Tamara holds a long pipe in a bejeweled hand. She wears a ring on her index finger. A trio of roughhewn stones sparkle in the incandescence of afternoon light. The upper Atrium windows ignite the exhaled smoke in a halo of gold.
“Ever the dramatic? A great würm billowing in her den?” Valetta coos at Tamara.
“Et, Moi? She smiles exhaling a puff of smoke through her nose.
“Why here? I find Ashcrow… off-putting.
I must suffer his unseen, but known, hand in my purse and pocket.”
“Ah yes, Revue Des Olympia, the theater. Dumas has a toll for all who operate throughout L’Olympia.
Ashcrow is his lever. The theater’s attractions, performance and operation are a triumph!”
“I find it even more foul that we are willing to put one to ‘the question’ in our own home.”
“Who is being dramatic now?
We are merely determining if a new actor has entered the stage.”
“An inquisition always starts with merely ‘a question’.”
“Oh, oh, you didn’t hear. Ratka is the boy’s guardian.”
The older woman purses her lips. Saying nothing she motions for the pipe.
“Something attacked the lad.”
“A rat, a dog, a virus? A Prussian?”
Tamara smirks shaking her head.
“Something of the path? A mystical actor?”
“That is what we have been asked to determine.”
“And why are Ashcrow and his Hashishan thief joining?”
Valetta takes a pull off the pipe then hands it back to Tamara.
“They have commissioned this inquiry on behalf of Frédérique. She is Persian. The thief has the gift of sight beyond sight.”
“Which?”
“More intuition and insight than mystical foresight. She has been on and off the path of Elburz, not the Hashishans.”
“Vadoma?”
“We need not bother the grande dame at this stage.”
“Amon?”
“Yes, the Magus and Isobel will be joining as well.”
Saying nothing she motions for the pipe’s return, the cataracts in her eyes give them an almost ghostly appearance. Unwilling and unable to hide her disdain for the Vikontisa she sighs deeply.
A chime echoes throughout the building. Ratka leads Arron and Trapper up the stairs from the street-level foyer. Trapper and Arron look up to the upper reaches of the courtyard in awe. There are more opulent and ostentatious homes throughout Paris, this residence, these apartments are unique by all measure. There is an argot of magic in this space. It is not mystical in its design or adornment but rather natural, closely in touch with the earth. As if all the colors were that much more vivid, brightened and refined. A fresh gentle and cool breeze moves through the atrium. Plants and greenery hang from impossible heights. The sounds of the city outside are silenced, replaced by birdsong and chime. The Atrium is a personification of its residents. The warmth of life, exotic flowers and crepuscular light permeate the centrally sunlit chamber.
Trapper and Arron are accustomed to the underbelly of the city. Senses tuned to shield from the worst and most foul. Rooms like these are not their norm. They breathe their fill with the scent of tree oils and spice. A statuesque woman with raven hair greets Ratka with a cheek-to-cheek faire la bise. Trapper and Arron pass a surprised look between them. None are so familiar with the yard boss. Ratka is morning frost; cold and businesslike in her dealings.
“Oh, little sister it has been so long since I have gazed upon your beauty!”
“And I on yours. I have heard that your perfumery is quite successful.”
The women take each other by the hands, each looking over each other’s fingers and palms as they greet.
“Ah yes, I forget you have eyes throughout the block.
Commercial consideration is a requirement of modern life is it not?
Thankfully, I am not required for the day to day.
It does ensure we have our needs met when required.”
Ratka turns slowly, cheeks reddening and surprised how comfortable she is back in her former home. Could she slip back into this life?
“Maya, this is my uncle, Trapper. He bows his head to the woman.
And this little one is our ward, Arron.”
Maya smiles and greets them returning a nod to the giant man. Her striking green eyes and demeanor are calming, like everything about the space. She and the other residents, ladies all, wear simple light dresses receiving guests in the comfort of their home. Tamara and Valetta continue their discussion away from the sitting area.
“Trapper, Ratka looks older than that lady.
How is she the little sister?
How come we’ve not met any of these sisters?” Arron confused asks innocently.
“It is a complicated tale for another time.” Trapper leans over his ear.
The chime again echoes throughout the building.
“That would be Amon and Isobel.
Let us meet them at the landing.”
Maya greets the Magus and the Sorceress with a respectful welcome as they crest the stair. Isobel’s smile rises when she sees Ratka. The yard boss returns only a placid look. Isobel’s smile falls.
A bell differing in tone and timber echoes throughout the building.
“Excuse me, I must get the door.” Maya states.
The Question
The inquisitors, observers and subject assemble in the finely appointed sitting area. The residents join in the space demarcated by deep set Chesterfield sofas. Lacquered tables are set with three Saint-Louis pitchers and twelve crystal glasses, all empty. A high stool sits between two braziers laden with cold white candles within the silver circle inlaid on the wide planked floor.
No matter how exquisite the living space, it has been transformed from a place of peace to an inquisitor’s chamber. The accoutrement of comfort and life, now has a menace of purpose. Each of Whispering Thread bristle at this being hosted in their home. In different time, trade of roles would be on order, by the state or the keepers of the faith.
Demian thanks Tamara, residents and members of the Thread for accommodating this meeting on common and ground with little context or controversy.
Amon begins remarks. He has a tendency to be long winded. Isobel asks that Ratka summarize the tale. Then onto the boy.
Arron is invited to sit on the stool. Trapper lifts him onto the stool, his feet dangle akimbo. The Parisian mud and dust of the yard decorate his boots. The boy is alert, his face ashen and his comfort maintained while Ratka and Trapper remain nearby. The moment the boy crossed the threshold of the casting circle a wave of pressure dropped throughout the room rippling outward as if a stone in a lake. Those mystically inclined feels this as tin touching teeth.
Tamara speaks to Arron in calming tones. She hands him a glass of cool clean water. In his eyes he sees Tamara and her sisters as gentle and caring aunties. He sips the water he is happy; he is safe. Even Ratka has the shine of a new day after a good night’s sleep. Tamara moves to the circle’s edge behind the boy. Amon begins,
“Was he injured?”
“Bumps and bruises. Nothing of note.” Ratka answers.
“Who returned him to the yard?”
“Henri and Cassius.”
Helena injects, “The hotelier’s son. He, they do, odds and ends for me and for their Thread.”
“The other, your boy?”
Trapper nods.
“Of course, I can tell.” Ashcrow quips.
“I questioned them myself. They are known.”
“Do they know of the Thread’s nature? The Order?” Amon inquires.
“They are good men, when near the Thread they revel in enchantment.” Helena confirms.
“Those that live in and thrive among L’Olympia’s lanes have long thought there were unnatural dealings throughout the block. Those that do not fear the men of the Yard, fear the Thread”. Trapper states as though it is obvious as the sky being blue.
“Not the Order?” Amon inquires.
“None think of you at all.” Ratka states icily. Isobel and Helena make eye contact with raised eyebrows moving back from the group.
With tension ratcheting up unnecessarily, Ashcrow injects.
“There was another incident that night.
Another attack, it is being investigated.”
“And the boy wounded this man?” Amon asks what has already been summarized to Ratka’s frustration. Respect and power distance has long since dissolved between them.
“Arron hit him with a board, apparently with a nail into the assailant’s cheek.” Ratka replays the report from Henri and Cassius.
Ashcrow stands still considering this detail then pours a glass of water from the now full pitcher,
“The other investigation was commissioned by Le Aeronatique.”
Quite close to one of the Thread’s own.
André Theroux, prior to the bride and groom’s honeymoon departure.
I believe brother-in-law by way of Emilia?
His nephew, a former member was attacked by four brigands.
Beaten in an alley.
An investigator has been assigned by the Sûreté.
I expect an update shortly.” Ashcrow notes but leaves out the newly made connection.
“This happened on the equinox. It would be a time for magic. But few so reckless as to cast in an alley.” Amon notes arms crossed.
“Oh for fucks sake, inspect the child for what we already know.
The lad was attacked by a parasite.
A daemon, something capable, but desperate.
Whatever it is, it is hunting in alleys. Thwarted by a child.” Petra states frustrated with the pace of the investigation.
“It could be weakened.” Amon states as though still leading the inquisition.
“Cure the child of the pest’s influence, hunt it down and kill it.
Send it back from whence it came and all that shit.” Petra pours a glass of water from the pitcher.
“It? We don’t know what it is.” Ashra notes with her melodic voice.
“Let us finish our discussion and receive an update on the investigation before sending a party of rovers into the alleys of L’Olympia to deal death.” Ashcrow states.
“These daemon do not just arrive uninvited. None have cast for more than an Oracle, a Sibyl in decades. Is that correct?” Helena questions none specific and all assembled.
“Within the thread that bind us, none have cast for more than a Sibyl. Charms, glamours and routine incantations yes, but nothing controversial.” Tamara states from the back of the circle.
“We have had three wards that have gone missing.” Ratka states as they consider the discussion.
“How would you know?” Amon asks with some contempt in his tone.
“They missed breakfast.”
“And? So?”
“None miss breakfast. We might not have much in the yard, but none go hungry.” Trapper states as a matter of fact.
“What did this man look like?” Amon asks Arron directly.
“He was proper, not a thug. He seemed a pigeon-feeder to me. Talking to himself in the middle o’the alley. I din’t get a good look.
In the cart, when they retrieved me, I heard Cassius say he clipped him as he ran, sayin he was bleedin’ bad as he passed.”
“Isobel, you are quite familiar with the effects and dealings of dark art.
Why don’t you take off those unseasonable gloves and inspect the boy’s hands yourself.” Valetta challenges Isobel in front of the assembly.
Isobel says nothing crossing the threshold of the casting circle, the familiar pressure drop is felt again. She smiles thinly at the boy. If comfort was the goal, her severity chilled any warmth.
“Young Arron, thank you for telling us your tale.
As you can imagine we want you to return to full health.
You remind me of a man I once knew.
He too wore a yellow scarf of silk.
He was an actor of some renown.
A master of many a ceremony.” Isobel says with a Grecian accent.
She moves around the edge of the circle in turn loosening the fingers of one glove then slipping it over her hands placing them on the edge of the brazier. She steps to the boy kneeling in front of him. She opens her hands to the boy, palms up.
“Arron, may I see your hands?”
He offers them palms up, the sorceress takes each in turn moving her own blackened fingertips from his small hands wrist to finger as though a palmist fortune-teller.
“Each person’s history and future can be learned from understanding the mounts and valleys, lines and lengths.
As you can see,” she holds her hand out and outstretches her fingers, palms away, “what we start with can be altered. Changed.
Each line is said to tell, those that have the ability to read them, stories of love, knowledge and life gained and lost.”
She drags her own blackened tip along his lifeline, tickling him.
“You see this one here?”
“Yes ma’am.” Arron smiles becoming more comfortable with each moment.
The gallery looks on, each understanding the inspection of one touched by magic.
“I see here that there is a sweet treat in your future.” She says with a full smile, pointing to a line in his hand.
“This one is your lifeline. See how young you are! See how much there is to come along this path!”
Arron’s eyes twinkle, his ashen face breaking into a smile.
“This spot right here,” Isobel points, “shows that you have so many paths ahead to take.
Depending on which you choose, will cause these others to fade away.”
Isobel makes eye contact with Tamara who stands behind the stool. Her eyes, even unchanged, communicate much to the Mistress of the Whispering Thread.
“You see this one here?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“This one is your love line, see how this one crosses there?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“You will meet the love of your life, the mother of your children!”
At this Arron scrunches his nose. Isobel scrunches hers back and smiles turning each hand over in hers inspecting the nails, the cuticles, the mounts and valleys and his skin. The nails are cracked and blackened, cuticles; recessed and split. His fingertips charred as though burnt by ember, the skin that of an old man; thin and translucent. She continues not looking up.
“Tell me Arron, do you dream when you sleep?”
“Sometimes, I guess. I dream of the yard, verrat, Poitrine fumée, sweets and the Rats and Trapper and Ratka.” He smiles at each of them in turn.
“I too dream of bacon.” Isobel winks at the boy.
“Sometimes, I dream of the man and the smoke.
I dream of smack’n him but the blows nev’a, ev’a land!”
“What does he look like? In your dream?”
“Smoke pours outta his mouth, like sick.
His mouth thrown wide.
Through the smoke and dark, I see shapes and lines on his skin.
Lit from wit’in.”
“Within you say, that is interesting.
Just his face? The shapes, the lines, the smoke?”
“Smoke also comes up from his chest.”
“Show me where.” Isobel asks.
The boy holds his hands over his face and then over his heart and chest.
“Is the smoke man young or old?”
“He seems young, but I cannot say f’certain.”
“How is he dressed?”
“Sometimes dressed a’gentleman. Sometimes a dusty laborer.” Arron thoughts begin to wander passing Isobel looking to Ratka and Trapper.
“Yes then, that will do.
Let’s get you taken care of.” Isobel claps her thighs and stands tall smiling at the boy through thin lips.
Ratka makes eye contact with Trapper. The boy should be taken from the proceeding.
“Now it is time! Li’l man, shall we hunt the streets for a tasty sweet?” Trapper booms with a great smile walking across the edge of the casting circle to no effect. He picks the boy up from the stool tossing him gently into the air. Arron smiles as they exit the circle and the familiar pressure drop is felt and the touch of tin removed from those mystically inclined.
The Atrium and the Courtyard