mslavinia

When Edward Lowell arrives at the townhouse later that afternoon, Lavinia's just finished hastily dressing. By the time he's shown into the library, she's mostly presentable. Her curls are piled in a loose, tumbling Gibson style mostly held together, and her starched shirtwaist under a plum velvet suit shows no signs of ink stains or other disorder. But her eyes are still red, and Edward can't help but notice that as he's shown into the library.

"I apologize for the disorder," she begins hesitantly, glancing at the desk and then back to Edward. "But I wished to speak with you in a space where we would have the most privacy, as the matter I need to discuss with you is--a sensitive one." She rises from the sofa and gestures towards the small drinks cabinet in the corner. "Would you like a brandy?"

"Please." He hasn't any idea of what's concerning her, but the brandy might help her relax. While she lifts the glass decanter gingerly, trying to still her shaking hands, he chances a furtive look around the room. More papers than he remembers the last time she invited him in to the library, but no bloodstains or spotted handkerchiefs that he can see. Which isn't, he reminds himself, definitive. She might be more careful than he'd been as a headstrong student, or she's entrusted a servant to conceal evidence. The latter theory doesn't fit with what he knows of her, but--

A glass of brandy is set before him with a soft clink. "There you are," she says briskly, as if she hasn't noticed his attention wandering. He murmurs his thanks and takes a sip, lest she feel reluctant to drink first.

She doesn't seem to need that formality, lifting her own glass for a liberal swallow. In the gaslight, her cheeks seem pale; a hint of rouge clashes against the sallow undertone of her flesh. As she drinks, a faint hint of natural color begins to bloom beneath, beside, the rouge.

"Before I begin, Mr. Lowell, allow me to assure you that it grieves me to speak of uncomfortable matters long past, and that I mean to give no offence in revisiting events which may cause pain." She twists a jewelled ring beneath her fingers as she speaks.

For a brief, dizzying moment, he wonders if she means to bring up his gift, the secrets half-murmured by such a present. "There is nothing you could ask of that I would consider forward, and if I have given offense at any point with--"

Her eyes widen at his thought that he might have caused harm, and she hurries to interrupt. "Not at all, nothing of the sort. Perhaps--I had better speak plainly, and if I cause injury, do what I may to mend it after." She takes another sip of brandy and replaces the glass.

"I have reason to believe that a very dear friend--one of the brightest joys to me in this dark city--is in terrible danger. There are...rumors… I have given little credence to--" she flushes, bright beneath the rouge, and looks away. "I have heard you escaped a fate that most will not speak of." She twists again at the ring, worrying the flesh beneath it. "You have, before, alluded to raving in the University's courtyard. This seems...not dissimilar to the stories of Miss Varma accosting passersby in the Haymaker Road. You can see from the state of my library that I have exhausted a number of sources trying to determine a cure for her condition." Her nervous hands leave off twisting her jewelry and she gestures to the disarray.

"You must know I do not mean to force you to revisit painful memories without great need." Now she's met his gaze, and her green eyes are blazing with urgency. "If this is too much--if you don't wish to speak with me again after this, I would understand. But please--if you know of a way--" she breaks off, pleading. Her eyes are filled with apprehension, and worry, and real regret.

Edward's been silent throughout her entire speech, his keen, appraising eyes fixed on her. He's silent for a moment after she breaks off, waiting to see if she'll continue, not wanting to interrupt. When she doesn't, he nods briefly.

"I'm not sure how helpful I can be, I'm afraid." At those words, Lavinia practically crumples back into the sofa, and Edward leans forward, resting his brandy on his knee as he turns his focus even more fully on to her. "That isn't to say I won't assist you as best I can. But my case was...unique."

He pauses and drains the rest of his glass. She wordlessly pushes the decanter of brandy across the table.

"I'll tell you what I know. Perhaps it will be helpful. But I ask you not to breathe a word of it, nor to set it down in one of your novels." He looks away wretchedly. "I have spent so much of my life trying to escape the scandal."

"I know you have. I won't tell--I'll say nothing," she rushes, fumbling her words in her haste to speak. "And I don't believe anyone else has the same suspicion I do: they think it's an excess of absinthe, or that she's been driven mad by nightmares. If it was only that! But someone heard in passing her speaking of choirs and shapes of fire and of drowning, and I know enough of Correspondence madnesses to fear the worst. If I can save her before she goes--"

"Don't say it." He takes a deep, shuddering breath, unstoppers the decanter, and pours almost to the brim. "Sorry. An old superstition on my part. But I prefer to talk around it."

"Of course." And then, softly: "I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "Don't be. You want to help your friend. It's a noble impulse, if…" He trails off and takes another sip. She waits, nervous eyes fixed on him. "Can you tell me more about her behavior? The worst rumors you've heard? It's important: it's a disease of progression. Your fever-dreams grow worse and worse, and in the grip of it you never give up a habit you've come to see as necessary. But if it hasn't reached a certain stage… Tell me what you know, and I'll give you what help I can."

So Lavinia spills out the strands of the story, tracing patterns of connection with her finger on the tabletop as she speaks, all she can do. She talks of gluttonous meals and a poem which caught fire in the Mandrake. She tells the Haymaker story, and Anandi's disappearance. At the end, Edward shakes his head.

"Not as bad as I feared. At least, not from those signs. It would be far easier if you knew where she might be. It can't be cured without her wish, and the...infection has a way of convincing sufferers that they are on the path of ultimate truth."

"I do believe she wants to be," Lavinia offers. "A Bazaarine painter of my acquaintance saw her weeping in a Spite alley. It's just a matter of finding her and convincing her that a cure exists."

"I don't know that mine will be feasible," he says, awkward, not meeting her eyes. "My brother...sacrificed something of great worth to the Masters of the Bazaar for my freedom." Edward's mouth twists bitterly. "A fact which he never fails to remind me of when we disagree."

Lavinia has enough social aptitude to not boggle at this piece of news, though her eyes widen slightly. "What sort of object?"

He shakes his head, looking down at the smooth dark grain of the table as if trying to search out a pattern there. "A sort of credit. A claim to a favor from the Masters. The rumor is that these marks underpin all the trade the Bazaar does, as though they back the Echo. They're astonishingly rare. And exceedingly valuable. We had one. And I made my family waste it to free me from my own stubbornness." Bright spots bloom on his cheeks and a fist clenches and unclenches reflexively.

"It was worth it," she says softly, surprising herself. "Wealth exists to ensure security and safety. And here you are."

He looks at her for a moment, that odd, piercing gaze. His fist uncurls slightly. "Here I am," he agrees.

Flustered, she looks down, and he speaks again, not wishing to cause more distress in an already fraught conversation. "Negotiating with the Masters is not the only possibility," he adds in that same soft tone. "There are...rumored rituals. I've no practical experience with them. After my lucky escape, I've tried to stay as far away from such matters."

"Because you'll afraid you'll be infected again?" The question slips out before she can stop it. Edward only shakes his head.

"No. There's supposedly a sort of immunity conferred to anyone who escapes, and my personal experience bears that out. But a part of me always wonders if the next will be the time the charm fails. But it's my family. I couldn't--not again…" He shakes his head. "If they heard I was meddling in such matters, it would break my mother's heart. I've spent so long trying to be a good son." He looks away.

She notices, even in her agitation, that he only mentions his mother's feelings; the analytical part of her mind files that away. "You said there are rituals?"

He nods. "They vary, depending on how far...the infection's spread. I've heard stories that the urchins know a way. And of a ritual: plain water only as a meal and a door left ajar. There's something in the Hebrew scriptures to that effect; I wonder if it derives from that." Edward shakes his head again, as if to clear his musings. "The Masters might have sent your friend a letter...perhaps. But the outward signs are difficult to correlate with progression. If her body is scarred with open wounds, or if she's been arrested reccently…" He shakes his head. "I'd think she's beyond such warnings."

Edward picks up his glass and drains half of it. "I'm not an expert. I know only my own case, and rumors I've heard. If matters have...advanced, have you considered asking Eris? I should imagine she'd be far more familiar."

"We've both heard the rumors," Lavinia replies softly, simply. "And--Eris alludes to it far more willingly than anyone I've ever heard of, but that's different than discussing in great depth. If I caused her...problem...to reopen…" Lavinia trails off, thinking of her friend's carefully-wrapped bandages.

Edward nods, and begins to speak, but Lavinia breaks in again.

"I <i>will</i> ask her, of course, if you think it will help," she assures him. "I've just wanted to cause the least harm or fuss as possible. I don't even know how dangerous Anandi's current condition is. I'm so terribly at a loss."

He nods curtly, studies the amber liquid in the glass, the patterns made by the gaslight. "You're doing what you're able. That's to be commended."

"I'll tell my friend Cedric; I'm sure he'd pay a private detective to find her whereabouts--do you know Cedric?"

A wry smile twists Edward's mouth, the first in some time. "I believe I've met the gentleman before."

Now it's Lavinia's turn to smile, the first real one since he entered the study. "I hope he wasn't too dreadful."

"If he approaches finding your friend with the same single-minded attention he pays to the card tables, I think you stand to hope." His look is gentle. "When you find her--and I do hope you will--so long as she's unscarred, the urchins should know more than I do. If she's much further gone...you ought to talk to Eris. If she could return from--her voyage," and he chokes on the words, "I imagine she has the fortitude to answer your questions."

"Would you prefer if I no longer involved you in these questions?" Lavinia speaks softly, barely audible over the crackling of the library's fire. She looks up to meet his eyes. He shakes his head.

"That isn't what I mean to suggest. Only that there are matters I can assist with, and those that will be...more difficult, given my...family's position. I'd imagine the Urchins might be reluctant to assist without favours or promises--a sufficient price for the knowledge. If my connections can assist in that, you need only ask. But I can't be seen with Miss Varma while she's in this state, or intercede directly for her." He shakes his head again. "It would do no good for either of us."

"Of course," Lavinia assures him, too hasty. "I wouldn't wish to ask anything you were not freely willing to give."

The words hang in the air for a moment, heavy with double meaning, and she blushes again. "I am in your debt for even just this meeting."

"You aren't," he says, almost vehemently, leaning forward across the table towards her. "I have seen lives destroyed for this. The past decade of my own has been spent atoning for my errors. My family will never truly forget. But if I can assist someone else…"

He trails off, unable to voice even the hope of closure. She nods.

"I'm very grateful." She sets her glass down on the table, and leaves her bare hand resting on the wood between them for a lingering moment. "I don't wish to give offense, but I should begin contacting my network..." Her words trail off and hang in the air, her unwillingness to dismiss him so curtly warring with her desire to find Anandi as soon as possible.

"Of course." He rises smoothly, long limbs unfolding. "I wouldn't wish your neighbors to talk at the length of the visit." His voice tries for a joke.

"Oh, I think we're beyond that concern." As she stands, one hand supporting her thin frame against the sofa arm, the words slip out, buoyed by exhaustion and worry and the absence of her constant social calculation. He freezes. His head swivels towards her.

"I only mean--well, you've seen my library. And we've taken tea together." She's backpedaling now, searching for something innocuous, something that won't signal how much she's enjoyed his company on those occasions, so unlike this one.

Edward wants to point out that they sent his carriage away to hide his presence when he left his books, but he doesn't want to remind her to take precautions; he doesn't want her to have to. And the thoughts he projects onto her neighbors, he reminds himself, stem from his own desires--why should they see an impropriety? They don't know his thoughts, after all. So he says the only words he can imagine offering any reassurance.

"When your friend is found, you won't even consider your neighbors for a moment."

The 'when' is grounding, and she lets go of the sofa, shifting her weight forward. "Do you really think she will be?"

"I do. London is large, but good detectives can unearth a great deal."

It's the opposite of reassuring, after how long she's spent undetected in the city. But then, she reminds herself, her father has no reason to think of her anywhere but mouldering in prison. She wonders, for a moment, if he thinks she's dead.

"It can be easier to hide than you think," she murmurs, and moves toward the library door without meeting his eyes.

Edward is too trained a diplomat to react outwardly, but it surprises him: the thought that she might have disappeared and come to London for shelter. He's always thought of Lavinia as being fully formed from girlhood, always driven and obstinate and encouraged to be so. She's never mentioned parents, but that isn't strange; there would be no reason to among their set unless they'd been nobility. But the idea that she's run from something…

"If your friend is drawing this much attention, you may not even need a detective." The practical assurance seems the safest route at the moment. Lavinia's face clears, and she turns towards Edward once again.

"Of course--I hadn't thought of that--I'd been so worried."

One small, pale hand reaches out for the ornate brass knob, and she opens the door for him to leave. On the threshold, he pauses, turning back to face her. "One last warning: be careful when you do find her. You are a scholar of the Correspondence: that makes you uniquely and particularly vulnerable. Do take care, Miss Mason."

She nods, her mouth set.

"I intend to, Mr. Lowell. I thank you for your concern."

He rather doubts she does, in these circumstances, but he hopes his concern is enough.