Victorian Nocturne

London was never truly silent, even at this hour of the night. Perhaps to the average person it was, but it was very difficult to get into the right sort of mood to be an average person if you were paranoid. The merest whispers and squeaks and trickles in the dark alleys could have been anyone. They could have meant doom. Even in these dark, empty alleys there was the lingering sense that someone was watching, listening. Someone heard quick footsteps that just barely dodged the puddles, the rustle of fabric and the occasional sound of something that sounded remarkably like a head bashing against the brick, sometimes accompanied by a stifled curse.

( Clearly, you were meant to do other things... )

The house, was large, but notably under furnished. Everything stood on hard wood floors that hadn’t been polished in far too long. The old desks pushed to the walls in most rooms were littered with parchments and dust, and stray traces of dark inks and candle waxes marred their surfaces. There was a great old chimney leading down to a fireplace in the middle of the house, and the walls swelled out in one line bisecting the walls to allow the chute to lead up into open sky.

The bedroom was much the same. A littered desk, a bookcase laden with aging tomes and occult or scientific paraphernalia, and an old double bed.

There was movement. It was brief, and rough, and then it was over.

Simon wasn’t the kind of man to stop and fret over the details of something, or to attach any more significance to a bodily function than he was accustomed too. So he tried not to linger upon his own physical demands. He dealt with them, and the moment he was done? Well, he saw no further reason to stand upon niceties, especially when he had other things to be doing.

Shifting off his bed, he winced slightly, before straightening up. The adjoining room led through to a makeshift study, which considering the kind of things that Simon studied, consisted of a mostly open room, with a desk and chair pushed against one of the walls, and a floor nearly completely inscribed with the details of various glyphs and sigils. Without a backward glance he approached the room, pushing open the door and knocking a stop into place beneath it, before calling back over his shoulder,

“Your money’s on the table. Let yourself out.”

( Read more... )

It was late when Fox started to make her way home from the pub, and she waved farewell to her companions as she started off towards home. Her pay packet was tucked into the inside of her coat, a bit lighter than it had been at the start of the evening. There had been drink and darts, and her step was a little loose-limbed as she passed under the streetlamp.

Her right hand was holding a truncheon, and it rattled along the fence near the curb as she walked. She'd taken to carrying it at night because London after dark could be a dangerous place, and even in her current mode of dress she was vulnerable. Mr. Cullen had always told her, Better safe than sorry. It was advice she constantly took heed of. The street was quiet otherwise, the only sound that of metal striking metal as the cosh ticked off the fence posts.

There would be bed soon, after she'd done her nightly ablutions and prayers. She wasn't drunk by any means, but she was a little tipsy. Hopefully she could reach her room without rousing the house.

( There are still some decent people in London. )

He never made it a secret that he hated this neighborhood. Or, rather, that he hated going through it at any hour of the day, especially during daylight hours. And, to be fair, he'd never actually told Mr. Prosser this, but he'd told the rest of the lads back at the boarding house and therefore it wasn't a secret at all, was it? Not if Jack knew, anyway, the bastard. Izzy was very happy they didn't even work out of the same place, mainly because Jack actually made quite a bit more than he did, so why he lived at the boarding house was a mystery, aside from the fact that he apparently used his room for little more than a glorified storage closet.

It was much easier to think about that than to consider his surroundings. The decadently carved stone buildings and fancy shops and people in their expensive outfits really only served to make him nervous. Izzy might have been well-dressed for someone of his standing and means, but he knew full well he was an outsider and that meant the coppers knew too. It didn't help that, right now, he felt like a starving wolf on a farm of very oblivious sheep and was trying very hard not to act on it. Why Mr. Prosser insisted on bringing him to his house was beyond Izzy, but aside from the walk there and back, he couldn't complain much. After all, it meant some damn good food if he didn't mind the servants looking at him funny.

Perhaps he should have been paying attention. Then, he might have noticed that he was walking faster than most people run, and in the cacophony of human scents upon the air he might have noticed that when he passed by the smell of a fine perfume, he was actually walking into it. Immediately, he turned on his heel and managed to keep from falling down. He'd walked into a lady who from the looks of her clothing was probably pretty high up on the ladder or at least wealthy. If it had been possible for Izzy to turn even more pale, he would well have done it. Hastily, he took off his hat and bowed a little, offering her his hand. "Oh my - dreadful sorry, madam! I - I - sorry, can I help you?"

( Right into a coincidence. )

He often wondered whether or not she knew where her letters were going. The boarding house wasn't exactly on any kind of company property, but she wouldn't know about that, he thought. She'd never been to London, he knew that much. Or at least, if she had, she'd never told him.

( How can you possibly trust someone you trust implicitly? )