wanderinghamsa (wanderinghamsa) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-07-31 00:04:00 |
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Entry tags: | bertie eden, zipporah bakst |
Who: Zipporah Bakst, Bertram Eden
What: A first meeting, and a business proposition
When: 22 July, 1888 [backdated]
Where: The streets of London
Rating:: PG
“Hsst!”
The loud stage whisper sounded very close by, and made Bertie startle, as he’d been paying nearly no attention whatsoever to where he’d been walking.
“Yes, you! Get over here!”
Bertie looked around, didn’t see anyone, and took a cautious step forward as if that would tell him whether the hoarse whispering was meant for him.
“No! Stop! Over here!”
Bertie glanced around again, and then did a hesitant crab-walk sideways in the direction of the voice. It didn’t hiss at him further, so he guessed this was the desired outcome.
“I beg your pardon,” he began, and then as he stepped into the slight shadow of the nearest building, he saw the nose.
There was more to the face--a suggestion of eyebrows, hollow-out eyes, what might have been the line of a jaw--but what stood out clearly was the nose. It was beaked and must have been prominent even before time - and death - had eroded the rest of the features. It was hard to see in the bright light of day, but in shadow Bertie could make out the hazy outline, bobbing in motion slightly in a nervous fashion.
“D’you see her?” the ghost whispered, still more of a voiceless shout than an actual attempt at stealth.
“Ah,” Bertie said blankly, looking around again, “who?”
“Her,” the ghost said with feeling. “She’s close. Stay with me! Don’t let her have me!”
“There, there,” Bertie soothed awkwardly, craning his neck to try to spot this mysterious lady. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
“She knows I’m here,” the ghost wailed, its voice rising in volume, seeming to abandon discretion entirely; which would only have been a problem if anyone else could hear him.
Bertie blinked at that. “I know you’re here,” he pointed out. “You don’t seem very afraid of me.”
The ghost snorted in a very scornful way for a being who was, essentially, an incorporeal nose. “You can only see and hear me,” the nose said disdainfully, before the tremor came back into its voice. “She can do something about it.”
“Can she really?” Bertie asked, more intrigued than ever. “Where did you say…?”
“Stay with me!” the ghost snapped. “Stand in front of me! Maybe she’ll think it’s just you.”
“I am very much alive, sir,” Bertie said apologetically. “It’s difficult to mistake.”
“Maybe she’ll think I’m haunting you, and you deserve it,” the nose sniffed reproachfully.
Bertie’s head whipped up to attention. “Is that possible?” he asked, transforming instantly into a hunting hound on point. “Who exactly…?”
“Shhh!” the ghost whisper-shouted, startling Bertie into silence again. The next words were barely more than a breath. “She’s here.”
Zipporah had just bought herself a rather nice pair of new boots. They fit her like a glove, and rather than being her usual practical sturdy fare, were even a little stylish. She wasn’t the sort to splurge, and wasn’t planning on making it a habit, but it felt rather decadent to have the chance to buy something that wasn’t necessary -- just nice.
She’d been admiring the way they looked as she walked, the way they felt, so light, almost as if she wasn’t wearing any shoes at all -- but a conversation and a slight tingle of the hairs on the back of her neck made her stop and narrow her eyes, Ach halting dutifully behind her.
There was a boy standing there, with an odd expression on his face, and on a closer look, no wonder -- he had a spirit practically wrapped around his shoulders.
She walked up to him, giving him an appraising look. “Pardon,” she said, “are you quite alright?” Her eyes flickered to a space just over his left shoulder, and then back again to meet his eye, looking to see if there were any obvious signs of possession.
The lady was not what Bertie would have expected, had he been given a moment to invent a fearsome spirit-vanquishing woman in a fit of poetic whimsy. She seemed very practical, not wealthy, sturdy and competent, and Bertie had no idea what to say in answer to her question.
His eyes darted to the nose as soon as hers did, which earned him a hissed, "Stop looking at me!" Bertie snapped his eyes forward again, but in thinking of and promptly repressing a response to the ghost, he realized he still hadn't come up with any for the young woman. Nor did he have any notion now of what she had asked him.
"I beg your pardon," he said guiltily. "Could you repeat the question?"
There was a large, hulking sort of man standing behind the woman, who managed to loom impressively without actually showing any sign of aggression. Bertie edged slightly backward anyway.
"Hey!" snapped the ghost, blowing a gust of cold air down the back of Bertie's collar. "You're standing right on me!"
Bertie hastily sidestepped, trying to maneuver himself back in front of the ghost without physically getting any closer to the woman and her silent shadow. Trying to avoid speaking to the ghost took a great deal more willpower than it ought, for someone who was, as Bertie was, accustomed to spirits speaking to him in the presence of others. The fact that the woman obviously knew the ghost was there had thrown Bertie's usual blithe feigned ignorance into disarray. He couldn't figure out whether or not to keep up the pretense that he didn't also know the ghost was there.
"Very well, thank you," Bertie blurted, ingrained manners coming to the rescue at last. "And how are you?"
Zipporah looked at the boy, who was currently doing an awkward sort of dance, his eyes shifting around, and she sighed a little. “I can hear him perfectly well, you know,” she said, “there is no need for to pretend you do not hear him too.” She looked up to the spirit peeking over his shoulder. “Are you bothering this boy?” She said, sharply, shaking her finger scoldingly at it. “That is not proper. You ought for to be ashamed. Do you need a task fulfilled before you can move on? Is that why you are being a bother? I will help if it is worthy, and if you leave him be, but beware -- if you are a spirit that wishes harm, I will not deal kindly with you.”
She tilted her chin, her eyes flashing, drawing herself up to her full height, to show the spirit that she meant business.
"No, no," Bertie insisted quickly as the ghost moaned, "no bother, really. I was just passing by. I believe he, ah..." He cut off at a warning harrumph from the anxiously-bobbing nose, and changed the direction of his explanation. The ghost didn't seem reassured, which Bertie understood, given the young woman's determined threats.
Bertie would have liked to say he'd stand up for any spirit in need, as for any of his fellow men, but it was two against one, and he could not very well grapple with a young woman in the street in defence of an invisible being. Not only did she have solid-looking backup still looming over her shoulder, she was formidable enough that Bertie didn't expect she would even need it.
Bertie liked to think of himself as a lover, and not a fighter.
"See, she offered to help you," Bertie told the ghost, and then the rest of the woman's words caught up with him and he straightened in abrupt affront. "What do you mean by 'boy'? I could be six years married by now, you don't know. I could have three children, and a...hound," he improvised, gesturing his indignation and sketching out with one waving arm the details of his imagined alternate life. "Two hounds, even. Chickens." He didn't know where that had come from. "And I can take care of myself, thank you."
He could only manage a breath of silence before adding apologetically, "Although had I been in any danger, I appreciate your offer of support."
The nose snorted. Bertie's elbow twitched in answer, as if to nudge ribs which no longer existed.
Zipporah looked back at the boy… young man… and raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like quite the… zoo,” she replied, although she suspected he had none of the above. “You are certain he is not a bother? You are not in need of protection? …You must have quite the grocery bills,” she added, a smile quirking up at the corner of her mouth.
“And you,” she said, pointing her finger to the ghost again. “Her Schnoz, don’t think I’ve forgotten about you. What is it that you want? Tell me.”
The nose reared back in offense. Bertie was fascinated. "You see what I see, then," he marveled, adding at the audible sniff, "I'm sorry, but it's true, that is mostly what is...visible."
"I'm not surprised," the ghost said sadly. "I think I've hung around all this time for the baker's cart that comes around in the mornings."
"Oh," Bertie said, surprised. He was constantly surprised by these little revelations, the things that spirits believed, rightly or wrongly, bound them to the earth. The fierce young woman had asked a question and the ghost hadn't - fully - answered it, so Bertie was loath to interrupt, but he couldn't help asking, "Have you always been able to see them? I'm sorry, it's just...you're the first other I know."
Bertie supposed he should be grateful that his new acquaintance was female, and therefore largely unsuitable for Night Watch duty of the type Bertie was often delegated. She looked like she would be quite good at it, and he was having a difficult enough time progressing in the service.
Zipporah looked surprised. “Ah. I see. I do not…” she paused, shrugging. “I have no mastery in the magics of death. I protect places and people from spirits who would wish harm, and protect souls from corruption until they can be at peace, and at times I have helped for to send spirits along who wish to be sent, who need earthly favors to ascend, as a duty and responsibility. What sort of witch are you, then? Are you a...” she wrinkled her nose in thought. “A… what is the word? A necrophiliac? If so, pardon my interference,” she said. “I mean no offense.”
She turned again to look at the spirit over the young man’s shoulders, not unkindly. “If you are truly not a bother,” she said, shrugging, “I have no quarrel with you. Is there a mitzvah you are in need of? Do you wish to leave?” Her eyes darted to the young man’s, and then back again to the spirit. “Are you trapped against your will?” She asked.
Bertie's jaw worked, his mouth flapping open and closed again until he managed a scandalized, "I beg your pardon." Further outrage was impeded by the ethical question of whether vampires strictly counted as corpses, or rather as deceased humans, and if their lovers therefore counted as necrophiliacs. Bertie had never had a vampire lover, so he was still in the clear, but his being offended by the suggestion might be insulting to other perfectly-decent people who did, in fact, consort with walking corpses.
He decided to stick with scandalized. "I have never in my life," he said emphatically. "And anyway you are the one who offers to help...those who have passed on," he said, striving belatedly for diplomatic. "Or not passed on all the way, as it were. Leaving some...traces behind." It was impossible not to look at the nose. It was so very prominent, in the absence of other features.
"You offered to stand in front of me," the ghost unhelpfully reminded him. Bertie began to squawk an objection that it was not at all the same thing, but the ghost continued, "Could you please be quiet for a moment? This is about me now. No one's paid attention to me in years, I'm enjoying the novelty."
Bertie crossed his arms and commenced a furious sulk while the woman carried on her business with the ghost. "A witch!" he huffed under his breath, muttering, "The idea."
Well, truthfully, witch was not terribly far off from what everyone at the Night Watch had first thought, but it turned out that Bertie had just the one, singular talent, so far as anyone knew, and no training besides, so suggesting he had magical powers which were entirely absent, on top of suggesting he enjoyed carnal relations with corpses, was really salt in the wound.
Zipporah looked at him with a wrinkle between her eyes, before shaking her head and clucking her tongue at the spirit. “Well,” she said, “that’s a poor dear. How lonely for… Ah,” she said holding up a finger. “Necromancer. It is the same root. The English is so very jumbled,” she said, shrugging. “It is some unholy mix of German and Latin and God knows what else, and what have you against witches?” She asked, before sighing and rolling her eyes and turning back to the spirit.
“Apologies,” she said, politely. “You will be telling me what you want, yes?”
"Hot-cross buns and meat pies," the ghost said eagerly, over top of Bertie's countering, "What do you have against the English?" They looked at each other, and Bertie sighed, because the woman was, he supposed, being very patient, and it was not her fault this situation had rubbed him the wrong way.
"My apologies," Bertie said, with a little bow to the hovering nose. "I was raised with better manners. Hot-cross buns, really?" The last question he couldn't help; it seemed such an incongruous request.
"Yes," the ghost sighed. "And berry tarts, from that cart. The smell, it's heaven itself. Do you suppose that's what heaven is like? A bakery cart parked over you, smelling like that all the time?"
"If you can't eat anything, I should think it would rather be hell," Bertie opined, and then seized on the opportunity to follow up with a recent thought. "What if you could just move to a bakery, instead of waiting for the cart? Could you do that?" he asked the...witch, probably, signs pointed in that direction. Bertie warily eyed her silent companion in case the witch could read his thoughts and didn't appreciate his choice of words. "Could you move him somewhere, physically?"
“Hm,” Zipporah replied, her momentary burst of scorn she was about to levy against the boy temporarily sidelined by the query. “If it was truly wanted,” she said, frowning a bit. “And you swore for to leave me after, and not be a bother to the people there,” she added, looking at the spirit squarely. “And the business in question has no protections in place,” she continued.
“And for the records,” she said to the boy, her chin tilting, “providing commentary on the challenge of a language does not mean I am against the English, sir. It is my fourth language, and I have only been here five years,” she added. “You do not show me much courtesy,” she added, matter-of-factly, “considering I was attempting to provide you aid.”
"I know," Bertie said, forlorn again, as she was perfectly correct and might have been willing and able to assist him in his own pursuits, had he remembered his manners. "I am sorry for it. I have nothing against witches, I am just...not one, and was put out of sorts by the reminder. I won't say another word, please carry on."
"Where did you come from?" the ghost asked the woman, and Bertie nearly threw his hands up in frustration at the distraction.
"Just one more word," Bertie said hastily, leaping to forestall the conversation before it could badly derail. "Would you permit me to escort you to, ah, wherever it is you are going? In apology? I should like to speak with you further, if you can forgive my appalling lack of courtesy. Bertram Eden," he introduced himself with a lower bow than before, sweeping off his hat. He hesitated for a moment, and then added quietly, "Of the Night Watch."
Zipporah paused. “I am not in trouble with the law, am I?” She said, her own reply a little defiant, to cover her sudden surprise. “I have my papers. And as I said, I am no necromancer.”
"No, no," Bertie hastened to reassure her. "I merely meant...well, to inform you that I am here to assist...a public servant, not...I am at your service," he explained, limping to the finish. "This was an accident, truly--Mr...ah, our mutual friend here asked me to stay, as you made him a bit nervous, although clearly there was no cause for worry. You did say you didn't want to move on, and that I shouldn't let her send you off," he reminded the spirit, who had exchanged places with Bertie now and taken his place in a sulk.
"I would like to ask you, though...would you be opposed to a short consult? A professional consult, to discuss your services? Not officially, but...well, I could offer you something." He tried to remember how much he was carrying with him, still talking as he thought. "Or tea, would you like tea? There are some lovely tea-houses in London, perhaps with a sandwich or cake?"
"Oh, now that's unfair," groaned the ghost. "Cake."
"You couldn't eat it," Bertie reminded him, before guilt overcame him again and he promised, "But I could bring something back for you, if they have hot, fresh bread."
Zipporah frowned in thought, considering. “First,” she said, directed to the ghost, “are my terms acceptable? If so, we can attempt for to take you to a bakery on our way to the tea. I shall come back to there later and make inquiries, and if you are a bother,” she added, “I shall have to make you go away.”
“Second,” she said, directed to the… well. He wasn’t a boy, but he certainly behaved like one. And Bertram was a funny sounding name, but he had given it, which was something. “I will go with you, but it would be…” she paused. “I would not want those in my neighborhood to get a wrong impression,” she said. “You would be quiet? So I would not get unwanted attentions?”
The fact that the witch was going to attempt to move a ghost right there in front of him had Bertie worked up into a state of excitement he could hardly contain. "Not a word!" he swore eagerly. "I shall be silent as the grave."
There was an interlude of stony, offended silence from the ghost that Bertie didn't recognize for a moment, and then he felt sheepish.
"I don't know that I like those odds," the ghost finally replied. "At least here I get the cart every morning. What if you decide I'm a bother and banish me to wherever? Or if it doesn't go right, since you've said you don't have much practice."
“That is fair,” she said, “and a risk you must weigh. We are about to go. If you do not say yes now, I may come back later to see if you’ve changed your mind.” She shrugged. “I’ll bring a bun with,” she added. “And you must know that I mean if you go rattling about or making a fuss. That is all.”
She looked back over to Mr Eden. “I am Miss Bakst,” she said. “I can spare an hour for tea and your questions, Mr Eden. Lead on.”
Bertie opened his mouth to thank her, remembered his promise, and offered a gentlemanly arm (not without a wary glance at her chaperone). He managed to keep silent for the short walk to a nearby tea-house, and then cast an imploring look at Miss Bakst once they were inside. He thought ordering tea should not break their agreement, but it never hurt to err on the side of caution. Perhaps they all spoke another language here, in her neighborhood - one of four she knew - and he would give himself away if he spoke too soon.
It was a bit of a relief to not be carrying on two conversations at once -- and the nosy ghost was certainly living up to his most prominent feature -- so Zipporah appreciated the silence as they left him behind and walked to the teashop, Ach stumping evenly along behind them. He waited outside as they went in, and she smoothed her skirts a little as they sat, highly aware of the unfashionable cut of her dress and the cheapness of her straw hat. It was a pity, she thought, that no-one could see just her boots.
“Now then,” she said, looking over at him. “You had questions? For a matter of the law?”
"Yes," Bertie enthused, the word bursting from him as the pressure of not speaking was finally released. "For a case, so I hope you'll forgive me if the details are not what would normally be mentioned at table in the company of a lady. You offered to...take the ghost with you, is that what you meant? Somehow bring him along near your person? So there is a way to transport a spirit to a new location? I am in need of an expert opinion, in a very...difficult location, and I thought I might ask a ghost for a favor. The problem is bringing together the ghost and the location, however, which as you can imagine is proving a challenge. Well, perhaps you can't imagine, if you can move them about. Do you do that often? Didn't you say you didn't dabble in necromancy, or is that an exception?"
Possibly he shouldn't have asked that last question, since he was trying to earn her cooperation and not her ire, but sometimes once Bertie began speaking he failed to think ahead of the words that left his mouth.
“I am no necromancer,” Zipporah replied, quietly but emphatically. “My specialty is protective magics -- which includes the banishment of unwanted, evil spirits, and the purification and freeing of souls trapped. If there was a need for the good spirit to fulfill a duty or obligation, or for to allow it to be at peace, I would be called to help as part of that, as a holy thing. There is a great difference, yes?”
She frowned. “It is not something for to be ‘dabbling,’ and I would not do it lightly -- only if I was called to, honor bound, and there were clear restrictions in place. I am not in the habit of actively encouraging possession…” she shuddered a little at the thought, “but an Ibbur, that I could manage, I think, although I have not done so before. Should I be careful, and should the spirit not wish me harm, it ought to work, and I know how I would go about it.” She hummed. “My grandmother -- she would have known more than me about such things. But Mr Eden,” she said, looking over at him, “the key is, it would have to be a mitzvah, a service needed for the spirit or for me, not for you. Especially if it is a long distance away. It requires will. Great need. Otherwise?” She shrugged.
This raised a thought. “I could try to bind it to you -- temporarily -- if it was a mitzvah for your sake -- but the spirit would have to be willing, and there would be risk to you both.”
Bertie only understood half of what Miss Bakst was saying, if that, but he listened and nodded and did his best. He wanted to ask what an ibbur was, and why she likened it to possession, and what a mitzvah was or what specifically counted, and who could have one, but it seemed better to seize upon a choice of words he did understand, before Miss Bakst could get cold feet and decide this was not something she wanted anything to do with.
"A duty or obligation," Bertie exclaimed eagerly. "An oath, even, that a spirit pledged to do no harm must honor. You could do it for that? You would be helping to avenge a likely wrong in the process, likely setting another spirit at rest, one who may have been murdered without anyone knowing. So there are two spirits you could be helping, one with a duty and one restless victim, who I am sure would be grateful. And me, of course. I would also be grateful. Very grateful."
Bertie tried to remember if there had been anything else in that speech he should point out, but he'd hit the limits of his understanding. "So...you would do it? And what exactly do you mean by a risk?"
“If it is a need the spirit has, then yes, that would be far easier. And there is always risk,” she shrugged. “I know how to fight off a spirit who does not want to let go, who may be pretending to be good, but is a Mazikin in disguise, and the spirit may be damaged or corrupted should the process go awry, despite my efforts. I am more in the habit of banishing than carrying. There will be a price to pay regardless, and it will be a strain to take on.”
She paused. “If it would truly right a great wrong, I would do what I could,” she said, “but not lightly. And I have…” she frowned. “I do not know yet how much travel, how long, what…” she made a face, and then decided she didn’t rightly care whether Mr Eden thought she was being greedy. “What you would be willing to give me for my services,” she concluded, raising her chin a little.
If the police were asking for her help, they’d damn well be prepared to pay for it.
She assumed they could afford it, unlike some of her clients.
Bertie didn't think he wanted to know what a mazikin was. It sounded alarming. The rest of it, though, carrying a ghost and all of that, was exactly what he had been hoping for. Now he just needed to find the right ghost, convince them it was worth the risk to aid in this little endeavour, introduce Miss Bakst to the ghost, bring them both to the tomb of Fitzwilliam Swinton, Lord Black - inconveniently on Black Park grounds - and ah, yes. Settle the matter of payment.
Bertie had no idea what the typical rate for hiring a witch - necromancer? - was, but he suspected it might be considerable. As this was a personal favour, and not precisely an active case, the funds would be coming out of Bertie's pocket. Cautiously, he asked, "What do you usually charge?"
Zipporah pondered. She knew Chiara’s offered salary went far above and beyond what she’d ever thought she’d ask anyone for, but Chiara was decidedly unusual.
“Eight shillings for a day’s work,” she said, finally, looking at him challengingly, planning to go as low as five if he pushed it.
That was two weeks of pay, which made Bertie wince, but if there was risk to her, and if she was already bending her principles for him, and since it was for the pack...well, and it wasn't as if Bertie knew where to find any other witches.
"For one day of work," Bertie clarified after doing calculations, because if she wanted to be on retainer until he was ready, that could get out of hand quickly. "Once I have spoken with the appropriate spirit and gained his permission for the journey. I will arrange transportation and accompany you. And provide a meal, as we will have to travel and you've said it's draining for you. We can stop somewhere along the way back. And if you find the spirit unsuitable for any reason, I will seek out another, and pay you when everything is to your satisfaction. For that day of work," he emphasized hastily, hoping he'd thought of everything. "Will that...is that acceptable?"
For all their rules, the English could be a remarkably straightforward people. She raised an eyebrow at the lack of bargaining despite his wince.
“Yes. That is acceptable,” she said, primly, nodding her head.
There was also something to be said, she reflected, on being taken at one’s word regarding one’s worth. And while the young-faced man had managed to make a poor first impression, this served to make up for it some.
Bertie let out a relieved sigh. "Thank you." He supposed he should explain some of the actual work, now that they were agreed and she was less likely to back out, because he would rather try to find someone else now than down the line when she found out what the job was.
"I need to invite a coroner--a respected doctor, to visit a grave with us. I will ask you to be circumspect about anything you might hear in his report, as I do not want to alert anyone to our investigations. I've been asked by the family to find out if a man was murdered," Bertie explained, hesitating only slightly before what would have been Lord Black's name. He would have to tell her, of course, but he didn't want to give too much away, too quickly.
"For their sake, I would prefer not to ask for an exhumation. That means the only way to examine the body is..." Bertie winced again, just a little. "Inside the coffin. But again," he hastened on, "it is at the request of the family, brought to the attention of the Night Watch, and the examination will be done by a proper coroner. Just, ah." Bertie waved one hand and spoke quickly. "A deceased one. So you see, good deeds done, justice for the family, everything in order. Oh, and we'll be visiting the territory of a werewolf pack on our excursion. I hope that won't be an issue? They know me very well."
Her forehead wrinkled as she processed this. She had no particular issue with the technical legality of it all, of course -- she was hardly one to throw stones -- but it all seemed above board, despite the ‘anyone’ he wished to keep the investigation from; the reason for all this need for ghost doctors to begin with -- and while that was certainly curious, and a little mysterious, it wasn’t off-putting.
When he got to the part about werewolves, she shrugged. “That is good for to know. I am not unfamiliar with wolf-people,” she said, cooly. “I shall take precautions to be freshly laundered and bathed, and not wear silver on my person, and as we would be there on their request, I see no danger to it.”
A thought came up. “The coronator -- he would have the sense of duty of which you speak? You are certain?”
It hadn't occurred to Bertie until Miss Bakst said as much that she might not be familiar with werewolves. Even knowing she could hear ghosts and recognized the Night Watch, he should have taken more care. There was little to do about it now, however.
"Thank you," he said again, relieved by her advance precautions. For someone who he'd practically picked up off the street, she seemed entirely professional.
"Doctors take an oath," Bertie reminded her. "And I shall make certain it is a reputable one, of a kind disposition, or at least a professional one. Once I have a name, I can look them up in the records office. I'm afraid I don't have anyone yet, but I will try not to keep you waiting for long. How shall I contact you, once arrangements are made?"
Zipporah nodded. “I can give you my address. And I also have a telephone,” she added, a small curl of pride in her voice. “It would be best to write or call,” she added. “If I am not in, my Auntie can take a message.”
Bertie blinked in surprise. "Do you really?" he asked, afire with curiosity. He had seen telephones before, but not often, and for Miss Bakst to have one seemed entirely a marvel. The Night Watch had spoken of getting one, but for the moment, the closest thing they had was the ghost-message-carrying relay system that Bertie could only very rarely convince to work, and not with much efficacy. It only took one weak link in an already-unknown chain for that method to break down, and while spirits occasionally played along for the novelty, it was impossible to trust that a message would make it across any great distance.
"I will certainly be in touch, then," Bertie replied belatedly, having been distracted down a wandering path of his own thoughts. "I appreciate your willingness to assist."
“You are quite welcome, Mr Eden,” Zipporah replied, “and I look forward to be hearing from you,” she said, extending a hand to seal the deal.