Tap, tap, tap, tap.
The steady progress of one of your servants barely draws your attention. The gardens beyond the window are barely more interesting to you but of the two they win out. As pleasant as your family seat is recently the comforting halls, wallpapered in warm colours and as familiar to you as the magic crest engraved on your back, have turned cold and unwelcoming. This house is emptying, you know it is. Fewer servants, no siblings and your mother....
She's never coming back, you've known that since you were four.
As for your father....
"Lady Ia'Nuoch," the servant raps gently on the antique beech wood door to the library.
"Enter Wilfred," you don't bother to turn to the door. The reflection of Wilfred, face craggy and back bent only slightly by time, is more than enough. He may be just be the butler, a station he is quick to defend from the many younger men you could employ if he bothers to retire, but he's been a fixture of this house all your life. Without him you aren't sure what you'd do. Hire someone else certainly, but they wouldn't be Wilfred.
"Ma'am, your father..." the hard lines of a frown settle into place on your face. Wilfred stops short and you realise you've clenched your hands at your sides. It takes an effort of will to unclench them but you're a magus, your mind is far more formidable than your body.
"Continue." Wilfred nods at your command.
"Your father would like to speak with you." He finishes and you contemplate the rows of formal topiary lining the gravel drive away from the house.
"Did he ask for me?" It has been years since your name left his mouth. The last time you heard him say it was the night before you were given the Ia'Nuoch crest.
"Yes he did, young mistress." For a moment you think of rebuking Wilfred for over familiarity. He is your butler not your confidant. Then you realise what he said and that he's not lying to you or softening the truth. The former Lord Ia'Nuoch asked for you by name.
"Thank you for informing me, I shall speak with him directly." Your voice does not tremble, not at all, and your hands certainly are not shaking. There is nothing at all to give away the aching, writhing turmoil circling in your heart.
Without a word you turn from the window overlooking the gardens and pass Wilfred into the Marble Hall. The blank eyes of the marble busts lining the corridor on both sides stare accusing as you stride purposefully through the splashes of morning sunlight let in by the windows. Each bust is a former head of the family, each one contributed to the magic crest in your care. Each of them judges you as you walk past, finding you wanting.
Passing from the marble hall to the master staircase is a relief. The eyes of the myriad paintings hanging on the wall, classics all though the names have never been of interest to you, aren't judgemental. The thick rich red carpet edged with golden thread cushions each footfall and behind the paintings is red velvet wallpaper with printed gold vine work running up the walls.
Hand lightly on the ebony banister you ascend to the second floor and enter the green hall. Naturally the walls here are papered in woodland greens and the carpet under your feet is a darker tone of the same. It's all very relaxing, the one place you've never felt anything but at home.
The door of your rooms passes on your left. You mother's pass to your right and then you come to them. The double doors to the master bedroom, where your father has lived for the last ten years, they are imposing. The darkest wood carved with dragons and other phantasmal species, the anchor of several deadly bounded fields and the heart of the house.
They open at your barest touch.
The heavy curtains are tightly shut, a fire flickers in the ornate granite fireplace making the room stuffy beyond belief. It's hard to breathe in here and even harder to see when the doors close behind you. You circuits heat a little as you channel pranna through your eyes, lifting the eternal gloom of this room.
Your father's four poster bed thankfully has the curtains already drawn and tied back, the green velvet matching the crisp linen of the covers. Even now proper order and neatness must be maintained though everything else is gone.
On the bed, wasted by his condition, lies Halwyn Ia'Nuoch Blackbourne, former Lord Ia'Nuoch and your father.
You don't know if you hate him or miss him terribly.
"Myrna, daughter, you came." A swift blink erases the stinging heat from your eyes. The beseeching gratitude in your father's voice doesn't suit him, doesn't suit even a former Lord Ia'Nuoch.
"You asked for me father, so I came." You walk to the edge of his bed and sit, right on the edge, so the mattress barely dips and your father will not be disturbed by it. Warm, wrinkled, papery fingers close around your right hand and cling tight, like your father's scared to let go.
"You are... are well, then?" He asks. You squeeze his withered hand gently, carefully, scared he'll shatter like glass if you apply to much pressure.
"Of course papa." He nods and you can see how he's straining just to make that one gesture, the lines that deepen into great pained furrows around his eyes. More evidence that he's not the man you remember.
"Good... good," he wheezes and lies back, exhausted and paler that before like his skin is thin wax just barely stretched over his skull rather than crumpled paper. He's close to death now, the curse must be entering its final stages.
Suddenly his hand clenches tight around your hand and he pulls it fiercely. You almost overbalance and fall onto him, only grabbing one green velvet curtain saves his life. He traces the bright red lines of your command spells, three jagged arrows all pointing inwards.
"Is it done, have you summoned your Servant yet girl?" Were you not a magus, or some lesser second rate without an iota of self control, you would sag in relief. He's back, even if only for a moment you're sitting with your father.
"Not yet, my catalyst will arrive today and I shall perform the ritual...."
"Do it here girl I want to see!" Halwyn Ia'Nuoch barks at you.
[ ] Yes, of course
[ ] I'm sorry father but I don't want to risk an unsuitable location
[ ] No, I wish I could but you're too weak
The hardness in his eyes, the purpose you've missed for ten years, doesn't remain for more than a moment after you speak. His hand on yours trembles and almost falls onto his chest. You bring it down to his side.
"I'm sure you know best M-M-Miriam." Your mother's name hits you like a gut punch. Cold anger fills your veins and you stand, tearing your hand from his.
"Miriam, don't leave me." Your father begs, a glance shows that he's frantic with tears welling in his eyes. Your throat tries to close around the lump of tears you will not shed; you are not so weak as to let it.
"I have matters I must attend to, I'll send up Holly... you like Holly, Halwyn." Churning boiling hate seethes in you breast as you speak. Holly, a simpering maid all doe eyes, blonde ringlets and smugness, the only reason she still serves here is her ability to comfort your father when things get bad. Without that gift she would be on the streets, or worse, before she could blink those soppy eyes.
Without waiting for an answer you leave. You can't stand being in that room. Hate and grief and loathing all swirl into one bitter storm and you take several deep breaths to stop yourself shaking. You will maintain your composure at all times, the Lady Ia'Nuoch does not tremble anywhere but her own rooms.
Under control again you start walking back along the green hall. Wilfred materialises somewhere along the way. He's got a cup of tea ready and steaming on his tray. You take it and drink. As ever he knows exactly the right blend of leaf and milk you desire, bitter but with an edge of sweetness.
"Send Holly to him, warn her that he may be distressed when she arrives." If you never have to see her face then all the better.
"At once, ma'am, is there anything else?" Wilfred takes the empty cup from you. You check your pocket watch, it's ten thirty and Diana will be arriving at eleven. With your catalyst for the ritual if all has gone well.
"Prepare the garden drawing room for entertaining," you think for a moment, what does Diana always ask for? "Lay out some sandwiches, tuna or prawn mayonnaise." It's one of the two and you can always pretend the other is for your benefit if you have to.
"It will be ready for you in twenty minutes."
True to his word the drawing room is prepared to receive guests by ten to eleven and one of the servants showed Diana in at five past. Her chestnut hair is up today in a tightly wound bun even her fringe has been captured and tamed into the style which is a little surprising. Her attire is a soft pale blue sundress that's let the sun tan her shoulders and arms to a gentle brown. Sensible white pumps and a white knit cardigan finish the picture of girlish innocence.
"Myrna when will you stop wearing suits they do not flatter you at all." Diana's greeting, if it can be called that, is very to the point. You deplore her fashion sense and she deplores yours.
"Good morning Diana," you are not about to rise to her bait, today is too important. "I see you've come straight from the Clocktower." There's no other reason she'd be playing the ingénue that you can fathom.
Diana flops onto an antique sofa in front of a bay window and snatches a prawn sandwich from the silver stand on the coffee table. You join her on the sofa and start pouring the tea, mixing in some honey for Diana and a few drops of milk for yourself. Diana eats and drinks a little too greedily for manners. She really has come straight here from the Clocktower.
"Can I offer something more substantial?" You ask after five of the six dainty triangles of brown bread and prawns have disappeared. "I'm sure the cook will have something for you if we ask."
"No it's fine, there's a party in Southampton this afternoon I need only last until then. The Montagu's always have a wonderful buffet." Diana waves you off and finishes the last sandwich. You raise an eyebrow but trust that she knows what she's talking about.
"Diana may I ask, what precisely has you fleeing London to here?" Probably your catalyst, there are more people interested in obtaining a strong Servant in the coming than just you after all. Diana's pretty airheaded smile turns vulpine in a flash and she produces a case from under some form of concealing mystery. You arrange your face to be suitably impressed by her magecraft.
"This of course," she sets the metal suitcase on the coffee table gently, "the British Museum have upgraded their security. If you paid any attention to the mundane news you'd know they almost caught me in the act last night." You make a dignified and ladylike snort of disgust at the suggestion of purchasing a television or radio like some common human. Diana sighs but doesn't comment further.
"Anyway, best I could get my hands on and then there's what I've got on the other Masters for you." Your eyebrows both rise a little in surprise that she'd go that far for you. "Of course it comes with a higher price." Of course it does.
"What do you want Diana?" You ask and are slightly taken aback when her vulpine grin becomes positively radiant and dreamy.
"I found the most wonderful dress shop in Paris the other week and they do such amazing wedding dresses and I...."
"I'll pay for your wedding dress Diana just as soon as you pick a husband out of your horde of admirers." If that's it you really have no problems with it. It'll be expensive, horrifically so knowing Diana, but that's really not an issue with the amount of land you own and the rent coming from it.
"Thank you Myrna!" Diana squeals and tackle hugs you off the sofa. You hit the ground with a thump and an abortive shout.
"Get off, you're crushing me." You cannot call Diana petite or small in any sense, she's as fit and trim as anything but definitely not small. She does pick herself up before you suffocate and you sit on the chaise longue on the other side of the coffee table to her.
"The folders are in with your catalyst, if you want to take a look." Diana waggles her eyebrows and slides the metal case across the table. Hopefully it hasn't left scratches on the walnut surface. With a half smile and a roll of your eyes you flick the catches and open the case.
Inside you see....
[ ] The hilt of a sword Chinese by design and very simple, it's black and cool to the touch
[ ] A shard of bronze Greek you think and part of a shield, the part you have is battered and dented like it's withstood many blows
[ ] A broken pot there are Egyptian hieroglyphs down one side and it looks exquisitely crafted
[ ] A spear head the wood haft is splintered a few inches down and the bronze head itself is deformed and stained with something dark, probably blood
[ ] A patch of cloth there's faded embroidery of what might be a dragon with something on its back, a cross perhaps
~*~
I don't know whether I'm annoyed I can't make pop culture references with Myrna or ecstatic that I have the chance to use Debbie Wiseman's excellent score for Wolf Hall here. I'll not be confirming or denying speculation on catalysts and the Servants they pertain to. Have fun
