These regrets were, in the grand scheme of things, very small, especially when faced with the prospect of what they were to potentially discover at the auction they were currently headed to. The regrets he faced were not even directly tied to the decision, really. Certainly not to the company or the journey itself. It had all gone rather smoothly, all things considered. They had been lucky enough to not get stuck or washed out or any number of other things that could have happened. The company was most agreeable as well. He, himself, had passed most of it reading idly across from the cousins, occasionally engaging in some light conversation with Mr. Bassington-Smythe or the doctor. If he was honest, he found the two of them quite charming, and very pleasant companions.

No, Antranig Borna’s regrets were more tied to the fact that the modest inn they stopped at was largely — at least from his perspective — too small. It was clearly a very old place, which gave some reason for the low doorways. He was used to having to duck into places by now, having lived in Anaxas for the better part of his life. It had become a reflex. People were just generally shorter in Anaxas, and so doorways tended to be lower, and often enough ceilings as well. This was fine, he had grown accustomed. He was not, however, accustomed to how oddly small some of the beds to be found in some inns actually were. This one especially. Not only was the mattress lumpy in places, but he found that when he stretched out, his feet dangled rather unfortunately over the end of it.

He had, eventually, found a comfortable enough position to sleep in. This position had, unfortunately, not been comfortable upon awaking. He had found himself with an unfortunate crick in his neck, and sounded rather like a pan of chestnuts on a fire as he got up and stretched himself out. In the process of this, he knocked his knuckles off the rafters, which, of course, only added to the experience. Breakfast had, at least, been enjoyable. The tea was good and strong, and the food well-prepared. He had stopped to ask about the tea itself, and was thankfully given a name of the blend so he may seek it out later. After breakfast, it was not long before they bundled into a carriage and set off for the actual destination of their travelling, a great brick edifice outside of Vienda named Briarwood Hall.

Antra glanced out the carriage window at it as they waited in the drive, stifling a yawn with his hand. He hoped, silently, that he had managed to not look nearly as tired as he felt. Umberto sat across from him, the auction catalog on his knees, and another seat was occupied by the good Dr. Ixbridge. His attention shifted as Umberto addressed him, the turn of his head aggravating the still-present crick. He raised his hand to rub at it absently before answering.

“We could request a short, private look at it,” he said, “it would be rather hard to be certain of its authenticity if I’m to try and ascertain it through a throng of people. If it’s not too much of an inconvenience to our hostess, that would be the best way.”

[Abeline Ixbridge]

AAbe had spent much of her night reading. The heroine of The Mechanical Magistrate, one Ruby Hourglass, was hanging for dear life to an airship's underbelly when Abe began to nod off. The chapter broke, and she regretfully set the book down, wondering how Ruby would get out of it this time.

She'd nearly fallen asleep when the hooting started. Outside the diamond-pane window and its drooping glass, an owl perched in the hollow of an oak, and hooted until dawn. Most irritatingly, the hoots were spaced at uneven intervals. Sometimes whole minutes went on between them, sometimes mere seconds. Were it not for the owl, Abe might have laid awake on her lumpy, unfamiliar mattress in peace. She never slept the first several nights at a new place, and this inn was no exception. She might have gotten some rest, however, had the owl not been so insistent.

After a seemingly reasonable, grown-up time past daybreak, Abe left her room, book in hand, and breakfasted. What, precisely, she had breakfasted on was no matter, for she was totally absorbed in the treacherous world of The Mechanical Magistrate. She was dimly aware of tea, and that she ought to follow Bertie when he got in the cab, and that was about all that penetrated from real life until they had stopped, in the cold and rain, before the big house.

She looked up when the gents began conversing. Business, it seemed, though the mention of seeing the books early did catch her attention.

"If you do secure a look, may I join? I should like to see the extent of the collection before it is scattered to the winds."

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

The Country, Between Brunnhold and Vienda - At Briarwood Hall

The 29th of Ophus 2719 - Late Morning

L

Cold rain, blowing somewhat sideways in an uncomfortable breeze greeted him. Somehow it seemed proper that it should be so, that the chance of damp misery would always be in the offing. The house, in its too-solid dignity, seemed to agree. How nice to have allies. It was a place to be gloomy and miserable. Books upon old books, yes, he would be miserable. He rather thought he’d enjoy that.

The porte-cochère at least pretended to be shelter. A too-crowded one. Another carriage had arrived and was disgorging its passengers. A stately, elderly gent and a humorless valet, a somewhat exasperated lady of perhaps fourty, and a languid and dissipated young fellow barely out of his greens. What a lovely family outing this must be. They too seemed to have taken to the genteel misery of the place and squabbled in desultory way, out of habit more the pique.

“I don’t see why I cannot stay in the village while you two gaze at musty old antiques and mustier old codgers.” The dissipated youth, with the magnificent rounded vowels only achievable through very expensive elocution lessons and even more expensive family pedigree, whinged on. Interesting how even complaining in that voice sounded elevated. That did a wonderful job of making it sound all the more insufferable. He hated the youth at once.

“If,” said the middle-aged lady, “you are to be in polite society, Rupert.” Rupert. Of course his name was Rupert. What else could it be? From top to toe he was every inch a Rupert. A name as insufferable and irritating as his vowels. “Then you must learn to be civil at such gatherings. Life is not all pubs and country dances.”

The squabble carried on in the way all such things go. Perfect. The Vowels could stand there all day. It gave him a chance to slip past and make for the door. That had been the work of a moment, but his forward momentum came to an abrupt halt in the basilisk glare of an immovable servant. Tall, slightly stooped, antique, and possessed of great dignity, the personage had only to gaze and all motion ceased. A neat trick that.

The voice that issued from that ancient throat was deep and low, both pleasingly mellow and yet tinged with menace. “I am afraid, sir, that I will require your name and purpose.”

Name. Name. Damnit all. Who was he today? Antiques. Books. Those were not the province of the scholar of Brunnhold. They were the demesne of the man from Florne. Well, that settled it. “Umberto Gian-Lorenzo Galeazzo. Of the House of the Galeazzi in Florne.” He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and drew out a small and quite ancient filigree case. A click and it opened. “My card, sir. I believe I am on the approved list.”

The immovable servant inspected the card and gave the barest of nods. His neck creaked like an unoiled door hinge. Low and deep and vaguely menacing. “Very good, sir. Your name is known. And your companions?”

“My colleagues. Antranig Borna, the noted expert in literary antiquities. The tall, rather pale fellow. The other is Dr Ixbridge. A learned and esteemed practitioner of medicine and much interested in aspects of the Steerpike library.” Let the servant think Dr Ixbridge, Abe, was the principal and that he and Borna were her agents. It was credible. Not true, but credible.

Another nod. “Very good Mr Galeazzo.” The antiquity stepped to the side allowing passage into the main house. “A reception for our early guests and some of the more discerning ladies and gentlemen has been arranged in the Green Parlour.” The Green Parlour. How many parlours did the house possess? It could be more than a dozen, given the size of the place. Enough for a whole household to have their own private space and never see anyone by servants bringing in tea and snifters of brandy.

“My thanks, sir. Sir. I don’t suppose I may have your name, seeing as you’ve very neatly acquired me?”

“Flensing.” A single name. A surname no doubt. Though after what must have been a small eternity in service it may have been the only name the dignified old fellow retained. How easy it must be to have but a single name.

“Mr Flensing, I don’t suppose my colleagues, especially Mr Borna and his calibrated eyeballs, might have a little preliminary.”

Flensing, stone-faced, seemed to consider this for a moment, and then entoned, “For that, you will have to speak to the Mistress of the House.”

[Antranig Borna]

Ophus 29, 2719

Briarwood Hall, late morning.

Antra smiled warmly as Dr. Ixbridge asked if she could join them, should they secure a look at the collection as a whole. “I don’t see why not, doctor,” he said.

It was a blessedly short wait before they were turned out of their coach and into the entranceway of the grand manor house. Unfortunately, the wait to get into the house was proving to be quite a bit longer. Antra watched as the group ahead of them squabbled. The young man made him think of his own son, who no doubt would be raising much the same concerns had he been dragged along. Although, Taniel had inherited some of his father’s passion for literature, and often enjoyed watching as his father thumbed through new and strange acquisitions, especially if they possessed interesting or odd illustrations along with their text. The Art of Surgery, the volume that Dr. Ixbridge had expressed an interest in several days ago back at the posting house, was one of Taniel’s favourites for this reason.

The family in front of them was still holding up the line. He watched as Umberto attempted to get around them, following behind at a slight distance. It was unsurprising when the servant manning the door — Flensing, apparently — put a stop to any attempt at sneaking by. Antra stood quietly back, allowing Umberto to handle the introductions. He inclined his head politely as he was addressed. His lips twitched in a ghost of a smile as Umberto introduced him as “the noted expert” Antranig Borna. It wasn’t strictly a lie, he thought, surely someone had noted his expertise at some point. He was by no means the best in his field, but he did at least strive to be. The way Umberto had introduced them all made it sound as though Dr. Ixbridge was their head, as opposed to himself. Antra supposed that would lend itself to getting her in to look at the collection with them.

Flensing granted them passage, however, when asked about a private viewing, he informed them that they would need to speak with Miss Steerpike, herself. This was largely unsurprising, at least to him. As they passed, Antra paused to ask, “I assume we might find said mistress of the house in the aforementioned Green Parlour, then, sir?”

[Abeline Ixbridge]

"Ooh, it's been a day since I saw Ana," Abe said with more jovial fruitiness than she had intended. She quickly decided to roll with it, and smiled her blandest at Mr. Flensing, who did not deserve this. "School chums, you know."

Playing the part of the principal, she waltzed into the stately home as if she'd been there a hundred times before; however, as she had not previously set foot in it, she paused, not knowing where to set her feet next. She strolled a few paces into the vestibule, which was lined with elegant vases, and stopped, pretending to fake-admire them (they were, in fact, nice jugs). While she waited for the others to catch up, she availed herself of a convenient mirror, straightening her waistcoat, smoothing her trousers, and fixing her cravat.

"This way, Madam. Sirs." Mr. Flensing led them from the vase-lined vestibule, through a half-vaulted hall, and into the guest-ridden Green Parlour. A few others had already been dumped in the containment zone, and they were milling about, either hob-nobbing or perusing a small collection of books on display. These library specimens were surely the least of the works, meant to tantalize auction-goers before the main event. A selection of wines were available on a table, and a platter of horderves deftly navigated the room.

Abe nabbed a passing canape and popped it in her mouth. "Scrumptious," she muttered before turning to Bertie. "Mr. Galeazzo, I do wonder where our cordial host is. I should very much like to catch up."

[caporushes]

29th of Ophus, 2719
The Green Parlour, Briarwood Hall

The Green Parlour, for all that it was called so, was not particularly green. It had been once, many generations ago—and might be so again in some future that had yet to be seen. No one could know the future; to even try was blasphemous. But Lilliana's grandmother had disliked the color intensely. As such, the Green Parlour was, in fact, a rather pleasing shade of rich red-brown.

It was not Ana's favorite parlour; there was one in the west wing of Briarwood that she much preferred, as it had nicer drapery and more pleasing airflow. It was, however, larger than the Apple Parlour, and closer to the main door. For the purpose of the auction, then, she had gone with sense and not preference. It made a credible receiving room for the more discerning guests.

More than credible; it was a rather nice room, for all that it wasn't Ana's favorite. And she had carefully set on display a few of the lesser-valued items, books and so forth. Lesser-valued, but sure to capture the imagination of those who saw them of what the rest of the collection might contain. There was also, of course, copious wine and sparkling water, coffee, and tray after tray of canapes. A seemingly endless supply of all of these—each time one was emptied, a black-uniformed maid or manservant would whisk it away and replace it swiftly and efficiently.

The parlour had become a sort of containment zone, making it easier for Ana to check in on the truly important guests; not, of course, that those less-important visitors would ever know that they were such. No, that would not do. Lilliana Steerpike took care to shine the light of her charm on each and every one. There was a laugh and a smile here for that gentleman, a politely warm touch on an arm for this lady; she worked her way around the room and left no one unattended.

"Madam," came Flensing's voice from the door. More guests—there were always more guests.

"You'll have to excuse me," she said with an apologetic note in her voice to the rather elderly woman who had been telling her all about how if she won anything, her own children would be auctioning it off post-haste. Poor dear. She pat the woman's thin-skinned hand, and then swept herself to the door in a swirl of dark blue silk.

"Ah, you made it after all! Thank you Flensing; you may go." Flensing bowed stiffly and to just the right angle, and retired from the room. To wait at the door for other guests, most likely. Ana greeted each of the new guests in turn with a bastly, jewel-bright caprise. "Welcome, welcome—would any of you care for wine?"

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

The Country, Between Brunnhold and Vienda - At Briarwood Hall

The 29th of Ophus 2719 - Late Morning

T

he Green Parlour. A curious name for the place. Either he had suddenly been struck colorblind, he was very far from allowing that, or else the room had abandoned its namesake color. Then again, it was winter, and many a green and growing thing had faded into brownish torpor. Not an evergreen, this parlour.

Ladies and gentlemen, all toing and froing their way about the room, canapes balanced precariously upon their little plates made up most of the company. A few keen eyed auction house sharps flitted among the stately old ladies and gentlemen, enterprising wasps amidst the dry winter flowers. Low humming voiced carried about the room, muffled by the thick curtains and dampening effects of the woodwork. A fine old room in an even older house. Architecture was never a strong suit of his family, less so his own. Still, the nucleus of the house had to be at least five hundred years old. Likely older. A place of gravitas, of history, and of status.

He had never been in this house before, and only a handful that even approached Briarwood in their labyrinthine antiquity. How old was this place? How much older was the name of Steerpike? How many curious artifacts could a family accumulate in those long years? By the look of the room, all laid out like a buyer’s museum, even the least of the goods on offer was of fine quality. They were not arranged to the best advantage, however. Creditable of course, but lacking slightly in flair and narrative. The objects were well displayed, but isolated. Little islands of their own. Was that to a purpose, to keep the punters off their guard? It was possible. It was not likely.

A few antique-looking books (Borna’s province) a twenty-second century reproduction of a thirteenth century tea pot (reproduction more valuable than the original), a Gioran funerary offering bowl (slightly chipped), and a fourteenth century Bastian wine cup in red-glazed clay (seemingly valuable, but common enough to drive down the usual antiquities markup). Not a bad outlay, and these were only the few that caught his eye.

“Abe,” he said, turning to his cousin, “do you think Aunt Flora would venture a bet on that tea pot? Or rather should I try and acquire it?” Aunt Flora, his father’s youngest sister, was mad for tea pots. Collected all sorts of them, displayed them about her own, rather less grand, country house. Each of them had little brass plaques explaining their history, provenance, and a few slips of history. She’s always been like that. A collector. A good thing too. He owed his existence to Flora hiring an antiques expert from Bastia to come and consult on a tea set that was supposed to date back all the way to the eleventh century. And so his mother had come to assess it. And so she met his father.

Antiques. There was no escaping them.

Just now, however, he was on the outs with Aunt Flora. Apparently he had offended her in some obscure manner by not attending some family function. A birthday? A funeral? It made no matter. He was on the outs. A bribe of a fine old teapot might so far as to mend things.

There was little enough time to engage in deep conversation with his cousin. A bit of a silence came over the room, and eyes had been drawn all in a particular direction. Miss Steerpike had entered the room. That much was clear. She had a way of making an entrance. It was not showy or affected. She likely had no direct intent to warp the fabric of the rooms she entered. And yet she did. It was not just her quite remarkable beauty that was the cause. No. It was like she carried her own social vortex about her, a field derived not from the Mona, but from long practice. It has seemed incongruous before. It was no longer. She had her own gravity, gravity borrowed from this house.

“Miss Steerpike,” he said, being drawn now into her orbit. “A pleasure seeing you again. A pleasure and and oddity. I hadn’t expected you to ever leave Bastia. It suited you. But, then again, so does this house.” He had last seen her in Florne, at another gathering, rather smaller and less commercial. They had a few mutual friends. Fashionable friends who enjoyed importing a little eccentricity to liven up their discussion salons and dinner parties. With some practice he could shine at a dinner party. Or fall flat on his face, in the social equivalent of tumbling into the soup.

“I assume I can trust that you have an excellent vintage of wine, even for so large a gathering?” Several antique ladies and gentlemen with fine aristocratic noses and finer aristocratic chinlessness, drifted over. The siren song of wine. “And while everyone is enjoying their aged grape, I was hoping my expert, my principal, and I might have a delicate look at the library.” With the word ‘expert’ he gestured to Borna. At ‘principal’ he pointed out Abe. “Just to get an idea of the catalog.”

[Antranig Borna]

Ophus 29, 2719

Briarwood Hall, late morning.

Parties.

Antranig rather disliked them. He found they always reminded him of his former wife, and a still-raw wound in his chest that ached even eight years on. Looking out over the throng of heads in the parlour, most of which he could see over quite easily, he wondered just how many of them knew her. How many might know him. Somehow, it hadn't occurred to him before, and he wasn't quite sure why. They were, after all, quite close to Vienda. Another source of memories. He felt a flutter of anxiety as he searched the crowd for any familiar faces. It grew he realized that there was a possibility his ex-in-laws could be present, lurking, waiting to bring up uncomfortable topics and tell anyone who would listen that the illustrious Mr. Borna had driven their poor, dear Morena into the arms of another man, not caring whether it was true or not. He wasn't quite sure if this sort of affair was something they would attend on their own, but the Sauvageots were hardly the type to refuse an invitation. He was glad, now, that he hadn't brought Taniel.

His attention was blessedly diverted as Miss Steerpike herself appeared to greet them. Once again, Antranig saw fit to let Umberto lead. The fact that he knew Miss Steerpike made it a simple choice. It seemed, really, that he was the only member of their party that was not familiar with the woman. He searched her face for some sort of recognition, but found nothing. It became clear why momentarily; she had, apparently, spent a great deal of time in Bastia before this. She looked a bit younger than himself as well, which would explain why he hadn't run across her in school. He inclined his head politely when addressed, standing with his hands clasped lightly behind his back.

Yes, please, he thought, let us see the library. Let me take my leave of this place before someone notices me. All eyes were fixed on their hostess, a blessing once more, and grew only more intent at the mention of wine. Freedom, it seemed, was within their grasp, so long as the mistress of the house was amiable to their request. He wondered if they could drag out their time, squinting at books and antiques until the auction proper began and socializing was firmly off the table.

[Abeline Ixbridge]

"It is a rather Flora-esque tea pot--" Abe began, her voice trailing off into the sudden silence. Bent to inspect the antique, she had not seen Ana enter the vicinity. Thankfully, due to their shared school days, she was well aware of the Ana Effect, and so the hush was no surprise, but a forewarning. She spun about in time to greet the oncoming Ana with a smile.

Allowing Bertie to do the talking, she hung back and recalibrated her gyroscopic will. Ever-independant, she would not succumb to Ana's social gravity well--nor had she ever, even at school. This tended to cause a bit of friction between them, and they had locked horns a number of times over the course of their not-quite-friendship. They had bonded over books, however. As long as they stay on topic, everything should be fine. Pleasant, even.

Abe glanced at Mr. Borna and noted his apparent anxiety. She chalked it down to immense introversion, the poor chap. Silently, she vowed to rescue him from the bustle of the Green Parlor.

"Yes, please," she said, "let us see the library." She looked Ana in the eye with a certain gleam to her own, discreetly calling back to their literary past.