[Closed] Waiting for the Mail Coach

[Abeline Ixbridge]

Ophus 27, Morning

The morning air was just this side of freezing, which meant it was raining, rather than snowing. Abeline would've felt warmer if it had snowed. The heavy rain had collapsed her umbrella on the way to the posting house, and despite the short walk, her coat was sopping wet.

Soaked near to the unmentionables, she slunk into the building and made directly for the fireplace. The waiting room contained a cheery fire, lavish, if dated, upholstery, and a human post-boy. He was entirely dry. Abe envied him, briefly, before she remembered he'd soon be out in the rain driving the very carriage she'd be cozied up in.

Abe doffed her coat and hung it up by the fire. She turned to warm her back, which had taken the brunt of the umbrella's failure. In the corner of her eye, she saw the boy grow ever more stoical. He seemed none too pleased about his evident future, so she gave him a short nod. It was the best she could do, other than a sizable tip.

Abeline contemplated her own immediate future. Bertie would complain about sitting next to letters the whole way to Muffey. This, despite the fact he insisted on taking the mail coach--hiring a private cab was out of the question given his financials. Abe had to concede the point, but on the condition she could complain about his complaining. For several minutes, she occupied herself crafting novel barbs. She barely noticed the bell jingle above the door as the next customer, presumably her very own cousin, arrived.

[Antranig Borna]

Ophus 27, 2719

A posting house, morning.

Rain. Of course it had to be rain. The snow Antranig could handle, he always tended to have a better tolerance for the cold than a lot of his peers. While Anaxas did get chilly, it didn’t get as cold as the mountains in Gior. At least, he remembered it being colder. It was hard to say if that was actually the case, or if it was his lack of love for the place colouring his memories. Anaxas always seemed so much brighter. He had been lucky, at least, that his umbrella hadn’t given up under the downpour. He still ended up soaked down his back from the wind whipping the rain around, which was quite uncomfortable, and he regretted his decision to wear shoes instead of something with a bit more height and a bit more water resistance. He feared his hair was a bit of a lost cause as well.

Still, he had arrived at the post house somewhat dry and generally unscathed. It had been four days ago that his acquaintance, a Mr. Bassington-Smythe, had dropped by his shop and brought with him some rather juicy news about an estate sale that held several rare and highly-sought after books. Antra had been promised a commission for the use of his expertise, which he had been more than happy to accept, and had then been instructed to meet said acquaintance at the post house in order to catch the mail coach out to Muffey.

So, when the bell over the door jingled, it was very much not Mr. Bassington-Smythe, nor was it anyone who could, perhaps, easily be mistaken for the man in question. Antra stood out in most situations he found himself in, and walking into the little building was not an exception in the slightest. Tall and pale, with pink eyes regarding the room from behind his glasses. His umbrella wrangled and hooked over one arm, he busied himself with smoothing back the awry strands of white hair that the wind had whipped up in a frenzy. He gave a small nod to the post boy, who had become… slightly less stoic, upon seeing the Gioran come through the door, and then made his way over to the fire to join Abeline.

“Good day,” he said, warming his hands briefly.

He got a better look at her, then, and could almost see the family resemblance. “Dr. Ixbridge, I presume?” he asked, “I’m an acquaintance of your cousin. I believe we’re here for the same reason.”

He gave a bow, and a caprise, his soft physical field finding exactly what he would expect in the living field of the doctor. “Antranig Borna. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

The Stacks - The James & Vulture Posting House

The Morning of the Twenty-Seventh of Ophus 2719

I

t was his valet’s day off. In principle he supported the idea, even encouraged it, but it was a damned inconvenience lugging a carpet bag full of more clothes than he cared to pack, a large and heavy satchel, and a sturdy wooden box outfitted with movable compartment in which various antiquities might be securely transported. Trudging through the near-freezing streets with the rain pouring down on him was further proof that he really did require something akin to a proper household staff. One that could hang about as be of assistance at all hours.

It was a practical idea. It would never work. He had enough trouble breaking in one servant. A second would have taxed him to the extreme. Servants were a damned nuisance. A hired hand would have served him better. They could lug all this unfortunate luggage, allowing Umberto to more efficiently manage his umbrella. At the present moment it was doing its duty in protecting the baggage. He himself would have to make due with a reasonably waterproof hat and a voluminous raincoat. Not ideal. Not in the least.

Now, as to the matter of footwear, well in that he has been fortunate in his choice. Ankle boots with an elevated and sturdy heel, and well treated in bees wax. Sensible shoes for an insensible outing. Why was he doing this again? What was the purpose of rattling off to a great house on the near side of Vienda? Ah yes. To pip his uncle and prove his worth. He needed more funding. Uncle Gian held the pursestrings.

It was not that he was a miserly sort, merely cautions with expenditures. He likes to keep some liquid assets. Inventory did not pay the bills, and there was only so much credit a warehouse full of antiques could bring as collateral. Bankers, Gian was fond of saying, had no sense for art.

Umberto, it seemed, has no sense for logistics. That was proven well enough when an awning at Bexton Street decided to disgorge its cargo of rain very nearly upon him. Fantastic. Magnificent. Yes, this had all been planned superlatively. At least he had secured proper passage to Muffey. The rest could be handled from there.

He had done that, yes?

The posting house was, in ordinary weather, not over far from his lodgings. Today, however, it was as if the rains had washed it away, letting it drift further and further from him. Fantastic. Magnificent.

The James & Vulture posting house to their majesties since 2317, was a noble edifice. All fine plastered brickwork with deep-set windows, painted a glossy black, and a heavy, comfortable antiquity. Who the Jameses had been, or why they had maintained some association with vultures has never been particularly clear. Over the decades those reasons had become more and more obscure. It was simply the name of the palace, and old Master Relish liked to maintain an air of mystery about the name. It added to the atmosphere of the place.

Standing now in the post yard, Umberto was quite convinced he could do with altogether less atmosphere.

The bells jangled as he entered, damp and uncomfortable, into the warm and pleasant fug of the place. Steam rose and clouded his glasses, so he was blind a mole as he navigated by memory toward the great polished wood of the bar. “A vast great pot of chocolate, barely sweetened, if you would. Much obliged.” A dim only vaguely person-shaped object before gave what passed for a nod. “Oh, and if some efficient porter could deal with this luggage, I would be infinitely grateful. I am to travel aboard the Muffey Mail.” There was a shuffling, a series of solid, heavy noises, and the baggage, everything but the satchel, was spirited away.

Hands now free he was able, at long, long last, to wipe the fog from his glasses and peer about the main room. A few ladies and gentlemen drifted about, pacing to and fro, and over by the fire, steaming lightly, he aspired the shape of his cousin and Mr Borna. Conversation seemed to have already commenced. Did that make things easier?

“Abe old thing,” he said, making his way toward that cheerful fire, “I see you have already met Mr Borna. And, by the principles of logic, Borna, have met my esteemed cousin.” He gave a sort of confused smile. “I’ve ordered a post of chocolate if you would both care to partake. We are all of us damp inside and out, and something to warm us here by the fire would be just the thing.”

[Abeline Ixbridge]

The first ring had not, in fact, been the expected cousin, but rather a taller fellow. Not recognizing him in the slightest, Abe returned to her reverie. When he made a beeline for the fire, she dimly considered it a perfectly reasonable act for any stranger to do, and she continued mostly ignoring him. His generic greeting was returned with little more than a mumbled nicety. When he mentioned her name, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"B-borna? As in the bookshop?" The bookshop she hadn't been to. She'd been meaning to peek in, but somehow never got around to it. Which was unusual for her. Normally, books were like candy--better, since you could consume them multiple times--and she could not for the life of her conjure any reason for not patronizing his business. It had been there for how many years? At least, what, four?

"Pleasure to meet you, Mister Borna," she said with an embarrassed squint. She added hastily, "I've always meant to, er..."

The sentiment was cut off by an oncoming cousin. He seemed blissfully unaware of the pickle he'd put her in. He offered hot chocolate, which did cheer her, though it also reminded her that she was chilly and damp in addition to flat-footed.

"Oh, yes, frightful weather," she said as she spied a beverage-laden waiter approaching. The elderly man had a slight limp, but he balanced the tray impeccably, likely from a near-century of practice. She took a mug and passed it to Borna before snatching one for herself. The steam soothed her jangled nerves as she clasped the mug close. Her field relaxed slightly, and she finally answered Antra's caprise with a soft pulse of her own.

"Bertie, you didn't mention Mister Borna would be joining us." It might not be so bad, after all. At least they could talk about books.

[Antranig Borna]

Ophus 27, 2720

James & Vulture Posting House, The Stacks, morning.

Antranig couldn’t help but smile slightly. Dr. Ixbridge seemed utterly shocked when he introduced himself, and he found it a bit amusing. He was even more amused when she asked if he was “Borna, as in the bookshop”. It wasn’t often that he met someone and had his reputation precede him, let alone the reputation of his store. It occurred to him that Mr. Bassington-Smythe might have mentioned it to her, but his smile grew all the same.

“Yes, that’s right,” he said, “I’m pleased to hear you know of it—”

Their small-talk was cut short as the bell jangled again and the man of the hour made his appearance. Antra watched as he made his way over to them after a moment, exchanging words with his cousin. He nodded as he was mentioned, affirming that they had, indeed, been introduced, not wanting to interrupt him. His attention shifted to the waiter as the chocolate was mentioned and swiftly arrived. He accepted the mug that Abeline passed to him with a soft “thank you”. The warm smell and heat of the vessel in his still slightly chilled hands were most welcome. He raised the mug and took a sip, pleased to find that it was still on the bitter side, and paused briefly as Dr. Ixbridge remarked that her cousin had neglected to mention that the book seller would be joining them.

“Ah,” he said, lowering the mug, “I do hope it’s not a bother, doctor. Your esteemed cousin mentioned he had a need for my particular expertise, which I am more than happy to provide.”

Umberto had mentioned that his cousin would likely not mind, but Antra felt a bit bad for surprising her. That explained why she had been so shocked that he knew her name, then. The air had gone a bit awkward, and he took another sip of the chocolate.

“I must admit, however, that my intentions aren’t entirely altruistic,” he said, shifting his hold on his mug, “I am very intrigued by what this collection has to offer. I have several clients that would be interested in the titles I know of alone, which I imagine is just a small part of the whole. And I am always on the lookout for new stock.”

He remembered, then, that Abeline had said she had always meant to… do something, which he assumed was to stop in the store. He set his cup of chocolate down on the mantle of the fireplace briefly, reaching in his coat and producing a business card that held all the vital information in regards to his business.

“Feel free to come by any time, doctor,” Antra said with a polite smile, holding said card out to her. “I would be much obliged, and you may find something that piques your interest. If not, I would be more than happy to assist you in finding anything you may be looking for.”

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

The Stacks - The James & Vulture Posting House

The Morning of the Twenty-Seventh of Ophus 2719

W

ell, now he was well and truly for it. Abe did not take kindly to sudden shocks or disruptions of her expectations. It was reasonable of course, but unfortunate in the here and now.He was much better at that, though only on account of being perpetually distrubed. When even existing comes as a shock to the system, an unannounced traveling companion hardly rates. Besides, Borna seemed to be a good egg. Or at least one that was tolerable. Quiet, scholarly, and about as objectionable as a slice of buttered toast. Rather pale toast, but toast all the same.

Still, even toast could come as a surprise. Diplomacy was called for.

“Abe, I am so very sorry, I could have sworn I wrote to inform you that I had engaged and expert to travel along with us.” Out of habit he patted his coat, reached into the pockets of his waistcoat. He was greeted first with the remains of dampness, and then the significant crinkle of paper. From an inner pocket he drew forth a squarish letter, properly addressed and sealed with wax the color of old wine.

Damn.

“Rather late,” he said, passing the letter on to his cousin, “but you’ll find everything in order. I meant to send it, apparently so much that I thought I had. My abject apologies old thing.” It was not the neatest of apologies. Rather thin gruel really, when he thought about it. But it could not be helped. Not with the situation being what it was.

And what exactly was the situation? Borna and Abe seemed at least to be having a civilized conversation. Then again, both were very civilized beings. That was a not-insignificant bonus. It was however, not wholly necessary. Borna was coming along to provide a service, not to be an agreeable traveling companion. The fact that he might prove to be so was all to the good.

“Borna,” he said, grabbing a cup of chocolate and oozing into a convenient chair, “you are engaged upon business. Were you not to have something of a mercenary and commercial air about you, I would be both worried and disappointed. Indeed, distressed. This is not some pleasure outing. This is serious business.” At the best of times, auctions were complex and stressful matters. Most of those in attendance would have their pet experts poking around, wheedling information out of servants, auctioneers, and even each other. Alliances would be formed, enmities birthed, and general skullduggery would be the order of the day. He looked at the tall, pale antiquarian and wondered if he would be up to that challenge. Well, he ran a successful shop didn’t he? That spoke to his skill. And Mel had recommended him. That was as near a guarantee and he could hope for.

Steam rose from the chocolate in his cup, faintly refogging his glasses. For a while he sat in contemplative silence, sipping away at the bitter-sweet drink and trying to put all his thoughts in order. There were too many of them. His work rise in his mind, new parsing models, the beginnings of a context-free grammar that might simplify incantations, the irritating inevitability of having to teach students. No. Those were the cares of Umberto Bassington-Smythe. Today, and for the next several days, he was Umberto Gian-Lorenzo Galeazzo. Scion of a family of auctioneers and art dealers, master of antiques, and ruthless scholar. The semantics of incantations would have to be set aside, for now.

And so, Umberto Gian-Lorenzo Galeazzo, his old Flornese accent beginning to show in slight undertones beneath his cultivated Brunnhold accent, addressed his companions. “I have, at least, properly secured passage.” He reached into his waistcoat again, and here drew forth three small slips of cardstock. “These, I think you will find, are our tickets.” He produced them not a moment too soon.

In the posting house now, a commotion rose as various porters and postillions began hauling out heavy bags and trunks of mail. Letters, packages, tedious correspondence, and official communiques, all would be loaded onto the sturdy coach that could be seen in the damp and rain-soaked yard beyond the diamond-paned windows. The loading would take at least an hour. He had time to enjoy his chocolate. Time to smooth our Abe’s ruffled feathers.
“Have you never been to Mr Borna’s shop? You really should. It is fine place, very comfortable and full of the most interesting books. I did see a translation of Buhari’s On the Art of Surgery tucked away, as well as several quite promising looking pharmacopeiae.” He gave a wan sort of smile above his cup. “I am sorry, Abe, that I seem to have forgotten to inform you of Mr Borna’s coming along. My fault entirely. Still, this trip is on business, and I will need the best hand I can assemble.”

[Abeline Ixbridge]

"It's quite alright, Bertie." Abe smiled down to her drooping cousin, noting his change in accent. This truly would be a business trip for him. She glanced to Antra and added, "You'll find I'll be the tagalong, gawping at goings-on while you two get to work. Don't let me get in the way."

She seemed to have her hands full, what with chocolate, letter, and business card. After a moment's thought, she tucked the papers away. There'd be time to look them over in the coach when she was sick of looking at Bertie. The bookseller would be a respite in that respect, too, though people tended not to appreciate staring. This is one of the many reasons books were superior.

"I would love to get my paws on Buhari's Surgery." Not a modern textbook by far, the centuries-old Mugrobi work represented strides in medical history. The illustrations were still worthy of study, but much of the theory was outdated. Fascinating nonetheless.

The bustle outside continued, and Abe observed it for a moment. She sipped her chocolate and found it to be lacking. The warmth was welcome, but the flavor, if it could be called such a thing, less so. "My, this chocolate is unremarkable."

[Antranig Borna]

Ophus 27, 2719

James & Vulture Posting House, morning.

Antra gave a sound nod as Umberto spoke of the seriousness of their outing. “Right you are, good sir,” he remarked.

He never considered himself to have a mercenary air, as Umberto had put it, but given that he was here at the behest of his friend and being paid for his time, he supposed he was one of a sort. A literary mercenary. He mused briefly on that combination of words, before his attention returned once more to the cousins.

He smiled as Dr. Ixbridge reassured her cousin that there was no harm done by forgetting to inform her of Antranig coming along. They got on well, which was clear to see. The trip would certainly be better for it. He couldn’t help but find the pair to be rather charming, each in their own ways. The way they chatted reminded him of how he and his older sister would talk. He felt a twinge of sadness at that thought, but hid it well behind another sip of his hot chocolate. Umberto mentioned the copy of Art of Surgery that was in his shop, and Dr. Ixbridge professed her desire to “get her paws” on it. Antra smiled warmly.

“You and your paws are most welcome to it, doctor,” he said, “I’m fond of it myself. The illustrations are rather remarkable, and it was quite the definitive work in it’s time. Less so now, but that’s to be expected after several centuries.”

The three of them sat in amiable silence for a bit, save for the hustle and bustle of loading the carriage outside. Antra sipped his chocolate and checked his watch, then turned his attention to the goings on outside. At least, until Dr. Ixbridge spoke up again. Her comment caught him off guard, and he gave a somewhat undignified snort of laughter. His cheeks coloured slightly and he cleared his throat before nodding in agreement.

“It is a bit,” he agreed, “I wonder if we might trouble them for some cinnamon or a spot of cayenne. Cayenne goes surprisingly well with chocolate, especially if it’s on the bitter side.”

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

The Stacks - The James & Vulture Posting House

The Morning of the Twenty-Seventh of Ophus 2719

H

e had not planned on remarking on the chocolate.

There was nothing to say of it. Nothing at all. Well, one could say that it existed, that it was presently in cups, that it had the correct color and texture, and that it had a flavor that, while clearly that of chocolate, was neither excellent nor hideous. Any attempt at a useful remark would have to be framed around what the chocolate was not, rather than what it was. Damned annoying.

Still, it had the virtue of being hot. That alone was enough to recommend it. And perhaps Borna was right about the addition of spices. It could not hurt. No could a pinch of salt, now he came to think of it. He raised a languid hand, and tried to summon a waiter. An ancient gent, possibly one who had been with the establishment since its founding, hobbled over.

“Sir?” said the antiquity, raising a wooly eyebrow.

“Ah, yes. My learned companion here,” he gestured to Borna, “has had a most interesting notion. Might we trouble you for a bit of red pepper, perhaps two cinnamon sticks, I’ll forgo one myself, and a salt cellar?”

“Sir?” repeated the aged gent.

“A bit of spice and salt to liven up the chocolate. We have a long and likely rattling journey before us, and a little more punch is just the thing.” The venerable personage nodded, glacially, and oozed off toward the bar. Well, perhaps that would liven things up. It could do no harm.

“It is a good thing,” he said, leaning back into a chair that was less comfortable than could be desired, “that Abe is a most fastidious physician. Forever washing her hands and keeping scrupulously clean. No marring of the books from her, you can be sure on that front.” He waggled his chocolate cup at Abe, and quirked a small smile. “Our Aunt Flora can vouchsafe that Abe has very precise and careful hands.” Aunt Flora collected antique ceramics. Curated them was nearer the mark. Rooms in her spreading house were more like museum galleries than any he had seen in a private house elsewhere. Abe had always been most careful in handling the obscure and priceless teapots. Everything he had said was true. Perhaps too much so. He had come to wonder how any physician kept skin upon their hands at all, such was the vigor of the washing.

“And Borna, I hope I can count on you to be a ruthless agent, querying provenance and generally making a nuisance of yourself. In the most professional manner, of course.” Cold the pale toast summon up such a character? He always seemed such a nice, polite, retiring sort. Genial after his own fashion. Still, he had amassed quite the enviable collection in the shop of his, and no man without a serious spine and a devious streak could hope to do even half so much. No, Borna would do nicely. Perhaps he would rise to the occasion. Perhaps he already had.

Out of the corner of his left eye, he noted motion. Various porters and other functionaries were arranging baggage upon a cart, and lashing waxed and oiled clothes about them. Preparations then, and conscientious ones at that. His own baggage was already waterproof, or near enough. Custom and practice had forced that need into his head. One did not travel the canals of Florne nor yet the rivers of Bastia and Anaxas with unprotected baggage. Would his companions have been so far-sighted?

The antiquity returned with the spices and the salt, and with an unfathomable expression placed them upon the table. “My thanks, sir.” The man continued to look enigmatic, and then departed. A pinch of salt and a sprinkle of red pepper scattered over the chocolate. He took a long, thoughtful drink. It had improved the beverage considerably. “Excellent notion Borna. Much improved.”

About them the rattle of carts and of baggage continued. “We should steel ourselves for the journey ahead. I think we can take lodgings at a posting house on the far side of Muffey, and then hire a private coach to take us further on to the Steerpike pile. I believe there is a local village where we can establish our basecamp.”

[Abeline Ixbridge]

Abe sampled her spiced chocolate, and none too soon. The hubbub around the carriage was rising to a final crescendo, giving her little time to judge. Yet, the added heat from the pepper was exactly the kick she needed to steel herself for the imminent journey. She vowed to experiment at home; she certainly had the spices. Did Mister Borna cook, she wondered? Or did he merely have wider experience, re: this beverage? A conversation topic for the ride.

Out in the pouring rain, the porters hollered in businesslike fashion. Hoists had been hoisted and battens battened. Truth be told, Abe had absolutely no idea what was going on, but she knew a queue when she saw one. In the lodge, passengers had begun to line up by the door. She finished off her drink and stood.

"Well, gentlemen," she said as she snatched her umbrella. "It seems it's time to depart these hallowed halls and strike out for the wilds."