Victorian Nocturne

As far as polite society knew, Celia Abbott Ashby lay cold and lifeless in the ground. The story went that the girl fell victim to a fiend who stripped off her dress, slit her throat, and disappeared with her attire and reticule. Many saw her laid to rest at Kensal Green, and they remembered the great distress of the Abbott family, in particular her brother John. None knew that, on the next full moon, she clawed out of her coffin as a vampire and drained him.

Celia was clever. Rather than allowing John's body to be found and buried, she paid for a room in a public house of positively no repute, tucked him in, pulled up the bedclothes, and there he remained. No one, save a few tenants with sensitive noses, was the wiser. Perhaps that unusual method of waking up, as if from a blistering hangover instead of death, was why John didn't embrace a typical vampire lifestyle.

Invitations to dinners and parties no longer landed on Celia's doorstep, but they occasionally landed on John's. To his old society, he was very much alive... Simply five years into a protracted grieving process. They attributed his strange behaviors -- neglecting his professorial post, surrounding himself with people of loose moral character -- to it. One never knew in which mood he would attend social occasions. When in good spirits, he was a lively guest and quite the conversationalist. When not, he arrived unkempt and was prone to blackening the atmosphere. Only the pedigree of his family kept him from being blacklisted.

The Harrisons hosted a soiree every summer. It was famous for its socialites, excellent food and drink, and lively card games. The Abbotts received their annual invitation, and though his parents gracefully declined, John made it his business to attend. He stationed himself in the front parlor, where he could see the comings and goings. When a young lady sat on the piano bench and began to tickle the ivory keys, hoping to display her accomplishments, he rested his elbows on the piano and watched.

( Indelicate Pianist )

( Men of Science )

Her bones felt marinated in weariness.

It had been a full day to begin with; meetings, logistics, arrangements with her partner. The soiree had been a bit of a push as it was, but an active social life was a pleasant diversion as well as being quite good for business. The trip to Lambeth crowning it all had been more than draining, for more reasons than one.

Eyes, ears, hands, heart, were fully invested in healing the little gypsy princess. The ailment seemed like it might be beyond her scope, after all. An older, more experienced Kale woman was sitting in the tiny, dark room with them, watching impassively as Catalina took careful and attentive stock of the herbs, powders, and tools that had been made available to her. It was a limited selection, indeed, and there was little doubt in her mind that blood ritual would be required. Catalina looked up at the other woman as the realization sank in, and the auntie canted her head to one side in the most subtle, almost-nothing way imaginable. A question, perhaps - or a challenge.

Understanding the gesture for what it was, she got to work. It was fortunate, at least, that she was dressed for the evening; she removed her light cloak and her gloves, and asked in Caló for an apron. The auntie only raised a brow, the only hint of amusement she showed lurking somewhere around her eyes. Catalina repeated herself in halting Romany, then finally in perfect, only slightly accented English, color rising to her cheeks. With a hint of a smirk finally touching the corners of her mouth, the auntie nodded to another child who'd been lurking in a corner. The young girl - not more than twelve, Catalina would have guessed - handed her the apron, and regarded her with none of the scorn of the auntie, but rather with a degree of fascination not unlike one might offer to a peacock who could speak French, or a small dog who could do sums.

( Neither of these reactions was unfamiliar to Catalina. )