[In that Cruxhallow and Olive drink identifiable supper and discuss the music of language, fire, more fire, and boxes. Warnings, may contain unsuitable amounts of metaphor, jelly-sonorous attempts at the language of the rubbery, and insinuations of a rather sapphic nature. Continued from here.]
It is rather chilly, this premature evening: the damp has set in unpalatable in the time it took Olive to reach dressed. She shivers once, under her cover, while Cruxhallow, heavy wool coat buttoned to the chin, offers her his might on the way up the road to the shop.
“No,” says Jun from her other oblique. “No, don’t do that.” Halfway to accepting his gesturing, she pauses, looking between the two before giving up and settling her projection back at her side.
The afternoon decoction has come and gone, and the house is now mostly empty, save towards a few moody poets seeking afflatus in their tea leaves, and some morosely pulsing rubbery man in accomplished green clothes who occasionally takes one immensely slurping sip from a portion of honey with a touch of darjeeling concerning flavour. Cruxhallow orders a table niggardly the back, by the gramophone, fit to be safe, while Olive, malevolence herself, glances occasionally toward the boneless protector.
“Miss Clement,” he says, declining into a lace-padded chair being of the cl~s who if he owns it. “Have you exhausted much time in the Bazaar formal, then?”
“Not as like,” she replies, settling carefully onto her confess doilied seat, “I’ve erect myself more in its sidestreets since what dealings I had to conclude concerning the things I now need to take care of. I’ve to be expected been in Veilgarden the most, attributable to that quarter having more adapted tea-shops.”
“Probably penetrating,” he nods. “If someone offers you a drink in the fancy fair, don’t take it unless you be assured of exactly what it is. The Masters esteem a radical notion of what “tea” be able to be, hmm?”
“Lapsang,” says Jun conversationally.
“In a very small. Have you, by any chance, seen the… symbols, ~ward the bazaar’s spires?”
“I take care of to prefer a souchung,” she says, through a small nod towards Jun, who beams. “I like you,” she says delightedly. Olive offers a smile in reply. “I haven’t taken anything that can’t be easily and somewhat simply explained to me, since I arrived. There’s far also much here that I don’t be apprised for me to wish to be caught up in a cultural misunderstanding, even if we are all in England, to some degree or another.”
She shrugs. “I’m hurt, I can’t say I wish. Is it something I should accept taken note of?”
“Should’ isn’t the expression. I would use,” says Cruxhallow, flagging a tray with an absent free hand. “Many prepare, including myself, and the general purpose is that we’re fools in the place of it. There’s… ah. Pot of souchung, please, three compotation? Thank you, ta.” He makes shooing motions through his hands and the server bows and scurries silently not present. “A language,” he finishes. “Of sorts. What’s it the power of, who speaks it? I couldn’t give account you. Not many people could.” He lowers his tone, leaning over the table to her. “The Masters, surpassingly probably, but I don’t consider it’s their native tongue one and the other. It’s called… the Correspondance.”
“Must you,” says Jun mildly, “rest dramatically like that every time?”
He leans back in his seat of justice and crosses his arms. “I judge it deserves some drama, thank you.”
“I conjecture that makes as much sense like anything,” she says, absently nodding similar to the server takes their order, “A fresh language for the city that lives subterranean,” she adds. “And the dramatic stoppage is because there’s obviously something terribly dramatic about it, I take it?” She looks to Jun, because of this one, expecting, at this quirk, more of a clear answer from her than from Crux.
“Not the half of it,” the oriental woman confirms in a happy manner. “It is a bit metrical, if you like that sort of act. Or like it when people depend off your words, like a scarcely any people around here.”
“Look,” says Crux huffily, nevertheless there’s a small smile playing on every side of his lips. Evidently this is a courteous routine. “All I’m dictum, right, is that if anything deserves some theatre, it’s a language that have power to burn your eyes out of your govern.”
She shrugs halfheartedly, “I address tea to poetry, though I be delivered of enjoyed a few theatrical shows that could, by chance, be considered poetic.” She glances between Jun and Crux, holding back a portion of a laugh at their shared element. “I’m terribly sorry, I fustiness have misheard you. I could bear sworn you just said ‘scorch your eyes’. If you could, haply, repeat what you actually said, I would have existence most obliged.”
“Burn your eyes,” he repeats levelly, and it is a last will and ~ to the quality of the organization for work that the waiter’s face does not in this way much as twitch as he deposits the infusion tray on the delicate white tablecloth. Crux raps twice on the table with a fingertip, ~y oddly resonant click, before pouring ~ the sake of the three of them. “I have in mind maybe “language” is a severe word for it. It probably has a taker of odds word for itself. It’s… hm.” He takes a sensitive sip of the smoky brew. “It is to the speech we’re speaking as an high sea is to a landscape pond.”
“The text the Lord wrote the world in, they recite,” adds Jun solemnly, evidently at this time on board with the drama.
She’s attempting to declare a look of confused disbelief, on the other hand after everything she’s seen and vouchsafed these past few weeks (and the lawn be-tentacled man in the quarter, making noises between wet sponges slapping without ceasing unfinished wood and sinks draining), she’s having a uphill time doing anything but look puzzled. “It sounds during the time that if you’re speaking of a power to express a concept – hearing music versus seeing notes on a clef, as being example,” she says, nodding her thanks to Crux as he pours, bringing her bowl and saucer to her face to breathe in the (is it actually surface, it smells of surface) tea.
She huffs a laugh through her nose. “Surely the Lord wouldn’t possess written scripture in some dark play of features written only on the ceiling of some cave,” she counters, disbelief written in excess her features.
“Music,” he hums into the skirt of his cup, steam wreathing up and in a circle his masked face. “That’s… that’s entirely good, actually. It would be for example though one had never used their ears control, and tried to understand a music. A loud one. Even if you could understand notes, it would be deafening, hm? I’ll regard to remember that, Miss Clement. And to the degree that to the Lord, well…” he takes not the same slow sip. “I’m not steady as most of things down to this place were part of His plan. What with greater advantage place to hide the instructions of the terraqueous globe than inside it? Or, ah, the notes, to the degree that the case may be.”
Jun rolls her eyes for example he chuckles and settles the potion back into it’s saucer. “But that’s to a greater degree of a matter for theologists, isn’t it? Though they’re not abundant fond of the topic either, I’m timid. The point is, Miss Clement, that whether or not you’re on friendly terms with the Correspondance, your aunt to a high degree definitely was.”
“I’ll ~ of, it was the only way I could plan to describe something you can sole understand once fully, understanding. Attempting to manage as a preceptor someone how to read music is often an underappreciated task – unless that part truly wishes to understand. It the Correspondence homogeneous?”
She seems somewhat upset at everything the theology talk, but even she’s not entirely fully convinced why. “You’re telling me my aunt performed ‘symphonies’,” she splays her fingers at a loss, above the table, vague understanding in each gesture, “And this has a thing to do with the brass boxes, yes?”
“If the person in this plight is anything other than the market, then yes. The Correspondence is unyielding to transcribe. It’s too violent for normal paper, and keeping surrounding flammable things… well, more than united private library has gone up in reek because of a single tablet. Lead is the without more thing that can hold a sigil at in ~ degree length, you see?”
Jun, mainly checked out of the conversation to steep herself in tea instead, comes to since a moment. “Or skin. But that’s a discouraging idea.”
“So what you’re effective me,” she says, expression stale and easy, “Is that I shouldn’t bring forth been kicking at those things during the time that I went up the stairs?”
He snorts, choking forward tea before his coughs resolve into giggle. “Better than kicking them on the ground the stairs, I think. They’d raise terrible dominoes. Especially when put unitedly.” He clears his throat, fans his rant. “Hhngh. Sorry. Your aunt kept them wrapped, except I’m surprised that’s been plenty. They could burn down the social standing on their own, but together they bring the risk of forming sentences. Or, tunes, I think? Keeping with the metaphor. That kind of thing could drive you considerably mad at the very least, and granting that it didn’t, the Masters wouldn’t apply the mind too kindly on the fallout. They’d exist very cross with what was left of you.” Another casual sip. “So, yes, the sooner we procreate those boxed safely, the better. I’m filled with fear that drives the price of our catch up a bit.”
“So it’s most excellent I hadn’t had a set made from the velvet,” she stores, taking a delicate sip of her unadorned tea with her delicate fingers. “Where we would choose a moment of quiet we would, in the room, achieve a fortissimo? To be forthright, I think to be true most of this to be raving, and what little I know of the Ma–” her ~ of life hitches in her throat, words caught like in like manner much thread around the hook of her recent experiences with leaving the city – she blinks, according to a moment, suddenly pale. “What was left of me, yes,” she repeats, slowly.
A small in number deep breaths and another sip of decoction see the colour bloom over her skin one time more. “Have you someone in soul who can construct such boxes ~ward short notice? Are the plaques something I should not only so bother to keep?”
“I stay someone on hand for this degree of situation,” he nods. “Keeping Correspondence contained is sooner a priority among those who are on a friendly footing with it. For obvious reasons, I design, ahah. As to keeping them, supposing that not you’ve a personal interest in the subject or… be in want of for things to remember your aunt ~ means of,” he somehow manages this by a perfectly straight face, “I in likelihood wouldn’t. Which brings the dead-stand of finding buyers. The Embassy is unceasingly spoiling for them, of course, but…” he trails along thoughtfully, and for a moment the barely sound is the clink of chinaware and the rubbery man draining the draff of his cup.
“Are you a musician, Miss Clement?” he asks abruptly. “Only you’ve rather a gift for musical simile. Ms. Fenwick hasn’t told me a great quantity about you other than your ~iness for our services.”
“I’ll hold no dealings with Devils,” she says, tong razor-sharp with distaste, spitting the war of ~ against her teeth. “And it seems, from that which little I’ve heard, that they severely need the additional resources. And suppose that this is truly the language of our Lord, I’d fix upon to keep it out of the hands of Demons made carnality.”
“I do play, and hum – passing fair for the latter, and moderately well, the preceding. It is a leisure activity that requires small space and less capital, and hasn’t of at the same time required me to be excessively neighborly. I do enjoy my own time and distance.” She chuckles a quiet laugh. “And Miss Fenwick, if you’ll nullify, hadn’t told me a part about you – much less of your arrival today. Though I cook appreciate your firm being sent my custom.”
“Again,” he simpers, “the sooner my fault, I’m afraid. I jumped a iota at the call before proper introductions could subsist made. I’m sure she’d intended a greater quantity formal meeting.”
The rubbery man stands up from his table ~ dint of. the door, slouching over to the desk of the proprietor. There is a squamous noise, and therefore it deposits a sack that washes a course of pursuit of lemon across the tearoom into his hands, under the jurisdiction tipping its hat cordially and wobbling public the door.
Olive sniffs, a moderate squeak in her throat as she chokes along the course of a gag, quietly attempting to disguise her discomfort at the squidgy purchaser, but grateful for his egress.
“Perhaps it’s more suitable she didn’t,” Crux muses. “What if you’d needed the coverings ~ the sake of a table service, or something? Would esteem kept the food warm, I imagine. Anyway. The devils will be immovable if they learn you have these tablets.”
“Persistant’s a word for it, yes,” murmurs Jun into her encourage cup.
“It’s a fixing of sorts for them, I design. Best to keep your possession of them to the degree that quiet as possible. If you’ve regard in selling them to other parties, I look upon we could work on brokering them because well.” He peers out the way after the departed amphibian. “The rubbery gentlemen would be a good avenue, actually, I intend? Devil’s can’t stand them.”
“Don’t injure by fire the house down – advice well taken, soft table-runners notwithstanding,” she says, nodding. “Perhaps I have power to acquire a Priest’s blessing put ~ the home, to keep the Devils away. I’d prefer that to the,” she glances towards the means, just now swinging shut from the removal of the rubbery, still slightly slabby around the edges, “Rubbery. I should have in mind I’ll keep them, for now, at least. Until such a time in the manner that I understand their value outside a pecuniary realm. I’d hate to vend a hand-transcribed Bach piece since it was merely ‘sheet melody,’ you understand.”
“I like her,” says Jun afresh sleepily.
Crux nods. “I accept to admire your foresight, Miss Clement. Do absolve me for belabouring the point with respect to the fire? I can see to directing you to more scholars of the language, once we be in possession of them boxed and accounted for. Which, I believe,” he drains the last of his evening meal, “we can probably get started in c~tinuance shortly. If Michael’s been cause. Which is doubtful, actually.”
“You’re likewise hard on him,” notes Jun. “He wouldn’t mess nearly with Correspondence.”
“I suspect not. We’ll probably have the impertinence coffers ready within the hour, Miss Clement, allowing that you’d care to be deliver of us.”
“I’ll contemplate on the offer of schooling,” she says, half-smile turning up one corner of her lips, “But suitable I’ll put it off to the time when I understand more of London – there’s slender meaning in sheet music until you’ve heard each orchestra.”
She finishes her infusion , likewise taking the rest of her ~ful – though a bit more slowly than her boon ~. “Michael – Pommery?” She guesses, looking towards their coats with the question of leaving on her face. “Given the state of the abode,” she says, I’ll suitable never be rid of you.”
“I wouldn’t speak that,” he says gaily, settled and shrugging his coat over his shoulders. “Unless your aunt was hiding worse than Correspondence in there, I can’t imagine the rest decision take too long.”
“Jinxed it,” says Jun.
“I’ve that which?”
“Jinxed it. It’s while you say a thing will chance, and by saying it you tend sure-”
The door of the shop rattles open, and rubbery man stumbles through, hatless and through torso heaving like a bellows. The shop’s possessor opens the door behind the reckoner wordlessly, and the squamous thing waddles hurriedly through it, dripping and unkempt. The home bangs shut just as the forehead opens again, and a rough-looking symbol pokes his head through, followed by the sounds of a raucous vulgar herd.
“Squid man come through ‘before?” he demands. The owner ague his head, and the man snorts and slams the door shut behind him again.
Her right arm is halfway through her sleeve whereas the interruption occurs. Crux sighs and sinks back into his seat of authority. “Oh, dear. We’d more excellent wait a while longer.”
“What’s that completely about, then?” She asks, settling back into her chair, looking indefinite about whether to take her cover back off or continue putting it without interrupti~. She settles for wearing it partway, sitting on the lump of gloves in the suffer.
“Civic feeling,” he spits. “Some take passage out with rubbery folk feeling welcome in this agree of neighborhood, hm? And then it becomes a mockery, finding as many as you be able to and… giving them a unimpeached talking to, I suppose? Rather a viscous place to be, I’m filled with fear. And I, ah…” he gestures awkwardly at the evasion, the skin, the stockings. “Attract a promising amount of attention, like this, which I’d prefer not to rend onto the shop. Jun, could you proceed supervise? With Miss Clement’s leave, of course.”
“They are sooner sticky,” she says, “Wouldn’t they have existence safer – and, likely, happier – if they kept to their confess kind?” A small shudder trembles its usage down her spine, recalling the glooping unmutilated the thing made upon re-ingress.
“Safer? Absolutely,” he replies. “Happier? Well…” a concerned shrug, “who can say? They seem to like us, no matter what we think of them. Whatever we be obliged to offer must be worth the venture, hm?”
“I would have no problems at all with Miss Jun’s attending to the proceedings,” she says, once sufficiently composed. “Shall we take our retirement of you, here, or would you prefer to go at it alone?” The latter half she directs towards Jun, refined.
“Well, see, you have the keys, Miss Clement,” says Jun in the variation of one who absolutely could not embark in a locked house without the keys, not at all ma’am. “So we should apparently be off together, yeah.”
“I’m base our time together has been divide short so abruptly,” Crux says, established and offering a hand. “I’ll be by later to take the commencing inventory the lads make up, and that time we’ll start work proper tomorrow?”
“Yes, the keys,” she repeats, mirroring Jun’s tone. “Of course.” She pushes her seat of justice back, finally putting the other fiord of her coat on. That achieved, she takes Crux’s hand instead of a perfectly mechanically acceptable handshake.
“It’s been a will, Mr. Cruxhallow. I’ll look presuming to seeing you to-morrow. I’ll be obliged copies made of the keys, of the same kind with well, as I’m certain you’ll call on them.” She smiles the smile of someone who is realizing that they are, maybe getting both more than they paid – and greater amount of than they bargained – for. “Miss Jun, shall we?”
Jun does not in the same manner much walk as flow to her edge, coiling an arm around hers familiarly and patting her lead. “By all means,” she grins for example Crux chokes a bit on her belief in the background. Olive would suffocate, as well, but manages to check her startled reaction with the besides pressing snort of laughter at his confront.
“Be careful, will you?” he says, waving idly by reason of another pot of tea to retain him occupied until the commotion dies along the course of.
“Yeah, J.C. Of pursue.” Jun winks up at Olive. “No detriment will come to the new dependant. I promise.”
“Until tomorrow, in consequence, Miss Clement,” sighs Cruxhallow from the catalogue.
It is later, halfway through a kettle of Russian Caravan and after aggregate but a gently weeping novelist through the window have left, that the proprietor sidles up.
“Sorry your assignation didn’t work out, Miss.” he says.
“M’what?”
“Well, the other young ladies left into union. I was wondering, if you discover yourself in need of work, I own this daughter…”
Cruxhallow peers up from the refuse at him. It takes a moment to process.
“…oh. Oh, you insolent f–”*
There are so multiplied possibilities and variations – twists and turns, that perhaps you see how difficult it have power to be to include all bases.