Who: Zipporah Bakst and Biddie What: Biddie meets Zipporah; Zipporah meets ‘Miss Carver’ When: 8 August, 1888 (afternoon) Where: Whitechapel Rating: PG-13 Warning: Excessive (fake) nerves, irresponsible business practices, and the prolonged exposure of Miss Carver.
Biddie’s foster mother had said it best: if you want to find a witch, look for trouble.
It was sound advice even two hundred years later. Find a place ripe and vulnerable with potential, and nine times out of ten a witch would be somewhere in the mix. They’be causing a rift or sewing it shut, but they’d be present.
And what place more vulnerable or ripe than the blessed East End? This London was terra incognita to the moneyed classes. Instead, the cheap housing in cheaper houses was a makeshift kingdom for unshined working classes and immigrants. Walking through the streets in her third-hand boots and second-hat serge, Biddie’s ears tickled with familiar accents. The sensation was less appetizing than it would’ve been before this blasted Russian nonsense.
And yet somewhere in this stew there was a witch worth buying. Which meant, in Biddie’s experience, there was a witch worth paying off. It was an unfortunate side effect of the supernatural community’s progressive methods in that many—enough to matter nowadays—were turning to unconventionally practical means of aiding their businesses. More specifically, in protecting their businesses.
Biddie respected a soul’s right to guard what was their with whatever means at their disposal. Simultaneously, she appreciated her own ability to curtail those efforts with the means at her disposal. She could not, for example, prevent Declan Sallinger altogether from warding his warehouses. But Biddie could take an interest in who did the warding.
Or who wouldn’t as the case might be in the matter of one Zipporah Bakst.
Biddie reached for her watch only to remember that she’d left the lovely timepiece at home with the rest of the belongings that would clearly mark her as Not Belonging. She settled for checking the height of her shadow against a palsied wall. It reassured her that she was not yet late to catching her quarry; Ms. Bakst should be just about completing her unexpected commission for the grocer. At least, she was if the obliging Mr. Solokov had any sense of timing—or self-preservation. Biddie had been...insistent on the specifics of the Bakst girl's hiring.
People tended to listen when Biddie was insistent. It was the healthy option.
Zipporah dusted the chalk her hands on her apron as she finished, looking at the grocer, who seemed more nervous once she’d finished rather than less, and eager to have her out of his establishment before he opened for the day.
It wasn’t entirely unusual for the men of the neighborhood to be nervous in her presence — she knew there were stories — but he had hired her, and Mrs. Solokov occasionally played poker with her auntie on Thursdays, so she didn’t take too much offense.
Perhaps it was Ach. Sometimes, people found him a touch unsettling.
“The chalk can be mopped over, there is no need to let it stand,” she said to him. “The protections against fire, vermin, and spirits ought to be revisited every year to ensure they are in working order, and the first two years’ checks are included in the price.”
He nodded, and handed her the fee, which she pocketed, and, after a rather uncomfortable silence, he bowed his head. “Thank you, Miss Bakst,” he said, a little grudgingly. “Peace to you.”
“To you, peace,” she replied, raising her chin a little, knowing exactly how much the courtesy had cost him his pride.
She walked out of the grocer’s, head high, Ach following dutifully behind her.
Right on time, Biddie thought.
"Miss Bakst? Excuse me, Miss Bakst?" The voice was pure English schoolroom; Biddie had left the American accent with the watch. "Excuse me—you are, Miss Bakst, yes?"
Biddie had dressed to match the voice: prim and neatly gray from collar to hem, hair puritanically braided under a pathetic little excuse for a hat, securing the whole neat, sad affair with a dagger-like hatpin. Made-over gloves and the tiredly hopeful, starched expression of a born secretary completed the picture.
She vaguely regretted not adding glasses to the mix.
Zipporah could see Ach shifting a little out of the corner of her eye — it wasn’t much, and certainly not enough to make her believe the grey little woman before her presented an immediate danger, but her reply was a little guarded, and her eyes narrowed a fraction.
“This is she,” she said, tipping her chin, and giving the woman a quick, darting, curious look.
"Oh, that's wonderful," Biddie breathed out in relief. "I was afraid we would miss each other and—my apologies, my apologies. My name is Myrtle, Miss Bakst. Myrtle Carver. I was hoping to speak to you on behalf of my employer."
The gloved hand half-extended in greeting suddenly retreated to hover nervously at her mouth. "My apologies, I don't know what I'm about accosting you in the street so. Could we—is there a place near where we may talk? A, a tea shop, perhaps?"
Biddie's smile was anxious and almost desperately polite. "I would ever appreciate a chance to speak with you."
“I am pleased for to be making your acquaintance, Miss Carver. My brother, Ach,” she said, nodding her head in his direction. “There is a shop that sells coffee and pastry just over there,” Zipporah replied, gesturing with her chin, “and I can spare a few minutes, yes.”
She took Ach by the arm as they crossed the street. “Fair warning, the coffee is Turkish,” she said to the small grey woman. “It is quite strong, and gritty, and an…” her nose wrinkled as she dug for the appropriate word. “A taste that requires time, and may not be to your liking,” she settled with. “But the pastries are good.”
Usually, she had Ach wait outside of businesses — he took up a great deal of space — and if the proprietor was a fellow witch, it was a point of etiquette — but she patted his arm as they got closer, wanting him nearby rather than waiting outside.
"Turkish?" 'Miss Carver's' cheer trembled a bit but rallied fast. "Well! That's exciting, isn't it? Are there a lot of Turkish gentlemen in this area?"
The young witch was ablaze with warding. It was well-crafted work, no doubt, but Biddie felt those little clever threads and barbs of protection nip at her like horseflies. It was repellant—but impressive. Ironically, there was no such sense of annoyance from the brother. Then again, a hulking figure of a man like didn't look in need of subtle shields. The boy looked as if he could punt a carthorse across the Thames.
"May I buy you a pastry then?" Biddie offered in Miss Carver's mild voice. "I mean, that is, for you and Mr. Bakst both."
“Oh, he’s fine, but I shall take one, thank you,” Zipporah replied, patting his arm again as they managed to maneuver into the narrow confines of the shop, Ach sitting carefully in one of the wicker chairs. “And I suppose there are all sorts here,” she said, shrugging a little, although exciting wasn’t quite the word she would’ve used.
In the last few months, through some strange alchemy she didn’t quite understand, she’d been attracting attention from outside the confines of the neighborhood — and she knew, to a certain extent, it was inevitable — the sort of work she did tended to be noticeable by those who knew to look for it, and one job led to another like ripples from a stone thrown in a pond — but working with outsiders required navigating through a set of rules she felt at times she was in the process of learning still. She knew how her neighborhood worked by now, knew its politics and the people in it, and even though she flaunted the norms, she at least knew what she was flaunting, and what she could get away with.
She looked at Miss Carver. If she could make a deal with the Sisterhood one week and the Night Watch the next, she figured she could handle whatever this was. And she was in her neighborhood — this was on her turf, and on her terms.
After the order was placed (Miss Carver flailed a bit when the waiter approached, so Zipporah took pity and ordered for them both, and there was a tea after all, so she erred on the side of caution and got that in lieu of coffee), she looked over at the small grey woman and raised an eyebrow. “You said you wished to talk, then?”
Allowing someone else to order on her behalf, and thus ordering a scanty amount of dessert as a result—what creature could exist on a single slice of cream cake?!?—showed Biddie's commitment to the theater at hand. Nonetheless she made a solemn vow to order an extra pie at dinner. Along with the standard array of jellies, of course. And the tarts, that went without saying. Come to think of it, Mrs. Yakov had mentioned something earlier about custard…
A twinge of discomfort (those blasted wards) nipped at Biddie's nape, herding her attention back to task.
"I did, yes," she said. "That is, I do. I mean, yes. Thank you." The nervy Miss Carver wove her fingers together atop the tabletop. "Yes, thank you. Miss Bakst—is it is, Miss, yes? Not that I would imply, I mean—yes, Miss Bakst, my employer is aware of the excellent services you've provided. To the neighborhood, your neighborhood. And also to certain people, certain particular people outside of that neighborhood. Indeed, my employer has nothing but the ultimate respect for your work. He would like to be very, very clear in that. His respect. To you."
Tea and cups arrived, and for moment the pleasant fuss of applying liquid to cup eclipsed Miss Carver's rabbit-y civility. Alas, the moment did not last.
"You see, Miss Bakst, my employer understands that a professional of your…unique trade does not suffer the interference of others. Especially of stranger, even respectful ones. Very, very respectful. He would not for all the world wish to be seen as an interference. To you. But my employer has become aware of another who may seek to approach you, Miss Bakst. And I'm sorry to say, Miss Bakst, that this association would not be a credit to you."
"This other personage I refer to is a Mr. Declan Sallinger. He is a most questionable gentleman." Miss Carver's little sniff at ‘gentleman’ spoke volumes, the whole library of which could be best compressed to say that Mr. Sallinger was most questionable indeed.
The woman talked in circles, tightly wound repetitive spirals, and Zipporah frowned as she did so, attempting to follow the twists and spins, and suspecting she’d just received a rather politely worded threat. Ach did seem rather complacent, though, which was something.
This employer’s notion of ‘not interfering’ seemed to involve pre-emptively… interfering, for lack of a better term, and the use of the word ‘suffer’ made her eyebrow raise.
She wondered if Miss Carver’s employer had an equally malleable definition of ‘respect.’
She pondered for a bit whether playing innocent would do her any favors, and then decided it’d be beneath them both.
“How curious,” she said, mildly enough, sipping her tea. “Who is he? Your employer?” She looked over at Miss Carver. “If you do not mind me asking,” she said. “I would not wish to be seen as disrespectful, after all.”
"I'm a navigation agent at Modern Prometheus," Miss Carver said promptly. She bit her lip. "Well. I'm currently an assistant in the navigation department. But I am a very, very good assistant." Something simpler and a good deal more sincere than Miss Carver's spit-polished respectability glimmered for a moment.
"It is a good company," Biddie said simply. She sank three lumps of sugar into her tea and sipped. The brew was surprisingly palatable. She'd have to come back for a cup when in less…dramaturgical circumstances.
Miss Carver sat the teacup down with another little sniff. "Mr. Sallinger, Miss Bakst, is not good company." She turned the handle of her teacup to and fro, not picking it up. "I do not expect you to accept this at my word alone or even the word of my employer. I came here to see you today to advise, no, to ask you to consider prudently if and when Mr. Sallinger petitions you. My employer was assured that you have, that is, that you are able to evaluate a client's character with unique discernment."
In plainer words, she'd say that Declan was a thief and a liar, but talented enough at both to build a fine career as a smuggler. Biddie could've and would've left him to his criminal success; it was his newfound need for legitimacy that she disliked. Declan had spent the last two years undercutting MPC supply lines in an aggressive quest to prove himself to MPC competitors. Biddie didn't take it too personally.
That didn't mean that she took it well.
"If he tries to hire you then he will most resolutely lie about his reasons for doing so," Miss Carver said. "My employer hopes that you do not like people lying to you, Miss Bakst. My employer thinks that lying to a witch is a very, very imprudent thing to do."
It went a long way in breaking up the monotony of daily business though, Biddie reflected.
Zipporah frowned again, more thoughtful this time.
An Airship company, then.
How on earth they’d caught wind of her, she had no idea, but protection from fire presumably worked just as well up there as it did down on the ground, she supposed.
It also hadn’t escaped her that Miss Carver’s employer — Modern Prometheus — had yet to provide a counter-offer.
“You are asking me for to turn down a possibly lucrative contract I may receive from a competitor, and the additional potential business that may bring my way,” she said, setting her glass down carefully. “From a supposedly dis…” she frowned. “...bad character,” she said, not finding the word quickly enough, “for which I appreciate your and your employer’s insights, advice I will no doubt consider, but a contract nonetheless.” She raised an eyebrow.
Miss Carver's expression tightened with embarrassment.
“Oh, no. No, my employer would not ask something so very, very impractical,” she rushed to assure. “He would immediately reimburse you for any loss of funds in this matter. In fact, I’ve been asked to make it clear that you would profit extra at rejecting Mr. Sallinger’s advances. His professional advances, that is. I, I didn't meant to imply otherwise.”
Her gloved hands fussed with spoon and saucer. “I am extremely sorry at how clumsily I am presenting my employer’s case, Miss Bakst. I would dearly hate for you to receive a poor impression of this matter because of my own incompetence.”
Zipporah relaxed fractionally.
Not quite a threat, then.
She reached for the cake, and dug in.
“I believe I am understanding you more fully now,” she said, tipping her head. “And should I choose to take your employer’s respectfully given advice, would my reputation among his associates — the ones he believes to be good, honest men, that is — be vouched for? It is difficult, after all, to establish references and gain new clients based on an absence of work, and Mr Sallinger, if he is as you say, would not be pleased, and would certainly make that displeasure known.”
She paused, looking over at the small, grey, pinched woman in front of her, deeply curious despite herself, and feeling a little more at ease now that she knew the lay of the land. “Do you help for to fly those things?” She asked. “As an assistant navigator, I mean.”
"My employer would never presume to exert any pressures or impositions upon your character," Miss Carver nodded. "You're a woman of unique ability and individuality demands, er, independence. As for Mr. Sallinger…"
Miss Carver sighed. It came out more fluttery than decisive, but there was a stout look of resolution on her face nevertheless. It was the look of a woman who would Do Go Work. Biddie had encountered the expression often enough to feel justified in plagiarizing it.
"I do not think even he would be boorish enough to press a professional suit once rejected. Furthermore his business…affairs are not fond of attracting attention. He cannot afford much fuss, you see."
If Biddie's plans bore fruit, then Declan would be able to afford even less by summer's end. She simply had to keep him in the open, exposed, long enough to make the opportunity for attack attractive to other sharks. It would be a good lesson to Declan to remember that MPC wasn't the only outfit with competitors.
"Oh, no, no, I do not pilot. I merely help to chart the course," Miss Carver said. "There all manner of conditions to take into account for travel. Weather, distance, point of interests and conflict, the scheming of clouds. There are a very, very many things to track."
"Do you fly, Miss Bakst?" Biddie's glanced and then momentarily broke character to stare at the woman's brother. Her odd, odd brother. "Or you, Mr. Bakst?"
“Oh, no,” Zipporah replied, with a small smile. When they’d made their way here from France, they couldn’t have afforded a train ticket of any class, let alone the price of an airship. “It is a marvel, truly, though, to see them hanging in the sky as they do. And you manage all that, do you?” She said, cutting another piece of cake. “It sounds quite complex, for something that looks so... effortless.”
It also sounded as though this Sallinger fellow was one foot out the door.
She took a sip of her tea, and shrugged. “I shall review the terms of the proposal of your employer,” she said, looking over at Miss Carver.
"I help," Miss Casper corrected. She took out a pristine, if patchy, handkerchief and dabbed at her mouth. "It's a relief to hear you say that, Miss Bakst. It's a very, very great relief. I shall delight in carrying the news to my employer."
The woman stood in a small cloud of nerves, fussing with skirt and chair and the general air around her in the process. "I thank you again for taking the time to speak with me. And to listen. To me. Both actions were a very, very kind gesture on your part."
It was almost done, and neatly so. All that was left was for Miss Carver to offer a final overelaborate goodbye and Biddie could leave with no hint of trouble in her wake. The whole business would be safely and neatly completed. No harm, no foul, no risk…
No fun.
"It was a dear pleasure to meet you both," Miss Carver said; Biddie extended her hand.
Zipporah took the hand in hers, and felt the goose pimples raising on her arm — Miss Carver’s hand was uncommonly chilly; clammy, as well, which was a touch unpleasant, but Ach was still calmly in his chair, so her small little smile returned to carry her through the vague unease she felt, for politeness sake.
“Likewise,” she said, tipping her head. “Thank you for your…honesty,” she said. “I shall look forward to the proposal.”
It was only later, after the grey little Miss Carver finally worked her way up through a spiraling series of ever-increasing polite good-byes and gathered her handbag, that Zipporah noticed that she’d been wearing gloves the entire time.