sea_change (sea_change) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-10-07 13:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | arabella ward, zipporah bakst |
Who: Zipporah Bakst and Arabella Ward
What: An unusual morning
Where: The Ward residence in London
When: 30th September, 1888 [slightly backdated]
Ratings: PG
Arabella, unlike many of her age of sex, did not often pay calls. Even less often did someone call on her, and then it was nearly always due to her profession; a client seeking an alchemist or looking in an a commission.
Today was not an exception, but when Mrs Wortham announced a visitor, Arabella wondered if she could make it one. “I’ll receive her in the parlor,” she told Mrs Wortham, receiving an eyebrow raise before the housekeeper went off to show in her guest.
Her client, technically. But Arabella considered Zipporah Bakst an acquaintance that might one day become a friend, as strange a notion as that seemed even to her, and she could announce her intentions in backwards fashion by receiving Zipporah as if she’d paid a social call, rather than paying a social call herself.
The truth was, Arabella had no wish to work today. She had stopped on the threshold of her work room this morning and gazed in for a moment before turning back, seeking divertissement elsewhere in the house. She felt heavy, today, unsettled and listless. Another day, she would have attributed this feeling to a monthly visitor, but it was not her time for weeks.
The parlor, domain of the lady of the house, was hardly ever used. Without the expectation of frequent guests, the Ward chemists, father and daughter, had encroached on it with books and harpsichord and sketchpads, and used it more or less to entertain themselves and each other.
Arabella began to settle into a chair, then wondered if she should stand, to receive a visitor who was also a client. Normally points of etiquette were bizarre traditions that she tried to remember and mimic because others valued them; today, she simply felt lost and adrift. She straightened and rested her hand on the back of the chair, gazing out the window at the street beyond.
Zipporah was likewise out of sorts -- she’d woken up in a pool of sweat in the middle of the night, gasping and tasting a coppery tang of energy in her mouth, a disorienting something in the air that made her arms goose pimple. Whatever it was hadn’t been just her -- her Auntie had come into her room not soon after, a worried look on her face, and while Zipporah’s first impulse had been to go out and track it down to the source, sniffing the air like a bloodhound, Miriam had put her foot down rather sharply and told her to stay put.
The two of them had tried to go back to bed after cocoa and a few ritual prayers to cleanse the house, but Zipporah’d tossed and turned fitfully for most of the night, and the few dreams she’d had were disturbing ones.
The whatever it was had faded through the night, and the next morning, Zipporah debated whether to go to the Ward house or not, but ultimately, her own odd evening tipped the balance in favor of seeing the young woman, to see whether she’d felt something too. Besides, she was feeling restless and antsy, and wanted to get out of her neighborhood for a little while.
So she showed up at the appointed hour, wearing her new red coat in an attempt to feel a little more pulled together than she actually was, and when she was shown into the parlor and saw her sitting there, wan and uncertain, she immediately walked over to Arabella and took her hand warmly in hers, kissing her on her cheek.
“How are you today?” She asked, a little concerned. “Today, it has been odd for you as well, yes?”
Arabella wasn't inclined toward human contact with anyone save her father, so she was surprised to find herself gripping Zipporah's hand with relief. Her eyes widened, but the scientist in her dismissed questions as her brain formed them:
How did you know?
Because Zipporah had been affected as well.
Why was I affected?
Because Zipporah had suspected, as Arabella had, that Arabella had...magic.
Did you do this?
No, that was improbable, and there was no motive for it.
Arabella finally settled on a question that was sensible to ask, and might give her a better understanding from which to form more useful and practical inquiries. "What has happened?"
Zipporah stooping over her chair as she explained would not do, so Arabella rose and led her over to the settee, where they could sit beside one another as they spoke. She began to settle, then saw Zipporah's striking coat and paused. "I'm sorry, Mrs Wortham should have offered to take your coat. Would you like me to call for her?"
It would mean letting go of Zipporah’s hand, but that should not have seemed such a difficult thing to do. Arabella had never needed anyone’s hand before, aside from her father’s.
“I am still trying for to find out,” Zipporah replied. “Whatever it was, it woke both my Auntie and me last evening, after midnight -- a disturbance, an energy I did not care for, something bad and wrong, and it tasted of death.” She spoke matter of factly, Arabella gripping her hand like a lifeline. “I shall be asking my colleagues what they know, and we shall get it sorted, but it was most unusual.”
She looked over at Arabella. “And you? You are alright?” She gave their clasped hands a pat.
Arabella frowned, looking toward the window again as she thought. "I don't feel...myself, exactly," she admitted. "But I haven't been harmed." She looked back at Zipporah. "Did others feel the same? All those in London? Or...women in London?"
It was a stretch, but Arabella should not assume that it had to do with magic when she hadn't spoken with anyone besides Mrs Wortham, who wouldn't share personal feelings like this with her. Perhaps there had been an earthquake, or a change in air pressure.
"Sometimes storms affect moods," she suggested, although Zipporah's words still rang in her head: It tasted of death. "We might be sensitive to the weather."
Arabella had not asked properly yet, so she did so now. "And are you all right?"
“I have a few witches I am planning to ask,” Zipporah replied, “men and women both, around the city. My neighborhood, it was…” she shuddered. “There was an odd mood I cannot quite put my finger on, the peoples there, they were on the edge, and I was glad for to come here. My Auntie woke up too, queer all over, and I do not think it was the weather.”
She frowned. “It was worrisome,” she said, “and I do wish to get to the bottom of it, but other than a poor night’s sleep, I have no complaints. And I shall find out what’s happened. A falsheh matba’ieh farliert men nit. A… a bad coin always turns up.”
She covered their clasped hands with her free one. “I am glad it was not only me and my Auntie,” she said, “and that you are otherwise unharmed. We might clear our heads, clear the air a little today, and that would be good, I think.”
"I feel like a cloud," Arabella mused. She blinked. "Is that a strange thing to say? I feel...distant. As though I am floating, drifting through the house. I haven't been able to concentrate all day. The harpsichord helped, but even then, everything came out...melancholy."
Arabella loved the harpsichord because it was pure mathematics, every tone and rhythm and meter precisely ordered. She did not love it for conveying emotion.
"There are male witches?" Arabella would have pursued that further, interested when she'd never heard of such a thing, but there were more important things to discuss. "What is your neighborhood like? Is it near here? Did you notice a change when you came here, or would you need to speak to people here to know?"
“I live in Whitechapel,” Zipporah replied, wincing a little. “Which is to say, we have had our share of the odd goings-on, of late. But this felt…” she shook her head, biting her lip. “It is difficult for to put into words. My skin itched, and the air was close, and people looked tighter about the mouth, meaner, more afraid than usual, and as I came here, I could breathe a little better, only it could have been just the usual, except for I was more aware of it.” She huffed a little, frustrated at the vagueness of both her feeling, and her ability to express it. “It’s feelings and hunches and I cannot… I must find out what it was all about.”
Arabella straightened, patting Zipporah's hand before finally relinquishing it. "Whitechapel? Are you safe there?" Of course she wasn't. According to the papers, no woman in London was safe, but especially not there. "Do you think this could be related to the murders? Could...could a witch kill? In such a way?" If there were male witches, suddenly it seemed entirely possible that one of them might choose to kill. And, perhaps, leave this aura of dissonance behind.
Arabella looked around her, then made an unusually rash (although perfectly practical) decision. "We need more data," she said aloud. "You suggested a walk...shall we see how walking back toward your neighborhood might affect you? If this incident is centered there, perhaps one of us will feel some change."
Zipporah looked over at Arabella and gnawed on her lip some, and then nodded. “Let us collect some data,” she said, nodding her head. “And it might be connected, yes, if it is specific to the location. I had an associate ask me a week or so ago if I thought they had been done by a witch, and I told him I had no evidence either way. So. Let us get some.” She could feel her heart beating in her chest, and she wasn’t sure if it was more excitement or fear, but regardless, she was glad she wasn’t venturing out on her own, even though her partner was unstudied. At the very least, Arabella would bring a scientist’s eye to the proceedings.
“Besides,” she added, with a sudden burst of a grin, “I still have my coat on.”
It took Arabella only a moment to similarly dress herself for the outdoors, and then they were outside in the crisp air, which Arabella breathed in with a small thrill of surprise; she was so often indoors that occasionally changes in the seasons caught her off-guard.
“Should we take a carriage, to cover more ground, or is it better to maintain a slow pace at first, to better measure any changes in our perceptions?” Arabella was still distracted by buttons and gloves when she asked suddenly - now that they were out of the hearing of Mrs Wortham - “Does this mean I’m a witch?”
She was halfway down the front steps before she saw the large, broad-shouldered man waiting by the street. Brought up short, Arabella stopped where she was and wondered if this was a prospective client, or someone more menacing.
Zipporah had taken another step before she’d noticed Arabella stopping, and looked up and over her shoulder at her. “This is Ach,” she said. “I made him. He’ll keep us safe.” She shrugged. “You may be one?” She said, with a bit of a shrug. “You have a shine about you regardless. Perhaps your mother was one. Or your grandmother.” She flashed her teeth in a smile. “Witches can be men or women, but it is passed down from mothers,” she said, tipping her chin. “The Baksts, we are a long line of witches, and I am named by my mother’s name for that reason. Zipporah bat Esther Bakst.”
It was one of those conventions that caused her Rabbi to look pinched about the mouth -- but really, identifying one by one’s mother made a great deal more sense, and it was how it’d always been done in her family. Her father knew that she was a Bakst, and would bear that name rather than his -- he loved her and her mother all the same.
"You made him," Arabella marveled, coming forward again to stand in front of the man Zipporah had created. He was very lifelike, and Arabella wondered if Zipporah had used any alchemy in her magic, to breathe life into something so complex as this. She wondered if similar marvels might happen if she used magic in her alchemy, if she had a shine, and what they might be able to accomplish if they combined their skills.
She also wondered how one greeted a creation, if they did at all. Arabella was tempted to extend her hand, as she might for a cat, to let it sniff and know her. That wasn't entirely the proper greeting for a strange gentleman, but then Ach wasn't precisely a gentleman. She decided to offer her hand, and see what he would do with it.
"I am pleased for to meet you," Arabella said, the way that Zipporah did, formally and clearly. Then she glanced sideways at Zipporah to gather any clues about correct etiquette in this situation.
Zipporah beamed, and reached up to pat Ach’s forearm familiarly. “He is my guardian angel,” she said, looking up at him. She turned back to Arabella, extending her elbow. “We should walk, if you do not mind,” she said, “the weather, it is not too cold, and I should like to mark when I feel a change, and see if you do as well. Perhaps we may take a carriage back.”
She looked back at Ach. “There is not enough room for the three of us abreast, he will walk behind, I think.”
Arabella studied Ach for one more moment, and then awkwardly threaded her arm through Zipporah's, feeling unaccountably warmed by the offer, and a little embarrassed at how unaccustomed she was to walking with a female friend.
"Do you think I will experience the opposite, and feel less out-of-sorts as we approach your neighborhood, or that our perceptions will match, and there is a source to the unease we're feeling?" Arabella shook her head almost before she'd finished the question. "Never mind. It's essential to collect data without preconceived opinions. I have not walked this way before," she admitted. "Has your family lived in Whitechapel for long?"
“For five years,” Zipporah replied. “We walked to France from my village in Russia, and took a boat over to London, and we’ve been there ever since. My Auntie and me,” she clarified. “And Ach, of course. I made him for to protect us. My grandmother came with too, but she passed this summer.”
“It is very different from my village where I grew up,” she said. “It is always busy at all hours, and crowded, and the air is close, and there are many more peoples of all sorts, but many of them are my peoples, which is good, and that makes it a familiar enough place, even though it is different.” She raised her chin. “And there are many more opportunities. I am glad for that.”
"Walked to France," Arabella marveled. "You must have seen quite a lot on your journey." The thought of crossing borders, as well as their current experiment, brought to mind something in one of the books Mr Green had provided. "There are mentions in folklore here about boundary lines, magical ones. Have you noticed anything of that kind in your neighborhood?"
She did not blush, but there was an air of embarrassment about her nonetheless. "I have been reading for my study on metal sensitivities. A librarian gave me a book on faeries by accident, because of the mention of their intolerance to iron. He thought it might help, and I have wondered if it might suggest a genetic or regional intolerance, regarded by the local population as a sign of...mysticism."
Realizing that Zipporah had an entirely other set of fairy tales she'd been raised with, Arabella asked, "Do you have anything like that in your own folklore? Stories of people who cannot abide a certain type of metal, or perhaps stone?"
“Ley, you mean?” Zipporah replied, thoughtfully. “There very well may be. I am sure Mac would know. He is a friend,” she said, with a shrug. “He’s been here since… well. Since the beginning, really, so he would know.”
She frowned, and worked her brain around Arabella’s words -- they presented a different challenge from Mac’s rolling, lilting accent and odd idioms -- her terms were precisely said, and most likely represented the precise thing she wished to express, but it took some careful detangling, and she got hung up on ‘genetics’ for a bit before it slotted into place. “The blood,” she said, nodding. “Why would it be based in region?” She asked. “Wolf people do not like silver no matter where they are, I think.”
“And we have all sorts of stories, but most of them are spirits haunting, or stealing one’s soul, like a dybbuk or a shedim. There are the Forest folk of different sorts, some one asks for favors and leave wine and bread for, most in the stories are just little things who play jokes.” She shrugged. “It is considered not polite for to use the metals around them, as they are spirits of a sort. Consecrated iron is used for the banishing of spirits from this realm, and any metal that is alloy is a sign of civilization and a tool against Azazel, but not all spirits are malicious, or need for to be banished, so I use it judiciously.”
Arabella frowned. She had to sort through Zipporah's words as much as Zipporah had sorted through hers to make sense of them, and she wasn't completely certain she had everything correct when she spoke. "Blood is passed down through families, yes. And many families do not travel the way yours did. So a sensitivity to silver known to affect a...people...might be like red hair--passed down through the generations in a specific region, and not found in Africa or often on the continent. Someone with red hair might travel, and have children in Africa, so you are right to say that it wouldn't matter where they are, but we would still not look in Africa for a great many people with red hair. We know they are found in Britain, or in Scandinavia. If many families with a sensitivity to metal were all in one place, it might be mistaken for a regional trait, something from folklore or caused by the environment or culture. Do you see?"
Whatever tribe the 'wolf people' were, it sounded as though they had a similar family relationship to the one Mrs Nicnevin suspected she shared with Arabella. She thought of mentioning it - or of asking what it meant that Mac had been here since 'the beginning' (the beginning of what?) - but there was a more important question to ask.
"How do you consecrate iron?"
Was it something that might cause a chemical difference, which scientists could not yet detect between native and meteoric irons? Or was it only one of those that was worthy of being consecrated, and Zipporah's people could somehow sense or determine a difference? Something that Zipporah's people considered useful for fighting demons must have some crucial distinction to set it apart.
“It is set apart as devoted to the purpose of serving God, and it is prayed over and touched by a holy, righteous person,” Zipporah replied. “When I must make some filings for using, I fast for the full day, and make sure it is at the proper time of month when it is proper for to be done. It is…” she shrugged. “There are some who say only a holy man, a rabbi, can bless in such a way, but…” she grinned and shrugged again. “Bakst women do not care for such rules.”
Arabella's mouth stretched into an unexpected smile at the sight of Zipporah's grin. "Do you do any..." She paused to decide between words, and ended up using both. "Alchemy, or magic? When you consecrate the iron? What causes the change in the metal, to make it..." Another pause; another concept she didn't have words for. "Capable of fighting Az..."
She had forgotten the exact syllables of the name, and felt immediately guilty for it. "I'm sorry," Arabella said. "I don't think I could say it correctly. Is it the touch of a person, a specific person, during the prayers? Or is there magic done within the prayers? Or is it something else?"
“Azazel,” Zipporah replied back. “And hm. I am not certain whether it changes the metal itself, really. It’s… it’s a matter of directing intent. Like… like a compass pointing true. Or a piece of metal being drawn to a magnet.” It was an imperfect analogy, given her conversational partner was so very precise, but it was the best she could do.
She wrinkled her nose, frustrated at her lack of language to capture what she did very nearly without thinking.
“The consecrating gives the metal a purpose, and focuses it for that purpose. Or perhaps it focuses me for to use it better.” She shrugged. “It is… it is so much about the doing that it is hard to explain in words? But so much of my magics is channeled through prayer -- it is how I direct my energies, and am sure of myself.”
"Not like I changed the pearl, then," Arabella surmised. "More like...shaping steel into a sword? Or the forming of steel itself...the elements are already there, existing beside each other, but they must be combined to create the alloy. Is it like that?"
“Both, I suppose,” Zipporah replied back, thoughtfully, “it is a two-fold process -- my energies are the sword shaped by my will, and the properties of the iron are already there, inert, it is only a matter of directing it.” She wrinkled her nose. “I am sorry,” she said, “my words, they are… not so good, today especially, and it is not something I often speak of to others. I can show, sometime, perhaps?”
She felt that itch then, that prickle on the back of her neck, and she gripped Arabella’s arm and halted.
“There,” she said. “It has faded some, even from when I came over for to see you, but that is it.”
Arabella felt lost by Zipporah's explanation, but she didn't want to press when Zipporah was struggling to explain and Arabella was failing to understand. Her reassurance - and request for a demonstration - was interrupted by Zipporah seizing her arm, which was surprising enough to bring Arabella to a standstill as well. Zipporah's wary alertness masked, for a moment, what Arabella herself felt, which was that the world was sinking beneath her feet, or that she was drifting away from it into the sky, unmoored.
"I can't feel death," Arabella admitted after a long silence. "I just want to...leave."
To go where, she wasn't sure. But the longer they stood, the more Arabella felt that she did not belong here, that she wasn't firmly fixed to the ground she stood on. And perhaps, though she didn't feel death, she did feel darkness, and despair, subtly dragging at her sharpened mood.
"What do you feel?" Arabella asked to distract herself. She tried to look at Zipporah, but her gaze caught somewhere on the skyline and snagged, pulling her thoughts away from the city, toward what seemed to be a safer sky.
“As if I have a sunburn,” Zipporah replied, frowning. “Hot and cold all at once, itchy and tight, and my hairs are standing on end.” She shivered a little, looking over to Arabella. “You want for to go back?” She said, quietly, a worried wrinkle forming between her eyes at the look on her face. “I am sorry for bringing you. I should not have.”
"No," Arabella said at once. She had never encountered true magic before, pearls notwithstanding. She wanted to understand it, and to find out if she really might be what Zipporah thought. A descendant of magic, perhaps, even if she wasn't a true witch. "No, we should go on. We could map the...the boundary?" She frowned. "What did you call them before? The lines?"
“The ley, yes,” Zipporah replied. “Shall we see the boundaries, then? Walk…” she gestured with her hand to cut cross-ways -- not walking towards, but around.
She shivered again, and murmured a quick prayer under her breath, fingering the red knotted string about her wrist, her other arm slipping so that Arabella was no longer holding her elbow, but her hand.
She gave it a squeeze.
“If you are to be here with me, I am glad for it, then,” she said, stoutly. “It is unpleasant enough on one’s own.”
"I will be here beside you," Arabella pledged. "Only, is it hurting you? I don't wish to subject you to any torment. We can find another way to investigate. These..." She paused, then asked, "These ley lines, did we reach one, when you felt the sensation more strongly? Are we walking along them now? Or is this a boundary caused by something else, such as distance from a central point?"
“Hm,” Zipporah replied. “We should note the street intersections, and I can tell them to Mac later, and perhaps there will be a map we may compare? I do not usually pay much mind,” she added, frowning. “It is… leys are straight, I know that much, and if this curves, it may tell us something. We may be able to…” she gestured with her hand at a right angle to where they were walking. “To see where it points to?” She knew there was a word that she was missing, but it was no matter.
She bit her lip. “It does not hurt,” She said. “Only… it is a little uncomfortable, is all. And it is not so bad as it was this morning.”
Arabella squeezed Zipporah's hand. "I will mark the streets, and our path," she promised. “You concentrate on the feelings, and if it gets to be too much, we can move away and take a break, or stop. Don't push yourself too hard."
She looked at the next sign they passed, and only let a moment of silence pass before she asked, "Is it better for me to be silent, so you can focus, or for me to distract you? Mac...he's the one you mentioned before, isn't he? He's a friend of yours? Is he a close friend?"
Zipporah shook her head. “Talking is good,” she said, the feel of Arabella’s cool, small hand in hers a comfort. “He is a friend, yes,” she said. “We get on quite well, but it is new, and I have a feeling it is difficult for someone like him to be close to anyone unless some considerable time has passed. He is…” her nose wrinkled as she dug for the appropriate words. “He is respectful, despite being my better. And kind, even though he is very powerful. And full of laughter. And that is a sign of a good soul, I think.”
Her eyes darted over to Arabella’s. “People here, they have been quite kind on the whole,” she said, smiling a little, and encompassing her in that assessment. “I was not expecting such. I am glad for to have been mistaken.”
“And you?” She added, swinging their hands a little. “Tell me of you? I have talked a great deal of myself -- I have been quite a poor guest.”
“No,” Arabella disagreed. “You have been generous with yourself and your time. And your explanations.” She paused, not knowing what to say about herself besides, “I’m a chemist, as my father is. Unlike him, I chose to pursue alchemy. Its reputation is decreasing, but I believe it a field worthy of study.” She frowned slightly. “As well as one of the few fields where a woman can find clients.”
Personally, she was not very interesting. The most interesting things about Arabella were her research, and her successes. And perhaps her father. With some hesitation, she offered awkwardly, “I like to play the harpsichord. Music is mathematics. The science of it pleases me.”
Arabella glanced over at Zipporah, who seemed to be listening still, as she took note of the street they passed. “Do you like music?”
“I do,” she replied, easily enough. “Songs that are sung aloud, they are so very like prayer, and a gift to those that hear it. I find it very moving. I have not ever learned an instrument, though. I should like for to hear you play, sometime.”
“And it is not easy, for to be an independent woman,” Zipporah replied, “a woman who is trying to make her own way. I commend you for it. Still, it is easier here than elsewhere.” She smiled. “There are women I know here who are writers, who are going to university, and now I know a scientist too -- it is remarkable what one is capable of, when one has the chance. It is quite a change from where I was.”
She laughed a little. “I was lucky, though, that I grew up with women who were witches. Being a homemaker was never my destiny. We have other work to do.”
Arabella found herself warmed by Zipporah's easy inclusion of her in that statement. "Yes," she agreed. "We do."