[Closed] Some Mother’s Son (Umberto)

[Maximus]

Achtus 1, 2719 • Late Morning
941 G Lampwine Square, The Stacks

.

It had been wise to flag a hansom rather than attempting to find this place on foot. For one thing, it would have been rather unbecoming for her to wander the streets of the Stacks, looking entirely out of place and while this wasn’t a shabby sort of area—unless much had changed since her time in Brunnhold—she might still have fallen afoul of some opportunist, especially given that she was unaccompanied and while plainly dressed by her standards, evidently monied.

Not that she was incapable of looking after herself. Aside from having magic at her disposal, Eliza had once taken fencing and dance, and while she was less active than she had been in her schooldays, she could still be rather quick on her feet and had maintained her flexibility. She could probably hit someone if she had to do so, but the notion repulsed her—it would be terribly unbecoming to resort to such things; she was no human after all.

It was exceptionally brisk out and while the sun shone, there was no warmth in it—a typical winter sun—and even the short distance from where the cab had left her to the door would no doubt leave her flushed. It might be somewhat pleasing in appearance, although if she had applied cosmetics to simulate such a thing, it would have been exceptionally gaudy; she was old enough to know better than to make such an error. Typically, she did use cosmetics to subtly accentuate her better features, but this morning, she had only used it to conceal the marks of the night’s unsettled sleep. The politician’s wife had chosen to take an airship here yesterday so that she could stay overnight in a hotel and be fresh for her visit with her son; things hadn’t worked out as she’d wished.

Eliza considered the house briefly, worrying at her lip for a moment as she questioned her course of action for perhaps the thousandth time. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t too late to change her mind, even at this late juncture. Having come this far did not mean that she was bound to continue. However, she had already overcome the hardest part by reaching this point and her concerns were comparatively minor now. Well, except the matter of Fionn, but he had always been an unpredictable element in her life, even when they had resided under the same roof and her energy would be better spent determining if she had done everything in her power to achieve her desired outcome.

For instance, she had pressed her daughter for the address, had noted it down and committed it to memory, checked and double checked it, yet here she stood making sure that this was indeed her intended destination. Unless Niamh had purposely misled her, which would be terribly out of character for the girl even in light of recent events, then she could safely assume that she was indeed where she was supposed to be. Perhaps the residence seemed a trifle excessive for a bachelor and inconsequential academic—as she’d been led to believe Umberto Bassington-Smythe was—but who was she to judge? So long as it was his abode and her elder son’s place of work then she couldn't care less.

The brunette examined the state of her dress discreetly, ensuring that the green skirt hadn’t developed any unsightly creases during her time in the cab. Eliza wished that she had a mirror to more accurately assess her appearance, but she simply had to trust that everything in her line of view was correct and that those things beyond it were in similar condition.

There was a boot scraper beside the door but she had no need of it given the current condition of her shoes. She made use of it in any case as it bought her a few more moments to delay the inevitable and also allowed her to grow used to the idea of utilising the door knocker. It was of formidable size, almost comically large in comparison to the door on which it sat, and it depicted the visage of some ugly, snarling creature, surely inhuman yet bearing more than a passing resemblance to a person. She—Eliza had the impression that ‘she’ was appropriate for the face though she couldn’t determine why—had an unruly mane of hair, the strands depicted with undulous motion, which gave the unsettling impression that it was alive.

It was well-made—oh undoubtedly exceptional craftsmanship!—but it was also quite ghastly and the notion of touching the ring which protruded from its mouth was repellent.

There was a moment’s hesitation as she raised a gloved hand to the portal, the woman considering knocking on the wood instead of using the knocker before she sighed, grasping the ring and rapping firmly, although she angled her face away as she did so. Once she released the metal, she focused on a point on the wood and ensured that her countenance and field portrayed calm neutrality, her hands folded neatly together. It was a display quite at odds with her true state of mind considering that her heart felt ready to spring out of her chest without heeding the obstacles in its path, her lungs threatened to swell and deflate on the spasmodic fashion of hyperventilation and perspiration seemed to prickle her palms.

She had already thought carefully about what she would say to her son, having had a chance to prepare this time rather than abruptly finding herself face-to-face with him at home as she had a few weeks prior. It had taken a great deal of courage to bring her to this point, but she had a chance to resolve matters that had remained dormant for years and which had come crashing to the surface the moment that she’d seen Fionn in their Vienda home. It felt like a bizarre and cruel dream, and while it had certainly tormented her, it did indeed seem to be reality. Thus, she had endeavoured to come in order to set things to rights and today perhaps she could put her conscience to rest at last.

However, it wasn’t Fionn who came to the door as she had anticipated, but a galdor. She had a few moments to be puzzled as the Living mona in her field caprised the Clairvoyant particles of another in near proximity and then it was just beyond the door, revealed to belong to a dark-haired man who certainly wasn’t her son.

Her brows rose minutely and her hazel eyes expanded before she replaced her surprise and encroaching dismay with a polite smile. She hadn’t expected to have a galdor greet her, especially not one like this, although perhaps she should have anticipated that the man would be something of an oddity. After all, when she has asked her daughter about the academic for whom the blond worked, Niamh had appeared to struggle with some sense of propriety before almost guiltily admitting ‘eccentric’ was a suitable term, probably the only one to describe him.

“Good morning, sir,” she began politely, pressing a palm slantwise on her breast as she sketched a shallow bow. “My apologies for arriving unannounced, but I am seeking the residence of a Mister Bassington-Smythe and was led to believe that this was it. Are you the gentleman in question?”

Perhaps he will tell me that Mr Bassington-Smythe is actually his neighbour, and people are forever calling at the incorrect door, she thought hopefully as she did her best not to examine him as one might peer at an insect under magnified glass.

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

The Stacks - 941 G Lampwine Square

The First of Achtus, The forenoon

I

t was fitting that the goddess of time had barred the regular count of hours. He did not believe in her, so why should she spend any effort upon him? The angle of the sun claimed it was in the latter part of the morning, or perhaps the forenoon. The faulty clocks in his head were telling him it was time to have a protracted snooze upon the reading couch. It was not the usual hour for such things, but he was almost certain that he had been awake for at least the last fifty hours. Or was it sixty? Time was a mere convention. A useful one to be sure, but a convention all the same. Most of the finest things were mere conventions, inventions that sprang into the mind one day, and in a few centuries were dominating the world with unearned surety. Language, music, civilization, the publishing industry, all mere conventions.

Seventeen pages of close-written commentary on Aurelian’s A New Appraisal of The Osstessian Inscrtiptions and he was nowhere near finished. Aurelian was the expert upon the inscriptions in and of themselves, and her translations were sound, given the fragmentary nature of the incantation bowls. Still, the words lacked the proper fire, the feel as though they were not so much words as beings of sound and force, a wind whipping through a silent forest, or echoing in the crash of waves upon the rocky shores of unnamed islands. There was no poetry in Aurelian’s translation, no feel that they were words from the realm between reverie and nightmare. That was, after all, why she had sent him the paper.

- Bardo


She had always called him by that name. The short form his friends and family back home used. The old Riverword form. They had known each other long enough for it to be proper. And Aurelian was a scholar of old languages. Very old languages.


Translation of Inscriptions VI - XIII is wanting. Technically sound, but no practical effect. Intonation ridges are too worn, glyphs lost due to cracking. Most is reasonable, but precise semantics are not holding. Request your aid and commentary upon same. Incantations enclosed. Full paper to arrive via scrying office tomorrow.

Regards,

L.V.A.


That had been last month. In his spare hours between giving lectures that no one attended and grading papers for professors too lofty to bother with pedagogy, he had worked through Aurelian’s work. It was solid, well researched, well argued. And it was incomplete. A more workable translation of the ancient monite texts was wanting. Aurelian needed a translation tinged with madness, so she had gone to the only madman she knew.

Lavinia Valeria Aurelian. He shook his head at the memory of her. Brilliant, unorthodox, and repeatedly published. Published in significant learned journals. How she managed that last miracle he could never discover. She had no answers either. She could only laugh at her good fortune. Perhaps being a specialist on four-thousand year old pre-Estuanic arcana did not attract much popular controversy.

Still, this commentary, provided he could finish the damned thing, would at least be published in an appendix. Aurelian had dangled coathorship. He nearly snapped it up. A fine gesture, but not strictly proper. A commentary and clarification was a rather different matter. Coauthorship he would accept only if the incantations could be made to work, or at least show the stirrings of a proper arcane reaction. So far, he had no luck. Hence the delay.

Agents from the publisher kept coming around to demand his commentary. He had already sent his apologies and working drafts of his commentary to Aurelian, and she had accepted the delay as reasonable. The publisher had different ideas, and neither of them seemed able to convince them otherwise. And so, when the knock came at the door, he resigned himself to yet another irritating conversation.

Fionn, back in the kitchen dispatching an eel for dinner, was in no state to answer a door. Bloodied, slime-covered, and carrying a knife is no way to greet anyone. Not even a scabrous reptile from the publisher. He would have to go himself, Hessian pyjamas, dressing gown, pointed slippers and all. Not the most respectable, but more than the parasite deserved.

“I will have it finished when it is finished!” It was as elegant a greeting as he could muster, swinging open the door. “Scholarship takes its own time and is not beholden to your . . .” He paused in his rant. The personage upon the doorstep was not the usual oily Mr Nesbitt, but rather a fine and elegant lady of perhaps the middle years. She was his senior by perhaps a decade, but elegantly kitted out and easily mistaken for a younger personage. In the dim light of a soiree she might appear no more than a fresh-faced thirty. “You are not Mr Thomas Nesbitt.” A flat correction without any hint of apology. It was very ill-mannered of this woman to appear just now and interrupt his work, and then interrupt his indignation, that was cause for a wholly new outrage. A sigh. He really had no energy for launching into a fresh harangue. It would be best to discover what this fine lady who seemed to know his name , but not to know him, wanted. “Yes, this is the residence of Umberto Bassington-Smythe. And yes, I am the man in question.” He cocked an eyebrow. “And who in blazes are you?”

[Maximus]

Achtus 1, 2719 • Late Morning
941 G Lampwine Square, The Stacks

.

Under different circumstances, the professor’s appearance might have been amusing, like something that an actor might don for the sake of a humorous play. Perhaps if she hadn’t been seeking an academic and the individual currently responsible for her son, Eliza might have been able to bestow a hint of a genuine smile at the display. However, the situation didn’t call for whimsy and thus, she had to contend with a rising sense of horror instead.

What sort of self-respecting individual would answer their door in such a state? When he had a servant! And to launch into such an ignorant mode of greeting as well before discovering to whom he was speaking! It was quite obvious that he had anticipated a very different type of person on his doorstep, perhaps a very specific individual but it didn’t excuse the incivility of his conduct. She might have been a trifle forgiving if he had made any attempt at an apology, but he didn’t display a hint of remorse.

There was a subtle ruffling of the mona in her field, a moment’s rigidity in her bearing, which betrayed her affront, but she was quick to relax herself once more, although when she straightened, her chin tilted slightly upwards.

The man had no notion who she was and it wasn’t simply her husband who granted her status. The fact that he had money and had gained greater social standing via his ascension in the political sphere certainly helped a great deal, and it was the main reason that he had been deemed a suitable match for her despite his less distinguished lineage. Eliza had been raised to have a particular view of her position in society in spite of their sorely diminished assets and it irked her to be treated as if she was little better than a common trollop!

What made it all the worse was his remark that she wasn’t Thomas Nesbitt—whoever he was—when that should have been readily apparent, and suggested a comparison that was neither fair nor flattering; the galdor knew that she was quite attractive. That her pleasing feminine shape could be compared with this Nesbitt character truly offended her.

“Your observation is quite correct; I am not Mr Thomas Nesbitt,” she responded coolly, no trace of humour in her tone as she considered this specimen.

Why was it that there were so many scholars who lacked the ability to be a properly functioning members of society? Many of them were intelligent and necessary, providing education to their children and advancing their society but there were far too many of them that would be better suited to a cloistered life where they couldn’t be nuisances. It was a wonder that the university didn’t have a collection of them locked away like the gated passives. Really, it would be quite beneficial for them, not to mention society as a whole; nobody needed this lunatic bumbling around in the wider world.

Regardless of her opinion of the man and his poor breeding, it didn’t mean that she would forgo courtesy. Besides, she wasn’t entirely faultless in this situation; she should have sent a card.

“I must apologise for my lack of forewarning, Mr Bassington-Smythe. If I had had my card delivered ahead of time then there would have been less room for confusion and you could have been somewhat… prepared for my arrival,” the woman explained, pausing minutely before ‘prepared’ as she hesitated at the notion that her reception would have been better if he’d only known that she’d put in an appearance.

“I am Mrs Eliza Madden, wife to Incumbent Madden. I understand that this is highly irregular as we are unacquainted and I gather that there is no lady of the house, but I didn’t come to visit you per se so I dispensed with the formality of sending you notice. Truth be told”—her head dipped slightly, appearing a tad apologetic before her polite smile resumed—“I hadn’t anticipated dealing with you at all, sir.”

Obviously, she could never have avoided him entirely, even if Fionn had answered the door— it would hardly have been becoming to conduct such sensitive business in the street—but she hadn’t truly factored Umberto into her plans. However, it was shameful enough that she stood explaining herself on his doorstep, but it could only worsen as she divulged the unorthodoxy of her situation.

Toibin would be livid if word of this got back to Vienda and his various compatriots learned what his wife had chosen to do. As if it hadn’t already been embarrassing enough for him to have had to deal with the ramifications of his house producing a passive a decade prior, for Eliza to drag it back into the open for the sake of sentimentality. More awkward in light of the situation with their daughter’s engagement, which the politician would have to tactfully break off, and would leave him with a mess to clean up.

The sorceress was relying on the fact that this man was enough of an oddball not to be able to disseminate information about this visit, even if he could be sufficiently inclined to do so.

Eliza could only hope that she had made the correct decision.

“I am actually here to speak with your passive—Fionn—assuming that that would be permissible, sir,” Eliza told him, voice pitching subtly upward.

She felt like a young Brunnhold student once more, nervous about seeking a professor’s permission to do something of which they might disapprove. Her daughter had said that this theorist had more than a passing acquaintance with those crackpots for whom Niamh worked so perhaps he was as much of a passive lover as they were. Perhaps he might not consider this truly peculiar.

If it had been any other passive, the woman would never have considered this, but he was her son. Even after all these years, even after the varying degrees of shame that his existence had caused her, Eliza couldn’t help but feel something for him, no matter how much she had repressed it; it had never died.

“My daughter explained that he was in your service—I believe that you’re acquainted with Niamh—and I know that it is- this isn’t something that I’m supposed to seek, but I would appreciate being able to speak with him for a few moments in private.”

The smile faltered as her lips pressed into a tense line.

“He’s my son and I have… a mother’s weakness…” she admitted quietly, a soft blue shift burdening her field as hazel eyes found his face, imploring.

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

The Stacks - 941 G Lampwine Square

The First of Achtus, The forenoon

T

his was unexpected. This was an irritation. Nesbitt would have at least been a pestilence he could account for. A suave and unctuous man, his palms better greased than his shining and much-pomaded hair. A dandy in presentation, a ruthless limpet in character. This woman? A wholly unknown commodity. Unknown, perhaps unknowable, and appearing at the most inopportune moment. That was perhaps too hasty a generalization. She had given some evidence of her character and position. A woman who believed she was owed respect on account of her position, a position she appeared to believe was self-evident. Finely dressed ladies were a tally a dozen. He’d known too many with cultivated deportment and a character as withered and unpleasant as a partly fossilized raisin. It was too early to tell with this woman. He was not entirely sure he wanted to discover any more of her.

She, it seemed, had rather different ideas.

“We agree,” he said, his eyebrow quirked upward, “that you are not Mr Thos. Nesbitt. At least we can presume so. Or else this is a most ingenious disguise.” Nesbitt has no such art. The man had all the creativity and subtlety of an avalanche. “I consider that doubtful, and so we make progress.” The elegant woman could be no disguise. Too small. Best to cast that line of reasoning aside. This nameless personage had an agenda all her own. What it might be, he could not guess. He had neither debauched nor driven any student to madness, he had no gambling debts in need of collection, no family contacts upon whose pleasure he was obliged to wait. They either sent their cards ahead of time, or else appeared without notice in his drawing room. There would be no use in changing the locks. Any associate of his mother or his uncle would have subbornded the locksmith and acquired a key.

At last, she spoke her name, and furnished her apologies for her abruptness. It was hardly a sufficient mollification.“Madden, Madden, Madden.” He pattered the name, quick, light, tasting the sound of it. “I have a servant of that name, not that he responds to it. Prefers his given name, which seems a bit modern, but then again, this is the modern age.” She carried on in a most conventional manner, inquiring rather more pointedly that he could have wished at his domestic arrangements. “There is no lady of the house, you are observant I see. No, this is most emphatically a bachelor establishment.” Emphatically, yes. Mel would not come. Her business was back in Florne, her affection not precisely withdrawn but rather severed. It has been no happy parting, neither had it been rancorous. Sad, yes. No, heartrending, but not unreasonable. That was hardly a palliative. Even if she had come, even if she were here now, he could not imagine her taking a glass of wine with this sudden interloper. No, Mel would be throwing barbs as casually are darts in a public house. “A forewarning of your visit would have been the thing, madame. If you had wished to avoid me in my own house, I could have arranged it. As that is not the case, you will be required to deal with me. Now, if you would be so good as to divulge your business here, and why it fails to concern me, I would be most obliged.”

Madden, Madden, Madden. A kinswoman of his petulant servant? An unusual thing, to come calling on a passive. Unusual, but rather encouraging. That at least spoke in this Eliza Madden’s favor. Still it was a small thing. “Your son?” A confirmation of his speculations. “Yes, Fionn is afoot, presumably dispatching an obstreperous eel in the kitchen, hence is quite reasonable absence from acting as door porter.” A slime and blood-stained door porter wielding a cleaver would never do. Or perhaps it would, certainly it would drive Nesbitt away. An idea to be pursued. “So, that office falls to me, the more misfortune for us all. But if you wish to speak with him, I have no objections. Perhaps you, in your maternal capacity, can talk some sense into him. He is a trying fellow. this Fionn of yours. He refuses to maintain the moral superiority and the sharp and insubordinate wit that this proper in a servant.” Cannio, when he could be bothered to darken the door of this house, never expressed the slightest degree of deference. Authoritative insubordination was the man’s watchword, and the big wick had a natural and genial authority. Rather like Uncle Gian he was, in that respect. And in others. Family resemblance and all that. Not that it could be admitted. It would never do to speak of him as Uncle Cannio.

“Well,” he said at last, raising to a more decorous position, “if you wish to talk to this son of yours, I suppose you must come in and install yourself upon a couch in the front drawing room.” What in all the netherworlds was he doing with a front drawing room? The house was far too spacious for his needs. His idiot estate agent had secured the place. Were he a man with a family, beyond one dreary servant and a half-absent factotum, it would still be overlarge. The house was meant for a personage with a proper staff and a spouse who required their own study space. In some other life it might have suited him. Such was not the case. At the least the second floor had enough space for his chalkboards and his reading couch. Enough space to offer Fionn a proper room of his own.

“Step into my parlour madame,” he said, ushering in this irritating interloper, “and make yourself as comfortable as possible. There is grappa in the cabinet, if you require a bit of ardent spirits to settle your nerves. Or else I can produce a reasonably passable pot of coffee. Coffee in the Bastian manner you understand. Your offspring is indifferent at coffee, even at the best of times.” Offspring. She had mentioned a daughter. The name meant nothing to him. Curious that this Niamh should know of him. He had few enough students attend his lectures. Perhaps she remained in shadow and took copious notes. “I confess to being wholly ignorant of this daughter of yours, though her information is accurate. Perhaps she too maintains an affection for her afflicted kinsman. That seems all right and proper to me, madame. Very filial. And what are we, madame, if we do not look after our own?” The matronly nature of the visit was proper and correct, it was as it should be. A mother visiting her son in the place of his perpetual convalescence. Or, that is how it should have been, in a civilized world.

Civilization was sadly lacking in this modern age.

“Fionn!” He called out, hoping his voice would carry, “Fionn old thing! You have a visitor in the front parlour. You may cease in your anquiliferous preparations and sally forth. You may wish to wash up, however.” Appearing slime coated and with cleaver in hand might do very well for Mr Nesbitt, but it would not do for a matronly visit.

[Maximus]

Achtus 1, 2719 • Late Morning
941 G Lampwine Square, The Stacks

.

The notion that she might be this Nesbitt character in disguise was ludicrous, of course, and she hoped that it had been said purely in jest—albeit she didn’t see the humor in it. It seemed a wonder that he had said those words aloud, even to discount them, and she had to remind herself not to put too much stock in his words—he was some breed of a lunatic after all.

Umberto’s knowledge of Fionn’s family name horrified her—to her shame—because despite her reasons for being here, she couldn’t stand the idea that he had breathed such a thing. It was information that could have been traced back to them and while she knew what her son was and could accept it, but if other people found out, people who hadn’t known the composition of their family in the past when Toibin’s profile had been far lower, then frankly she would weep. She already had concerns about what might occur as a result of her coming here today but what if damage had spread without her being aware that damage control was necessary.

Who else had he told? How much had he spread the name and made his connection to it known?

She hadn’t intended to come here to discuss such things and he’d placed her in a very awkward position. How could she be expected to let the matter lie? The boy’s existence had always created quandaries for her and this was no different.

“No, this is most emphatically a bachelor establishment.”

Even if she hadn’t already gained some sense of the makeup of the household, she felt that his bachelorhood was rather self-evident. After all, here he was answering his own front door in no decent condition to do so, lacking a troupe of servants in spite of the size of his house, and no self-respecting lady of a household would allow such a state of affairs to persist.

She permitted it to slide, along with his general attitude, and tried not to hold it against him. Perhaps he wasn’t at his best at present, maybe on account of a late night or some stress that was unknown to her and thus she ought to be magnanimous. It wouldn’t cost her anything and besides, she might never see him again. Though if she happened to see Fionn again- No, it was unlikely that she’d see her son again after this, being truthful.

Forewarning would have been appropriate and perhaps more convenient, especially if she could have avoided dealing with him altogether, but circumstances were what they were and she had no issue dealing with the man now in a most amicable fashion.

“Do not misunderstand me, sir. I do not lament the opportunity to deal with you this morning,” Eliza explained with a small smile, adjusting the thin strap of her bag where it looped over her wrist, tugging minutely at the cuff of her glove, a subtle fidget. She couldn’t help it, already anticipating an invitation to step inside and needing to direct the energy in some direction, though she knew that particular formalities had to be gotten out of the way first.

His explanation for her son’s absence made perfect sense and it was sensible information for him to impart, but then he went ahead and came out with one of his peculiarities again, and this time, she couldn’t prevent a slightly quizzical expression from replacing her polite smile.

“He refuses to maintain the moral superiority and the sharp and insubordinate wit that this proper in a servant.”

Moral superiority? Insubordinate wit? What person in their right mind wanted a servant to be insubordinate? Though the sorcerer had surely proven that his mind didn’t follow a common track.

“Yes...” she intoned slowly, doing her best to keep incredulity from her voice. He wouldn’t be hovering over her while she spoke to Fionn—at least she bloody well hoped not, though she wouldn’t put it past him at this point—so she wouldn’t have to pretend to discuss such a preposterous notion with the boy. Eliza was almost tempted to ask her son about this academic to see if he was really as bizarre as he seemed, but she didn’t think it would be appropriate.

The academic invited her in at last, commenting on the availability of alcohol, as if that was a perfectly ordinary and acceptable thing to do before midday. Considering his appearance, it was quite possible that he hadn’t yet gone to bed and thus, it was late in the day from his perspective. But honestly, this man was a very worrisome example of a galdor.

“I do not wish for anything, good sir, beyond conversation with my son, though I thank you for your hospitality. I must confess that I do not care for coffee either,” Eliza admitted gently as she followed his direction, stripping off her gloves with practiced delicacy.

She paused for a moment on the threshold as her brows pulled together, unable to comprehend how the man could be unaware of Niamh’s existence. Her daughter had claimed to have been here, as well as having some acquaintance with this man. If she had been here to visit Fionn and had had contact with this moony theorist then how could he have failed to learn that she was the passive’s kin? He was clearly quite scatter-brained, but surely even he couldn’t be guilty of such a lapse!

She could have remained and interrogated him on the subject of her eldest child, but she chose to step into the room to properly install herself, and just in time as well as he began calling to the boy. She was half-tempted to return to the doorway in the hope of catching some early glimpse of him, but she held herself back, also half-afraid of how he would react when he learned of her presence.

She heard a call of affirmation, the inarticulation of a distracted adolescence, no question from the teenager about who his visitor was, no show of surprise; no doubt he expected his sister to be in the parlour rather than his mother.

She sat and arranged herself accordingly, hands folded neatly in her lap as she kept her head slightly bowed, gaze creeping upwards every few moments as her anxiety showed; her field had grown sharply indectal so not everything was beyond her control. Despite the early hour, the thought of taking some of the grappa didn’t seem quite so preposterous after all as her fingers traced along the strap of her bag.

Minutes could have passed, or hours, but the time seemed to go by too slowly and yet too rapidly all at once. How could a wait be too long and yet seemingly infinite simultaneously? All the same, it was the truth. No doubt her reluctant host was oblivious to the complexity of the situation, unaware of what had recently occurred in Vienda, although he couldn’t be ignorant of the fact that his servant had recently travelled there. If he knew nothing then he was bound to receive a rude awakening.

“No! You didn’t tell me that it was her! I’m not talking to her!”

An unwelcome form of greeting, certainly unorthodox, but regrettably, not wholly unexpected.

She had the momentary glimpse of the blond in the doorway, his features contorted in disgust or perhaps rage, and his shirt unbuttoned at the neck and not properly tucked into his trousers, and then he turned his back on her with a shake of his head.

The politician’s wife partially rose from her seat, throwing an appealing glance in Umberto’s direction.

“Can’t you-”

“I don’t have to speak to you. I don’t owe you anything!” Fionn snapped, reappearing to spit those venomous words in her direction.

“Fionn! Let me just- Allow me a few moments after coming all this way! Please!”

No doubt he was correct. The passive wasn’t her subordinate and she couldn’t tell him what to do. Instead, it seemed that she must resort to pleading.