wanderinghamsa (wanderinghamsa) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-10-12 21:49:00 |
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Entry tags: | biddie, zipporah bakst |
Who: Zipporah Bakst and NPC!Archie
What: Archie decided to invest in some education.
When: October 11, 1888 [backdated]
Where: Zipporah's house
Rating: G
The calling card that arrived at the Bakst door, came with an entourage. The card’s engraving was in simple type, small and without flourishes. The little lacquer box that came with it, however, more than made up the deficit in ostentation. On its lacquered lid was the glowingly depicted rendering of a woman with gilded feathers and jeweled crown, her beauty rich and strange--and markedly inhuman: an Alkonost.
The card read: Archibald Curtis. The note beneath the pretty box was blunt: I am alone and only wish to talk. Please.
Zipporah looked at the card for a good few minutes, a small, thoughtful frown on her face as her finger absently traced the edges of the pretty box.
She’d debated whether to call after the events on the 30th, and chewed over it a great deal -- it would be the first time she would’ve contacted him after their rather disastrous run-in a few weeks previous. She hadn’t been sure whether he or the mysterious Miss Carver had been involved -- whoever it was had been a powerful necromancer, of that she was sure -- the air had crackled with death that entire morning -- and Miss Carver was the most powerful one she knew of.
It’d been a risk, reaching out, but this had taken place in her backyard, and she’d found it disconcerting, and if they had been involved, she supposed knowing was better than not. But as she didn’t know how she’d be received, what to expect, she’d put it off -- choosing instead to reach out to her other contacts first, to shore up her known connections.
So she’d finally (belatedly) left a message with a very nice receptionist, suggesting in a vague sort of way that they might have a matter to discuss, but not soon after, there was news of the fire, and she supposed their hands were otherwise full.
But here Captain Curtis was, not a day later, calling on her.
With a gift, no less.
Zipporah tapped the card on the table, and then walked over to the door and opened it, tipping her head in the direction of the cab that was lingering rather obviously outside in a Well then? gesture.
Never one to ignore the opportunity for a flourish, Archie exited the cab with a smile on his face and bounce in his step.
...that is, he tried.
Unfortunately, having survived a fire, a murder attempt, a round of press, three board meetings and an ongoing case of nerves over the fact that his godmother had kidnapped (and possibly consumed) his target investor...slightly deflated the attempted bounce. The fact that he had yet to truly recover from hemorrhaging energy in an attempt to stop the factory from collapsing under the arsonist’s attack didn’t do much for the cheery smile either. Currently, the best that could be said of Captain Curtis was that he face was clean, his boots were polished, and his coat was fashionable. Everything else looked like a dog’s breakfast.
“Miss Bakst, always a pleasure.” He made a bid for Zipporah’s hand. His own shook only slightly upon taking it. “Thank you very much for granting me this audience.”
Zipporah frowned, a small worry-wrinkle forming on her forehead as she took his hand, noticing the shake, the pallor, the signs of having been recently and rather thoroughly depleted. “Captain Curtis,” she replied, holding his hand in hers a little longer than strictly necessary.
“Come in,” she said. “I make you tea.”
She gestured for him to enter -- the wards were quite unbothered by his presence, as was Ach, and she had to admit, she was rather grateful that Miss Carver wasn’t along for this particular conversation -- while the circumstances had been far less than ideal last time round, it had been quite difficult to navigate through what were essentially two simultaneous conversations, and Captain Curtis’s motives seemed a little more clear (and beneficial).
“Sit,” she said, pointing to a chair definitively.
It was a nice chair -- a new one -- comfortable, buttery leather. She’d slowly begun to dole out her new-found wealth in dribs and drabs -- a new coat and shoes, a few dresses, some new bedding, and the chair for her auntie. The apartment itself was still rather well-worn, as were most of the trappings, but it was comfortable enough for her purposes. Comfortable and safe.
The tea was the sort her auntie had made her while she was going through her more intensive training -- herbs to stimulate the blood, the lymph, the liver, to gently prod the body into healing itself a little faster than it would. It didn’t take more than a minute or two -- she’d had to take a dose of it herself after the 30th, so there was already a mixture ready made -- and tossed some biscuits on a plate for good measure. She brought the tray in, and set it down, looking over at him warily.
She very nearly put a hand on his forehead and tutted.
“It will taste strongly, honey or the jam will help,” she said, waiting for it to brew to fuller strength.
Orders and tea: it was a powerfully familiar combination. If she offered him cake, Archie was going to start seeing the delectable Miss Bakst in a decidedly maternal light.
He was slightly surprised to find out that he didn’t want...that.
Huh.
Chalking up the odd blip in his thought to lingering smoke damage--he’d be sneezing soot until Easter--Archie took his seat with good grace. It was a little easier to smile once he was on his feet.
“I don’t mind such,” he said genially. “Grew up on quite a bit of invalid cooking, you see.There’s no manner of broth, jelly, gruel, or pap that I haven’t survived at this point. I was something of a skeleton when I was a nipper,” he added almost apologetically.
Whatever joke was meant to follow was hacked apart in the shredding cough that erupted from the man instead. The upside was the brief touch of asphyxiation lent his face a spot of color.
“Apologies,” he said, after the attempt to eviscerate his own throat subsided. “I’m afraid I’m forced to visit you at not quite my best. It’s nothing contagious, I assure you.”
“I read the paper, Captain,” Zipporah replied. “I am glad for to see you are still among us, all things considered. You want me to draw out the… the…” she screwed up her face. “The small irritants in the lungs? It will still be inflamed, but it will help.”
She poured out the tea -- a strong, yellow color, with a sharpish grassy smell (with a tang of peppermint for good measure) -- in addition to said peppermint, there was a healthy mix of hyssop, chamomile, holy basil, dandelion root, and a dash of turmeric. She poured out a measure for herself as well -- it never hurt, and there was a certain comfort to the tonic.
She stirred a healthy dollop of jam into her own tea. “I do not imagine that is the primary reason of your coming here, however,” she added, looking over at him curiously.
“That’s very kind of you to offer,” Archie said. “I may even take you up on it. Unfortunately, I feel that most of damage came not from the fire but from my own efforts in arresting it through alternative means. So to speak.” He looked rueful. “An Earth Master has little business clashing with a Fire challenger.”
She was direct, which was pleasant. And again, familiar. It was really a shame, he reflected, that she and Biddie had gotten off on such choppy footing. Then he remembered where his beloved godmother was likely now and who with, and felt a lot less sentimental.
“You are correct, I didn’t come for healing. Although I would be honored to watch you work such a thing at another time,” Archie added sincerely.
He cleared his throat, regretted it immediately, and said; “Miss Bakst, do you teach?”
She blinked, looking over at him, a little surprised, and two pleased spots of color rose in her cheeks despite herself.
Captain Curtis’s sorting magic into elemental categories was certainly a conceit she’d heard of before -- the Russian koldun'ya whom her bubbe used to be familiar with before she’d passed had talked about magic that way. She didn’t know if it was more male-centered, to want to choose tangible objects one could have an affinity with, or a European bent to things that her own traditions merrily skipped around -- she made a mental note to ask Elliot Rogers’ Haitian partner about his own approach when they finally managed to meet face to face.
“I am still a scholar myself,” she said, admittedly flattered. “I… I am helping one lady right now, a little, but I have not taken on students as such before.” She paused. “Which is not to say that I would not be willing, just that I may not be the ideal teacher for one to have.”
“I suspect you give yourself too little credit, Miss Bakst. Regardless ‘ideal’ is not a state I personally aspire to,” Archie added wryly. “What I need is someone who understands the need for pragmatism over--” don’t say principles, don’t say principles “--philosophy. If you are still a scholar yourself then all the better. Who knows, we may even find something to teach other in the process.”
His pale brows rose up. “Strangers things have happened.”
Zipporah reached for a biscuit, looking over at him thoughtfully. “Pragmatism is prakticheskoye, yes? If so, then yes, I have learned what is needed, what is necessary.” She took a sip of her tea. “And your… your friend,” she said, tipping her chin. “She would not be… she would not find you seeking collaboration with me…” she very nearly said a threat, but managed to re-direct and dig for the right word. “...an inconvenience?”
“My cousin has always been keen on self-betterment,” Archie said honestly. He picked up his tea and shallowly inhaled its vapor, then resolutely set it down again.
“Miss Bakst--Zipporah. Let us be frank for a moment. The matter of my friend, as you put it, has the potential to shadow our discussion. So let us resolve it here and now, yes?” He flexed his hands, good and bad, and settled them on his thighs. “I will try to be as honest with you as the circumstance allow. I hope you will return the effort with...discretion on your part. Are we agreed?”
Zipporah had found the circumstances with the mysterious Miss Carver on the whole to be rather headache inducing, and somewhat baffling -- the initial disguise and subterfuge followed by a tightly coiled menace that made her feel for the very first time that she was facing a serious opponent (and oh, she had to admit, there had been a certain thrill there -- even as she’d worked furiously to contain Ach, to talk them down from the precipice).
Archie had been the narrow fulcrum on which the balance had tipped -- he’d managed to talk long enough to let her regain her mastery, to give her a way to gracefully concede despite the rough introduction they’d had (he with a gun, she with a golem), and while Carver was more than a little unfathomable, Archie was here, sipping tea, his expression honest, and she nodded by way of reply.
“I should prefer that, yes,” she said, “and what we say will not leave this room,” she added.
“Capital!” Archie regained his tea. “First off, her name is not actually Miss Carver. It’s Mrs. Bedelia Linden. Biddie for the most part. She is, in the eyes of the common world and civilized society, my younger cousin.” A glint of slyness touched the man’s expression. “Rather in the same way as Mr. Ach is your younger brother.”
“My cousin is a fine magician, but she tends to specialize,” he said. “I think you recognized the flavor of that specialty the last time we met. Thus her prefered area of study is not quite aligned with mine. Or your own, I’d imagine.”
Necromancy tended to set itself apart, if only for the sake of minimizing blood stains.
“I love my cousin very much, Zipporah. I respect her greatly.” He took a sip of tea and looked appreciative. “However, she is a woman who learned to distrust the world from an early age. Her magical aptitude gave her some leverage in life but it also brought opportunities for exploitation by others.”
He looked up at Zipporah with a smile and a terrible honesty in his eyes. “That is something we can both relate to, no?”
The smile brightened suddenly. “You know, I was born hereabouts. In Spitalfields.”
There was a small part of Zipporah’s soul, a part she didn’t like to admit to, that was wary of those people she knew who walked through the world in a more refined social sphere. It’d taken time with Peter and Katherine to know, and more importantly, trust that they saw beyond the cut of her dress, her address, and the cheap, peeling wallpaper in her flat -- and even then, there were certain things she knew Peter would never entirely understand.
What it meant to be hungry, for one.
Really, truly, desperately hungry.
How to sleep with your worldly possessions held close so that no-one could steal them in the middle of the night.
That charity was a double-edged sword that could oh so easily cut one’s dignity and pride down into something smaller, and more often than not was for the benefit of the giver, not the recipient.
Archie’s admission was a shorthand that immediately cut through the fine fabric of his coat and the slick calling cards, and gave a whole new shape to his comments about exploitation and being ‘sickly as a nipper,’ and she had to admit, it was easier to be in her worn little living room and be proud of it, to not feel as if he was looking down his nose at her, but that he actually did want to learn from her, and saw her as a peer.
She tipped her head in acknowledgement, her smile a small blooming warmth of mutual understanding as the set of her shoulders relaxed a fraction.
Because he knew.
“It takes a certain degree of courage for to trust, does it not?” Her grin widened. “Not that your cousin is lacking for courage,” she said, “and her power is most prodigious. I respect her as well, you know,” she said, reaching out briefly to touch his arm. “I am very glad we were able to resolve things without a fight. Thanks to you,” she added.
“I would be glad for to work with you, Archie” she said. “After all,” she added, raising her chin, “it is the neighborly thing for to do.”