England's Darkest Hour

[tenebrarius]

Adam had received just enough notice to make him wary. He was expecting a visitor on a particular date and time, but he didn’t yet know who or why.

Taking more than his usual diligence, Adam checked the wards of his house. He touched the locks on every window and let his magic creep into every crevice. He felt skittish and paranoid, as though something was watching him, or that something was waiting, and he was subconsciously aware of having felt as much for days. Perhaps weeks.

But the impending threat of the visitor held his focus enough that he misattributed the other worries to that, and let himself believe that it was only paranoia and nerves exacerbated by being overworked and sleep-deprived. As he had been for most of his life, even now that he had enough money and enough renown to be comfortable.

“Comfortable” didn’t sit well on Adam. Less so lately, with the spells of restlessness keeping him up at night, paging through book after book, spurring him more tirelessly than his ambition ever had.

He paced his study, book in hand, and came to a stop a moment before he heard someone pound at the door with the heavy knocker.

Then, returned to the mundane world—more or less—Adam remembered himself. He returned the book to the shelf, tidied the stack of papers on his desk, closed the open books on his desk, and stacked those on top of the papers, swiftly obscuring the secrets and projects that were in active progress.

In no particular hurry despite the slamming of his heart, Adam made his way down the steps of his tidy and spacious brownstone, pausing in the hall. He had reason to be proud of his home, which had been a grand townhome—practically a castle in its own right—in earlier days. Now it was neglected and the street was fallen out of fashion. The other formerly grandiose homes on the block were now the dens of actors and impoverished scholars, crammed three to a room. Or, occasionally, ambitious young magicians who wanted space and value and didn’t much mind living next door to a cathouse.

Comments

[glyndwr]

Richard Campbell Gansey III had, despite his best efforts and careful planning, nearly run dry of leads.

It was not something he was proud to admit, even to himself, so he avoided the topic - burying himself deeper into old, dusty text books or rumors told to him by an old beggar on the streets of Paris. For Gansey, there was no piece of information too small, no lead too impossible, to at least confirm its legitimacy. And thanks to his determination, insistence, and will - he’d been fairly good at uncovering exactly what it was he wanted to find, and when he wanted to find it. The last few years had been useful, albeit longwinded, and despite some earlier trips that had taken him back to the Americas for a brief stint, he was currently revived.

Nearly was the key word in this scenario, as those last few months had not produced the results he had wanted, but a conversation on the ship back home had. You see, Gansey’s most prized possession was something of an enigma to him - an old journal in a language he could not quite decipher, despite his best efforts and the efforts of those he has previously hired. A journal that he knows, as certainly as he knows his purpose in this world, will be useful to him.

The conversation with the old sailor had directed him where he was now - a neighborhood he was not familiar with, right on the outskirts of a city he regarded as his own. A young magician the sailor had explained. In those old streets. Ye’ll need to ask around, get a better idea where, but he’s there. Just gotta know where to look.

Looking, as it turned out, was something Gansey was quite skilled at - no matter just how plainly and loudly he stood out, strolling through those streets and asking questions of each and every beggar who came up to him, Gansey looked. It was just over a week of this looking, too, before he’d gotten his next clue - an address, a warning, and then little else. Feeling rejuvenated in a way he hasn’t been in months, Gansey returned to his manor with the intention of sending notice of his visitation, and an excited thrum under his skin.

That is where he ended, now, letting the heavy knocker fall back against the wood of the front door. Absentmindedly, his eyes turned off down the street, catching the eyes of a few children hiding behind a streetlight, wanting to get a closer look at the well dressed nobleman wandering down their street. Gansey smiled at them, waving once, and they whispered and darted off. Not that it mattered - he was here for one reason and one reason only, that reason tucked securely under his right arm.

[tenebrarius]

Adam opened the door with bold confidence, not because it was what he felt, but because this piece of oak on hinges was irrelevant to the defenses of his home. He stood in the doorway, just inside of the threshold, to block the stranger's view inside and to keep him from noticing that there was an invisible barrier between them. It was no more than a tension in the air, a stillness like a poised breath, but Adam was certain it would stop a cannonball.

His guest was a young man, handsome and well-dressed. Not at all what Adam had expected, but he knew that he himself was not what people expected. When rumors led them here, they expected an old man, someone who had had the time to grow into the role and knowledge that Adam possessed. Instead they found a young scholar, inkstained and underfed. His clothes were impeccably maintained, though he'd left his suit coat off and his white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows to keep them safe from the ink that stained his hands. There was a smudge, too, on his cheekbone, but Adam had yet to notice it.

"What do you want?"