Of course, she hadn’t knocked, but that was no surprise, part of her charm was her no nonsense brusqueness; and anyway, that is why he had ensured that the boards in front of his office were loose enough to squeak. She seemed more haggard than usual, her recent endeavors had truly been hard on her physically and mentally, not to mention morally, but there was something more: worry? It must be a personal matter then.
But despite all this, there was still careful caution in her movements, hard suspicion glinting in her eyes. This one had never trusted him; she showed great promise in that way, even if her misgivings were misguided. But then again, she couldn’t know that, and were he in her shoes, he would be the same way.
She cycles through a few names and titles (”is there really any difference between them now?” he muses, a smirk pulling at his cheeks) before settling on “sir.” She asks if he has some time, and of course he does, even if he had any appointments, they would be easy to adjust and far less interesting anyway.
“Of course,” he says, adding “would you care for some tea?” Letting a little glimmer of amusement enter the tone, a gentle taunt about her mistrust of his refreshments. “What is it you need?”
“No,” she says, “thank you.” He knows she wants no part of his tea; he’s wasting her time. Making a joke at her expense. It is no different in his classes: either he’s distant, a world away, stormy-eyed and dreaming, or he’s too close, too real, despite being half a lecture hall away. It’s an odd effect, like looking at a too-lifelike portrait.
When he’s like that, Liza cannot help but feel that those eyes fall on her each time they roam the room, and that every word is a joke at her expense. It’s no different from the other professors, and yet completely so. The joke is never, Ah, Miss Jerusha, our willful filly, shouldn’t you be at home? Wed, perhaps? The joke is never, Speak English! I “cannae” understand a word you Scots say.
The joke is, much more simply, You need me. And she hates that it is true.
Folding her hands behind her back, Liza lifts her chin. “I need – information.” It is, after all, the most common and perhaps most precious currency in the Neath. “On Drownies. On what they are.” She stresses the final word with care; she does not need to know they were human, does not need to know they drowned. The information she needs, rather, is more pointed, more specific. More exact. And Illuvatar has her answers. He would not be who he is if he did not.
His eyes go wide for a moment at the mention of red honey. It seems this protege has steered herself into dangerous waters. Red honey. While he knew of it, it was once of the few things in the Neath he has no experience with. It must have been desperation, not depravity that drove her to it; she was not a hedonist, but she was relentlessly and recklessly determined once she got going.
He clears his throat, still reeling slightly, “there is one final point first: if your conditions are met, do you want to see it coming? I shall respect it if you don’t, but I understand if you wish to face it head on.” His statement is matter of fact, almost nonchalant, more out of a desire to ease her nerves than a casual attitude towards the topic. It is no small matter to bring permanent death, let alone to someone you like.
His mind settles back on the matter of the honey, unavoidable as a gaping wound, and equally apt to inspire prodding. He clears his throat again, feeling somewhat awkward for the first time in a long time, his curiosity is burning, but this was not the kind of experience one just asked about, “if you have need of any other assistance, or wish to discuss anything, all you must do is ask.”
“Also,” he begins reluctantly, “should this come to pass, what should Oliver be told?”
Liza sucks in an unsteady breath, the heel of his hand still pressed to her brow. Behind her closed eyes, she can see the memories of the sights she ripped still-screaming from someone, the visions and reflections she saw, as though reflected into blood.
She wishes she could blame the Neath for what she has done.
“Please. Tell me.” Her voice is soft. It will break her heart, to look at her husband, to know she is looking her last — but it hurts her, too, to think she might not have time to draw him close a last time, to say the sweet-soft words he deals in so easily but have been so hard for her to give voice. “Give me —- time. I will nae fight it. I only—-” —only has found herself in the smell of the sea and river, only has found someone for whom she would – she has – done unspeakable things, only needs to say goodbye. Illuvatar will not fault her for that.
Dropping her hand, Liza looks at him, eyes hardening. “Nothing.” She leans forward. “Nae a word of this deal will reach him. Tell him – tell him it was devils. Tell him it was the Game, tell him whatever he will believe, an’ he’ll believe any tale ye spin him. But he cannae—” Her fingers curl hard around her tea cup. “Understand?”
Thomas pulled on his cheap white gloves and his mask before leaving the house. That Jerusha woman had wanted to meet up with him for some unknown reason. He has no idea what for–since she hates him, perhaps as much as he does her. Not that they haven’t been able to help one another occasionally since the salon. Mostly in the form of sparring bouts tha he certainly only enjoys because once in a while he lands a good punch on her jaw. Although, she does best him more often than not–but he’s been getting better.
When he arrived at the constabulary, where, presumably, she has her office, she surprised him by leading him up a flight of stairs to a small flat. When she mentioned to him that this is where she lives, he was slightly appalled. He drew his finger across her mantelpiece, watching the dust accumulate on his glove. He smirked. “It’s even worse than I thought. So why, exactly did you ask me to subject myself to this place? We could have met for tea somewhere nice. We could have gone to Dante’s–I know you’ve been. And I would have been willing to pay if you cannot afford it at the moment.”
His gloves – not his finest, though more expensive no doubt than the dress she wears, bought fourth-hand – are a disgusting and immaculate white. Liza makes a conscious effort not to follow their movement with her eyes, not to trace the gestures and the shapes he inscribes in the air as he speaks. It would only please him. And that is the very last thing she wishes to do.
There are those she dislikes as a point of pride: once committed to the rivalry, she refuses to be the first to yield. There are others she dislikes as a point of principle, others morals forbid her from holding them in any high regard, whatever her enjoyment of their company.
Then there are those like Thomas, with whom she is taking tea, who she dislikes completely, thoroughly, and without remorse, for little other reason than the way they set her teeth on edge – and, of course, the way they draw their damned white-gloved finger along her mantlepiece and ask why they did not meet somewhere nice.
“I have nae been to Dante’s.” Liza resists the urge to grind her teeth as she fetches mis-matched mugs from a cupboard. “Nor am I interested in making a grand affair of what is meant tae be a business proposal. Sit down; there’s a chair somewhere. I’ll make the tea. Unless you’re going tae criticize that, too, in which case—” She rounds on him, thrusting the kettle at him with a frown. “You can bloody do it yourself.”
He slumps back in the bed, resigning himself to whatever care she deigns to give, lord knows that she’s accepted enough of his ministrations with…well, she’s accepted them at any rate. He begins planning his social recovery as the night goes on. His body may be whole, but these past few days have done him no favors. Plans and networks tend to get disrupted when the one at their center suddenly starts ranting, bleeding, and…consuming without apparent provocation. Not to mention the disapproval that the powers that be have for such activities.
All shall be well, as the phrase goes, and he didn’t go deep enough to lose himself, although it was a sore temptation. But some depths are not to plumbed, at least not yet, and there is still enough of him to pull up. In no small part to Liza and others; many new debts had been established, but their recounting will be immediate he resolved, best not let these things linger.
“As the doctor orders” a hint of sarcasm entering his tone, changing quickly into sincerity, “I do mean it though, I appreciate this kindness and please let me know if there’s anything I can do by way of repayment.”
Dropping her hand into her lap, Liza looks at him, wondering how she became the caretaker – for tonight, at least – of such a man as this. And of her husband, who is kind, who wrote her love letters the likes of which stole even her silvered-stone heart, who cannot defend himself against the cruelties of the Neath. And, too, of her employer, the Detective.
“Doctor indeed,” she mutters. “Nae for a great many years, I fear. If they even decide tae give women the title. But order is a damn good word indeed, and one that’s hit the mark: I am ordering you tae stay in bed. Rest. I’m nae interested in debts and repayments.” A bad business model, as they go; it seems some days that the Bazaar itself is run on favors, and the lives of each inhabitant of the Neath shaped inescapably by who owes whom a dinner, a debt, a deposit.
“Though—” Drawing her fingers through her mess of curls, she begins again. “Though I do wonder what brought you here, by the river. ‘Tis out of the way, and the business ‘round here is business I imagine you’re rather above. Cats and fishmongers and half-rate couriers and the like.”
His faux friendly demeanor fades as his face shifts into a carefully neutral expression. He takes the note from her hands and reads it without a word. When he finishes he looks up, first meeting her eyes and then flicking over to the knife.
He lays his hands on his lap, flat and fingers splayed. “Are you particularly attached to that implement?” He asks, his voice crisp and businesslike, “because while I can do what you ask, it would be more unpleasant for everyone involved than if I used my own means.” He pauses, “that being said, your preference is paramount and I am certainly capable of doing what you ask with that.” A flash of emotion appears in his eyes for a moment, impossible to truly parse in so brief a time, but something between pride and regret.
After the moment passes his eyes lock back onto hers, “I think you should be fully aware, I can and perhaps even will do this for you, so you must be sure. I understand some of these terms,” he says, gesturing to the note, now crisply folded and lying on the table, “but others are perhaps less reasonable. You are only human after all (perhaps it is nothing, but it almost seems as if there is a peculiar stress on you and only), and giving into a vice is no cause for such drastic measures.”
“And so,” he says, leaning forward, his tone grave and perhaps slightly pleading, “are you certain of this?”
She retreats into herself as the note is taken, expression flickering between relief and resignation. Her head hurts. Taking her tea once more, Liza studies her face, reflected there in all its hollowness.
Fortune-tellers speak of futures spelled out in tea-leaves, in china cups and kettles made in sunlit lands above. They proclaim to know what the shuffling passage of days will bring. She has never put stock in their trade; never would it be said that Elizabeth Jerusha had consulted the fates like some superstitious sod taken in by clever hands and more clever words. But she wonders now what the leaves would have said. Wonders, perhaps, if they could have foreseen this: Illuvatar and his star-bright eyes, asking her how she wants to die.
She feels sick.
“I leave it tae your discretion,” Liza says, staring at the tea. Her hand trembles; the water ripples; her reflection dissolves, reforms, dissolves again. “However it must be done. It dinnae seem proper tae ask it without offering a means. And I’m certain of it; I cannae risk going forward without being sure of it. I–”
He is watching her. Careful, close, quite calm. Years ago, when she was young, when she still lived in the sunlit cities above, the fact that Illuvatar had hardly faltered at her request would have given her a shiver: a feeling of dread. Today, it is a relief. “The honey is—” She licks her lips. “—the most important thing. The most important. It cannae be permitted, not a bloody drop, not yellow, not re—-” Liza looks away from him sharply. Her head spins, and she presses the heel of her hand to her brow, taking an unsteady breath. “Are we agreed?”
His eyes linger long on the knife, his mind whirring with the possibilities. This obviously isn’t an assassination attempt, although if it were it would certainly suit her style. She isn’t the sort to request a…illicit problem removal, and even so, he has much more effective tools for such a job. She is a detective of no small talent herself, so unless she is particularly stymied this can’t be a clue in some mystery. He closes his eyes for a long second. This is pointless, she isn’t one for needless obfuscation, the simplest way to find out is to ask.
But, decorum must be observed. He sips his tea and sets the cup and saucer down carefully. His eyes pause on the knife and then pointedly move away from it, the lack of attention making it the focus of his question, “a favor? Of what sort?”
He leans back, eyes still pointedly away from the knife, his manner just as pointedly casual, awaiting a response.
The knife lies between them, the flat of its blade reflecting the high ceilings of Illuvatar’s home. It is sharp. Practical. Not hers. Meant for a butcher’s work, which reminds her of the question she wants to ask, the question she must ask.
Liza closes her eyes. She feels sick.
Strange, that she trusts him with this, but nothing else.
Her voice is soft, unsteady, thick with the accent that has yet to fade away once more. “Better tae say it outright.” She frowns, shifts, takes a breath. “Recent events have brought it tae light that I— Have ye killed anyone?” The knife glints in the corners of her vision as she leans forward. “Permanently? I have tae ask it of ye, one way or the other. I have – conditions.” Without taking her eyes from her former mentor, Liza holds her tea and saucer on one palm, china clinking due to the tremor in her hand, and fishes in her small bag once more. She holds out the scrap of paper she finds there. “The favor is a safeguard, understand? In case it – it becomes necessary. In case the conditions are met.”
Moving to the edge of her seat, Liza Jerusha waves the proffered paper a little and tries not to sound like she’s drowning. “In case I go too far.”
Something terrible has happened to her. If her visibly shaken manner didn’t show that enough, the fact that she was requesting tea, rather than begrudgingly accepting it and sniffing it suspiciously.
“Of course, of course, this way,” he says, gesturing towards his door and giving a final burble of instruction to the beleaguered rubbery man.
He attempts, with only moderate success, to conceal his his concern. She wouldn’t even meet his eyes. If it were anyone else, this would only be natural (the thunder tended to unnerve people), it wasn’t for Liza. She would, as often as not, stare defiantly while rejecting help or coming as close to accusing him of subterfuge as she reasonably could. He bustles about preparing the tea, leaving the sugar on the side just this once.
After she had been given a cup and saucer, he asks gently, “so, what is it that is troubling you?”
She follows him, up and up, and up again. The heights here would be dizzying, if she cared. She doesn’t care. Liza watches her feet as she walks, watches the tips of her dark leather shoes peek out from beneath her dress. Everything she owns looks secondhand and shabby against the glamor of Illuvatar’s many homes.
Possibly, Thomas had said to her once, because everything you own is secondhand and shabby.
She does not care about that, either.
Once Liza is seated in his parlor, Illuvatar leaves her in favor of bustling around his kitchens in search of tea. He knows how she takes it; he doesn’t have to ask. Often he does, out of politesse or a desire to annoy, but today he is quiet. Quiet is best. Quiet is how she takes the tea and saucer from him, and quiet is how she is for a long time after his question.
“A favor,” she says, at great length. She shifts, and draws from the small, practical handbag she wears a knife, setting it neatly down between them. Leaning back, Liza sips her tea.
He looks up, something primal and hungry gleams in his eye for a moment, and he almost growls, his lips pulled back revealing white teeth stark against red gums.
“Ravenous.”
A beat later he follows it with an almost sheepish,”if you have anything to eat, I would be much obliged.”
As he eats, visibly restraining himself, keeping his teeth from tearing too eagerly into his food. Internally, he is bemused; who knows, perhaps this…episode could be turned advantageous. Maybe seeing him weak will endear him to her, she has always been one his more suspicious proteges.
When he finishes he is still famished, but it is under control for now. At least for long enough to get home and take more substantial sustenance. But for now, there is remuneration to be addressed.
“I do apologize, my dear. I regret disturbing you. Is there anything I can do to repay you? You said you weren’t sleeping well, is something troubling you?”
The look is not the strangest she has received in her time here in London, nor the strangest she has seen on him, yet she is on her feet quickly just the same to provide something to sate his hunger. Cannibalism is beyond the man, she hopes, but she does not trust him not to find McHooligan or her salt-weasel an appetizing morsel while that light is in his eyes.
Liza does not have much to offer. Oliver’s appetite is minimal for the sort of things land-dwellers still eat, besides the cakes and sweets he likes so much, and she herself has little money. But there is bread, and soup, and assorted items – enough for a meal, which is what counts. She brings it back to him, grateful that he cannot see the state of her cupboards from where he lies in the bed.
Illuvatar does not get five words out before she sighs, long-suffering, and pinches her nose. Allowing him to speak always takes patience, and now is no exception. “To start,” Liza says, and sighs, “you can stay in bed. Awake you may be, but recovered you are not. And stop — stop—-” She makes a face. “—caring for half a second. You’re in no bloody position to be making offers of help, given the state of you.”
There is always more paperwork; whether is is grading papers, attending to matters of business foreign and domestic, issuing orders at every stratum of society, legality, and morality, or attending to the mountain of personal correspondence (not the Correspondance, mind you, there is enough of that in his research), there is always writing for him to do. The visitor bell rings as he was composing a letter to a certain baronet regarding a certain deal that they would certainly not refuse. He decides that whoever it was could wait until he was finished, perhaps even until after he has completed another modicum of work, in order to reprimand them for interrupting him. That is, until he heard the shouting. Impressed, amused, and slightly irritated that it could be heard all the way up here, he decides to descend to see what the ruckus was all about.
When he exits into the antechamber he is greeted with the sight of Liza bearing down on one of his staff, its tentacles twitching dejectedly as it receives its (thankfully only) verbal flogging. He tuts somewhat sharply, she is his protege, and of course he knows her prejudices, but he does not look exceptionally kindly on them. He walks over to them, crooning softly in the poor things language and he places his hand on its head, gently soothing its quavering tentacles. He pointedly does not turn around and address her until the thing is calm. When he does, he recognizes her frayed state, and supposes that it makes her actions more understandable.
“Are you alright Liza?” he asks, concern in his tone, “what troubles you, my dear?”
She’s baring her teeth by the time he arrives, feeling sick, feeling feral, feeling half a heartbeat from taking a swing as the cooing beast in front of her. Illuvatar has his tastes – he married one of the slobbery things – but Liza does not share them, and for all the horror of recent events, the things she has done are liberating, in a way. She can do anything. She can do anything; it doesn’t matter; it won’t compare; she’s gone too far; what is one quivering Rubbery Man in the wake of everything she’s gone through? There’s a rushing in her ears, fire in her veins – she feels sick again, and strong—
And then it disappears.
Somehow, Illuvatar is next to her. She didn’t hear him arrive, or see him. Part of her wants to laugh – he was in all along; why couldn’t the miserable creature simply say so? – and the rest is almost too tired to draw any breath at all. She feels sick.
Once the creature is calm, her mentor turns to her, gentle in his voice, his tone. Liza wraps her arms around her waist and doesn’t meet his eye. “I came to take tea together,” she lies, voice tight. “If you have the time.”
She feels sick. She feels sick. There are pins in her chest, needles in her throat, she feels sick. But she looks just fine; she had made sure of that before she left the house and kissed her husband goodbye. An impermanent goodbye. Not a final one. She feels sick.
The bellhop inside the spire lobby does not help the feeling. It looks at her gently, and burbles, and she closes her eyes while it does whatever it does to alert Illuvatar that she is here. Assuming he is in, of course. That he might be elsewhere has crossed her mind a hundred times as she walked here from her little water-side home, and she has decided she doesn’t care.
“Kathikothikooooosh?”
She opens her eyes, very slowly. “Beg your pardon.”
The bellhop bobs its head from side to side, waving a tentacle in the vague direction of up. “Threreee,” it says, rather solemnly, “otha threeeee.”
“For god’s sake,” Liza says, and pinches the bridge of her nose. She feels sick. She feels her temper rising, her voice rising, her accent rising, thickening. “Can I go up t’see him or no? That’s all I ask.” The bellhop looks at her with huge, watery eyes, and burbles, distressed. “Is that a yes or a bloody no?” If her voice echoes against the walls, fine; if her voice reaches up to the very top of the spire and to Illuvatar himself, all the better.