And Please Remember to Give Generously (Madeleine)

The vagaries of charity

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed
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Sat Nov 09, 2019 7:23 pm

Vienda - In Stainthorpe Hall
The 13th of Hamis - 19 Minutes past the 13th Hour
S
tainthorpe Hall is a misery, in all things save one. The overdesigned monstrosity has such thick walls that it retains its warmth, even on chilly days. What that bodes for the summer, he cannot say. It might be like a cave, and remain cool. Or like an oven. Probably the latter. He’ll bake along with the rest then, and be about as useless. Can anything be done? He doubts it. Something will have to be done.

Steam rising slowly from another delicate cup of coffee. The girl puts it down on a clear patch of the desk. There are few enough of these. She bobs, still seeming uncertain of her position. “Thank you Daphne.” He wraps his fingers around the cup. Feels the heat coursing through his fingers. Slow at first, then rushing on through the pale celadon cup. He feels the reddening of his skin long before he can see it, feels the urge to snap is hand away. He does not let go. He breathes. Slow and deep. Slow and deep. The heat is still there, so is the pain, pricking like thorns. The desire to let go lessens, falls away. He breaths out again, expelling the pain. Transmuting it. Leaving only focus and a strange calm behind.

He lets go of the cup.

Daphne is still hovering about. She does not normally hover. Usually glides off back to the niche where she makes the coffee. He looks over to her. She is biting her lip and tilting her head down. Why? Her hands are clasped, her knuckles pale. Nervous? What of? “The coffee is a touch bitter today Daphne. You seem a little unfocused. Is everything well with you? You’re not coming down with a cold, perhaps?”

“Mr Shrikeweed, sir, only it’s,” she stops, flushes slightly. “It’s nothing. Nothing.”

“Seems to be a fairly significant nothing. A paradox. I cannot abide a paradox. Say what’s on your mind.”

“Only it’s my brother sir. See, he’s supposed to be getting married tomorrow, but he’s gone and vanished again.”

“Again?” Shrikeweed picks up the coffee cup, cool enough now. Daphne has a brother? Well, why shouldn’t she? Brothers occur. He considers his own. What would he do if Will vanished? Probably thank the heavens and then move on with his life. No, too harsh. Will’s not a bad sort, just not the sort Shrikeweed would choose as a companion. Too romantic, too enamored of the notion of rural idyll. The notion, not the reality. Will would break out in a rash, sneeze himself into next week, and then lament the whole thing for a month. Brothers. Nothing but exasperation.

“Again, yes sir. See, when he gets nervous, like proper nervous.”

“Such as before his own wedding?”

“Oh yes sir, nervous as you please. Stalking about the house, jittery, jumpy, you know. Well, when that happens he usually takes himself off for a day or two. Gets drunk, or smokes himself to a stupor on opium. After that, he’s usually fine for a while. But sometimes we have to go and look for him.”

“I take it you’ll want the rest of the day, and perhaps tomorrow off to extract this brother of yours from whatever low dive he is currently wasting away in?”

“Oh yes sir, please sir.” She looks nervous again, hangs her head. “But, what about your coffee sir, and the Incumbent’s?”

“Go Daphne. Collect your brother. Pour some coffee into him if need be. That should settle both your nerves. I cannot have my coffee wizard off her game. Think of the chaos Daphne. The absolute chaos.”[/b] He smiles at her, trying to look sympathetic. Likely a failure. “Off you go.” He waves her off.

She bobs again. “Thank you Mr Shrikeweed, sir. Thank you.” She flits from the room. Shrikeweed shakes his head. Sips his coffee again, and turns back to the papers.

Dispatch boxes piling up. Ramparts of blue and red leather cases, each full of papers. Diplomatic communiques, position papers on the latest political fads, reports on reports of still other reports. Most of them wrong. Wrong-headed at least. They will all need to be addressed, dissected, synthesized. Some he will quietly kill. Strangling them with red tape. The rest, well, the rest will have to go before the Incumbent.

He opens the next box. Blue. Internal government matters. And pulls out the stack of papers. It will take hours. At least he has time.




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Madeleine Gosselin
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Sun Nov 10, 2019 8:44 pm

Late Morning, 13 Hamis, 2719
B.A. Shrikeweed's Office, Stainthorpe Hall
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Madeleine glanced up across the carriage, at the man in a dark gray suit, sitting and frowning at the papers on his lap.

“It’s really a very important charity,” Madeleine said into the silence, punctuated by the faint clicking of the horse’s hooves and the slush of the rain outside. She shifted on the bench, her hands in her lap, and swallowed, hard. “The Society to Clothe the Lower Races, I mean. Did you know that many humans might not even have one new outfit per year? Not just per season, but in a whole year. And, of course, without proper clothing one cannot have proper dignity.”

Madeleine had practiced the charity’s slogan in the mirror until she could say it without tripping over the words. Proper clothing. Pro-per. She had said it until the word felt like it had lost all its meaning. Proper clothing and proper dignity. She glanced down at her own uniform, and worriedly tugged the skirt out from under her legs. She had probably already creased it, Madeleine thought, woefully. Was that proper dignity?

“And of course,” Madeleine continued on the edge of a deep breath, “many humans cannot afford proper clothing for different weather, such as a coat to keep the rain out. And without a proper coat – ” here Madeleine’s memory felt as if it was failing her. Bravely, recklessly, she plunged on ahead with her own imaginings, “one might get cold and wet or – um – one’s hair might be ruined. Imagine if you spent a lot of time doing your hair and then it got ruined from being outside in the rain or if you had to sit in class – I mean – in your office, all day, with wet clothing. It would be quite terrible! So, really, proper clothing is – is just – essential, and terribly important, and the SCLR is the only organization doing –”

“Madeleine,” her father said, looking up from his papers.

Madeleine went silent, staring wide-eyed across the carriage.

“I have a headache,” Incumbent Gosselin said, flat gray gaze sweeping over his daughter. He looked back down at his papers, and turned the one he had been reading, frowning lightly at the page beneath.

Madeleine went still, her shoulders slumping. She drew into herself, hands twisting on her lap. “Sorry, father,” she said. She hadn’t said it right, Madeleine thought; she hadn’t said – she had meant to say – if she just tried again, maybe she could make him understand. If she just tried again, then maybe he’d – maybe he’d –

“I meant,” Madeleine’s voice was nearly a whisper. She swallowed, hard, and looked up at him, and tried just a little louder. “I just wanted to thank you for – for bringing me to the Hall.”

Her father did not look up; he turned to the next page in his papers.

Madeleine’s shoulders shrank in more. She turned to the window, and twitched back the curtain, peering outside at the rain, pale gray light streaming into the dark chamber of the carriage.

“Madeleine,” her father said again.

Madeleine flinched, and jerked her hand back from the curtain. She glanced up at him, wondering if – but he was still reading. Madeleine lowered her gaze to the floor, and sat as still and silent as she could manage for the rest of the drive, and did her best to rehearse what she would say to all of the people in Stainthorpe Hall, where her father worked. Surely, Madeleine thought – surely, some of them would care about the Society to Clothe the Lower Races. Surely some of them would be willing to donate.

Once she had actually entered the Hall, she was not so sure. At some point Madeleine had gotten mud on the hem of her Brunnhold uniform skirt, and she had tried to brush it off in a washroom, but she thought that she had only made it more noticeable. Her hair had lain flat when she’d left her family’s house with her father, but it seemed to have fluffed up unpleasantly, and she didn’t know when or why. The main corridors of Stainthorpe seemed to be either rushing busily with people or empty and terrifying, and seemed to vacillate between the two at regular but unpredictable intervals, like some bizarre function that went from peak to trough discontinuously, jumping back and forth.

Madeleine had tried to work up the nerve to enter a few of the offices. Once she’d had her hand hovering over the door to knock, when someone had come bursting out and nearly knocked into her. They hadn’t even apologized, even when Madeleine had said excuse me very loudly in the direction of their back. She had immediately regretted trying, and had gone back into the washroom afterwards, and sat on one of the little stools there, and tried not to cry.

It was her only chance, Madeleine thought miserably; she had only a few days in which to try and get donations for the SCLR before she had to return to Brunnhold for the rest of the term. During the training she'd attended the day before, she had told everyone that she would be able to go ask some of the incumbents for their donations, and she had begged her father until he’d agreed, begged and begged and begged. It was her only chance, and she had to do it. Filled with determination, Madeleine had risen from the little stool, marched out into the hallway, and chosen the first door she saw. She didn’t knock this time, but opened it and went inside, breathing as if she’d just finished dancing a confisalto routine.

A human was hurrying away from one of the doors. She glanced up at Madeleine, and then kept going, towards a coat hanging on the wall.

Madeleine fixed her gaze on the door, and took a deep breath. If someone had left it – if a human had left that room – then, Madeleine reasoned, maybe there was someone inside. Madeleine took a deep breath. It was for charity, she reminded herself; it was very important. The door looked very serious; it was closed, with all sorts of complex locks over the outside.

Madeleine eased closer, and closer again, and then she seized her courage, and opened the door, and stepped inside. There – behind a desk –

Madeleine bowed. “Good morning sir,” she said. She took a deep breath, and let it out all in a long string of sentences, words tripping over one another in their haste to emerge. “My name is Madeleine Gosselin and I’m volunteering on behalf of the Society to Clothe the Lower Races and it is a very important cause because without proper clothing one cannot have proper dignity so I am here today asking for your help with a donation for this very important cause thank you.”

Madeleine stared at him, wide-eyed, for a long moment, and then bowed again.

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Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed
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: The one-man Deep State
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Tue Nov 12, 2019 11:20 pm

Vienda - In Stainthorpe hall
The 13th of Hamis - 31 Minutes past the 13th Hour
A
nd furthermore be it resolved that from the commencement of the Mugrobi Symvoul, notwithstanding the aforementioned provisions listed in Article IX, that the Concord (Anx) shall remain the unit of account for the Six Kingdoms (named in the margin) for a period of no less than seven years, whereafter, upon a consenting vote from the Vyrdag, with final approval of the Upper Council within no less than 40 days of said vote, the unit of account shall pass to the Concord (Mg), with a value to be determined by consultation with the Bureau of Weights and Measures (Anx) and The House of the Exchange (Mg).

Weights and Measures is getting ahead of itself. The Mugrobi will never agree to this. The Exchange is full of hard-nosed devious manipulators. That at least he can respect. Fellow professionals. They will see the slight, tabulate the exact value of the insult down to the last fort. Anaxi or Mugrobi, it makes no matter. They will use whichever gives them greatest advantage. What is the current exchange rate? Unknown. He should pay more attention to such matters, have the numbers there to hand. Monetary policy is a weakness of his. He always relies on Levesque for such things. Relied. He raises his coffee cup in salute to the gentle old man’s ghost. He does not believe in ghosts. This one haunts him all the same.

Dorehaven. Levesque died there, taking the waters to ease the aches in his failing joints. A pointless death. All deaths are pointless. One death or one thousand, it should not make any difference to him. Just numbers to be recorded, papers to be filed, a life reduced to paper and ink, then forgotten in a drawer. Not that simple. It never is. He has read all the accounts, both in the press and in official reports. Nothing about the bombing makes sense. Something gnaws at the back of his mind. Something small, and quiet, and hungry. He cannot make it out, let alone name it. Yet it is there, waiting.

These are melancholy thoughts, not suited to this place. He places the coffee cup back on the desk. It is not properly squared. He turns it. Once, twice, three times. Clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. Sighing, He returns to the lunatic currency policy. It will give him no small pleasure to mark this up, to catalogue, in language both polite and venomous, the magnitude of its folly.

There is no chance, no time. Daphne has left the door open. He has not bothered to rise and lock it. A folly all his own. Now, by way of demonstration , the universe provides him with his inevitable consequence. Some disheveled urchin, hair awry, hideous Brunnhold uniform creased and dirtied. Nothing has prepared him for this. As a rule, children do not wander through the Chancery popping into offices at random. It is evident that things are different at Stainthorpe Hall. Another misery.


He looks at the intruder and for a brief moment he considers laughing. This is absurd, and laughter is the appropriate response. No. Laughter is too dignified, to elevating. Something different is required.

A cough. A clearing of the throat, and Shrikeweed looks at this irritation in emerald. A bureaucratic eyebrow raises. “Do you have an appointment?"



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Madeleine Gosselin
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Wed Nov 13, 2019 9:38 am

Late Morning, 13 Hamis, 2719
B.A. Shrikeweed's Office, Stainthorpe Hall
Madeleine stared at the man behind the desk, conscious of an overwhelming sense of relief. She had gone into an office, and she had introduced herself, and she had said all the words. If they hadn’t come out quite like they had in training, that was all right, wasn’t it? She had tried, anyway, and she hoped the importance of the message of the Society to Clothe the Lower Races would carry her through.

He was a bit old, Madeleine thought, but he didn’t look so bad. He had whiskers, and his waistcoat was a funny color, and he was staring back at her. Madeleine attempted a smile, hopeful, and straightened up a little more.

He coughed, and Madeleine glanced around. Oh, but he had a cup already on his desk, so probably he didn’t need water. She looked back at him. What was his name? She hadn’t looked properly at the door, so she wasn’t sure but - maybe he would introduce himself? That would be nice.

The man behind the desk asked if she had an appointment.

Madeleine stared at him, the smile sliding off her face. “Well...” she shifted, uncertain once more. “N-no? But - but I...” Madeleine tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, although in truth it only managed to make her look more disheveled.

Right. In training, they had talked about what to do if someone was hesitant. If they properly shouted at her, it was okay to leave; the other ladies had been very clear on that. But if they seemed unsure, Madeleine was meant to answer any questions they had. Yes! She had done that; he had asked if she had an appointment and she had answered. Madeleine was doing very well, she told herself.

And then she was meant to - Madeleine could not quite seem to remember. Maybe she was supposed to talk more about the charity? The cause?

“It’s a very important cause, sir,” Madeleine tried again. She straightened up a little more, because her shoulders always wanted to curve in and she didn’t know why. He had only asked if she had an appointment! It seemed like a very reasonable question. He must not have been sure - otherwise, why would he ask?

“With the donations we collect,” Madeleine was explaining, “we buy new clothing for human men and women who need it so that they don’t have to wear only old clothing or clothing that’s - that’s even - ripped or dirty or - um, like that,” Madeleine’s imagination could scarcely conjure up such images.

“But we collect clothing too!” Madeleine said, hopefully, into the brief silence. “If - if you have something that - that’s old maybe, but...” her gaze searched around the office, and settled brightly on the coat hanging on the wall. Yes, Madeleine thought happily, it looked rather worn! Perfect! “Like that coat!” She pointed. “Since it’s - um - not very nice any more, you - you could just donate it.” Madeleine turned back to the man behind the desk and smiled at him again, brightly, feeling increasingly sure that he would want to make a donation.

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Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed
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Sun Nov 17, 2019 11:56 pm

Vienda- In Stainthorpe Hall
The 13th of Hamis - 35 Minutes past the 13th Hour
T
he coat. Torn sleeve untouched, still raw and tattered,. A memory of an unpleasant day. A call to action in battered wool. He has not worn it since the night of the mugging. He doubts if he will ever wear it again. It hangs, totemic, on the peg by the door. He should abandon it, cast it off. Let the memory depart with the useless cloth. No. Memory does not work that way. It will haunt him. He will not allow the ghost of a ruined coat to join the spirits about him. Better to keep an eye on the damned thing.

“Young lady,” he says, still keeping the disinterested official calm, “the state of my coat is not a matter for which you should concern yourself. I am aware of its defects. Nevertheless, it shall remain on that peg until I choose to part with it. I do not choose to do so today.”

Certainly he will not consent to it being taken away to some useless charity. Were he in the street he might spit at the mention of that word. Charity, a sign of decay, of ill governance, of official indifference. No nation with a pretense of order and good governance should allow such things; should require such things. Yet they exist. They do necessary work. Appalling. The bile rises in his throat. He tries to wash it back down with coffee. It is worse now. The bile remains and the coffee, spoilt.

“And, if you are so concerned with the plight of the lower orders, then, perhaps you should propose legislation to that end.” Legislation. Something the girl had said, clicks in his mind. The surname, Gosselin. A relative of Incumbent Gosselin? Daughter, niece, distant cousin? It makes no matter. “Or, perhaps you would prefer and try to go through your more political kin?”



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Madeleine Gosselin
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Mon Nov 18, 2019 7:22 pm

Late Morning, 13 Hamis, 2719
B.A. Shrikeweed's Office, Stainthorpe Hall
Madeleine didn’t understand the man’s response to her suggestion. She was here to raise funds or donations for her cause, so it was her business, wasn’t it? Well not business because of course she was volunteering her time for the society - it wasn’t a job, naturally. A job would be terribly inappropriate. Maybe if it was a job, then he would have given her the coat? Madeleine didn’t think so.

And there was something very hard in his voice, firm, and even though Madeleine didn’t want to give up, she did. She even opened her mouth to try and say something, but she couldn’t manage it; it was as if when she tried her voice seemed to vanish, and she swallowed instead, and lowered her gaze to her skirt. It was creased, and Madeleine swatted ineffectually at one of the larger creases, grabbing it in one hand and pulling very hard. The skirt sprang straight back, without the slightest change.

“Legislation?” Madeleine asked, wide-eyed, looking back up. He suggested she ask her father, and Madeleine’s shoulders hunched almost to her ears at the suggestion. She stared wide-eyed at the small man behind the desk.

Madeleine thought of how her father had looked at her when she asked him to bring her. It was a look that she didn’t exactly understand, but she knew it, and it was always accompanied by a shrinking feeling somewhere in her chest, a sense that she was doing something wrong. If only she knew what - if only she could fix it!

And she had pressed on anyway, and she had asked again and again until he had said yes. It had not been a happy yes; Madeleine knew that. She knew he wouldn’t have taken her if he didn’t want to, but she knew too that it had not been a happy yes. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the word to describe it.

And Madeleine imagined asking him if he would help her with some legislation.

“My father -“ Madeleine tried anyway. She couldn’t even say the words; she stopped, and she cringed away from it. Madeleine felt a painful heat behind her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, as if she could make it go away. “Incumbent Gosselin is very busy,” Madeleine whispered. She thought maybe - she called him Papa, but she didn’t think he liked it if she called him that to other people. It was easier to say Incumbent Gosselin and Madeleine didn’t know why.

Madeleine took a deep breath, and looked back up at the man behind the desk, blinking a few more times. Her vision wasn’t blurry, so she wasn’t too close to crying. “What -“ she glanced down at the papers he had, very many papers and folders, then back up at him. “What do you - what should the legislation say?” Madeleine asked, timidly.

He seemed, Madeleine thought, like he would know all about such things.

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Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed
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Mon Nov 18, 2019 11:50 pm

Vienda - In Stainthorpe Hall
The 13th of Hamis - 41 Minutes past the 13th Hour
I
ncumbent Gosseline’s daughter then. And not a happy one, from the look of her. Rumpled, preoccupied, nervous, and now blinking too much force and rapidity? Dust in her eyes? It is intolerably dusty in parts of the Hall. He is engaged in a long and useless struggle against it. Here, as in the Chancery, he does his own dusting. It is meditative. Or at least that is what he tells himself. It is not quite a lie. He looks at her face more closely. Not dust. Something else. An attempt at maintaining composure? It seems likely. The effect is limited, but not wholly without success. The girl is not flying into a rage nor collapsing into a blubbering wreck. That at least is worth something. Worth encouraging.

Though not, apparently, worth the time of her father to educate her in proper legislative matters. The usual excuses, ‘father is busy’. True. That is often the nature of fathers. His own was always busy. Always will be. Court cases, legal filings, case histories, drafting briefs. Too busy to file papers, so Shrikeweed was given the task. Too busy to deliver writs, so Shrikeweed was sent out as a messenger. Later, too busy to do all the research, so Shrikeweed was instructed how to do that, to make a lighter load for his too-busy father. He reflects. Old Horace was always busy. Yet never too busy to explain some task or legal matter to his son. Never too busy to be a patient teacher. An odd recollection.

Doubtful that the girl in green has such an instructor. If she had, she would be rattling off ideas, legislative proposals, one after the other. Tripping over her words as she had before. The notions would all be wrong. Impossible to implement, counterproductive, patently illegal, but that is how one starts. Not by standing about like a stunned rabbit. Yet there the stunned rabbit is, having no idea what she is about.

Typical. The grandees, the gentry, the noble ladies and gentlemen, useless. Taking up space and resources that could be better used to run the nation. Their children, educated to be useless by governesses and unrigorous tutors. Taught manners and etiquette before they learned logic and rhetoric. Another generation of useless social parasites on the rise.

Yet she is asking about legislation, is taking advice. That is not something to ignore. Certainly not to punish. There is nothing to be gained in such matters. He needs no new enemies.

“Young lady, the word has not yet been invented to describe my apathy toward your charitable endeavors.” He waits a moment, regards her perpetually nervous and tentative face. “However,” he makes a show of straightening papers upon the desk, “your interest in legislation is another matter entirely.” He pushes a small, red-leather notebook toward her. The daily schedule. The first half of the day lies empty. He has cleared it. The Bastian diplomatic work needs careful and unbroken attention. Still, filling the head of this unhappy urchin with policy positions; well, that could prove interesting. If nothing else, it will annoy and befuddle members of the useless classes. And there is always time for that.
He indicates, almost casually, the lack of meetings for the first half of the day. “So, I ask you again: Do you have an appointment?”



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Madeleine Gosselin
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Tue Nov 19, 2019 12:01 pm

Late Morning, 13 Hamis, 2719
B.A. Shrikeweed's Office, Stainthorpe Hall
He was looking at her. Madeleine still didn’t know the name of the man behind the desk, but she did know that she couldn’t ask now. She should have looked at the door, but she hadn’t, and it was definitely too late to ask now. Unless…? No, no, she couldn’t ask now, Madeleine was pretty sure.

It felt like a long time before he spoke, and Madeleine’s shoulders sank, slowly, at the words. He had said it in roundabout way, Madeleine thought, but it was very much a no; it was the sort of no one couldn’t argue with, the sort of no in words that one would remember. It was the sort of no, her sister, Angelique liked best. Angelique always had a dozen magazines, but when Madeleine asked to look at one, just one, Angelique had said she’d rather tear it into a thousand pieces and burn the scraps, rather than let Madeleine see it.

She would go, Madeleine thought, now, before he said anything else. She had already eased back when he spoke again, and Madeleine hunched further against the expectation of more words that she didn’t want to hear, swallowing hard.

But – it didn’t sound like a no. Tentatively, Madeleine looked back up at him, then down at the desk. He was pushing a notebook towards her, and Madeleine took a half-step back towards the desk, frowning a little at the page. It was a schedule book, but all empty in the morning, and then with meetings in the afternoon.

He asked her again if she had an appointment, and Madeleine looked up, wide-eyed, her lips trembling a little. He knew she didn’t have an appointment! He had already asked once, and she’d told him, no, she didn’t, and – Madeleine glanced back down at the book. He didn’t have any appointments in it for this morning, she thought, slowly. So he’d – he knew she didn’t have an appointment.

Madeleine swallowed, hard, and studied the blank lines again, and then slowly looked back up at the man behind the desk. “Might I make one?” She asked, hopefully, trying her best to understand. “Please?”

If he gave her permission, then, carefully, Madeleine would check the time, and write her name in delicate cursive at the slot for the fourteenth hour. Miss Madeleine Gosselin, she wrote, and carefully set the pen back down. She looked up at the man behind the desk with a hopeful little smile, eyes still a little too-wide, as if she wasn’t sure what to expect now, as if she still thought he might send her away at any point.

"Thank you," Madeleine offered, tentatively. She was still standing there, and she didn’t make any particular attempt to sit; she wasn’t sure how meetings like this worked, although it was very awkward to stand behind the desk with him sitting. She didn’t want to do the wrong thing, but she was almost sure she already had, yet again.

Even if she didn't get any donations from him, or his coat, Madeleine thought that the other ladies at Society to Clothe the Lower Races would be very interested to hear about legislation. Perhaps they would be proud of her for learning about it, and if she suggested it, maybe they would even think about taking it up. A tiny little smile spread over Madeleine's face at the idea, and she stood up a little straighter, reclaiming every bit of her five feet and one inch of height.

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Last edited by Madeleine Gosselin on Fri Nov 22, 2019 1:23 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed
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: The one-man Deep State
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Fri Nov 22, 2019 12:10 am

Vienda - In Stainthorpe Hall
The 13th of Hamis - 42 Minutes past the 13th Hour
T
his is madness. He searches his mind for his motivations, finds none that are satisfying. The chance to needle the useless classes in not enough. There is no answer. Yet now he is taking the schedule, nodding at the name, filing it away in the mental archive, adding his own notes. 14th hour, Ms Madeleine Gosselin, Legislative Counseling. All there in a proper and neat set hands. The name is a lovely delicate hand, the wording around it in his own practiced cursive Chancery Hand. Neatly angled, sharp and clear. This at least is proper. Nothing else makes sense. Another search for motives. Difficult. Better to assess the matter, approach it with care, deconstruct it, rebuild it.
  • Item: The girl is rumpled, mud-spattered and uncomfortable.
  • Item: In this state she is ludicrously asking for assistance with gathering clothes. Comical.
  • Item: She possesses and expression of being on the brink of emotional collapse.
  • Item: An upset young lady of standing is not an ornament to any office.
  • Item: Standing risks consequences. To be avoided.
  • Item: She is out of her depth. Knows it.
  • Item: She is useless. Uselessness cannot be allowed to stand.
  • Conclusion: Stamp out uselessness. Gain a good word?

A feeble list. An uncertain conclusion. Tenuous. It will not do. It will have to do.

“Miss Gosselin,” he maintains a professionally bland tone, “Your appointment is not for 18 minutes. You will wait outside until the precise moment of your appointment. Then you will be properly collected. There is a chair where you may wait.” She dismisses her, shoos her from the room, watches her go in a rumpled swirl of green. Good. The girl no longer haunts the room. No longer can see the papers. 17 and a half minutes. That should be more than enough time. He looks at the boxes, the papers. Nods.

For another half-minute he does not rise. It would be an insult to Daphne, and insult to coffee, not to finish. The cup is at his lips. He takes a sip, long and slow. Less satisfying that is ideal. The coffee is growing cold. No hope of another proper cup. Tea? That can be had with a simple ring of the bell. Tea is insipid. Too weak. Too thin. How can one think on tea alone?

The half-minute passes. No time to waste. Shrikeweed stands, looks about the office. The plan forms in his mind. First, the Mugrobi papers are lain neatly in their box, nestled in black velvet and adorned with red tape. His notes join them. There is little chance the girl could read them. His own private shorthand. Wiggins can read it, and Levesque. Perhaps a handful of others. Each of them had their own means of taking notes, of affixing their seals, of making their marks. Here, in Stainthorpe Hall, the rituals of the Service are seldom honored. He will keep them. To abandon them is to abandon civilization. That cannot be allowed.

He closes the box. Locks it with the small key he keeps always in the inner pocket of his waistcoat. There is a satisfying click. The box is secure. No. Not secure enough. The safe, new and bright, massive and with locks he barely understands looms large behind him. Crossing to it, he places his hand upon the dial, turns it. Once, twice, three times. Clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. A mechanical click, but deep and sure and resonant. The door swings open, the box is placed inside. Are there other papers? Yes. A few notes, a position paper on trade relations, three reports, badly written. He marks them, gummed paper and silken ribbons. They join the box within the safe. A deep and satisfying sound as the door to the safe closes, as the lock engages. The office is secured.

Now to the desk, to the matter at hand. He lays out pens and paper and ink. From the columbarium shelves he takes down three volumes, each upon social policy, and lays them upon the desk. Instructive works. Pedagogical. Germain.

He checks his watch. One minute to the appointed hour. He crosses to the door, takes the handle, turns it. Once, twice, three times. Clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. The door opens. “Miss Gosselin? Do come in. I have taken the liberty of providing some materials that may be useful to you, and to a more efficient execution of your cause.”



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Madeleine Gosselin
Posts: 134
Joined: Sun May 26, 2019 3:54 pm
Topics: 9
Race: Galdor
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: moralhazard
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Fri Nov 22, 2019 1:45 pm

Late Morning, 13 Hamis, 2719
B.A. Shrikeweed's Office, Stainthorpe Hall
Madeleine watched the man behind the desk (she really wished she knew his name) take the appointment book and write additional things next to her name, carefully. She leaned forward, very slightly, and peeked at what he had written after it. Legislative Counseling, Madeleine read, and eased back, the tiny smile on her face holding strong.

Madeleine jerked her gaze up from the desk to his face when he spoke, wide-eyed, not sure why the sound of her name made her feel as if she had done something wrong. He told her to wait outside, and Madeleine blinked, once, and then nodded. She opened her mouth to say something – she wasn’t sure what – but he was looking at her as if she had done something wrong, and Madeleine didn’t want to make a mistake, now, when it seemed to be going very well.

“Thank you,” Madeleine offered again, and hurried from the room. She closed the door behind herself, and glanced up at the plaque by the door. B. A. Shrikeweed. Mr. Shrikeweed. Madeleine sighed, faintly, relieved; it would have been really awful to have had to ask for his name. She found the chair, and sat down – then rose again, and tugged at her skirt, and sat again. Madeleine leaned forward, a little carefully, and tugged at the part that always seemed to scrunch up beneath her, until it was pretty smooth on the chair.

She sat back, and waited. How long had it been now? Madeleine glanced around. Whose office was she is? Which incumbent? She wasn’t even sure. Legislative Affairs sounded very important, Madeleine thought, guiltily. It was very nice of Mr. Shrikeweed to take time to give her Legislative Counseling. She supposed he must be an expert, which was excellent. That would be what she would tell the ladies at the Society to Clothe the Lower Races. She had been instructed in legislation by a legislation affairs expert. It sounded very nice; Madeleine practiced it a few more times in her head, utterly unaware that her lips were moving to trace out the words.

Surely it had been ten minutes by now, Madeleine thought, not more than a minute or so later. She sighed, and shifted on her chair, her skirt rumpling beneath her legs, and glanced down at her lap.

She would need to go back to Brunnhold on the fifteenth, Madeleine thought. So she only had today and tomorrow to learn about legislative affairs, and to collect more donations. She found a stray thread on her skirt, and tugged at it, making a little face. It didn’t come out. Carefully, Madeleine curled the thread around her finger, and tugged harder. It still didn’t come out, but now her finger hurt. Madeleine sighed again, and sat upright.

Maybe, Madeleine thought – maybe she could go to the ballet. Not tonight, although there probably was a performance tonight. But she hadn’t asked, and she hadn’t gotten tickets or anything. She didn’t know how much it would cost. She didn’t know if she would be allowed to go alone. Madeleine’s shoulders sank a little. Would it be a disappointment if she even asked? Perhaps she shouldn’t ask; if it wasn’t appropriate, then even asking wasn’t a good idea. But if it was appropriate, and she didn’t ask, then she wouldn’t get to go when she could have gone. She’d never gone alone before, but of course she’d only been a baby, before she went to Brunnhold, and she wasn’t anymore, and she hadn’t asked. So – she wasn’t sure, Madeleine decided.

Her thoughts wandered on from there, lingering on physics and calculus and leaping back to confisalto. She settled on her newest routine, and as she reviewed it in her mind, her shoulders straightened up, slowly – her back drew upright, making a long neat line from the top of her crown all the way down her spine. Her legs settled, feet planted neatly together, and her hands rested lightly in her lap, fingers curled over one another. It was a comfortable, easy way to sit, and she could have never done it consciously.

Madeleine looked up when Mr. Shrikeweed came out of his office. “Thank you, Mr. Shrikeweed,” she smiled at him, hopefully, and rose, and followed him back into the little room. There were three very large books sitting on the desk, and Madeleine glanced down at them, and then back up at Mr. Shrikeweed. She swallowed, a little.

Of course, Madeleine thought, he didn’t really want to talk to her. He was very busy, she was sure. That was all right; she shouldn’t have expected anything else. Her shoulders, which had been squared, slowly slumped again, and Madeleine swallowed her disappointment with a faintly bitter taste. “They seem – very – helpful,” she offered, looking down at the desk, then back at the man of legislative affairs. “Shall I–" Madeleine was sure, at least, that he wouldn’t want her to read here, but she didn’t quite know what to ask, and the question died in her mouth, and left her hanging, voice trailing uncertainly upward on the pronoun, before she lapsed into silence again, looking down at the books yet again, then back up at Mr. Shrikeweed, and waiting to be told what to do.

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