[M] A Valuable Inheritance ~ IC

[Preach]

OOC

---

I came to them out of mists and rain;
I came to them in dreams at midnight;
I came to them in a flock of ravens that filled the northern sky at dawn;
When they thought themselves safe I came to them in a cry that broke the silence of a winter wood.

---

Save for the bitterness of winter, the night in London was lovely indeed. Clear, the moon bright but still low in the sky; newly risen. The snow from the night before had turned grey from carriages and footsteps and had been swept aside. It looked like it would frost over soon--- unless those clouds from the north moved in, like people said they might. Then it could well snow again.

Inside the grand town houses of the city, the weather was completely negligible. One such house was 53 Berkeley Square, one of the most fashionable addresses in London. This house belonged to a very fashionable man, and he was hosting a very fashionable party.

"Gay!" Tarquin called pompously, summoning his nephew through the crowd. Tarquin was reclining on a chaise, his peacock-blue outfit detailed in gold brocade resplendent in the candlelight. Mirrors lined the far wall of the parlor, magnifying the blaze from the candles and making the room seem bright and sunny... but it was also insufferably hot, noisy, and crowded. Tarquin St. George actively judged anyone who acted as if they were hot. As the very height of refinement, he acted aloof and willed himself to stop sweating... though his willpower wasn't achieving anything, it was mostly just the way the servants constantly brought him iced water.

Yes, he had ice on demand. He was that rich. He could bathe in ice if he chose. In fact, he had! Once, but never again.

"Oh, where is that boy of mine?" Tarquin sighed, gazing at the ceiling as if distraught when in truth he knew where the boy was, he had the servants watching him at all times and reporting to him about Gay's whereabouts at all times. For that boy, Tarquin would actually talk to the servants. Yes, he was that desperate to keep Gay closely surveilled. Though it had been a few minutes since the servants had reported back... that would not do.

"Oh, your nephew is such a lovely creature," some woman that Tarquin barely knew said, though he knew that she was having an affair with one of her husband's colleagues in the royal navy. "You are so lucky to be watching over him, really, you are, Tarquin!"

He smiled over at her and saw that her white makeup was melting off her face, and felt envy because he could never have a face as pale as hers. "Oh, I know! He really is such a lovely creature." He replied pleasantly, mirroring her tone. "Now, please, my dear, won't you excuse me while I find him?" Of course, he was excused. He glanced at himself in the mirror as he waded through the sweaty, crowded room and noted that he was flawless as always; his wig still looked powdered, rouge intact. He smiled at his own reflection. The curtains opposite the mirrors weren't drawn, of course. It was good for passers-by to see the glory of this house and the party and know that they were't invited-- the shame! Oh, they'd feel such shame. The light from the room blocked out the sights of everything in the outside world.

Tarquin needed to make sure his nephew wasn't doing anything horribly embarrassing. Hopefully he would just be singing, or dancing in one of the other rooms... not naked or, doing something equally horrifying. Tarquin shuddered at the very thought of it!

As always, he'd written "only my dearest friends will be invited," on his invitations, but this party wasn't just a nice get-together for 'friends,' whatever those were. This was networking at its finest; everyone in London knew it. Tarquin personally knew hardly a fourth of the people who'd shown up. As he walked gracefully through the crowds, Tarquin went through a mental list of the people he knew would be here, even if he didn't know them personally... a few politicians, some navy men, a Lady or two... one of is acquaintances had told him he'd invited some foreign businesswoman -as if a woman could run a business! Tarquin had scoffed at the thought. But, well, at least she was exotic, perhaps it could add to his appeal. Another acquaintance had brought some person from Scotland... a businessman from Scotland... and the fine London people that that Scot was associated with. Tarquin had only felt pity for the Scot,seeing as he was... you know... Scottish... and was scandalized when he heard the rumors about him, deciding he would only 'accidentally' meet him after the hour was sufficiently late. And then one of his other acquaintances, a recently married socialite-in-the-making, had reportedly picked up an Italian monk -- no, Tarquin corrected himself, an Italian priest; priests could be fashionable but monks... eh...-- and she said he was very handsome. Beautiful foreigners were always welcome in Tarquin's house when they could make others envious of the socially appropriate variety that Tarquin hosted. As a result, the businesswoman and the Italian were welcome, and it was all he could do to hope that the Scot wasn't too... Scottish... while in his home.

Oh and of course the lovely Marcella Strauss was invited! No party was complete without her, despite her singular flaw... poor woman... well, she wasn't to blame for her nationality, Tarquin supposed. Though her family would probably be here, too. Oh, well.

This was all assuming they showed up, naturally. But who would turn down an invitation to a party from the Tarquin St. George? Especially when little Gay St. George would be in attendance, too? No one. Certainly no one worth knowing.

Where could that boy be? The library, perhaps? That room was practically like a stage, with all the books lined up against the walls and a perfect empty spot at the center... Tarquin's library was beautiful and grand, though he didn't know what was in it. It was mostly to keep up appearances. He had antiquarians and agents buy the most expensive or beautiful books available, and that was all he knew about them. One of his friends had brought over a theoretical magician once, the type who likes to study English magic and knows they'll never ever ever get to actually do any magic, and that magician had almost slobbered all over Tarquin's silk Persian carpet when he'd found something called "Life's Mirror by Ralph Stokely"* or whatever in the library. Tarquin had found his enthusiasm about a book entirely unappealing and discreetly banned him from entering his house ever again.

"Gay?" The large house seemed particularly maze-like tonight, and people Tarquin vaguely knew seemed to flit around him. He smiled at each and every one, without really registering their faces. Each room he passed was more beautiful than the last; the other parlour, a dining room, a sitting room... all exquisitely decorated and full of beautiful people. A sudden wrong turn brought him face-to-face with a dark corridor where only one candle was lit; the end of it disappeared into nothingness, or it seemed to. The moon was bright through the window. The trees from the park seemed too close to his beautiful glass window. Tarquin sneered and made a mental note to have the foreign plants that infringed on his property either trimmed or cut down.

[Ragnarok]

Nora was lying awake in her bed as dawn came upon England. Her room was darkened by curtains, which refused to let most of the sunlight into the room. It was a big room. The bed was three times bigger than Nora, and Nora loved it. They didn't have beds like this back in Arabia. Or at least, as big. It could have been more comfortable. Nora decided it was time to get up. She walked to the curtains and opened them. Getting a wonderful view of the English Channel, which had been named just recently. It reminded her of home. One of the few things that did.

Everything in England was so different from her Home. Back in her Hometown, they had dirt roads because the ind would often cover up paved roads with dirt and sand from the nearby deserts. It didn't rain often in Arabia, but it did rain once in a while where she lived for the beginning of her life. Here, in England, after nine years, she still wasn't used to this amount of rain. Nora walked over to he wardrobe and pulled out some formal attire, taking off her nightgown. Yet another thing she didn't see the point of. Who the hell goes to sleep in a dress?

Nora came out of her room, a Guard was stationed outside the door. He was to escort her wherever she went, and obey her every command. It was funny, how he never questioned it. She once made him dance around in nothing but a pair of trousers. Though most of the people around her didn't find it as such. He stayed directly 3 steps behind Nora as she walked to the warehouse, which was along the docks. Her father would send their goods through Boat, and she lived near the harbor, so she didn't need a carriage.

As the workers were unloading a ship filled with boxes of their main import, Coffee beans, She wrote in her booklet, which had all of their information in it. She kept it in a secure place at all times. She directed some men to the shops where they had orders in place. One of the stores had promised to pay when the next shipment arrived. "Make sure he pays double. Mr.Anderson hadn't payed for his last shipment." The worker nodded as they began loading the boxes.

This went on for a while, then Nora left, going back home for breakfast. She was a busy woman.

[Minkasha]

Gay was connected to one of his many happy places. Eyes shut, his mind chased the notes that were running ahead of him. Each movement from his bow continued the hunt, he could see it in his mind's eye. The rush through the forest of music, continue the beat, continue his craft and surly he will catch the next note.

To the outside world, his hunt was a passionate performance , a look of serenity on his face. Some speculated that Gay was connecting to God through his musical trance. Gay wasn't a person currently, but sound gracing through the library, awing the crowd. This crowd wasn't before Gay, the chase, the hunt, was. With each passing bar of music, he saw the nearing of his goal.

A small smile escaped from his image of tranquility, small rocks with the violin bounced his hair about. The St. George Star was dazzling the crowd. The heat of the room was provoking him to sweat a bit on his brow, or that could have been his passion seeping through.

[Weble]

The rattling of carriage wheels echoed down the cobbled street as it drove past one or two gents, some other carriages and a handful of street citizens.
The carriage was pulled by two coal horses and the driver was giving them an odd whack or two with a whip to urge them to go faster.
The driver was cold and grouchy and was very well looking forward to his warm jug of ale at the nearest pub after dropping his passengers to 53 Berkeley Square, an address he knew very well after dropping off many patrons to the famous Tarquin St. George parties.

Everybody in London knew him very well from the lowest to the highest sections of society and the driver's passengers were in no doubt one of the fancy people invited to go.
In the carriage one man and one woman ,seated across from each other, were having a discussion about the host of tonight's party. It's mainly the woman talking.
Piero Lombardi was the man seated across from his friend's brother's youngest daughter, Sofia Lawrence, who was giving him some gossip about tonight's party. As a priest he does not gossip much but the daughter seemed to be taking this chance to confess the city's 'sins' before going into the party so that he could acquaint himself to the people there and being a priest he wasn't allowed to spread other people's 'past times'.
"...so Ms. Avery was hosting this tea party for Ms. March so that Ms. March would be able to talk to Mrs. Rainsford's brother but apparently Mr. Rains..Father? Father did you hear what I said?" Inquired Sofia as she looked at the man seated before her 'Pity he became a priest, if only he wasn't' was the thought that ran through her mind and she isn't the only one to think as many London women despaired about this fact.
"Sí, Ms. Lawrence. Do continue, what happened next?" replied Piero smiling at her and this was all she needed to launch back to her gossip. If there was one thing he thankful for it would be his selective hearing as he was used to his sisters' chatter and would only tune in to whatever interested him.

Eventually the topic of conversation turned to the host of tonight's party of which Piero was attending. The Lawrences were kind enough to bring him with them to the party and wouldn't even take a no for an answer when he said that he was going to be late and for him being late equalled to not attending so Sofia decided to stay behind and go to the party together as she had arrangements made prior to the party. He declined no at the start but the family insisted and the mother stated "It's fashionable to be late these days".
"Eh..Ms. Lawrence, what can you tell me about this Signore St. George?" He asked, curious about his host he doesn't want to go in blindly as he wants to know what his host is like. Once he asked that question he received what seemed a monologue about this man but he summarised this character in five points:
A socialite, loves to be fashionable,the fashionable! ,has a charming nephew staying with him, could rival these London women when it comes to gossip and like any other upper class Londoners, a lazy one. He wasn't sure if he would like to meet this man or not after hearing a lot about him from Sofia.

The carriage gradually stopped to a halt as it drew right up to the front door.
"53 Berkeley Square" announced the carriage driver, Piero opened up the carriage door and stepped out first so that he could help his companion step off the carriage as it was a very gentlemanly act to do so. Once she was off he went up to the driver and gave him the payment for the ride "Grazie for the ride. I hope the rest of you're journey will be safe" and then he rooted around his pockets under the curious eye of the driver. Once he found some coins he gave it to the surprised man "Here are coins for some drink to warm you up" he said to him, at first the driver was surprised as the upper classes would just give him the fare and go off without even a thank you but this Italian was different.
"Grazie to you too" replied the driver happily to the priest though the driver pronounced Grazie as 'Gra-cie-i' but Piero cheerfully smiled in return for the attempt. The carriage and driver drove away and Piero turned to follow his companion up a few short flights of stairs then he sharply knocked at the door using the back of his hand. It was quickly answered by a servant who ushered them into the house.
The feeling of warm air quickly enveloped Piero as he took off his coat to give to the awaiting servant and the warmth was a nice welcome for him as the cold seeped away.
"Ah ha Lombardi ,my friend, you have arrived!" greeted a deep voice belonging to a man Piero knows very well.
"Mr. Avery quanto tempo, to greet a servant of The Lord like that! Where are you're manners!" Piero chided playfully,
Avery swatted away the statement as if it was a fly "I'm an Anglican, my pope is the King"
"A very mad one at that"
"Yes a fact known to every man in this city but instead of the boorish talk of politics be my wingman tonight"
"Mi dispiace, you know the rules very well Avery, ask someone else"
"Sorry... you took this the wrong way Lombardi but you know I hold a dear attachment to Ms. Windsor and every socialite in London knows that she is practically deaf to the calls of love and many other suitors tried courting her but to no avail.
So please Lombardi give you're friend a chance; give her a good word about me, you're the Italian Casanova. Ever since you've walked in half of the women here looked at you, you're foreign, handsome, new and the accent has the women curious about you. So please?"he asked in a hushed tone.

Piero hesitated and debated with himself about the pro and cons of his friend's request. He tried to avoid looking at his friend's face and looked about the room so that he could think, what Avery has said was true. Most of the women were looking at him then away when he met their gaze, he was used to this attention ever since he arrived at this wet world and these English women couldn't compare to the women of his homeland.
Very slowly he gave his reply "Capisco, I'll try but if I give you a signal to come over do come over", if hugging men was allowed to do in public Avery would have done it right there and then but such acts were frowned upon and all he could do was pat his shoulder in gratitude and went back to his friends with a big smile on his face.
Piero turned around to finally face his companion who was wearing a small smile on her face.
" You heard all of that?" He asked,
"Why everybody knows of Mr. Avery's infatuation with Ms. Windsor but unfortunately for him Ms. Windsor des not know of his feelings or anyone for that matter"
" Do you know Ms. Windsor?"
" Yes I do indeed"
Piero held out his arm for Sofia to put her hand on "Perhaps you should accompany me, introduce me to Ms. Windsor"
And with that Piero plunged himself into the crowd to do his friends request.
As well as an added note Piero loved the sweltering heat inside of the house as it reminded him of Italy in the summer so he wasn't bothered by the heat much ,it just made him slightly homesick.

[TheBarbarian]

_________2 hours earlier________

"You have to come Finn! We can not go with out you." Finn's brother in law Charles was a good man but sometimes he could be so dam annoying. "I don't see why I have to come! Who the hell would want me to go their social gathering?" "My dear friend you have been away from high society too long. The letter that was sent mentioned your name specifically while also stating that your family could come. This means that Mr. St George want's your presence more than ours." Finn shrugged. "Why does some British fop want me to attend? I am not that well known for my war efforts or my business ventures. Hell Charles, you are more known than me." Charles sighed letting out his exasperation in one single huff. "Yes but you are new and interesting. And plus you have served so long in thew army that you must have a few good stories. Look you don't have to stay long show your face for a hour or and then you can go. Is that suitably? Me and your sister will stay longer and excuse your early departure if need be. Please Finn this could very important for my business." Sighing Finn relented he might be British and annoying but he was his brother in law. "Aye. Fine I will go but no more than a hour ye' hear."

__________Now__________

It was dam hot at the party. Too dam hot Finn was listening to some Brit talk about his time in the war's. It was evident to anyone that listened that he was lying about most of it as he was getting names of generals and places wrong. Still no one seemed to care or if they did they did not show it. Finn had always hated liars and lying Brit was the worst thing imaginable.

Finn could not bare it for much longer. He needed a smoke and some fresh air. "Excuse me." He said drawing away from the small group of so called veterans who had probably only fought in one or two engagements before coming home. It made him feel sick, fop's playing at soldiers just because it was fashionable.

God how Finn missed the army. In the army no one wanted him to pretend to tolerate liars, thieves and the British. He could slag off anyone he liked and still get his commendation, honor and pay. The army only required of him that he stuck to it's simple rules and followed orders of superior officers. True he could have died many times on the different battlefield's he fought on but even that seemed slightly preferable to this pointless endeavor.

After wandering around slightly aimlessly about the place he found a servant and asked where the exit was. He was pointed towards the right place and Finn stepped out breathing in the fresher air with some joy. The door man looked him over and stopped to stare briefly at his kilt. Still he made no comment about it and continued watching the street after a few seconds. Finn withdrew his cigar case and took out a beautiful fat cigar. He lit it and began to smoke watching the people and carriages pass with a genuinely bored expression.

There seemed to be no place in this city where a man could truly be alone and with nature. This annoyed him most about London. The huge amount of people was disconcerting. To his mind home had always been a old manor in the country surrounded by mountains, rivers and fens. There you could walk without seeing another human being for hours at a time. But that was why he was hear in London after all to buy back his old manor house. He still had a long way to go however so he guessed he had to tolerate this dam boil of a city for awhile yet.

There he stood in the dark blowing smoke rings and thinking of the future. Hoping it would soon be better than it currently was. Soon he would return and brave a few minutes more of the dam party but for now Ser Finn Meander Osgrave Tamlane MacKinnon Junior was the most content he had been in awhile.

[G]

"Eliza? Eliza!"

Slumped on a table in the large library her fathers' house boasted, the blonde stirred, smacking her lips idly as she stirred herself from sleep. The pages of the large, dusty book she'd fallen asleep on rustled, sticking to her cheek for a moment as she rose to sit back in the chair, still a little disoriented from sleep.

"ELIZA!"

Marcella Strauss' voice rang out again, much closer this time, and Eliza was jerked into full consciousness. Oh, good heavens. Her mothers' reaction to finding her like this, the smooth skin of her cheek creased with the imprint of the paper, would be miserable.

"Coming, Mother."

She hoped the sleepy slur she could detect in her voice was imagined; a glance at the high window above the shelf showed, from the little light filtering through, that it was drawing late. How had she been allowed to sleep this late into the day? Obviously Marcella Strauss was very distracted with something, to have allowed her daughter to spend the better part of an afternoon so idly. Probably a new material available at the tailors.

"Eliza!" the chiding voice was right behind her now, and the blonde sighed, knowing she was about to cop an earful.

"Why am I not surprised to find you 'ere, your nose stuck in ze crease of a dusty old book again! And you aren't even dressed!" the woman began, her French accent become more pronounced the more cross she became, as it always did.

"You know Monsieur St. George's party iz tonight! You best just thank the heavens it iz fashionable to arrive late, as we certainly will, the time it'll take to get you in order! And what iz this!"

Marcella had reached out to grasp Eliza's chin in one hand, turning her head sharply to face her mother. Sliding her thumb across her tongue, she reached out to rub furiously at her daughters' cheek, where the imprint from the book still resided. It was a habit Eliza hated, and she stood up to escape Marcella's grasp.

"Alright, Mother. I apologise; I'll go get ready now."

"You most certainly will! And you will look your best! London's finest bachelors will be at zis party tonight, and time moves ever onward, darling. Do not miss this opportunity to be noticed!"

Eliza was already heading for the door. This was a speech she'd heard a thousand times, and had no care to hear again. As she headed up the hallway to her bedroom, she could hear her mother still talking behind her.

"And you walk away from your mother while she is speaking to you! No wonder you 'ave not an 'usband yet, so rude! You will display much better manners tonight, my child!"

-

By the time they were entering the house, the streetlamps had been lit. Eliza walked a pace behind her mother, only half-listening to her as she pointed out notable faces in the crowd, rattling off titles and notable deeds, but mostly she was thinking of the text she'd been reading before sleep had overtaken her. It had some interesting information, a few things she hadn't come across before on fairies. She must finish it, when her mother was satisfied they had socialized enough, and dragged her home again. Still, she didn't detest these sorts of gatherings; you could always find someone interesting to talk to, if you picked the right conversation. And she knew she looked nice; the purple silk dress was her favourite; the low neckline, lined with lace made a wonderful feature of her collarbones, even if it was laced rather too tight; another of her mothers' annoying habits, coming in to tighten the ribbons after the maidservant had done it once already.

"And there is Tarquin, we must say 'ello. Eliza? Get your head out of the clouds, girl."

[Ragnarok]

Dusk was arriving upon London, when a Maid confronted Nora about a letter. Nora glanced at the letter. picking out important words. "Party...Tonight..." She said the words softly, to herself. "Why wasn't I handed this earlier?" She asked the maid. The maid seemed to stutter.

"Well, Ms.Nora...It only arrived a while ago..." The Maid looked down at her feet, as if she'd done something wrong. Nora sighed.

"These Englishmen, always throwing parties..." She shook her head slowly. "Well, bring me my dress. The red one." She said to the Maid, and the Maid was on her way to the room. Nora was in the dining room, having dinner. She ate quite early that day. Nora looked to her guard. "I really hope you have something fancy to wear. I wouldn't want you to go around wearing that the whole night." The guard looked down at his uniform, it was stiff and seemed uncomfortable. The guard opened his mouth to speak, but closed it. "Speak." Said Nora.

"I...never really thought about buying anything fancy." He mumbled. Nora thought to herself, then brought out a few coins.

"Go buy something a bit more formal." She smiled and the Guard nodded, taking his leave. Nora went to her room, where there were a few maids scurrying about looking for the red dress. It took a few minutes, but they found it in another room of the Manor. Nora put it on with the help of the maids. It was London made, but designed to be more free moving. Not like the dresses you'd see in shops. This one was smaller and less fluffed. Fit her body perfectly.

Soon after, the guard came back in a white suit. It looked nice. Nora let him keep the change. They made their way to the party.

As they arrived, in a carriage, The guard sat opposite to Nora. He kept his formal attitude. Speaking when allowed to, do as he was told, etc. He got out first, and helped Nora out of the Carriage. Not that she'd need the help, but it was much appreciated. She handed the man at the door the invitation letter and the walked in. The guard was by her side. Nora didn't know a lot of people at the party. She wasn't always invited to them. She could see a few people she'd recognized, But that was it. A few people started a conversation with her, and Nora listened. They talked for a while before Nora decided to leave the conversation casually.

[Snotgirl]

Rosalyn couldn't stand the incessant babbling of the so called air headed nobility. Hypocrisy leaked from every single one of them, ready to burst like an over blooded tick. Each of their eyes were glassy, barely registering the person they were talking to, hardly recognizing their faces let alone their names. Their smiles were fake, easily given to every person who passed them by, with nary a trace of warmth or friendliness. Everyone's favorite subject to talk about happened to be themselves. So not only were they as fake as could be, they were unflinchingly narcissistic. At least, that's how Rosalyn saw it.

It was enough to give her a headache, although of the fault did not lie solely with the masses around her. The heat and bright lights also added to her distress. Hand pressed against her temple, Rosalyn leaned against the wall, swishing the wine in her cup with her right hand. The drink was fine, as was the food. The company? Not so much.

Despite the fact that Rosalyn wore a rather simple dress, her way of trying not to stand out, she'd already been approached by a few of the young man. Rosalyn only showed the barest of courtesies, her face an iron mask which easily hid her thoughts. They attempted conversation, nervous smiles being shown after it was clear Rosalyn was not interested in interaction. Soon thereafter, they excused themselves, probably looking for a better conversation partner. Luckily, it seemed that aura around her deflected any chance at small talk, the crowd subconciously making a barrier between them and her. That was fine though.

She'd been forced here. Rosalyn's parents weren't exactly the paragons of high society but neither were they utterly negligble. Having never met this Tarquin person, the host, Rosalyn couldn't imagine a single reason as to why her family had been invited. Her parents weren't scions in business, so there was no way Tarquin would benefit from knowing them. But trying to grasp the thoughts of the simple minded was nothing more than a futile exercise, unlikely to yield any results that would fit Rosalyn's logic.

Breathing out a deep sigh, Rosalyn made her way through the crowd, eager for a breath of fresh air, no matter how bitter and cold. Her dress rustled, brushing against the floor and other patrons of the party. Laughter echoed off the nearly cavernous room. Conversation made sure the din of the room never faded. Yet Rosalyn couldn't wait to get away from it all. Finally, after a few minutes of navigating groups of people, Rosalyn finally found her way to a glass door. Turning the handle, Rosalyn carefully opened the door. Wind flowed in, rustling against the dress and the nerves of other partygoers.

Ignoring the poisonous looks Rosalyn recieved, she proceeded to exit the room, stepping onto a ornately carved balcony. Shutting the door, Rosalyn turned and leaned on the cold stone, wine still in hand.

Finally, some quiet.

The only sounds were coming from the wind that brushed against the house. Otherwise, it was remarkably silent. Enjoying both the moon and the silence, Rosalyn sipped at her drink, appreciating the taste.

[Preach]

Tarquin searched and searched through the glorious rooms of his glorious house, smiling and gesturing fashionably at the fashionable people gathered there... though his house did seem bigger than it normally did. He passed a hallway, and could hear someone playing a lonely song on a fiddle. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked down the hallway, surprised and shocked to hear such pathetic music coming from somewhere in his house. A pause. No fiddle, only a violin, and the music was exquisite.

He'd found Gay.

St. George smiled, evidently relieved. Music! If Gay was playing his violin, then all was well. He could see the crowd gathered down the hall in the library now, they were smiling-- oh, was that Ms. Windsor and her mother? He'd have to go and say hello, when he could... yes, there was a small crowd of those not engaged in chatter elsewhere, not stuffing their faces with amouse bouches or drinking fine apertifs, for supper had not yet been served. The crowd was smiling. Ah, yes, listen to Gay go... his brother's boy was definitely talented, musically. Tarquin found himself simply enjoying the music for a moment or two before remembering he had a fashionable party to host and that Gay was, apparently, quite fine on his own. Through the music, he heard something that sounded rather familiar... rather French. He turned, smiling charmingly.

"Madame Strauss! Bonsoir," he said. He bowed slightly,she curtsied slightly,they air-kissed each other's cheeks. "So delightful to have you here, I'm so glad you could come." They exchanged a few words about fashionable things and complimented Gay's music, and Tarquin said that they could go meet his nephew if they wanted to since he was "such a delight." Then, Madame Strauss finally introduced her daughter. This was the prompt Tarquin needed to turn his dazzling smile on Eliza.

She was a beauty, he knew. Purple suited her. She and he had been acquainted, once or twice, but never had a fully conversation, and she was always with her mother... not yet spoken for, evidently. Tarquin also knew that she was an odd one. Rumor had it that she didn't want to marry, she preferred to do 'other things.' Scholarship. That was not respectable, not even for a woman. And on magic, too! History could be acceptable... magical history was... acceptable... theoretical magic, though? Eugh. Tarquin also knew that several young men were interested in her hand, and he also knew that she was quickly becoming known as the loveliest spinster that London had seen in a while. A poor reputation, brought about by her own poor life choices. But he said or expressed none of this, he only smiled charmingly down at her, his natural height only elevated by his fashionable heels, and went to take her hand in the most courteous and gentlemanly and charming way possible.

"A pleasure as always, Miss Foster-Strauss. So glad you could make it to my little gathering. Are you still engaged in your... scholarly pursuits?"



As Nora left the conversation, before she could exit the room, a clumsy fat man teetered where he stood and spilled some liquor on her brand new dress.

"Oh, dear. I'm dreadfully sorry," he said, mustache quivering, face red with drink. It had only spilled on the very hem of her dress, and as it had been a clear spirit, it was almost unnoticeable and would evaporate quickly. "Let me get you something as an apology," he said, eyes visibly roving over the rather scandalous tight-fitting dress. A few people had turned to look, now, more attracted by the dress than by the accident. The mustached man gestured to a server who brought a small glass of what looked like vermouth, for Nora. The moustached man's eyes stayed on her for a moment longer, before registering the guard.

"Oh! I'm dreadfully sorry." He was a bit drunk, his words a bit slurred. "I meant no offence to your wife, Sir, sincerely."



Out on the balcony where Rosalyn stood, the lonely fiddle music would become audible, and it would be accompanied by a flute of sorts, perhaps from another party nearby. The trees were particularly thick that night, the moon particularly bright. A scrap of newspaper, swept up by a cold breeze, became stuck to the banister, and then fluttered off to hit Rosalyn in the face. It revealed that the Duke of Roxbury had died and that his heirs were desperate for money and were to auction off his items including books from his massive library. It also included a corner of an opinion column written by a theoretical magician -the name was absent, for it was only a scrap of newspaper- denouncing Mr. Norrell for his seclusion and misanthropy; for if he was truly a magician, he should prove it and help his country. The moon disappeared behind clouds, plunging the world outside the lit houses into eerie cold semi-darkness. A bell began to toll.



Outside on the street, most guests had arrived, even the most fashionably late ones. The Scotsman in his kilt were mostly alone, save for the help. But who counted them, really?

So: the Scotsman was alone outside.

On the street, a few late-night wanderers peered through the glorious lit windows of the St. George house, admiring the fashionable people within and feeling intense envy and shame, just like Tarquin had predicted. One figure, however, kept to the shadows, and she moved so stealthily that by the time he approached the Scot on the doorstep it was too late for any of the help to intervene. She scuttled right up to the man smoking his cigar and shoved something into his sporran with dexterous, stained, thin fingers. By this point, the help had noticed.

"Bettie*!" The doorman swatted the rag-dressed woman away as if she was some festering animal and nearly shoved her. Bettie staggered down the steps gracelessly. Then the doorman turned to Finn, "I'm so sorry, Sir--" but whatever he said next was drowned out by the beggar woman's laughter, and in the light that poured out from the doorway, they'd both be able to see her white eyes. She cackled, and then he pointed at the house and said, "The game of eight-fives is not easily won."

Another man appeared, another beggar. He took the woman by her shoulders and hurried her down the street, glancing warily and apologetically at the horse boys and doorman. He looked awfully sorry, the woman kept cackling. They moved quickly, and were soon lost from view.

"I'm sorry for the offence sir, please, did she cause you harm?" The doorman attempted to brush down Finn's arms but stayed well away from the kilt. "That woman has taken to loitering outside the St. George home for several weeks. Her ramblings are of no import, he comes by and scares the maids so they give him something to eat. Last week be broke in and stole three hot buns before making a break for the inside of the house... usually that other beggar minds her, but... so sorry, sir."

Once Finn had responded and the conversation was done the doorman would fade into his appropriate position of being totally invisible. Blind Bettie had stuffed a dead starling into Finn's sporran. A bell began to toll.

[TheBarbarian]

Finn had finished the cigar and was about to snuff it out when the crazy woman put a thing in his sporran. He had no time to be angry or even surprised before the doorman had shooed her away and was brushing the slight dirt from his suit. "I... It is no problem...." He could not summon any righteous anger at that moment. To be honest the woman had in a strange way reminded him of home. Back in the highlands near his home village lived a madman. They called him Mad Donald he would always answer any question by singing a part of certain folk songs lyrics. He was good worker despite his queerness however and had a strange way with animals. When he was young and his mother had been alive he used to watch him groom the horses. He was so gentle with them and the horses were always at ease when he was around. Mother had found him charming so had kept him around but when she died his father had sacked poor Donald. Finn had not seen him since.

"No truly man it is fine..." He said to the doorman who pulled back. Finn picked out what the woman had left in his pouch. It was a dead starling. No it can't be... He felt the tug of old memories long held back come flooding back. "Remember Finn. The nightingale brings inspiration, the crow brings change, the blackbird brings smarts or cleverness and the blue bird brings happiness. But the most important bird is the starling it stands for family and family relations. If you start seeing too many dead starlings it means that there will soon be a death in the family. So never kill a starling my boy or one us might die..." This conversation was one the last things Finn remembered her mother saying to him before she died giving birth to his sister. It came to back to him then as the bell tolled reminding him of his sadness on that day. But it couldn't mean anything it was just a mother telling stories so his son would not throw stones at passing birds. There had been a lot of starlings near his childhood home. They liked to roost in the area.

He crushed the dead bird in his fist. This meant nothing it was just a dead bird not some dam omen. He threw the birds corpse into the bushes and entered the party feeling dread at the depths of his stomach. Even if it was an omen it could not mean anything there had to be many dead starlings for it to matter. Right? Right...

He paced around the party not doing much of anything. He was too anxious to drink and anyway champagne tasted too sugary for his tastes. He needed another smoke. Still he did not want to go outside by the doorman and the London street. So instead he went on the balcony hoping to calm his thoughts. It was quiet there and mostly empty except for a woman reading a tiny part of a newspaper. Beautiful flute music played around the balcony mixing well with the violin sounds coming from below. "Hello there miss. Would it be terribly rude of me to have a smoke hear?" He asked bowing slightly to her. He was not sure if that was proper etiquette but damned if he really cared. Still the girl was pretty enough if maybe too young for Finn's tastes he felt obliged to at least try to be civil.