Investigator of the Supernatural, Brewer of Tea (sedulus) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-11-02 11:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | bertie eden, gabriel allen, zipporah bakst |
Who: Zipporah Bakst, Gabriel Allen, and Bertram Eden
What: The aftermath of the Midnight Waltz
Where: Hotel Imperial, a curtained alcove
When: 21st October, 1888 [Backdated] - immediately following this
Rating: PG
Bertie swam back to consciousness in utter confusion. His memories were disjointed and unsettling--strange lights playing over the crowd while he and Mrs Linden whirled around the floor for the Midnight Waltz, patterns and shapes that twisted with the lanterns casting them across the sea of dancers, spinning images of silhouettes cast against walls as the waltz churned ahead at an impossible speed.
Bertie had thought he’d seen...he’d thought...he’d seen…
His head throbbed, bringing his thoughts painfully to the present, and he made the mistake of opening his eyes, nearly blinded by gas lamps before he squeezed them shut against twin spikes of pain stabbing into his skull. His stomach turned in warning, and Bertie caught his breath, steadying himself before he heaved his expensive dinner onto the carpet.
Someone was with him, he realized, tutting disapproval, and Bertie’s heart surged in his chest as he peeled his eyes open again, more cautiously this time, looking to see…
Miss Bakst was by his side, and entirely undeserving of the crushing disappointment Bertie felt upon seeing her. He’d thought perhaps Lord Black...but of course that was preposterous, there was no reason for Lord Black to be here, standing watch over him. Bertie should be glad that Lord Black might have missed his disgrace, although given that he was in the center of the dance floor with the hostess of the evening, it seemed unlikely that anyone had missed it, or at the least would avoid hearing of it past the morning. Bertie squeezed his eyes closed again.
The last he’d seen of Miss Bakst, she’d been storming away and Bertie had been at sea, he remembered. He’d figured out, since, what he’d done to offend her, but he didn’t know what he’d done to make amends since she had so obviously returned to his side.
Perhaps she could appreciate gloating over him in this state, although he didn’t believe it of her. She was too practical for that, and too good-hearted. Just look at how she’d prayed over Jamie.
Bertie groaned and tried to struggle upright, an undertaking that should not have felt as monumental as it seemed. All of his muscles seemed to have been turned to jellies, and his stomach and head spun in concerted protest. He thought he ought to say something to Miss Bakst, but as everything had seemed to go wrong for him tonight when he spoke even without the throbbing headache, he decided that the best part of courage was caution until coherent thought returned and he didn’t embarrass himself any further.
“Miss Bakst?” There, that seemed safe enough. And he only sounded a little like a croaking bullfrog, as well.
The look of sheer disappointment writ over Mr Eden’s face upon seeing her made Zipporah sigh, and his attempts to move around were met with a steely look and a firm hand.
“Yes,” she said, a little snippily. “I am sorry I am not someone you should prefer more. Stay put,” she said, before resting a hand on his forehead. “You have been unconscious for longer than I should like, and I am worried for your energies.”
She passed him a glass of water. “You must drink.” She nodded her head over to the curtains. “Mr Allen is just there, talking to Mrs Linden, he should be back soon enough.”
Bertie closed his eyes in shame and wilted back onto the...divan? So it would seem, by the shape of it, which was a good length for Bertie to sprawl across in what he hoped was an artistic rather than pitiful manner. He'd gotten a brief glimpse around a moment before, and had seen a curtained alcove of some sort, out of sight of the ballroom and guests. Now that Miss Bakst had mentioned it, he could hear low voices nearby--Gabriel and Mrs Linden, no doubt.
The thought of Mrs Linden made his skin crawl uncomfortably, though he didn't know why--she'd been perfectly polite to him, even friendly in her brisk way. Perhaps it was just part of his recovering. Although from what, precisely? He hadn't had that much to drink. Nor had he been overheated, even in the crowded room. He'd eaten, he hadn't - by some miracle - tripped, and he couldn't remember being struck with anything, although if Dex's trident had put him here, he'd feel a little better than at simply swooning, which was what he hazily remembered. Dark spots, and the room going gray, and a long, slow slide into black...and he'd seen...he'd thought he'd seen...
Bertie remembered the water glass when Miss Bakst all but pushed it on him, and then he dragged himself up onto an ornamental pillow and forced himself to drink. He was thirsty after all, he found, and sipped gratefully.
"I'm sorry," he said once he'd had enough to drink and cleared his throat, the shame creeping up on him again. "I didn't mean...there isn't..." Explaining his brief hope for Lord Black was impossible, and in truth didn't change her assessment. He had wanted someone else to care. Her concern deserved better consideration. "It's very kind of you, to look after me. I'm sorry for seeming ungrateful. I am, very. Grateful, I mean. Thank you."
He cleared his throat again, and thought he could risk a meek question, though he could already imagine her scathing answer. "What happened?"
“There was a headless ghost,” Zipporah replied, taking Bertie’s free wrist between three fingers to ascertain the speed and strength of his pulse. “He appeared to be pleading before the Russians, and three of them fainted as well. I do not believe all saw him, but those who did…” she frowned. “There was a spell done,” she said, quietly. “It was not an appearance at random.”
Her frown deepened as she moved her hand back to Bertie’s forehead, providing a warm weight, her thumb brushing lightly over his temple. “It was not a pretty sight,” she added, her voice low.
“And you,” she said, looking over at him. “The other three woke up right away with smelling salts, but not you. What are you feeling?” She asked, biting her lip.
So Bertie hadn't imagined it, then. It had only been a glimpse, but he'd seen that something hadn't been quite right with the shape he'd seen, across the room.
The Russians. Mrs Linden. Another ghost.
Bertie's head hurt.
"Tired," he answered honestly. "And wobbly. I feel as though I'm a collapsed soufflé." A spell that made a ghost appear, which caused everyone who saw it to faint? And directed at the Russians? What could even create such a thing?
More sabotage, Bertie thought. More espionage. A threat? A warning? Who was the ghost? Was it even really a spirit, or a conjuration?
"You saw it," Bertie surmised. Following that: "You didn't...faint." What a horrible word for something that applied to him. Bertie felt certain he was shaded pink. His nose scrunched up, and he scratched at it. "There were smelling salts?"
He realized a beat too late how his statement could be interpreted, and his expression turned to open dismay. "I'm sorry...I don't mean anything by that, I'm only trying to understand. I truly didn't mean, earlier, to accuse you of anything...or to suggest you might be manipulated for your skill and knowledge without your being aware of it. It was wrong of me, and I didn't think, and I do apologize, most sincerely."
That was an awful lot of words, Bertie thought with some surprise. He only noticed because he'd rather run out of air by the end, and sagged back down onto the divan to take a few breaths and have another sip from the water glass.
“Hm,” Zipporah sniffed, before taking pity and nodding her head. “Very well,” she added. There was a spell she did with laboring women when they were in their eleventh hour and needed to regain strength, and she reached for Bertie very nearly automatically, plucking the glass of water out of his hands and setting it aside before chafing his hands between hers.
“I am glad for to teach him, and respect him as he respects me, but I am no man’s pawn, and no woman’s either” she said, quietly, turning their hands back and forth as she chafed. She shrugged. “Well. Never matter,” she said, before releasing his hands, thumping his chest smartly three times with her index and middle finger, and kissing him on the forehead. “You are forgiven. I am sorry I do not know more as to why and how the ghost came about.”
She passed him the glass once more.
"I know," Bertie said miserably. "I know, it's only...what did you just do to me?" He might have thought it natural recovery, had the feeling of strength not come so promptly at Zipporah's kiss--which he did not blush at out of sheer surprise.
Low on energies, she'd said. And she'd told him that she could see ghosts more clearly when he was around, hadn't she? Bertie felt at his chest where she'd tapped him, as if he might have somehow become less substantial, which was of course ridiculous. He wasn't turning into a ghost.
"Do you think...you were worried, when you met me, that a spirit might be...haunting me? Stealing my energies? Do you think, since the locket...Jamie would never," Bertie contradicted himself at once, fervent in defence of his friend. "But do you think...this ghost you saw...? I can't imagine why else I would be affected, when others were not. I'm not Russian."
His eyes widened, and he felt the need to reinforce that last, in case she had been thinking him a spy caught up in this espionage business. "Truly, I'm not. You may ask my parents, and anyone at Cambridge. They've known me for years."
Now, push flitted through Zipporah’s head, and she smiled at him despite herself. “It is just a spell for to help give of the strength,” she said. “It is just a little something for the vigor, and your body does the rest, but you should sleep well tonight, and avoid strenuous activity.”
Her expression softened as she shook her head. “I do not know if it is your natural sensitivities, or a spell that somehow affected you and the Russians both, and if so, why.” She shrugged. “You have a gift for to see spirits, and this one was most potent,” she said. “Beyond that, I know very little.”
"Is it still there?" Bertie asked, remembering to meekly drink the water before Miss Bakst took matters into her own hands. She must have told him, he thought, but he couldn't remember now. Her spell had indeed returned some of his vigor, and he struggled the rest of the way upright. "I should go and speak with it...if it's doing harm, even accidentally...it's my duty to protect..."
Bertie had some vague, disconnected thoughts about ghosts and the Night Watch, and couldn't have even said in that moment which he was speaking of, only that he needed to be wherever such a disturbance was, because that was why he'd been recruited to begin with, and instead of stepping in, he'd collapsed onto the floor. And the hostess.
"I should go out there," he repeated, digging his fingers into the divan as he made to stand.
“No,” Zipporah replied, firmly, pressing down on his shoulder. “No, you should not. It is gone, and should it return, I shall banish it.”
She looked up just then to see Mr Allen come through the curtain with a flourish, his handsome face a storm of worry and anger, and standing in a sharp contrast with his finery, and she gestured to Bertie. “Tell him he must stay,” she said, plaintively.
Gabriel was fully aware that the curtain only provided a certain degree of privacy from curious glances -- he settled for a quick touch on Bertie’s free shoulder. “Gave us a bit of a scare,” he said, squeezing it lightly. “Are you…” he looked over at Zipporah quickly, and she shrugged and nodded.
“Are you quite alright?” He managed. “And yes, please, for the love of God, listen to Miss Bakst.”
Bertie sagged back again, trying to put his disordered thoughts together while also wanting nothing more than to curl up and sleep. "Tired, only," he answered, letting his eyes close. "Quite all right. I'm sorry for worrying you."
Bertie hadn't woken up, Miss Bakst had said. The others had, and smelling salts should have had him up again in a moment, but he hadn't woken. "You said the ghost was pleading," he murmured, testing out his thoughts. "You shouldn't banish it, if it needs my help. Perhaps that's why it came. But it approached the Russians, you said."
Not Bertie. But perhaps the message was for them, and he was only the medium. If it had anything to do with him at all.
He opened his eyes, making another connection then, given the look and question that had passed between Gabriel and Miss Bakst. "Did you think I might be possessed?" he asked, more frank and steady than he might have expected of himself. "Haunted? And that's why I didn't wake when the others did?"
Gabriel couldn’t help looking over at Zipporah again before giving Bertie’s shoulder another squeeze. “I don’t believe so,” he said, carefully.
Zipporah frowned. “It was no dybbuk,” she said, shaking her head. “And it had no head, Mr Eden,” she added, sighing, “and seeing as how it was Russian, I do not think you could communicate very well even if it had ears and a tongue for to speak with, and it is gone besides.” She shrugged. “It was pleading to the Russians, not to you. And they…” she frowned. “By the looks on their faces, they knew what it was in reference to.”
The look Gabriel shot her that time was a distinctly sharper one. He and Biddie had only had time and privacy for the barest of hissed conversation, but the last thing he wanted was to sic Bertie further on some goose chase before he’d had time to clear things up. (Further than he’d already been led by the damned woman, that is -- she’d all but laid out the reasons for him to be suspicious of her in fireworks).
Bertie wanted to argue that no one knew the ghost was Russian...unless Miss Bakst somehow did, by clothing or otherwise, which was another matter...but he had more important concerns to follow up on. "Are they still in there? The Russians? I should have a word. Comfort them, explain their matters, get their names and addresses," which was by far the most important of those matters. "Or is there an address book, a guest list? I suppose not. Or rather, not one that..."
He fell silent before he could say anything directly about Mrs Linden or Modern Prometheus. Gabriel had gently urged him, twice over now, to drop the matter. He'd said there was nothing here, and Bertie had to concede, he still had nothing. A ghost, possibly a Russian one, pleading...it had cast no suspicion on Mrs Linden, nor did Bertie have a convenient Russian corpse to put with it. There were no crimes here, and no case. All Bertie had was circumstantial evidence pointing in all directions and none, and which might not be anything at all.
"Never mind," he sighed, allowing himself to wilt even further into the angled embrace of the divan. "I'm sorry. My head is still spinning. Of course they shouldn't be troubled further, and an unsettling experience is nothing to get them worked up about. They might just decide it was a trick of the champagne. Which I may have had too much of."
Bertie felt guilty for the sham, but he'd told Gabriel he would let this go, and if he couldn't, then at least he wouldn't have Gabriel worrying over him while he made inquiries. Gabriel had enough worrying him already, without the addition of Bertie.
"Miss Bakst," he said, with a properly soulful expression of regret, "I'm sorry, again, for my thoughtless words earlier. Truly. Thank you for restoring me. I believe I shall retire, after this...crowning moment of the evening."
“It was nothing,” she replied, giving his arm a pat. “I am glad I could be here for to help.”
The stumbling Mr Eden did seem to be contrite enough about what he’d tripped himself into, and as it didn’t appear malicious, she couldn’t hold too much ill will. Not with that expression.
Gabriel’s shoulders relaxed fractionally at Bertie’s leaving off his need to follow through with the Russians, and he dared to reach briefly for Bertie’s forehead, resting his palm there briefly. “You’ll go straight to bed?” He said, quietly. “You’ll take care? Do you need me to see you home?”
Zipporah felt very nearly as if she were suddenly intruding on a private conversation; she stood to refill the water glass, to give them both a little more space.
Bertie smiled up at Gabriel, guilt spiking briefly and then easing. He'd been right to think that Gabriel would only worry, and it wasn't a lie--he didn't intend to go chasing anyone down this evening, after making a dramatic spectacle of himself.
Later might be a different story.
"You have a party to attend," Bertie replied. "And I couldn't leave Miss Allen without an escort. I'm afraid she's rather wroth with me as well," he sighed, as he remembered it. "I'll try to leave a card tomorrow, with apologies."
He wanted to reach out and touch Gabriel as well, for reassurance, but all of London was on the other side of a curtain from them, and Miss Bakst was on this side. A soft, private smile for Gabriel alone would have to be enough.
"Straight to bed," Bertie promised, and then broke his own intention and reached up to touch Gabriel's wrist before he let his hand fall away.
Gabriel could feel the twist in his stomach at Bertie looking so wan and full of unanswered questions. He had a feeling the degree of anger he felt towards Biddie at the moment was a well best left unplumbed -- it was entirely counterproductive, for one, and the ice he was walking on was thin enough to warrant care, but it was still there -- a hot, churning swirl of possessiveness that he had to work to master. Bertie was his friend, his lover, and someone he’d laid claim to in their negotiations -- another irony, as that commitment was most likely a step further than Bertie might think he’d be willing or capable of -- but having made it, and gladly, given the alternative, he would abide and demand it be honored.
Bertie’s comment about Leah did manage to quell that anger some, and it was so very Bertie that he couldn’t help a quick and warm smile. “Oh, Mr Eden,” he said, “it isn’t a ball without at least some stepped-upon toes, and we all need a bit of drama to make life interesting. I’m sure she’ll recover, as shall you.”
Zipporah returned to the couch, this time with a fortifying port, and sniffed. “Good,” she said. “That is good. And he is correct, you shall. Drink this, and go home. I shall send you some teas.”
Bertie took the glass from his self-appointed physician and gave Gabriel another helpless smile. "I'll write tomorrow," he promised. "Fill me in on any other stepped-on toes, would you? And thank you, Miss Bakst." Bertie gave her a little twisting half-bow from his partially reclined position on the divan. "I'm humbled by your gracious attentions."
He knew even as he said it that she would only snort at him, but he was too tired to censor himself. When all else failed, it seemed, ingrained manners would prevail. "I hope that in restoring my energies, you haven't sapped too much of your own. I wouldn't want to ruin the evening for you."
Bertie was abruptly exhausted, as if he'd only just let himself feel it, and even Miss Bakst's spell was like a cup of tea on an empty stomach, a brief lift without the reserves beneath it to help its effects last. The thought of going home to a cold, empty bed only made the journey there seem more wearying, and of all the ways he might have imagined this night's end, this had not been on his list of hoped-for outcomes.
No matter. It was as it was, and he would sleep soon.
"Goodnight," Bertie said softly. "And my thanks to both of you."
Gabriel gave him an arm to hoist himself up with, resting a hand on his back until he was steady, and two sets of eyes followed him as he made his way slowly into the ballroom and (presumably) home.
Zipporah raised an eyebrow.
“Is there anything I ought to know?” she asked Gabriel, her voice low.
He pinched his nose and sighed, looking, all of a sudden, a great deal more tired. (The wrinkles lent him an air of dishevelled rumpled beauty -- it really did figure that he managed to be pretty no matter the circumstances.)
“I was about to ask you the same,” he replied, quietly. He looked over at her, frowning. “We’ll talk later? Not here. You ought to get back to your escort.”
She shrugged and nodded, and perhaps it was because she’d just been mother hen to Bertie, but she reached for his hands and held them in hers briefly. “Later,” she said, quietly, and leaned up to kiss him on the cheek.