Chapter Text
There was an air of unease that had settled over Chrestomanci Castle in the past few days, brought on by the mere fact that nothing had happened for the last three weeks. No sudden trips, no dire emergencies, not even a breakout of the flu amongst the staff. Christopher Chant had even managed to make it through a good deal of paperwork without getting whisked away on some errand not of his choosing. While this ought to have been a relief, it was just the opposite.
If Christopher, as the current Chrestomanci, wasn’t being teleported around the world to take care of the troubles people found, it generally meant that trouble was about to come find him.
He was proven right an hour before lunch, when he was called away from his study by a loud ruckus in the entrance hall. With a teal-and-purple dressing gown decorated with silvery patterns like ripples in a pond on over his day suit, Christopher strode through the corridors towards the entrance hall. He was still a ways off when he first heard the voices shouting.
“—supposed to do?!”
“He’s your son and you—“
“Oh, so he’s my son when he’s being difficult—“
“—should have been setting a better example for him—“
“This is not my fault!”
Christopher slowed as he neared the grand staircase leading down to the large, open area where the two people shouting were waiting. He could see Millie hurrying in on the ground floor already, followed by Miss Bessemer carrying a small pile of towels.
He paused at the top of the stairs for a moment to see just who his guests were. It was a man and a woman, the man perhaps ten years younger than Christopher himself, and the woman a few years younger still. At first, Christopher was confused as to why the two were standing so close together when they were arguing so vehemently - the man with his arm around the woman’s shoulders, and she with an arm around his waist - but then he noticed how heavily the man was leaning on her, and how her arm was less affectionately around his waist and more gripping his side to keep him upright.
The woman looked at Millie and frowned, and demanded to know where Chrestomanci was. Millie, in turn, put her hands on her hips and looked like she was about to start a lecture on the proper addressing of the mistress of the house when one was barging in whilst in the middle of an argument. Miss Bessemer looked similarly offended.
“Could someone please explain what’s going on, here?” Christopher drawled, finally moving down to the staircase’s landing.
The man’s eyes snapped up towards him, meeting his gaze with an intense glare. Christopher’s own expression went vague. There was sharp intelligence in that green gaze, honed by the intensity of his emotions. Whoever the man was, he was dangerous. The woman’s gaze followed a moment later.
“Are you Chrestomanci?” the man asked in a gruff voice. Christopher thought that the man’s breathing hitched slightly before he’d spoken.
He nodded. “I am.”
“Good,” continued the man, starting to straighten up for a moment. “We need your… hel…p…”
His strength gave out, and he pitched forward, the woman holding him’s strength not enough to keep him from ending up sprawled on the marble floor.
“Howl!” the woman cried, half-collapsing, half-kneeling next to the man.
That seemed to be the cue for Millie and Miss Bessemer to swing into action, while Christopher took the rest of the stairs three at a time to get to them.
“Come on, dear,” Millie was saying to the woman, gently coaxing her away from the man so that Miss Bessemer could tend to him, “let’s get you someplace more comfortable. You look about to collapse yourself. We’ll fix you both up and then you can explain what’s happened that’s got you all out of sorts.”
Christopher meanwhile crouched down by Miss Bessemer to see what had happened. The man was unconscious. There was no stain of blood on his clothing, which looked to be of a quality that even Christopher considered splendid, and no visible injuries. Exhaustion, then? Christopher wondered if he should call Michael to take a look at him. It was unfortunate that Jason had decided to take a holiday with his wife that month, but Michael would do.
“Let’s get him into the parlor,” he suggested instead.
The small party moved to the room just off the entrance hall. Christopher, aided by some magic, moved the man from where he’d fallen to lay him out on the settee. Millie guided the woman to one of the plump chairs, while Miss Bessemer went to fetch coffee - and perhaps something a little stronger, as well.
Mille was still speaking in soft, gentle tones to the still-distraught woman as Christopher finally did summon Michael. Trouble, indeed. Unless he was mistaken, both the man and woman that had landed in his entryway were powerful magic users. The man, at the very least, was a dangerous one to cross; he’d argued with his usually easygoing wife enough times to know not do discount the woman either, though. The last few weeks’ reprieve had apparently ended, and Christopher could only think that it had perhaps been the calm before the proverbial storm.