Life is Stewardship

[waito_x]

While Chloe, Kate and a few other adventurous types are slowly and painfully inserting into a tailor-made alternate reality, some have already found their footing, including fellow travelers meeting like old friends at the front access of, if the fog would clear away a bit, aha! The "Absecon Bay Woman's Conservatory"...whatever the hell that is.

---

Conservatory grounds

It is the early pre-dawn hours, with only the big laundry tubs steaming hot and the occasional puff of a cigarette indicating a growing presence on the ABWC front lawn.

Swirling about in the tubs are scores of the uniform code of dress for students attending, while one looks from afar, figuring that scoring one of these would make for a convenient disguise.

That someone is Mika Oshiro. She blends well enough amidst these oh so privileged students without arousing suspicion, but sharper scrutiny would gather that she belongs to a different world. A world where the Oshiro clan resisted the tyranny of the Bauer family, who had seized power and subjugated the masses. Mika was the leader of a covert rebel group, a master of martial arts and tactics. She had earned the title of "Demon Hunter", on top of a serious grudge against the Bauer family for getting her father killed.

She motions to her colleague to head into the main building, but the lad is already doing just that.

These new digs are no matter to her. She must continue her mission. If only she didn't have to sneeze so damn much.

Maid's accommodations

Diane Jameson looks up somberly, a bit taken aback with how long she's watching their stately abbess knit on one of the machines a couple tables over, its operation doing little to hide the sense of rush hour on the main avenue a stone's throw past the nearest row of windows.

She glances at the newspaper she secured before arriving in class that morning. The 18th of May, on a Friday. She flinches, almost knocking over the glass of fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice her physician instructs her to drink each morning.

"My apologies, it appears that I am late for another function," she blurts out, bowing to the abbess before grabbing her overcoat and heading out into the hallway.

"Uhuh," the abbess, used to these occurrences by now, rolls her eyes, using the interruption to search for a spare bundle of colorful yarn.

Diane makes it to the bell tower, disturbing a nest of pigeons. She has the newspaper folded up, held aloft to shield her eyes from the morning sunlight. There, in the quad, walking clear as day as if no one is the wiser.

"Tch!" With a leap, she levitates for a brief bit to detach her dress slippers and bring both her legs in line of the desired angle of attack, holding the slippers to the side of her garment to not allow her dress to billow out too much as it would obstruct view of her intended target.

She descends to the quad deftly, albeit with more of a maid's trademark gracefulness. She gets back up from a crouched landing position, causing a bit of a stir among passerby. She does not care, angling and hooking a finger into the knitting of a certain newcomer's garb. "You'll rue the day you set foot on these sacred grounds, Mika Oshiro. Don't think everyone will take tea with you just because you... wait, what witchcraft is this?"

For, overlaid her in plain text is her full name: Diane Jacobs.

Oshiro-san, reassured that Diane has not injured herself with this peculiar greeting, nods in confirmation before assuming the full extent of her athletic limber, lengthy dark byzantium hair culminating a good seven plus centimeters over Diane's stalwart pose.

In her naturally deep voice, Oshiro-san advises calmly: "Please, just Misha's fine."

Trembling slightly, Diane releases hold of Misha's effects at once. "Mi--Misha!?" How is she a freshman?!

"Just so. I am told the Academy needed my services," Misha says, glancing about sullenly.

"Urk!" Diane freezes as Misha trains ruby-colored irises her way. "Do we even have her size?"

There is a muffled thunder from behind the main doors of the nearest academy structure, the chapel and maid's dorms. Then someone crying out, as it gains in pitch and clarity. "Meekaa!!"

Diane, rubbing at her ears, flinches as Misha instinctively presses both palms around her ears for her. "Huh?" With exterior sounds so insulated, she can her heart pounding against her inner ears but is loving every bit of it. Her shoulders start to slump. "We need to get your measurements."

Misha smirks appreciably, before blinking abruptly, jaw dropping open. "Utterly unbelievable. Make note, it appears this institution does not admit boys."

"Who?" Diane tries, blushing tempestuously as Misha carefully motions before outright coaxing a headturn to match the direction of the purported source of the approaching pitter patter and yowling of Academy staffers being bowled over or at least having their feet trodden upon.

"A very arf'narfin' Academy Headache," Misha says, suddenly preoccupied with extending Diane's arms and a bit too wide for comfort at that. "I may need to switch classes around."

"I'm sorry, I still don't follow?" Diane says meekly, watching as Misha abruptly sniffs one of her exposed wrists, seeming to ponder the aroma.

Then, at the last possible second, Oshiro-san swings a gold and white lace umbrella to pause the calamitous emergence of her colleague as he tries candidly to bowl over either of them.

"William McGehee Prescott the 3rd, these are my freshest linens!" Misha hisses.

William seems to take the hint, releasing hold of a cart he had been towing along and bowing to both of them hurriedly.

"Is this the lot of the research, mayhaps?"

"Aye," William begets in a bookish Louisianan accent. "That is, if we assume no absconded effects 'neath yonder lighthouse."

"Only one way to know for certain," Misha affirms, scanning about for somewhere to ditch the cart.

 

[waito_x]

While en route to the lighthouse, which apart from the academy bell tower offers a pretty decent lay of the land, William and Misha see signs of a recent shipwreck littering the harbor waters, the source of the effluence leading them to the discovery of a perfectly patchable sailing yacht stuck on one of the more far-flung sandbars.

Though, it is anybody's guess why the passengers and crew are simply absent!

---

Perimeter fence, Absecon Bay Lighthouse

"Whew!" Prescott, standing up from trying to crack the bolted-shut perimeter fencing, turns to Misha for further instructions, only to stagger as she seems to already be formulating one, if the sudden pressure on his left shoulder is any indication.

"Okay, boost me over to the other side!" Misha insists, smacking his shoulder repeatedly.

"Hey, ouch! What--what if there are dogs or something?"

"Dogs I can handle...or something, huh? I'll be sure you to let you handle the somethings."

"And if I don't want to?"

"What's gotten into you? Seriously..." Misha remarks, before double-checking their surroundings. Then, she starts to scale him, relegating William's other shoulder to supporting more of her weight for a moment.

"There's a--a little warning, perhaps?" William insinuates, glancing down to find his footing before getting a face full of Misha's garish attire. "Bwff-uff!"

"Shut it, you'll alert their canine," Misha advises, before slinking and extending just enough over the fence to not lose her balance. Reaching to secure her wardrobe from any more of William's muffled gesticulations, she mentally walks herself through the various points of entry she has surmised in the quick glimpse over and around the dog kennel.

Face freed, William says in a rather subdued tone. "Just...be careful in there."

Misha has already dropped into the yard, her feet finding some chewed animal femurs which crunch to a particularly noticeable extent.

The dog's ears perk up, its subtle breathing catching abruptly.

"Hoooo-kay. Vampires, I can handle," Misha states, as the full extent of the canine's bulk exits from the kennel, musculature defined by the early AM light peeking forth in ribbons through harbor fog. "But this?"

Misha pivots, staring daggers at Prescott through a gap in the fence to bellow: "Get this fucking thing open!"

"It unbolts from your side!"

The gated partition in the fence swings wide, as she power-walks through. "I knew that," she suggests. Then she yelps as Prescott nearly bowls her over. "The hell, man?"

"My gosh, are you hurt? Did it get at you?"

Misha waves him off. "I'm peachy keen. See?" She does a self-conscious twirl anyway to check for any dirt or other detritus.

"And the dog?"

"What dog?" she smirks, recalling the shadow of a snarling, four-legged abomination to her hands with a flourish. Then, smacking her hands together, the grounds to the lighthouse reset to a muted tranquility.

"You did that?" Prescott, pulse pounding, flops to the ground.

"Correct-a-mundo!" Misha chimes, stooping to pat his shoulder. "Full moon is in three days. Keep being a good boy for me until then?"

"The twenty-first?" Prescott infers. "Gosh, I hope the academy accepts latecomers."

"Applications are handled until the 31st...of October. My guess, everyone is just gearing up for summer prep." With that, she heads toward their next objective. "Hurry up, now."

Academy grounds

Huddled closely together, several of Diane's classmates try not to smirk as the Abbess gives each one of them in turn a perfunctory pat-down before allowing them in single file to the chapel for the morning prayer.

Nearby, the gardener, schlepping a beekeeper's effects into the queue for hot grits, balances forth a wooden bowl. She has taken the opportunity to shoot the shit with the seemingly rowdier than usual kitchen staff, though this is all for naught. She ducks as the Abbess fixes her and other maids in proximity with a glower, to which one of the maids so accosted leans over, murmuring concernedly: "Don't these people have lives?"

"Not that I know of. It's late 19th-century, after all. Some of it may seem a little backwards, ya dig?"

"When I find Caulfield, I am going to skewer her. With one of those big, pointy pitchforks!" one of the more photogenic maids admits, yanking free her mesh cap and running fingers through sweat-laden blonde bangs.

"Now, now, Maribeth Brown," the gardener implores, blinking in Morse.

"Victoria," she corrects her, green eyes mirroring the gardener's chlorophyll-imbued eyebrows and eyelashes.

Both of them turn as the Abbess hurriedly finishes the prayer proceedings, closing and returning the chapel-issue KJV to a slot in the lecturn. Thereupon, she hikes up her long, flowy garments to stride to a section of stained glass and squint past the refracted sunbeams at some events unfolding in the quad.

"Hmm, I wonder what's going on out there?" Victoria airs.

There are heavy footsteps on the wooden ramp connecting the kitchens to the front quad gardens, and a local official parts swinging doors and parks his head through the gap, shaking a rolled up day's papers at the stricken help. "Shipwreck! Finish your sermons, and get the Abbess to bring out whatever she can. Medicine, munitions, the wo--" he yelps, as the Abbess seemingly materializes right beside him, staring nonplussed at his unshaven jawline.

"You dip out from the barber's? Ah well, who here has eaten? All right, you lot, bring over the stuff."

"I'd just as soon carry that," an instructor insists, freeing two maids from balancing a lopsided, leathery bag of medical tools before either of them careen into a number of cots that other help are angling down the ramp in quick succession, feather-down pillows tucked under arms so not occupied.

"Hurry it up! Would you rather let the firemen handle it? It could be a treasure ship, for all we know," the Abbess demands, before picking up a pan and ladle and scaring away the morning's pigeons.

----
By now, I hope everybody has gathered where and when the story takes place. I just want to add that I am reading through a rather interesting and lengthy post on the r/lifeisstrange subreddit from April 2021, posted by a user with an 'I Wish Rachel was Here'. It should help me introduce the next character. Please stay tuned!!! ^^

 

[waito_x]

As could probably be expected, the manga artist assigned to adapting Inori's Watashi no Oshi wa Akuyaku Reijō (WataOshi for short) is "not accepting new projects". However, Shimo Aono continues to post artwork commemorating the episode releases*, and is well known for contributing 'Medb' art (a character from Fate/GO)**.

*

View: https://www.reddit.com/r/WataOshi/comments/1855ksm/im_in_love_with_the_villainess_episode_9/
&
**

View: https://www.reddit.com/r/grandorder/comments/d39yyz/shimo_aono_the_infamous_medb_artist_is_getting/ for example.

I highly recommend you look 'em up.

 

[waito_x]

Diane arrives at the scene of the shipwreck, only to see a parishioner place rosary beads on an upturned bit of driftwood. Thinking none survived, she harkens back to a conversation that may lead her to a point in time to preempt this outcome.

---

Boardwalk, SE of Absecon Lighthouse

Several of the maids pay their respects to the presumed deceased, as the sun dips overland. Much of the day's instruction has been overlooked, allowing for Conservatory numbers to dwindle back to pre-application levels. This has given Diane a chance to ditch her bookbag and conduct yet another application in the purview of finding shipwrecked booty.

"Hmm, what's this?" she asks, stooping to fetch a bit of jewelry discarded between the boardwalk's winding, rickety planks. She thinks at first it is some kind of locket, though, upon turning it over, she gasps. A shaped bit of brass, resembling the bawling face of an infant. Who in their right mind would wear something like this?

Eh, it might offer some clues. Closing her eyes, she considers the lull of the ocean. "Bring me anything else, oh ocean?"

"NE-VAR!" screeched an immaculately-plumed raven alighting on her shoulder, beak poised for acceptance of an expected treat.

"Well, keep your secrets then," Diane surmises, fishing about her person for something to donate to the old troublemaker. She produces a wafer, smirking amicably. "Afraid this is all I have on me. Left most of my stuff back at the boarding house."

"Neitun, thhhhp!" the raven blares.

He be sick of the pocket-lint and sweat imbued wafers, Diane assesses. "Look, these come in a tin, whereas I am trying to blend in here," she tries. "Tiny waste, tinier clamshell purse. Only small articles, ya dig?"

The raven is not deterred, focusing intently on the discovery she made a moment ago.

"This here?" she infers, lifting it, allowing the dwindling evening daylight to cast upon it better.

"What an unsightly thing," the Abbess, tugged along by an adamant Victoria, declares from a stride away.

Vicky, arms crossed, looks pointedly at Diane, head tilting as she presses: "...well?"

"Well, what?"

"Are you going to introduce us?"

The raven looks from the newcomers back to the trinket, before making up its mind and departing wordlessly.

"You can be pretty loud at times, Vicky," Diane says, eyes following a loosened feather coursing steadily to ground.

"I'll accept pretty, it's that bird that was pretty loud."

"And why is that a problem?"

"It'll scare away all the sea life, duh!"

The Abbess, tugging at her smock to dislodge it from a crag in the nearest bit of boardwalk planks, clears her throat to state, looking bedraggled: "Ms. Jameson, much of the Conservatory was refitted all impromptu like. I'd advise you give us 'til sun up to revisit last instruction."

"Oh, there'll be plenty of revisiting," Diane quips.

"I can't believe you, at times!" Vicky says coarsely. "Come on, it's getting cold and I can hardly see a dang thing."

"Well, lucky for you, I have my trusty Bradford," Diane considers, producing her brass with floral-inlay carry lighter and demonstrating its function with a flick.

"We are many years before those are introduced," Vicky hisses.

Nearby, the Abbess sniffs, resolute. "I'll have both your hides if we stay out here a minute longer." Then her eyes fixate on the emitted flame. "Heavens to Betsies! Put away that infernal thing."

~ Relax, ladies. ~ Diane thinks to herself, smirking.

Vicky rounds on her, depressing the lighter toggle and looking for somewhere to deposit it.

Diane's smirk widens as she recovers it following an extended bout with Victoria, having the slightly better dexterity in the digits department. She slips her prized belonging back down her bonnet.

"Seriously? Trying to give the headmistress the courtesy of not having to remind us about what smoking'll do to our singing talent here!"

"What makes you think I'd do anything so unrefined," Diane says with a playful scoff.

"Ladies, the sun is retreating faster than your breeches, I want to see a picking up of the pace," the Abbess demands from afar, having made solid progress ahead of their bickering.

"You've some good legs on you, headmistress," Diane says cheerily. If only Victoria wasn't first on her list. Point of fact: "Give me your hand, Maribelle. We mustn't linger."

"That frickin' gardener needs to get her eyes checked."

"Cataracts come early when you're a caretaker."

"As if!"

From an avenue or two over, the remainder of the musicians in waiting signal for the Abbess.

"What is she, a taxi?"

"Aye, she could heft a locomotive's coal."

"Now, I know you think the world of our headmistress," Victoria adds in kind, fixing Diane with a knowing look.

Diane curtsies. 'You're too kind."

"I mean, assuming nobody is dumb enough to deny us a lift. Though, it is a Friday."

Diane nods despondently, using her best monotone to assuage Victoria's impetuous glare, "Would that indeed. Say, have you the day's paper? There's something I wanna look into."

"Oh? I mean, Roselle's gone electric. Would that we could too?"

"Amen!"

"Girls!"

"Eyy, what do ya want from us? We doing the Boardwalk in clogs!" Diane jeers, putting on her best impersonation.

"Or, whatchamacallits?" Victoria presumes, slipping out of her footwear and wincing at the immediate buildup of spindrift on newly retopologified calluses.

The Abbess, conceding, tasks the group ahead of them to hail a horse-drawn carriage.

Soon, everyone is seated within one such conveyance, the driver 'yipping' for the academy grounds. A good part is spent bobbing and wobbling along the cobblestone skirting the shoreline.

Then, whereupon a dip translates through the lacquered wood suspension, which the carriage occupants try their utmost to serenely disregard as they stare doe-eyed at Diane purposefully inserting some gel insoles for Victoria to try upon their arrival on the premises.

"Where'd you get these?" she insists, floored.

To which Ms. Jameson leans in close, declaring: "Go out with me...fer realsies."

 

[waito_x]

Victoria wonders sometimes what intrepid but worlds away troublemakers (like her estranged classmates still hypothetically among the living) are doing these days, and amount of time they have had to grieve.

---

Upper Floors, Conservatory

Victoria takes one last look around the room, wishing the Abbess had not confiscated her usual makeup kit. Content with her fresh and dapper look, she twirls one last time before the mirror. There is a flicker, perhaps from not turning the metal fuel valve for the lantern all the way to the off position. It makes her think, or rather feel, that Chloe has been in here. She scrutinizes the reflective surface, ensuring that no amount of Price-approved graffiti, no permanent marker fumes, are still infused.

Then, she heads out, veering for the service elevator. It is no Siemens, nor is she really meant to call upon it for such un-pressing matters. Still, no one appears to be watching.

With a 'hwoop', she slips into the confines and releases the one bolt she can find. This does the trick, or perhaps her shifting about, as with the creaking of guiderails and one satisfying clunk, she begins descending, rocketing down past the remaining floors with spryness and ease.

"KA-UAQ!?" a bird reports, withdrawing from the sudden curtains of sawdust as the wood contraption rattles to the first floor amenities.

Their eyes meet.

"You, again? Well, that's perfect. Your owner shouldn't be far behind," Victoria contends, still bracing as the ride concludes before dusting herself off for a moment.

A shadow traces over her squatting kneecaps, and she fusses with her pea-jacket, realizing too late it does little to conceal where her day wear pantyhose conclude when she is hunched over like this.

There is a clearing of throats.

Victoria glances up, thinking of what to say. "Ah, I may have broken it?" Then, a gloved hand enters her field of view, and she shrinks back for a second. Until her eyes adjust to the daylight filtering through stained glass to either side, and it becomes clear that it is the gardener. Only the gardener.

Sighing, Diane closes the book she was reading and rounds the corner, sniffling past the lingering sawdust as she pokes her head around the, for either of them, very old-fashioned elevator car. Then, she thinks to scoop the utterly petrified raven and park it on the gardener's shoulder. "Hey, part of this date requires that you not scare my friend, comprende?"

"Who, me?" the gardener seeks perturbedly.

"Is that you, Diane?" Victoria asks, in the process of accepting the gardener's offer with a brisk nod.

"It is at that," Jameson affirms, fists to hips as she tries to process Ms. Chase's choice of attire as the latter stands to. She pivots to the gardener and the raven, both regarding her in puzzlement. "What do you make of Miss Brown's outfit?"

"Ah, not you too!" Victoria declares, before gawking at the pair of them initiating fist bumps. "Excuse me? This is to be our special outing. Let's get on with it."

"Yeah, okay then. Catch you later, Morrow Sensei-san," Diane says, bowing with clasped hands before the gardener. "Can you maybe find something to feed Harvester?"

Morrow lifts her shoulder a bit to regard the bird better. "Yeah, as long as it can help me spot earthworms."

"Don't be digging in all this heat," Diane cautions.

"I got my sun hat," Morrow reminds her, lifting a dried kernel of corn to the raven's beak. "Pretty thing."

From the main doors, Victoria taps a foot incessantly. She sees Diane hurrying over, which prompts her into thinking better of issuing more reprimands, instead rolling with: "Listen, I know you and half the school think I'm a Grade-A bitch."

"Ah, let's not get into it," Diane says, waving away the matter. "That is never what's on my mind. You wanna know what I'm thinking?"

"Uh, okay?"

"I'm super underdressed for this time period. Even after all these weeks, I've not drummed up enough cash to mix it up. Now, as much as I would like to shear sheep..."

Victoria sighs, rolling her eyes. She too has something to tell Diane, something that has been haunting her since their stroll the other night. But it can wait.

"I'm boring you, aren't I?"

"Nonsense. You do need to throw something over that."

"Hmm."

"In fact, let use this opportunity to find just the thing for you to wear. My treat."

"Now, just a second Ms. Chase," Diane contends, stepping near enough to murmur: "I am already in your debt, and it is an amount far exceeding my nest egg's yield to address."

"What sort of things are you asking that raven to do for you?"

"That is my secret, but something I will share, if the price is r-YEEPERS CREEPERS!"

For Victoria has pinched her soundly about the midsection. "I am not accustomed to the issuance of bribes. Nor is that a very becoming occupation for one on Conservatorium scholarship such as yourself." Thereupon she is thinking of Chloe again. Then she steers her thoughts to the present. "I'm sorry, should I change into something more provocative, or more laid back?"

"You do you. I'm just trying to get a rise out of you."

They resume walking, soon reaching the perimeter fence.

"Sure is bright out," Diane admits. "So, new outfit for me first?"

"Well, it is just a few blocks over to some of the more artisan-made varieties," Vicky airs.

"You should be a tour guide," Diane says, beaming.

"Oh, they have those back then? I mean, yes," Victoria supplies with a downward turned tilting of the head, index finger resting across her lips as she considers. "Then again, I can see one problem with that."

"Okay?"

"Oh, it's just that...you knew of Maxine Caulfield, right?"

"The hipster wannabe who hangs out with that blue-haired punk?"

"Well, we were so close to becoming friends. Sort of. We had a big fight all that while ago and never spoke again. Until recently."

"Ah, she's back from the dea--" Diane tries, before jumping as the clocktower chooses then to belt out with the quarter to ten interval. "Oh, you know what that means?"

"Yes, that more and more of Arcadia Bay's departed be entrusted to this specific hellhole."

"No, silly. The harbor will have fresh fish on display again."

"Ah. Knock yourself out, I'm going to meanwhile find myself a cup of something strong."

"You don't want to try their smoked flounder?"

"...say what?"

Town Square

"Now this is frustrating!" roars one of the newspaper boys, switching caps and extracting a sheet from his unsold stacks to wrap up and pocket away a purchase of sardines. He looks imploring to passerby, before inserting himself into the flow, keen on retrieving one that fell out.

Setting his stacks on a barrel, he turns to see Diane and Victoria regarding him nonplussed. "I'm being outsold again!"

"You're just going to eat those raw?" Diane scoffs.

"Yeah? Nothing wrong with that. Now, as for your lady friend o'er thah. She better wait on the smoked fillets, they just started up the coals."

Some of the smoke wafts there way, as if on cue. Diane feels tears sting her eyes as she relives the horror. She had barely escaped with her life, thanks to Max's intervention, though seemingly from beyond the grave.

"You heah me, lass?" the paper boy tries, scowling.

"Sorry?"

Harbor Docks
The drainage gate, set vertically into the side of a raised thoroughfare, bars much of the debris from working deeper into town. Yet, the slow, eventual contact of a certain young woman of noble bearing's forehead upon the metal latticework does little to explain her headache, the first thing she feels upon snapping awake.

She feels her cheekbones for a moment, before pulling herself over a sloping mound of construction work ejecta and at last getting a look at the state of her clothes. "Ugh, Maman va me tuer!"

Looking about, the busy harbor, the carts of trade goods, it all speaks to a place more in line with English colonial Boston. Hadn't they ventured only as far as Les Açores?

As she turns to take in the sights, somebody decides right then to brusquely bowl into her. "Oomph!"

"Ah, mademoiselle, merci. I could not help but overhear your accent. Are you lost, little voyageuse?" says a young lady in a bowler hat and thick, velveteen robes, her own travel effects suggesting recently making port.

Claire, knowingly, hikes up her sopping wet garb and steps in the path of the not so innocuous bumper. "I'll have my purse back, you crétine."

"Hey, touché, missy," the travel weary thief allows, returning it, sheepish grin faltering. "Ah, something tells me I should make it up to you."

"No, that will not be nec--" Claire starts, before her eyes fixate on a proffered bouquet of flowers. "Well, only if you insist."

 

[waito_x]

On the run for a crime she cannot shake, Manaria lingers about Venetian Isles, a neighborhood of New Orleans. She is using this stopover to not only visit her aunt and uncle, but to score some unique jewelry in the local shops. Nothing like a pair of otter earrings for her best friend. She knows Claire loves otters and has a birthday coming up which she absolutely will not miss, no matter how the tides may turn!

---

"Doo de doo," Manaria hops and skips as if without a care in the world, relishing the chance to disrupt the tranquil harbor town. Manaria the menace. Manaria the scourge. Manaria, the--

A rowing oar halts her progress on the docks, bisecting her usual route the odd hundred strides or so to the perimeter of a rather unremarkable sugar plantation. Raising her arms, she hopes the slight bulge in the back pocket of her riding breeches is not a dead giveaway.

"Ma'am, is there some reason to explain this hell you're raising on a Sunday morn?"

Manaria glances over, pulling back a mop full of sweaty bangs to regard the inquisitive soul. "Well, Officier...?" she starts, before sizing up his uniform and descending into chittering.

"Sergeant, will do," the official bristles, withdrawing the oar all the same. "I am not meaning to scare you, but would you tell me your name? And what you are up to this hour?"

"You know, such is the way with such details, I don't really want to go into it."

"You seem to be short an alibi? Well, are you in trouble with the law?" the Sergeant asks, eyebrows raised.

Manaria stares off into the distance. "That all depends."

"Meh, heheh!"

"Pardon?" Manaria tilts her head, unsure about how any of this is amusing.

"Sorry, it's just, I get a lot of runaways from Edgar's place just up the bayou. But you, on the other hand, seem dead set on heading there all right."

"Yes, and if you'll allow me to explain--"

"Now, I've not had biscuits to really rack my temples about much of anything. Plus, doubt anyone else is up yet to see fit to issue a command subroutine, uh, summons. But looking at you in that getup, you strike me as part of that 1812ers club."

"When is that? I am not good at telling military times."

"Well, the British sacked Fort Macomb practically to smithereens, or so my landlady reminds me at times."

"Morning, Mr. Yrtle," declares an instructor living upon the very plantation as she waltzes in range of their chitchat. "Coffee brewing, this hour?"

"Whaddya take me for? I am retired," Sgt. Yrtle, remarks, backhanding thin air and shifting weight from peg back to a not chewed-to-bits default leg. "Fetch the maid."

"The maid has put in her two weeks," the instructor says calmly.

"Well, that's two weeks of coffee, then."

Manaria tries to get a word in edge wise: "The name's Manaria, if that helps any?"

"Ah, so it is you," the instructor surmises, clapping hands together and nodding.

"Yup, in the flesh. You must be Lene. What brings you out here? Claire wrote to me last, uh, a fortnight or so ago. Am I to understand you are out of work?"

Yrtle hobbles for a moment before ultimately falling behind the route Lene and Manaria's conversation appears to be taking them.

Lene nods, wincing slightly. "Let us revisit that some other time." She turns, waving somberly at the Sarge. "Bai!"

Manaria chuckles good-naturedly, mirroring the gesture.

Lene turns back to her former colleague. "Now, I reckon the shops in town have need of your patronage."

"Huh?"

"I saw you leave without pay--" Ngh!

For Manaria has gripped her forearm tight, all while feigning an unsteady go of the boarded walk back into town, squelching and sopping with the marshes seemingly at high tide. It serves to cover up Lene's protests, but only for so long. "Look, I'm sorry," Manaria says quietly, chuckling. "Just play along, 'kay?"

"I'm in no position to disagree, it seems," Lene says flatly. "Look, I'm heading up the way just as you are."

'Uh, I was going that way, actually."

"Just. As. You. Are," Lene repeats, firmly holding her ground.

Manaria flushes, regretting how well she advertised her running amuck earlier. "Yeah.. okay."

Lene scowls, debating whether to assess what is in Manaria's back pocket. "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in class?" she instead asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Uh...well...you see..." Manaria stammers, looking for an excuse. Then, her stomach growls.

"Ah, pity. I don't think the prison has very good cuisine," Lene says pointedly.

"Look, can we skip the arrests? No talk of jail. I am just trying to get birthday gifts squared away here."

"Ah, well, why didn't you say so in the first place? Care to fast-travel with me, then?"

"How am I to know you're not going to drop me in some dung-infested crevasse?"

"Because those are not part of my normal route. Didn't anyone ever teach you how fast-travel works?"

Manaria looks from her, to the town easily within walking distance, before shrugging.

*FWIPPITY-SCHWOOP!*

The town, not the Venice she had in mind originally, but something tells her it's as good a place as any to find a birthday gift for Claire.

Then, why is she instead stuck in a stuffy classroom, listening to a professor drone on about nautical engineering?

With a soft pulse of displaced air column, an ornate, rune-etched Bento box tumbles noiselessly into her midst, knocking her textbooks aside. Manaria gives a knowing grimace as the tiny light show from the runes subsides.

"Ms. Sousse, care to back up that level of appetite with a glance at today's reading?"

Manaria looks over at the instructor, blinking away tears of relief. This is the first food she's had in what passes for a week game clock wise. Her studies are particularly laggard.

Lene winks at her, before tapping politely at the spot in the text, prompting Manaria's book to stealthily open and flip to the page while Manaria is not looking.

Plantation Gardens

"How very 'ooh la la' today, Ms. Lene," contends a butler in the service of Lord Edgar. "Offloading food during instruction. Tummies are meant to be empty while the minds take their fill."

"Aye, so 'ee keep telling me."

"That newest student of yours really chirks up the lecture halls. Right to think she's the talk of Venetian Isles. What's her story?"

"Desertion, coercion... I dare say, am thoroughly smitten."

 

[waito_x]

Manaria likes to imagine there be more to Lene's seemingly playful attitude, though she is hesitant to outright score some major romance points with a teacher especially if it'll only serve to upend her plans of crashing Lady Claire's birthday bash.
She decides rather to lay low for now, trusting in her magical proficiency. The day winds down, but not the festivities.

---

Venetian Isles, after sundown

"I am bushed," Lene says to Lord Edgar's butler, withdrawing from reach, stack of letters, plus a paper satchel of kindling, incense, candles and spare candle wicks, enough perhaps to coat over the catastrophe of running into members of Claire's inner circle so suddenly.

"I bid thee adieu for now. Rêves agréables," the butler intones merrily.

"But of course!" It is such a luxury to hear anyone say such words, after all those years with the Bauers. She pauses, rebalancing the items she carries as she fishes for the guest house keys. However, the door is apparently unlocked.
With an 'oomph', the first thing she does is rather unceremoniously unload the satchel, candles and all, into the already lively fireplace. Who would be the wiser? Well, one of the maids perhaps.

Sighing, she retrieves the one candle she is sure was made with beeswax and fusses with scouring away any soot buildup around the base. Satisfied, she sits down on the lone couch, of the two straddling the fireplace there is one not in use by a certain rotund feline. The cat's ears perk up as she sets the candle into a receptacle and tears into the first of many letters.
"Ah, just my luck, not a would-be admirer for once," she says with a rather grateful shimmying. This causes the rest of the letters to flutter to the carpeted floor. No matter.

She kicks up her feet, the candlelight and fireplace doing enough to make out a relative's handwriting.
"Ah, from the Mayfields. My, it's been a while. Wait, what is this?" She pauses, setting down the letter's contents to feel about in the gaps around the couch cushion for a magnifying glass. No luck. Her reading glasses, perhaps. Still, not where she had put them last. Lene frumps, wondering as to how a nation, fresh with ideas and having a full century following since Franklin's invention in bifocals. A second, has it really been that long?

Lene fetches the first part of the letter, scanning the bit of inking past the floral heading. "Merciful heavens."
Her heart rate already increasing, she jumps in fright as a strange noise interrupts the cozy fireplace time with kitten. She stands to, whirling at the source of the disturbance, letter opener at the ready.

"What the heck?" There it is, a strange contraption situated under the stairs in its own special alcove. It has a chime to it, less tea kettle busy, more hand-crank cash register. Part of it seems detachable. The whole thing is still ringing, she better find a way to kill it before it invites half of the Edgarite homestead.

Lacing her fingers around a handle, her mouth opens in horror as there appear to be porous, metallic spouts. Angling it away from her face, she looks at the rest of the gizmo, livid.

"No, no. It's all right. Just put the first bit near your ear. It's perfectly harmless," says a tiny, tinny voice.
"Manaria, is that you?" Lene asks, rounding the foot of the stairs, only to find the cord has a limit not much better than an arm's length. "Well, shoot. Okay, tell me what to do again? You want me to talk into this thing?"

"Yes, just like that."

"What business do you have with me, so late in fact?"

"Just wondering if you have a minute to talk about Rougarou insurance."

"Oh, you little prankster!" Lene declares, rubbing her ear drums at Manaria's superb guffaws. "She must be right outside, I'm sure of it." Glancing about, there she sees Manaria in the process of pressing her frigid cheeks against the window overlooking the front porch. "You're likened to get shot, carousing 'bout the Edgar estate after dark!"

"You better let me in, then."

"How am I supposed to do that, when you got me tied down with this short, shoddy excuse for a telegraph?"

Manaria laughs good naturedly again, before hearing guard dogs from a yard over barking madly and abruptly quieting down.

Resetting the phone dongle, Lene hikes up her sleeves and fetches the beeswax candle. Opening the door, she waves the candle forth. "Shoo, away you dang mutts!"

"Hey!" Manaria waves at her, a bit frantically, even shrinking back as the candlelight catches her form.

"Okay, you! Just what the hell are you doing out here anyway?"

"Yeah, uh, I'll tell you in a minute. But first, let me get rid of this spell."

"That'd be nice. No, hang on, you're tracking mud--!"

"Well that's what you all get for building over a marsh."

"I don't believe this. Say, don't touch that. It might explode on you."

"This is all I'm doing, relax will ya?" Manaria is indicating the procedure of disenchanting the covered siding of the stairs with her wand. But not before opening the last vestiges of a contemporary, albeit strikingly obtuse phone fairing, and taking out a key from within.

"You sure are full of surprises, Ms. M. So, what is the key for?"

"It's for a chest that I found in the attic, of course!"

"That was you leaving the guest house unlocked, was it?" Lene blurts. "Honestly, no--" she stills, hearing one of the helpers bring a whole pack right up the steps, sniffing voraciously. "Get somewhere, hide, you numbskull!"

Instead, Manaria has widened the receptacle used to fit the summarily withdrawn Bell telephone to now admit foot traffic, before motioning wordlessly to Lene.

"What? Well, at least give me time to pack some of my things!"

"No time," Manaria affirms, wincing empathetically as she waves her wand about, binding Lene up with more of the phone cord and tugging her on through.

Arcadia Bay

"You have some good pointers, driver. I'll give you that. But I actually know Arcadia Bay pretty well."

"Oh, well met. You use to go to school out here, or something?"

"Yeah."

"Oh really? What did you study?"

"Eh, did my share of theater management, some gaming."

"That's not all," Alex demands, unstopping an ear bud to join the renewed conversation. They are nearing the edge of town, at least according to the mile markers.

"Right, I worked at a music store and helped out some of my gamer friends who needed some cash."

"Well, up in Haven. Oh, you mean, friends from back here?" Ryan infers.

"That's very generous of you, Steph," Alex says, beaming.

"Well, it was that, or finish Blackwell with a prodigiously mopey mage."

"We're here, be sure not to forget your things in the back," the driver announces.

"What's the damage?" Ryan and Alex both say over each other.

The driver, tilting up the rearview mirror, looks pretty somber. "Oh, you'll see. Be on your guard, kids."

A sweep of passing headlights. As shadows return, the taxi is driverless.

 

[waito_x]

Absecon Bay and the nearby highlands are no walk in the park, easily rivaling Claire's old neighborhood in bustling commerce and intrigue. Especially given an apparent stranger misconstruing her apparently fiery personality as flirtations and...well, let's just say she is preempting any would-be overtures by finding work. Enough coin to hire a private eye.

---

Atlantic County Fire Brigade

"Sorry, Madame Lefèvre?"

The wizened visage of the fire brigade's clerk meets Claire's, but beyond some muttering, little is said for a remarkable stretch. Until something about her appointment finally clicks in Lefèvre's mind. "Bonjour, miss. I'm delighted to meet you. Though, I'd ask you use the staff entrance in the future. Those main doors are for the wagons, and mind you, I'm not chancing a run in with those when there's a fire to put out."

"I'll make sure to remember that," Claire remarks, glancing back that way. She's had her share of those infernal carriages, always creeping up in nightmares.

"So, what interest have you in the Brigade? Lose a loved one to an improperly cooked game hen?"

"Is that usually what accounts for buildings on fire out here?"

"Mmm. You'd be surprised. Nevertheless, you needn't tell me all that now. Just got to fill out the rest of this form for you...blasted typewriter!"

"Trouble?"

"Yes, if you'd believe, the typewriter is acting up again," Lefèvre states, rising and using the break in the onboarding to correct her posture a bit better.

"Is there any way I can help?" Claire tries.

Lefèvre regards her magnanimously. "Always eager to help. Good, consider then, your first assignment. Fetch me a working typewriter, just like this model. We'll sort out all the usual paperwork at the soonest juncture."


Woman's Conservatory, Literature hall

"That was very impressive, Luna. Can you read for the class the next part?"

Stillness creeps across the room as Caulfield, working under a spur-of-the-moment pseudonym, spirits back over to her desk for a bit of glue, as some of the pages are on the verge of freeing themselves. This early in the Industrial Revolution, plenty of knobs and nails but no staplers or even paperclips, it is a wonder a cloth-bound stack of thick sheets was even a thing. "Ahem. It would be a special honor. Just need to seat this better. And... there! Okay, the next paragraph reads..." she searches for her spot in the reading, but trails off as a slight rumble permeates the Conservatory. New Jersey rail yard, behind enough buildings for the whistle to be bearable. But the loose, hackneyed rail ties make vibrations that travel effortlessly through half of downtown's avenues and building foundations. Dust filters down from overhead, as she suffers the distractions no further. Clearing her throat, Luna looks to the classroom's instructor. "May I fetch a pail of water?"

The instructor, rolling her eyes, nods and wordlessly motions for her to get on with it. Then, looking past Luna Mayfield's shoulders, she sizes up a sound throwing arc, before sending forth a cut of eraser rubber into Victoria and Diane's midst. "Quit your trollop."

Outside, near what some of the classmates consider a true-to-form Wishing Well, Mayfield notices and waves cheerily to their gardener. Ugh, what was her name?

"Morrow!" announces a freshly-bathed raven, leaping to the lip of a vase set in the fountain. Luna watches it, uncertain whether the waterworks are all hooked up to the same well, but, at least there are some workarounds to beat back the runs.

Chloe would perhaps know, between the two of them she was the real chemist.

As she fills a pail, there is a shadow, suggesting something much bigger and ganglier than a bird has taken interest in the fountain now.

Luna looks over and is taken aback to see someone performing one heck of a balancing act, and tall enough it seems to extract an extra-large sun hat from the very difficult to service grates, before hopping back down and inspecting it for crud.

"How do you do?"

"Excusez-moi! Je suis désolée! Je ne vous ai pas vu!"

"Ce n'est pas grave. Jevais bien."

"Je m'appelle Cla-..." but the young woman cuts off abruptly, imitating a coughing fit.

"Are you...okay?" Mayfield tries, holding up the pail and indicating the contents.

"Oui." Though it is clear her eyes are watering. She accepts, and sips ardently, then stands apart, just enough to offer that they shake hands. "...Claire. Je suis une...un apprenti pour le greffier de la Brigade. Et vous?"

"Claire, n'est pais? Je m'appelle Luna. Uhm..." But Mayfield thinks it over, before withdrawing her own palm to leave spittle in it, then agreeing and clasping amicably. "Luna Mayfield. Je suis une élève de cette école."

Claire does not seem to mind this one bit. "Enchanté!" The looping handle of the pail is carried by the two of them as they walk a leisurely pace, mindful of instructors.

Then, at the doors for Literature hall, the pail is set aside briefly while Luna looks for her key.

"Well, no time like the present?" Claire remarks, wiping residual fountain droplets from her forehead.

But Mayfield is waiting, as another train starts passing through their neighborhood. She knows not to try lining up the key with such vibrations possibly changing up the lock setting. For being built just a few years ago, the place was already feeling old to her.

Claire overhears the remarks from students seated in one of the attached rooms, inferring apropo: "Les chemins defer?"

"Non, pas vraiment," Mayfield tries, shrugging.

Claire grabs her hands again, squeezing tight."J'adore les chemins de fer! C'est fascinant...!" then she releases, acknowledging their vice principal calling her over. "Au revoir, Luna," Claire says fondly.

She nods back at her politely, wondering how anyone could find damn trains this fascinating. Ah well.

Stepping through, she sets the pail down and returns the access key to its rung. "Okay, what did I miss?"

 

[waito_x]

If you're looking for a place to take your date, you needn't look any further than the Conservatory grounds. Its proudest feature is the botanical garden, with plants from all over the world. And, while the main building itself is a sight to behold--a motif bordering on lighthouse traditional from a clay and brick base on up to a brass bell--the view from the bell tower is pretty spectacular.
The best time to go is at sunset, when the skies over Absecon Bay turn into a painter's dream. Just don't forget to bring some bug spray, because the mosquitoes out here are more than just a little bit hungry.

---

Claire cannot help but begin admiring the grand architecture and the elegant musical instruments on display in glass cases as she follows this Vice Principal person, who introduced himself to her a moment ago as merely "Burt". Over his Conservatory uniform, he is wearing what must be from a life before, a Union sailor's frock coat, apparently having held up all these years. What year is all of this, again?

"Ms. Claire? It's right this way," Burt calls out.

She nods, quickening her pace, aware of the odd feeling of the fabric. She is borrowing someone else's clothes, though thankfully only here long enough to deliver some documents from the fire station, no, that isn't right. She racks her brain a moment, taking her eyes away from the Conservatory staff all pressing around Burt, noisily and nosily demanding he let them use the front office which is currently sealed up.

"...spare typewriter!" She quickly remembers.

"What are we, now, the printers?" one among the gathered help observes languidly.

"Tch!" Claire, feeling herself more riled up than usual, defers to her wand to do most of the reprimanding.

Only, it is missing. She clears her throat, crossing her arms instead. "Hmph."

"Ah, yes at that," Burt says, angling his spectacles at the scrawled note. "We do happen to have one on loan from the fire station. Let me see... oh, where is the whatchamacallit?"

"Mmhmm," one of the senior maids infers, scanning the mess of keys dancing about in Burt's grip. "Shall I fetch a crowbar?"

"We've had enough windows needing replacing on account of that storm, to say nothing of the shortage of build material with that shipwreck calling away half the town's laborers and all the storehouses with them. Ah, here's the one." Burt switches gears, unlocking the front office. "After you, missy."

Claire thanks him and follows his instruction, stepping through to a large, lantern-lit room replete with seats, cushions and some vintage liquor behind frosted glass paneling.

Although, another thing she notices that gives her pause, is the lack of daylight allowed in. For something supposedly on the ground floor as the corridor she just utilized, it feels more like a cellar.

"I imagine you're covering the matter of the wrecked vessel in port?" a maid presses, holding forth a tea kettle politely.

Claire only catches some of this, and so she insists with practiced decorum: "Thank you, but not right now, Lene." She turns to take in more of the features in the room for a bit.

"Ah, you mean Luna? She does not have maid duty until sundown, instructor's got her 'til then. Anyway, name's Diane."

Claire, flummoxed, pivots at once and stares balefully at this person, trying to decipher her tone and clip. "...I see."

There is a heavy thud from behind her. She leaps in fright. "Qu'est-ce que c'était que ça?!?"

"Here, now," Burt tries, a bit insipidly as he nods to Diane for assistance. At his feet is a large dark oaken dowry chest with metal clasps. It reeks of malice. "We'll be needing to take some measurements."

Fluidly, Claire intercepts the upturned tea kettle before it can crack against her temples. Without so much as looking over, she takes to the floor, cartwheeling enough to sweep out both legs in a scissor kick.

Diane is not ready for this, but does take great care to balance the kettle as she slides bodily back, succumbing rather willingly to the defensive display. "You call that a kick? C'mon, give it to me harder!"

"That is some surgical precision," Burt remarks, gliding out of the fight, only to be buffeted back into the fray by an energetic cluster of maids. "Give her 'er medicine," shouts one, right in his ear.

"Look, all I ask is you surrender the typewriter. I'd rather not have to fight all of you, but I will if it comes to that," Claire intones.

Behind Burt's blank stare, she notices one of the paintings on the wall has become dislodged. Not that it matters, per se, but it does offer a respectable landscape-oriented likeness of the New Jersey coastline, the iconic lighthouse warning ships away from umpteenth sandbars. Would that hers had done just that.

Oh, who is that? Something about the shape of the silhouette in the painting, of someone scaling the external rungs of the lighthouse. She feels a fresh curiosity about it, ignoring the plebian attempt at fisticuffs despite their seeming unwillingness to bow out.

"That's a beautiful painting," she remarks, wiping sweat from her brow as she takes a moment to get a better look. "Is that the lighthouse near here?"

Burt looks at her with surprise. "You like it? Well, it is one of the landmarks to this town. I helped build it, you know." All the while, he is undoing the sleeve buttons of his well worn maritime effects.

"You be careful there, missy. His overcoat 'll stop a blade, or so I gather," contends the Abbess as she dips her head in, perhaps investigating the fuss so close to closing.

Diane dutifully walks the kettle over, handing it to their matron to then receive a bludgeoning item.

Claire watches from the corner of her eye, suppressing a pang of panic. It seems atypical to think of Diane as a pacifist. "Still you insist on these mindless games?"

"Ms. Claire, you are on errand from our respectable colleagues at the fire station," the Abbess states.

"I was, until some of you started attacking me!" Claire thunders.

Burt and Diane both wave away her concerns, feigning innocuousness. "Nah, nonsense, m'lady. It's just getting a bit close to sundown. We must make the Conservatory less of a target to the more adventurous denizens of the night."

Claire scowls, glancing from the item in Diane's grasp, to the dowry in the middle of the room. "Well, owing to all this just now, where here you are taking me to be some hooligan...in addition to the typewriter, give me back my wand. And we'll have settled it there."

 

[waito_x]

Washington, D.C., Capitol Building

March 23, 1883

US SENATE CHAMBERS

"Next," begins the Speaker, a Mr. Carlisle, trying to balance the vacancy of the Senate President for a day by sharing the podium with his predecessor. The latter, J. Warren Keifer, is concluding a cursory, guarded look thrown at Lamprey's row, as he lifts his copy of the address. "I ask our législateurs to please welcome once more to the Senate Chamber the Honorable Charles Folger, from New York."

The Abbess, snoring gently from the Observation Gallery, starts at the fierce insistence of a Conservatorium's lady in waiting. "What is it now?" Then, she withdraws her habit, stately, hazel-eyed visage taking in the gentle old fellow approaching the podium at present. "Well, if it isn't Gibbs," she airs.

"Who-ee, is that the rickety pirate you keep a blitherin' to your administrators about?" asks her attendant.

Luna, glancing knowingly from back a row, is grateful for the comparison given. "Avast," she quips, leaning forth to tap their matron on the shoulder. "You play a very fetching pirate, my lady."

"I should think the period appropriate, but on that note, what say we to effectuating Appropriations' wisdom on our own fleet of ships?"

"That being the metal hulls," the attendant infers, glancing down at a brochure. "Well, it is an idea."

Luna, herself having spotted the Navy's newest hair-raising contender for a metal hull on the waterfront, holds back judgment, instead conferring: "All this steel to throw around. My money is on Appliances."

"Ah, would that Tesla emigrated a year afore '84," the Abbess says, hushed. "I've a bone to pick."

"Well, I did try to land us on the same ferry, but we saw how that worked out," Luna reminds them.

"Ooh, true be at that!" the attendant attests, causing the rest of their row to begin leveraging accusations.

"What is he on, now?" the Abbess asks quickly, waving down the stern glowers of fellow onlookers.

"Ah, he be turning 27 in a few months," the attendant supplies, counting on her fingers.

"Not the wizard, ya dimwit. The guy down there doubling down with Speaker duties, comprende?"

Down a level, Lamprey immediately recognizes Folger's face. "Bureau of Navigation, freshest catch."

"Thank you, one and all. I am here to present to you this fine Friday morn with the results of our intelligence gatherings and lay upon what word of your Division of Intel. This is to be the first of many March accounts."

"Ah, great, would not miss this for the world," the Abbess mutters, flinching suddenly as she feels Luna reacting by firmly squeezing her shoulder. "Sorry, I know I am too loud. This habit does little to block out the carriage ride, you feel me?"

"Oh, I feel way more than just that," Luna answers, testing their matron's sore upper trapezius a bit. "You, and the rest of the girls, need a hot bath and a masseuse. Should do wonders."

Up above, past stone columns and weathervanes, Manaria Sousse thinks her name has been called.

For, why else must she sneeze so profoundly?

Ah, but there is dust layered about every which way she looks. That, and someone caught 'neath her.

This is far from the arguably more spacious safehouse she had in mind. But it will have to do!

For, although the Teleport failed in that regard, here she is now hunkered atop her mentor in a position passingly innocuous, but unbeatably uncouth. Dare she say a thing? Ah, but her throat is tightening.

Manaria debates whether to swallow or cough. Knowing Lene would be in the line of fire if the latter, she pats her head apologetically. "Wakey, wakey," she rasps.

Lene, however, is too dizzy to care, muttering to herself a moment. Then, at long last, she gasps from the shock of transport, visibly recoiling at how threadbare the air itself feels entering her lungs.

Manaria for her part, thinking she has offended, tries to climb off her at once. "As much as I like where this could be going, I think someone is getting busy a chamber or two over."

"That's not grunting, that is the American way of oration," Lene affirms after listening intently a bit.

"Oh?" Manaria jerks her head away, lifting up to listen in better for what it's worth.

"Oh, watch your head there!" Lene insists, reaching to feel about in the near pitch-black dark for the proximity of whatever sort of floor material awaits directly above Manaria's raised shoulder blades.

Instead, she palm strikes one of Manaria's clavicles by accident, yelping as Manaria halts her impromptu extrication, drawing out her wand as if to settle matters then and there. Lene cannot be certain, only guessing that Sousse, now technically her student, is often of a minds to breaking plenty of rules.

Her eyes track from the crystal tip of the business end back to the face of its wielder, remarking at how coolly she is conducting herself.

This is causing a number of other scenarios to play out in her head.

But just then, Manaria stills, wincing away a grumbling stomach as she taps her wand to her temple. This is a bad idea, as the motion imparts significant sparking from her wand, collecting all around her dry, dust-laden hairline. There is a hint of smoldering. "Lene?"

"Yessum?"

"Seems I'm running on empty here, or I would put this out. Do you think you can spray me down real quick?"

"This is not necessarily the time or place for such?"

"My hair is catching fire."

Lene nods sympathetically, but considering their exact whereabouts. "I'd do that, though I think we're over one of the newer additions. Not like I can quite hear anything over the creaking of these floorboards..."

"Mmhmm?" Manaria tries, sweating. "It's like being on a big wooden ship. Just, minus the sea sickness."

At last, Lene has visual confirmation that Manaria's hair is crackling to frayed bits, perhaps even mere moments from setting the whole enclosure aflame. Wordlessly, she summons the best her magic can do right now.

Manaria is splashed with an outright horse's trough worth, the magicked water emerging directly above her in what space is provided.

"Oh," Lene concludes the spell, as she hears an orator commanding everyone's attention directly below, and now suddenly to quiet except for their haggard breathing and the steady droplets leaving skin and cloth.

Both of them cling to each other in the darkness, chill-induced sniffles, grimaces and butthurt looks abating.

"Did we expect rain this session?" asks General Lamprey, retired, glancing up from Senatorial staff related work and hoping the old holes from seventy-odd years ago are not going to welcome in a cloudburst.

Hearing the water currents trickle another direction, as well as the surprised remark from a watchman just down the way, he chuckles. That is probably the one guarding the Great Rotunda entryway who really cannot help but snack loudly while he is trying to pay attention to the rhetoric of their former Speaker, Mr. Keifer.

"Sounds like I might get to try that newfangled water-'pellent coat," remarks an aide, pausing in the center aisle to check things. "I seen the staff issue them out!"

"And, I'd like to hear Warren get on with the report from our colleagues with Navigation, if you'd be so kind," Lamprey asserts.

"Now then," Folger continues, "if I've sustained your attention this arguably precipitation free hour, I will award you all hence with a bit of an abridged reimagining in time for luncheon."

At this, the assembled Senators forget their umpteenth splintering down the middle in votes and laugh agreeably, while the full assemblage's former Speaker, Keifer, claps at these antics.

Folger presses ahead. "Now, knowing full well of the establishment of the Bureau, and I am proud to say that we have made significant progress in fulfilling our forefather's mission of enforcing laws pertinent to the construction, equipment i.e. operations, and the odd interval of merchant vessels. I entreat upon ye that, in the past month, we have conducted over two hundred inspections of various ships, both domestic and foreign, in ports across the country. We have issued certificates of inspection, licenses, and other documents to ensure compliance with the laws and regulations of the United States and the international conventions. And, if you will allow my staff to exhibit the following: we have also collected tonnage taxes and other navigation fees from the ship owners and operators, in the amount now wheelbarrowed hither."

In roll several groundskeeper-issued wheelbarrows, flowing with silver certificates and bags of coin.

As one, the floor stands, elated, showering one another with pantomimed champagne openings.

Folger raises a hand to quell their exuberance, adding still: "We have also investigated several marine accidents and casualties that occurred in our waters, such as collisions, fires, explosions, strandings, and sinkings. We have determined the causes and circumstances of these incidents, and recommended measures to prevent or mitigate similar occurrences in the future. Provided..." then he pauses for the applause, rivaling their State of the Union a December prior.

Luna, reclining from working their matron's shoulders with her elbow, fans herself. Their balcony gets all the inlet's humidity accumulating. No wonder those paper fans were tourist prices. She abruptly topples in her seat.

The Abbess hops to her feet, shielding her music scholar's condition from the rest of the Gallery while her attendant is sent to fetch some water.

Folger is oblivious, scrutinizing the stacks of reports under his employ. "...provided our affable mariners will keep a stride or two 'neath Long Island on their courses to home waters. We've just the thing to give our boys in Dover a run for their diving medals: the Absecon Bay lighthouse."

"Great point! Now, will someone help me pocket these?"

Members of Congress pivot and crane their countenances at the pair of plain-clothes entering the Chamber proper.

"Aha, and who might you be?" Folger demands, waving away the watchmen moving to intercept.

Manaria, having abandoned her trademark garb, poses before them all in sopping wet breeches, wincing as Lene starts hurrying over in a similar state of undress, holding their crumpled outfits forth.

"What are you thinking?"

Manaria does not feel like explaining herself, instead her wand can do the talking.

*FWOOSH!*

An enormous column of flame cracks up from the carpet lining the mid aisle, sundering the wheelable parts of the currency on display but doing no damage to the contents.

"Lene, want to do the honors?"

"Ah, about that," Lene murmurs, dropping her own wand in haste as, in lieu of standard security, Congress beefs up their fire fighter presence on the fly.

Among their number, and particularly from a joint Fire Station and Conservatorium field trip, no less, is her former employer, the dashing Ms. Claire.