Who: Lucien Swinton, Bertie Eden What: The two touch base after this Where: Lord Black's London home When: 4 February, 1889 Rating: PG
Lucien sat across from Bertie, his expression thoughtful.
He’d been meaning to talk to the lad since their rather uncomfortable party -- he appeared to have some sort of past with Mrs Linden, a rather unpleasant one, if his reactions at the time were anything to go on -- but he’d slipped out before they could talk, and Lucien had been up to his ears in meetings and pack business since.
He’d been grateful for the young man’s presence at their ‘war council’ (as he’d taken to calling it), and would’ve requested a meeting after to touch base if he hadn’t suggested it first. Seeing Peter with his second had been…
...well.
It’d set him off-balance, and he’d felt rather pettily outnumbered and threatened, which was ridiculous, as the threat was, as Una had put it, entirely external. It’d still stung, and having Bertie there had re-balanced things somewhat.
He’d rung for tea, and once the tray arrived and they were left in some privacy, he nodded his head to Bertie.
“It was good to have you there today,” he said, pouring out the tea and waving off Bertie’s offer to do so.
"I was glad to be there, and thank you for asking me," Bertie replied, easing back into his chair. He watched Lord Black pour the tea, his thoughts still a jumble of worry and guilt and fear. "I wish I could have been more help. I don't feel as though I did much."
He hadn't been thrilled to meet Peter Foster, but thankfully his silent challenge hadn't been answered, and Bertie had avoided creating a disruption in a meeting where enough people had been on-edge already. He was immensely grateful that Lord Black had suggested coming back to the London House, where they wouldn't be overheard or interrupted. Bertie was uneasy enough about the subject he'd asked to discuss without the risk of eavesdroppers.
"I have news for you," Bertie admitted quietly. "I'm sorry, I've been trying to get my thoughts in order, but I think it might be best if I just...tell you what I can, and let you decide what to do with it, if anything. I haven't been able to make sense of things, not entirely."
He should have left it there, shouldn't pry or ask questions or introduce an uncomfortable subject, but he still found himself unable to keep from saying, "So that was Peter Foster?"
Lucien raised an eyebrow as he passed Bertie his tea. “Indeed,” he said, drily. “While this entire mess has a way of hitting far too close to home, as it were,” he added, “I suppose it is a good sight better to have some assurances, and someone willing to talk, and I doubt anyone else in his position would’ve done so. Think of him what you will,” he said, and his tone allowed for a great deal of interpretation as to his own thoughts on the matter, “but I do believe he’s sincere in his efforts.”
He took his own tea (black with a slice of lemon), and tipped his head. “And you did a great deal,” he added, with a small hint of a smile. “Believe me. If anything, your support gave me a great deal more ability to be civil than I would have been otherwise.”
Taking a sip of his tea, he looked over at Bertie. “And please, do tell what you can. I’d rather hear an incomplete picture than none at all.”
Bertie sat for a moment more, knowing Lord Black to be endlessly patient, and likely more appreciative of a coherent report than a spill of disjointed words. When he thought he might be ready, he spoke slowly, taking care not to trespass on his own oath to the Night Watch.
"I was approached at the end of summer by a fae from the Winter Court, not officially through the Night Watch, who asked me to find things for her--items that seem to be similar to those that American Pinkertons are looking for, in connection with the Stahl coven you and Lord Ravensworth spoke of today."
Bertie hadn't been completely certain, until then, that he could share the details of that case, but Lord Black's lack of any surprise at the name indicated that he already knew. Now came the more challenging part. "I've located one of them," Bertie said carefully. "A weapon. A terrible weapon, I fear, though I don't fully understand it. I've turned it in to the Night Watch, but if they gave their blessing...if we do want to cast blame on the Stahls in order to draw them out, even if we and the Night Watch all know it wouldn't be true, and no charges pressed for it..."
Bertie was starting to get tangled again, and this was where he'd decided Lord Black could draw his own conclusions and decide best, so he finished simply, "Chief Orwell might agree to let it out of our keeping, if the Winter Court hasn't claimed it yet. But it would also be a terrible risk, to give it to one of them, and to attack Lord Ravensworth with it, when anything might go wrong, and it is..."
Bertie shivered a little at the memory of the ghosts. "I don't know that it's a good idea," he admitted quietly. "But since this is important, I thought you should know."
Lucien stilled as Bertie talked. Robert Kidsman, Peter’s chosen second (and how poor, he wondered, a bit uncharitably, were the rest of Peter’s choices if he’d gone with that one) was a dangerous combination of terrified and resentful, and given his lack of self-awareness as to how he came off, he strongly suspected he was both newly turned, and shockingly under-exposed to others of his kind.
“I see,” he said, carefully. “First of all, I agree entirely with your assessment regarding the object in question -- I would not put anything we know so little about into Kidsman’s hands. That does not mean you can’t claim it fell from his pockets as he ran, and have it in Night Watch possession all along.”
He hemmed, and took a thoughtful sip of his tea. “I think there are three audiences to consider, and all of them at odds -- the first is Peter’s keeper, and whether, if we tip too heavily into making it seem as though vampires are at work, he would see this as a benefit, or a detriment. I’ve no idea what the man’s motives are, other than, apparently, causing conflict, so with a great deal of luck he wouldn’t be too put out if the vampires were blamed for in-fighting, especially if Peter can make a case for it leading to them lashing out at their own. One would think that would be preferable, but it’s hard to say.” He tapped the side of his china cup. “The second are the vampires, and the third are my own people, and I’m a touch less concerned about both of them in this scenario, as it simply adds to a narrative that already exists -- that of vampires causing trouble amongst their own -- than bringing in a new threat.”
He looked over at Bertie. “And are you quite alright, son?” He asked. “Weapons like that, of great power, well. I can’t imagine it was an incredibly pleasant experience, encountering one face to face.”
Bertie swallowed at the unfamiliar term of endearment, moved for a moment beyond speech, and looked down at his hands. They didn't tremble on the teacup, though he felt almost as if they should. "I think something in me is...awakening," he replied uncertainly. "Or in the ghosts, since they've begun to roam, but I've had...experiences, which have been foreign until now. I don't know yet what it means, or quite what to make of it."
He took in a breath and let it shudder out, clear his mind of darker thoughts. "It has killed a great many people, this weapon," Bertie confessed. "Their ghosts are tied to it, still, unable to leave. I don't know yet how to free them. If, indeed, they can be freed."
That was neither here nor there, however. Bertie delayed before imparting more information, not knowing how Lord Black would take it, but it seemed important as well, when discussing the use of such a weapon in a scheme. "The winter fae who chose me to find these things told me outright that it was because she believed me to have little value, if I failed to survive the experience. I thought she meant with those who had stolen the artifacts, but now I wonder if she also meant handling the artifacts themselves. Fae items can be very...strange."
Realizing belatedly that he'd let the concern warm him without expressing his gratitude for it, Bertie interrupted himself in the act of raising the teacup to his lips to say, "Thank you, Lord Black, for asking. I appreciate the...I'm very thankful, for the thought."
“They are indeed strange,” Lucien replied, frowning, “and all too often beyond mortal understanding, as can be the creatures who made them,” he added. “I would caution against tinkering, especially given the obvious risk and your current… uncertain state. I know you’ve a calling,” he added, “and it is laudable, but turning over the item to the Winter Court would be preferable under the circumstances, I should think.”
He took a sip of his tea. “I don’t care for a member of the Winter Court being so dismissive,” he added, “but at the very least, your involvement in the meeting today should put an end to that particular fiction.” His frown deepened. “If it does crop up again, you’ll tell me? I’ll make sure Una hears of it.”
“It is rather a point of pride” he added, anticipating Bertie’s reaction, “and besides, you are most certainly of value.” He looked over the rip of his cup at Bertie. “Now what’s this about new experiences? You believe they are related to the ghosts roaming at all?” He tipped his head, curious. “I’ll admit I know very little on that count. Have you talked to anyone else about it?”
Hearing that he was a reflection on the pack caused Bertie to relax at once, the protests dying on his lips. His strength would add to the strength of the pack--he understood why, for their alpha, the winter fae could not be allowed to be so cavalier with someone under Black Park's protection.
Bertie wondered whether or not he ought to say anything about Dex.
He pulled his thoughts away from that rather complicated prospect, and focused on the matter at hand. "I've sought help from the witch Zipporah Bakst, twice, but this last time she said what happened was different. I was -" used "- pulled into a spell to provide power for it, and while I thought the same thing might have happened again just lately, it seems it hasn't. Instead, there's a...a door, opened in me, and I seem to be walking through it, though rather without any intention of doing so."
Bertie knew he was making little sense, and took a quick drink from his teacup before admitting, "I walked into the land of the dead. And was...pushed...back out again." A new thought occurred to him, and he winced a little. "I don't know whether or not I would have left under my own power, otherwise. I should hope so, but the experience was very...different."
“I’ll admit,” Lucien replied, thoughtfully, “that’s all quite out of my depth. It does not sound particularly pleasant, however, especially as it appears to be without your say-so on both counts. It is good you’re talking to someone about it, however. Miss Bakst seems eminently reasonable. Do let me know if there’s anything I might do.”
He paused, then, and looked over at Bertie soberly. “I know that you’d given serious thought to keeping yourself as you are, out of a need to provide a service, both to the Crown, and to the pack, and I respect your choice, and see the value in it. But I would want you to know that if circumstances continue to change, and you wish to revisit your decision, it would not reflect poorly on you in the least.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not certain if it would provide a further complication,” he added, “as we are rather in uncharted territory, but it is an option to consider, regardless.” He paused. “Your value is not solely based in your ability to talk to the dead, Bertie.”
There was something about the way that Lord Black considered and replied matter-of-factly to everything that set Bertie at ease, relieving weight from his shoulders that he rarely even realized was there. It wasn't coldness, but Lord Black didn't respond as emotionally as Bertie himself tended to, or as Gabriel and Dex and Zipporah did, and that let Bertie think when he spoke, instead of being caught up in feeling.
It was rather like talking with Jamie, in fact--a comparison Bertie hoped Lord Black might find complimentary, but he wouldn't mention it in case it was taken in another way.
"Thank you, Lord Black." Bertie's relief was unfeigned, and he bowed his head in respect and gratitude. "I will remember it, and promise to inform you of any developments. Miss Bakst has formed an...an anchor, for me, which she hopes will keep me here, much as she's done for Jamie--Mr Percy," he corrected himself. "I shall hope it holds, and consider later what to do if it does not. And I will turn the artifact over to the fae," he added, "as you advise. I could create a...a false replica, perhaps, if we decide to use such a claim to provoke the Stahl Coven. That would be safer, for everyone."
Bertie bit his lip, then - with the pressing business done - asked the question he always wished to ask, on seeing someone from Black Park. "How is the pack, Lord Black? Everyone is well, I hope?"
“Quite well,” Lucien replied with a small smile. “Matthew’s thinking of getting into engines, some, so to help him out, Lady Black and myself are considering purchase of one of those newfangled automobiles, mostly so he can tinker with it. And, well. I’ll admit I am looking forward to seeing what all it can do. We’re building up to making use of a threshing machine come Spring, but we’ll see how everyone takes to it. Heavens knows, it was a leap to get the lights on, and Samantha still feels as if she must wear leather gloves whenever she flips a switch.”
He shook his head. “The world can move so very fast at times, it can take a rather large effort to stay abreast of things. But new blood with modern sensibilities, such as yourself and Lady Black, really do help smooth the path, as it were.”
He paused, then, and looked over at Bertie thoughtfully. “While we’re on the subject,” he added, “I couldn’t help but notice you’ve a history with Mrs Linden. I am quite sorry for causing awkwardness by having you both there at once -- it was unintentional on my part, and I’ll be mindful in future.”
Bertie's immediate enthusiasm on the subject of technology and innovation was quashed abruptly by the cold water of Mrs Linden's name. He tried to put on a smile, though it felt false and nervous. "No, really, not at all," he claimed, trying not to fidget and give himself away. "I aided her on behalf of some spirits in the past, that's all. I don't know her well. Hardly at all."
He didn't want to ask, as he suspected he knew the answer already, but forced himself to speak. "She's a friend of Lady Black? A friend of the pack?" His voice didn't waver, for which he was grateful, nor did the teacup tremble when he raised it to his lips. His stomach felt as though it held all the butterflies that had been pinned on Mrs Linden's masquerade gown.
“She’s a friend of Lady Black,” Lucien replied, raising an eyebrow, “and she was very generous with helping to set up the London house.” He took a measured sip of his own tea. “I have not had the privilege to get to know her very well, of yet,” he added, “beyond her engineering prowess and rather notorious sweet tooth, that is.”
Bertie knew he was caught out, though Lord Black was too polite to call him on it, so rather than allow himself to speculate on what sweets Mrs Linden enjoyed (he remembered again the white table, the dark wine, the delicate china plates), he dove with enthusiasm into the only conversational opening he had.
"I've been to several lectures on clockworks. Engineering is truly a marvelous thing. There are so many wondrous devices being built now that we couldn't have dreamed of a century ago, or even decades...though you would know better," he said apologetically, dipping his head. "I do hope you find success with the engines...I rode in an automobile for the first time not long ago, and it was such a strange thing, but quite fast, and not so bumpy as carriages can be, even on the cobbles. I should like to again. I think..."
Bertie remembered slightly too late that the subject of whose automobile he'd been riding in, and for what reason, and at what hour of the night, was dangerous all around, and he veered abruptly off-course. "If there is anything I can do to assist, I hope you will think of me. I should like to help the pack in whatever manner I may. Although I'm certain Matthew will have the knack for engines in no time, and need no help at all."
Bertie hesitated for the slightest fraction of time. "Nothing has gone amiss with the electricity in the house then, I hope? There has been no danger?" It haunted his thoughts during late hours, still, the knowledge that Mrs Linden's hands had woven sparks and fire into the walls of the London House. Of his alpha's home.
Lucien could recognize a dodge, but he let it slide -- if it was a matter of personal embarrassment, he figured it would only exacerbate the issue to press.
“I shall have to see about the noise,” Lucien replied, “and the smell. I’m quite used to horses, but I’ll admit, the thought is an intriguing one. And apparently they can go remarkably fast, yes. I imagine Lady Black will quite take to it -- I shall have to simply hang on for dear life, and pray.”
“And no, nothing amiss. Roberts had to change a fuse the other day, and replace a battery, and was able to do so quite handily. Some of the staff are still a touch wary, of course, but the smell is significantly better than when we had gas lights, and while there’s a very light hum, one becomes accustomed to it quickly enough.”
Bertie smiled a little, despite his lingering unease. "I can't imagine anything disconcerting Roberts," he admitted, not without his own touch of pleased pride. "He's positively unflappable. I aspire one day to walk inside your door without seeing that flash of resignation at however I'm out of sorts--coat buttoned wrong, or mud on my shoes, or my hair disheveled by the wind. He never says a word, though."
He realized he was being far too familiar, and finished his tea quickly before setting down his cup. "Thank you again," he said sincerely. "For the tea, and listening to what I had to say."
“When he starts to fuss over you,” Lucien replied with a fond smile, “that’s when you’ll know he’s taken you on. Point of pride, all that. So don’t be surprised if one day he comes after you with a stiff brush.” He set down his cup. “And of course, I’m glad we could both make the time.” He paused, and looked over at him. “If you should ever care to,” he added, “in addition, I mean,” he amended, “you might write Matthew now and again. I find he has a very practical approach to things, and he is a very diligent correspondent. I believe he’d enjoy hearing from you.”
Bertie brightened at once. He'd enjoyed sharing poems with Matthew, but hadn't wished to overstep or embarrass Matthew by writing, when he was uncertain of Matthew's skill at reading. Having Lord Black's blessing to do so felt like having a boon granted that he hadn't thought to ask for.
"Thank you," Bertie replied, his expression flickering into another smile. "I shall do so today."
Matthew, Bertie thought, was Lord Black's second, and therefore the best to approach about more complicated matters, about which Bertie had yet to make up his mind. Turning. Necromancy. Dex.
A practical approach might be exactly what he needed.