Viva (cantplaydead) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-07-25 19:56:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | adrien green, biddie |
Who: Adrien and Biddie
What: Long time pen pals, first time meeting, much misunderstanding. Also, pheasants.
When: July 25, 1888
Where: Natural History Museum
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Scowls, dead pheasants, and disparaging of French scientists. Also, footnotes.
It said something about the nature of the times when the most respectable place for a man and woman to meet was among two dozen corpses.
Pretty, feathered corpses, but still. Biddie stared blankly at the dry, silent bird behind the display glass—Chrysolophus pictus; the bird stared back with a matching amount of interest. Biddie blinked first.
Don't look so smug, she thought, turning away from the fine-feathered stunner. Only one of us is walking out of here.
Biddie had mixed feelings on museums, even London's. She liked knowledge, she liked the idea of organization, she liked clean glass and hard tile flooring. But she strongly, coldly disliked the idea of someone curating what she saw. More than one learned individual warned her it made her a poor student.
Admittedly none of them ever done it twice.
And this individual? This Lucretius—what was he going to say? Biddie slid a gloved fingertip across the display case's edge. She was fairly certain he was a he.
Mostly certain at least.
Fifty percent certain.
Certain-ish.
She stepped away from the display case and the temptation of knocking her head against the glass. In truth, she was certain of only three things: she had been corresponding with a stranger for three years, she got more out of a single letter than she did out of any of these—she looked around the quiet, venerated, educational room—mausoleums, and she never would've suggested finally meeting in person if the wretched business with Russia hadn't annoyed her as it did. Was still annoying her.
To the devil with that whole country—and their little airships, too.
This was turning out to be a most vexing summer season, Biddie reflected. She looked at the slightly battered, but stout little volume in her hand: Ovid's Metamorphoses. It seemed a better way to distinguish each other than tucking roses in their hair.
…what if he didn't have hair? Aesthetically Biddie didn't care if the man—or woman, or dancing bear—had one eye and a harelip he could pull over one ear. But if he was bald because he was elderly, if he was sick or feeble somehow, if he was at any danger of falling prey to the hundreds of little plagues and damages that ate up London—it was a terrible thought. She would be denied a mind worth its weight in rubies.
(Biddie did, in fact, have a very exact understanding of how much such a mind would weigh. With or without a side dish.)
Be calm, she counseled herself. He need not be dying for this meeting to be a disappointment; he could simply not come. The thought was harder to shake off that she’d like.
It would not truly matter if he did. Not truly. She had had correspondents before and she would again. Perhaps it would take awhile to find one quite as clever or with an equally dry, surprisingly biting sense of humor, or a sly appreciation for Greek follies, but nonetheless: there would be others. Eventually. In the meantime Biddie could—she would—carry on as she did, alone.
The notion wasn’t as easy to wear as it once had been. Truly, it hadn’t fit since the Centurion made its last, terrible landing. Reflexively, Biddie’s free hand twitched, halfway to touch her side and the indelible mark underneath her respectable summer silk poplin. She rerouted it squeeze her left wrist, feeling the thin, hard links of the braided charm underneath her glove. That helped a little. She opened the Ovid to a random page to gain a little poetic consolation.
"… Ego pulveris hausti ostendens cumulum, quot haberet corpora pulvis, tot mihi natales contingere vana rogavi; excidit, ut peterem iuvenes quoque protinus annos."[1]
Biddie closed the book.
Perhaps roses would've served after all.
It’d taken Adrien no small amount of courage to submit his first essay to an academic journal, and then, upon actually having it accepted, to keep submitting. To his immense surprise (and more than a little gratification), one of the other contributors had written him a letter a few years back with a counter-argument to one of his pieces, but in a way that encouraged a response rather than passed judgement — and included an address by which he might reply, as well.
The steady stream of letters that had resulted had provided him a sense of freedom he couldn’t quite vocalise — an opportunity to engage in dialogue of the highest form where he could feel respected for his intelligence, and lose himself a little in pure intellectual exercises instead of dwelling on his loneliness, on the drudgery of his day to day work at the Institute, the million little cuts that he endured daily from merely having the audacity to exist.
When his correspondent had finally suggested they meet, it’d taken more than a little courage to agree — there was a small part of him that feared an in-person meeting would somehow destroy the odd little epistolary friendship they’d managed to build by bringing too much reality into the picture. They’d managed to keep their conversations from veering into the personal, something he was rather grateful for, but this was quite personal, and Adrien knew he tended to come off poorly off the cuff — he was abrupt, and prickly, and his face fell into a frown more often than not, and he was utterly miserable at small talk.
But if he’d turned the query down, the letters might’ve stopped, and that was incentive enough. And he could understand the impulse — he was curious, despite his trepidation.
He didn’t know much about Xenophanes — a name he’d always found quite fitting, given their respective philosophers’ similar stances on rationality — but there’d been a few mild allusions to suggest that his fellow academic was not unaware of the supernatural, allusions he’d nodded to just as mildly in his replies — and a (very) brief mention once of ‘wiles’ in their last exchange made him suspect his correspondent was possibly female. That, or demonic (or both) — but only because there was otherwise so little to hang one’s hat on. So when he’d seen the seemingly young-looking creature with blonde curls holding a book and looking as if she was scanning the crowd, he gave her enough consideration to see which book it was rather than dismissing her out of hand.
After all, a man of his sort knew better than to trust appearance when it came to either one’s true age, or one’s intellect.
It was Ovid.
He cleared his throat a little. At least if he’d misjudged here, he’d most likely only get scorn rather than a decidedly more unpleasant reaction (one of many reasons he’d stayed in London). “In future, Ovid may not be the best text to use when signifying one actually wants to meet someone else face to face,” he said, trying his best at a joke, albeit a poor one.
“Inviting you to tea is hardly on par with bribing Hades,” Biddie said, smiling as she turned away from the display. “Unless you’re tyrannical about currant buns.”
But even as stepped forward in greeting, she could feel her smile stiffening. The mental prickle of intuition, of instinct, was unfurling like a horrible orchid in her mind. More than a scent, less than a touch, that bitter phantom of recognition greeted her with mocking ease.
There was only branch of magic that Biddie had a true instinct for, and only one sort of creature that inspired it by simply walking into a room. How fitting, she thought bleakly, that he should announce his arrival by speaking of Orpheus and the singing fool’s folly at the hands of the dead.
“Lucretius,” she said. The hollow certainty in her voice was damning.
He faltered at the expression on her face and her tone. Some things were easier in London than they would be nearly anywhere in the United States, but even this place had been infected with that delightfully unique and perverse notion of the inherent danger of a black man in the company of a white woman, it appeared.
He’d thought, somehow, that a person of intelligence would be able to see beyond all that, but he knew full well that reputation was a thing made sacred by the people of his adopted city, and he was now in danger of sullying hers by his presence — a thought which made his back stiffen and his mouth twist wryly.
“I thought it more fitting than Aesop,” he said a little more sharply than intended, “although I ought to, I suppose, for politeness sake, have been more descriptive.” He frowned, trying not to show his hurt and failing. “Right,” he said, already awkward and uncertain, working himself up to either telling her she wasn’t obligated to continue (which would start an impossibly painful dance of politeness he wasn’t sure he could bear), or simply fleeing.
This was all going so very, very badly, and Biddie knew her expression was what was poisoning the matter. But the reality of Lucretius being a vampire of all the bloody (ha!) things was akin to a punch to the throat. No, worse; Biddie had been stabbed in the throat before and it’d been an itching inconvenience rather than a disappointment.
Biddie had never actually found the means to be “good” with vampires. Witches, werewolves, mers, the myriad Fae, even dragons (or, more specifically, a dragon), those she managed well enough. But vampires—no. Yes, there was the matter of That Woman—but Severina was an exception to much, not the least of which was species and common sense. Overall vampires were too similar in magic to be peacefully overlooked and too easily a threat to be courted. One of her most humbling episodes of captivity had been through the intervention of a vampire. He’d been very clever, too.
The problem with going through life largely impervious to harm was that it made you cripplingly aware of that which could hurt you. And it made that risk of hurt loom large.
So Biddie stared at the man she'd dared to consider a friend, a compatriot and a kindred spirit, and yet could only say: "Perhaps Orpheus' lesson is fitting after all."
“Right,” he repeated, bitterly. He was used to the daily slings and arrows tossed his way, but this hurt a little more than he’d thought it could — he’d poured himself out onto the pages of his letters, and the rejection written over every inch of her face cut deep. “Meeting in person can dispel all sorts of illusions, I suppose. I can see how our being seen in public together would be distasteful for you, and do not wish to offend by my presence. Good day.”
It was monumentally rude of him, and, no doubt, a more patient man would have given the lady time to adjust her conceptions of who he was, what he was, but he did not anticipate the need to be patient in the first place (although he should’ve known better), and he was too badly bruised to be polite.
Well, Biddie thought dully as the vampire turned away, that went as well it could. Probably. It was a rancid disappointment, yes, but life went on. They'd have to quit their correspondence immediately. Of course. It would be most uncivil, unreasonable to expect such an arrangement to continue. Biddie could already feel the weight of being at fault for the loss, but, vampire or not, she could hardly impose on another reasonable being to continue blindly after such an insulting moment. She certainly didn't deserve nor expect naive generosity from someone with as much merit and pride as Lucretius—
Except that he wasn't Lucretius, was he?
She didn't know his name.
And now I never will.
It was rather like being dropped into ice-riddled water. Except, no; Biddie had experienced that too and it wasn’t nearly as educational.
Live a coward, die a fool. Margaret had told her so once.
A dozen possibilities raced through Biddie’s mind. Apologize, loudly? He wouldn’t, shouldn’t, give her time to explain the matter. Rush after and catch his hand? Inappropriate, no matter how fast she went or strongly she could hold it. He had trusted her; she had failed to show deserving. But if she could explain better, if she could be allowed to show rather than speak, if she could prove trust—
The idea crystallized in her mind, as clearly posed as the little nature scenes around the room. A room with only them inside. A room full of stiff, waiting, dead things.
The Ovid fell noisily to the floor as Biddie opened her hands and every bird in the room began to move. Breasts rustled, tails rose, necks turned, beaks tapped, claws twitched, and wings—dozens of small, large, bright, dark, speckled, dull, radiant, gray, short, long wings—opened and beat. In a surge of animation, the birds flew and hopped behind the glass towards the vampire at the edge of the room.
They moved, but there was no sense of rejuvenation in their flight. No spark of élan vital. No sense of reborn spirit or bright vigor. The colored gush of feathers moved as puppets move or as pages turn: at the power and whim of something outside themselves. The bright, fake eyes that turned towards the vampire were blank, hard buttons.
Still as far as blatant revelations of necromancy went, Biddie reasoned this was more subtle than marching in a corpse. Somewhat.
“Please,” she said. “Please don’t go. I was startled, but not by what you think.” She raised her hand towards him; the feathered team cocked their heads as one, even that silly gesture politely, chillingly empty.
“Sometimes an illusion is a matter of camouflage, not whimsy or—or barbarian fantasy regarding pigmentation,” she said. “I am sorry. This was a poor start to a friendship; don’t let it be an even worse end to years of respect.” A hysterical bubble rose in her throat. “Truly, this can’t be a worst misunderstanding then that geometry debacle in ‘86.”
Adrien had frozen at the sudden motion of the birds behind the glass — while he was in a decidedly self-centered funk, it could hardly escape anyone’s notice.
There were some humans at the Institute who had “the knack,” as they called it, but he’d picked up enough in his time there thus far to note the subjects they tended to avoid, the areas of magical specialization that were absent in conversation and shuffled away to the dusty corners of the library that everyone tended to politely avoid. He picked up on patterns; an absence of something could be telling. So he knew from inference that necromancy was treated as an unfortunately mad relative tucked away in the attic, notable only by the lack of any conversation about it — at least in his hearing, which wasn’t saying much.
It was something secret. Something that was usually hidden, even from those in the supernatural community. And this was the first he’d seen of it in action.
He looked at the button eyes of one of the birds, who cocked its dead little head sideways at him in response, and turned back a little warily after her last, the tension still a tight wire pulling between his shoulders.
He gestured, briefly, an I’ve seen all I need to, and we’ve drawn enough attention already sort of motion, before smelling a distinctly odd tang in the air — blood, but off somehow, and upon seeing the source, he fished in his pocket as he stiffly walked back a few steps so that he was close enough to extend a handkerchief, while still standing at a bit of a distance.
“Your nose,” he said, abruptly.
For a moment Biddie stared at the handkerchief as blankly as her (and for the moment, they were hers) birds. What was this some odd bit of gallantry, did she look feverish? Dusty?
A tickle in her nose suddenly solved the mystery. Chert vozmi![2] She accepted the bit of cloth and pressed it tightly it to staunch the nosebleed. It didn’t feel like much, thank Heaven, but it was a stern reminder why she didn’t do stupid stunts like animate a room full of dead pheasants. Biddie could admit to having a showman’s inclination—you don’t build an armada of flying ships on a retiring nature—but this was a bruisingly public display. Risky, too. Archie was going to laugh his blasted head off, the rude slug.
And what’s worse, she was hungry now despite having a very satisfactory lunch earlier. What a damn waste.
Around them the birds were settling down, stiffening back into stillness. In less than a minute, the room looked as magical as broom closet.
“Thank you,” Biddie said, sounding muffled and feeling ridiculous. She lowered hand and handkerchief, sniffing experimentally. It seemed safe. She crumpled the cloth automatically, creating an excuse to avoid handing it back. Embarrassed or not, the hard-drilled lesson to avoid leaving her blood around was present.
“Well,” she said finally. “This has been a humiliating deviation from how I imagined this encounter. All that’s left now is to trip and fall with my petticoats over my head and then, then your perception of me will be complete.”
She sighed, sounding more decisive than exasperated, and held out her hand (the one without the handkerchief. “Bedelia Faith Linden. Biddie, if you’d please.”
Adrien paused, looking down at the offered hand, seeing it and the offer of the familiarity of a first name for the peace offerings they were. After a momentary pause, he nodded and took her hand in his.
“Adrien Green,” he replied, crisply. “I suppose the Orpheus allusion worked on more than a few levels, then. For both of us,” he added, with a small tip of his head, figuring if it wasn’t his ‘pigmentation,’ that’d taken her aback, it most certainly wasn’t his height or taste in dress.
“Truth be told, I was fully expecting to be the awkward party,” he added, his tone abrupt, “so you’ve done me a favor by falling on your sword first. And I believe I was rather unpardonably rude just now in jumping to the worst conclusion possible. It was unfair to you, and for that, I apologize. So there. Now we’ve both stepped one one another’s toes rather thoroughly,” he said, still a little warily, but less tense about the shoulders.
“Tea, and no harm done?” He asked, desperately wanting to forget the last few minutes.
“Tea and no nonsense of you bearing fault.” Biddie’s expression was rueful. “Please. Even if you had somehow read my awful reaction correctly, how could you see it as civil? This is London, not some backward village where they drown the old women for sneezing in church. No, Mr. Green, this is my shame to bear.”
She paused suddenly. “Actually, this really is like ‘86. We apologized to each other for that one for over three letters apiece.” She tilted her head, an unconscious echo of the birds minutes before. “And then we started fighting about Lamarck’s trite treatise versus Howard’s atlas.[3] Do you remember who won that one? I don’t.”
“If Lamarck can’t get his due from the likes of you, the poor man’s legacy won’t stand a chance,” Adrien replied, with a small quirk to his mouth that could very nearly be a smile. “Serves him right, for being the first, and paving the way — and for having the temerity to write in French.”
He cleared his throat. “I believe it was a draw,” he continued. “You might’ve conceded that he anticipated a great deal, however, both in regards to Howard and Darwin, and I was satisfied on that count.”
This was easier — simpler — a fall-back into a language he knew far better than the dance of manners and politeness, a change of pace he was certainly grateful for.
They began to walk in the direction of the museum tea-shop, a quiet corner that didn’t have much traffic at this time of day — mercifully, there didn’t appear to be any schoolchildren racing around the place and shrieking that uniquely high-pitched sound children tended to make whenever there was more than one of them.
"Recognition isn't accorded on the basis of existence," Biddie said just as she had written then. "He made no effort with his audience, and the audience wasn't beholden to him for the complex phenomenon of spilling ink on paper. In French."
"But," she finished, taking Adrien's arm, "I agree to your terms. A draw it is, Mr. Green."
They went five steps before she added, as they both knew one of them would: "For now."
[1] Latin, trans: Pointing to a pile of dust, that had collected, I foolishly begged to have as many anniversaries of my birth, as were represented by the dust. But I forgot to ask that the years should be accompanied by youth.
[2] Russian, trans: Hell with it!
[3] Luke Howard (British, pharmacist) and Jean-Baptise Lamarck (French, professor of invertebrates) both proposed cloud classification systems. Lamarck technically did it first and in French; Howard went with Latin. Howard got fame and is the father of the term Cloud Nine; Lamarck coined "biology" and never had it easy. (His theory of evolution predated Darwin's publication, but nobody cared.)