[Closed] Meeting, Yet Again (Basil Shrikeweed)

[Elspeth Whetherwil]

Uptown Vienda - boarder of Crosstown Court and Smike's End - Willow's Rest
24 Loshis 2720

Elspeth stepped out of the front door to her house and looked out toward Crosstown Court. Already there were people walking along the streets, with omnibuses and taxis determinedly making their journeys. A steady rain fell upon the city of Vienda, the sound of water hitting the cobbled streets lulling the city into a dream-like state. It was a cool morning, hovering around forty-five degrees.

Elspeth looked up toward the sky and saw a few birds roosting on the building across from her dwelling — it was small, not too ostentatious. It looked like the other homes in the area, but it had—at some point in the last year—been converted into yet another law firm. Elspeth had not noticed this before, and only just then took note of the placard hanging outside the door.

LeBLANC, SUSPIRIOR, NOTABLES, & BROWNSWITHE

She made a face. ”What a mess,” she said under her breath, before finally closing the door to her home and taking a hard left turn from under neath the awning. She skipped across the wet pavement toward Willow’s Rest. It was almost the tenth hour of the day, when she was set to open shop.

She unlocked the door to the greenhouse and subsequently stumbled in, awkwardly holding her apron and gloves in her arms. The smell and warm atmosphere greeted her immediately and she smiled. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the plants and dirt. It never failed to lift her spirits.

”Good morning, everyone,” she said aloud with a smile, and walked over to the counter and set down her things. She rolled up the sleeves of her pastel green cotton sweater, slipped her beige apron over her head, tied it up, and put on her gloves. She went to work, opening the shop for business. She took a small, stand-alone sign outside, which plainly displayed ’OPEN,’ and placed it outside to the left of the entrance.

She lit a small oil lamp and placed it on the counter; the gloomy weather and early daylight made the shop somewhat dark. She went around to the various rows of plants—four in total—and checked on their inhabitants. The first row on the right side of the greenhouse was filled exclusively with ferns. She had a selection of sword ferns, royal ferns, a few lady ferns, and more—one being the fickle oak leaved ferns, whose colors normally would have turned rustic this time of year, if not for the warmth of the greenhouse.
The next two rows were flowering plants of various verities, from chrysanthemums, pansies, hydrangeas, various kinds of lilies, tulips, and the more commercial roses of various colors; she had also began to keep a small bed of daffodils and daisies, as a personal project, which was nestled in the back corner of the third row on its own small table.
The final row was smaller than the rest, maybe half the size, and exclusively housed the orchids. This is where she spent the majority of her time, and where the majority of her income really came from. Her orchids came with an unofficial promise of longevity. She often used her spellwork to encourage growth, helping each one to develop a healthy system of air and subterranean roots, strong stems and columns, and vibrant petals, sepals, and overall blooms.

She offered upkeep help for any plants that she sold. A customer could always return and speak with her regarding any issues they were having with upkeep. She would sometimes offer her services as a Living Conversationalist, and weave spells to ensure the plants could be brought back from the brink, or she would simply help by trimming and preening the plants as needed, or offer certain fertilizers or chemical remedies.

She was proud of her shop, and on this gloomy day in Uptown Vienda, she could feel the day brimming with possibilities.

Then, she heard the shop bell ring as the first customer of the day walked in. She walked around the corner, toward the counter.

”Good morning,” she quickly greeted them. ”How can I—“ she began, pausing. She realized she knew the man before her, but not exactly. A tiny, almost unnoticeable smile made its way across her face. ”Well, hello you. I never thought you’d stop by. Been a while, aye?”

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - In Chancery, Later Willow’s Rest

The twenty-fourth of Loshis, eleven minutes past the seventh hour to nineteen minutes past the ninth

O

n even numbered days he decamps to Chancery. Parliament in recess and Tom away across the border, there is little enough to handle in the Incumbent’s affairs. A handful of letters, various insipid memoranda from grasping junior politicos, invitations to soirees that will not be attended, demands for opinions that will never be given. For a season politics takes a holiday. Governance grinds on, as ever, paying little heed to season or session. Regulations to be assessed, the final mad bills of the last Parliament to try and implement. The implementation will be solid, the Service will see to that. The policies will be wrong. It is inevitable. Bored politicos looking forward to their holiday are like children at the end of their term. Fractious, impatient, heedless, noisy. He recalls being a child in school, not with any great fondness. Brunnhold is not his place, its streets are alien under his feet, the rhythm of the place is all wrong. Here, here are the streets he knows. Here is his place. There can be no other.

Between the lower slope of the hill of Smike’s End and the valley of Court, the Chancery is an immovable landmark. Five-hundred years old, or a thousand, or only fifty years, it grows and changes with the times. It has always been here. Every few centuries it is built anew. Fire consumes it, the river floods it, it is torn down. And still it rises again. Always present, ever changing. A comfort that.

No one stops him at the usual side door, no secretary or watchman wonders at his presence. It is too early for most of them to be anything more than half-awake and desperate for coffee. They will not notice him. They never do. His footfalls echo in the pre-dawn halls. There is nothing to absorb the sound, no tide of clerks and functionaries to drown them out, no muffling from the hum of voices. No one else about, only silence and phosphor-limned gloom. He gives a long, low sigh. Satisfied. For an hour, perhaps a little longer, he is the Civil Service.

He traces old corridors and side passages; the narrow halls he can see even in his too-infrequent dreams. Another comfort. A comfort that has slipped away by slow degrees. He has spent too many hours at Stainthorpe Hall, too many months transforming himself. Into what, he still cannot say. A conspirator yes, but of a conspiracy of his own devising. He has too few allies. The Thief, half the mind of a man who has gone abroad, and perhaps the Sergeant. He is unsure about the last. A fellow traveler perhaps, but a man with his own agenda. The Sergeant bears watching. The Sergeant is still Seventen. Foolish to put too much trust in them.

Inspectors swarm around him like flies upon a too-ripe orange. Perhaps it is natural. Nosey bastards have to stick together, after all.

At the indigo door he pauses. His name is still present on the brass plate.

Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed - Deputy Chief for Policy Analysis

The office is still his. For the present. It would take an expert locksmith and a devious colleague to take the office out from under him. At the thought, the first key appears in his hand. He turns it in the lock. A click and the sound of the tumbler turning. Music to his ears. The second key for the second lock. Much the same sound, but deeper, heavier. Stained fingers grasp the handle. He turns it three times, clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. A long, deep breath, satisfying as nothing else, not boxing, not hygeth, not even coffee can ever match, and he slips into his office.

By the small window that looks out on the inner courtyard, the ghost orchid hangs pale and wan in its glass terrarium. Moisture from the little pool of water below has condensed upon the glass. It is too pale, too washed out. How can a white flower seem pale? And yet it does. White trending into a listless lack of color. It is the color of resignation, of apathy. He has done something wrong. He cannot name it. Cannot put his finger upon it. Still, he is failing his flower. It cannot be borne, not this flower, not in this place. Knowledge beyond his own is required.

He knows just the place.

* * *

The Fern Gatherer’s shop. He has never known the woman by any other name. He is not sure he ever wishes to know it. Let her be as she is in the Fortesque Gardens, among the flowers and the ferns. Let her be the tutilary of the flowers. Let her be the expert. He respects experts, no matter their field. The shop is only a short walk from Chancery. A pleasant stroll in the pelting rain - he has an excellent umbrella - and close enough that he can carry the flower and its terrarium without issue or fear of watching it shatter upon the brick-paved streets.

At the door he pauses, collecting his thoughts, formulating the questions he must ask. The questions about flowers, yes, and other questions beside. He turns the hand now, clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. The place he enters is always as it should be, smelling of flowers and fine rich soil, of moss and of something else he cannot name. It is all in order. It cannot, it will not, be otherwise.

Behind the counter, in her inevitable spot, the Fern Gatherer gives what passes for her smile. A familiar thing, barely visible. Pleasant and real for all its subtlety. “And a good morning to you,” he says, his tone flatter than perhaps is ideal. “Has it really been so long?” He counts the months back and back. When was he last here? Pages of the calendar flash in his mind. Yaris of last year, when he purchased the cat-faced orchid. It is still growing well on the mantelpiece. He is not hopeless at orchids. “I suppose it has been at that. Remiss of me. The last year has been . . .well, it has been a year, has it not?” His new assignment, the Dorehaven bombing, Levesque’s death, the strange nature of the Incumbent, the revelation of the conspiracy, it is too much for one year to hold. It overflows with weighty matters. Let these next moments be confined to the mysteries of flowers. And their collectors. “I have a mystery for you.” He places the ghost orchid and its glass case upon the counter. “I acquired this earlier in the month and already it seems to be failing on me. Clearly I have made at least one mistake, perhaps more.” With careful hands he removes the orchid from its glass enclosure. “I have given it light and water, I have even suspended it above a miniature pool, and still it fades. I cannot understand it. What do you make of it?” Now his expression changes, grows darker, conspiratorial. “And I have another mystery for you of a quite different nature. Do you know a man, about my own age, brown hair and an elegant face? He may have spoken of a philodendron.” He leans just a hair closer, enjoying this innocent exercise in deviousness. “And he walks with a limp. He is a most distinctive fellow.”