Chapter Text
The glossy ebony petals of the bloom caught in the gathering dusty orange of the dawn. The veins gathering at the ends to meet the stem, where curled thorns jutting out from it’s length. Deftly, his gloved fingers pinched the irregular of the petals; curling in on itself, crinkled like discarded paper, and a light tan to match. Almost as soon as he grasped it, the thing began to come undone, flaking in flitters that fell to the compost below. Wrenching at it with a light pull, the petal came from the plant, floating like a feather to meet its broken pieces. The remnants clung to the bottle green of his gardening gloves, before he promptly brushed them loose from his fingertip. The health of the ebony rose depended on the discarding of death. Barok shut his eyes closed, brow curling in like the petal. The implications of that one were far from pleasant to dwell on. Pausing still a moment to drink in the air of the dawn, he cast aside the thought aside in hopes it would join the dead petals. The few that escaped the flowerbeds crunched underfoot, as he drew himself to his feet.
Wrought iron, coal-black gates pierced the sky just a ways’ in front of him. The spikes glimmering in the gathering sunlight, ends pointed as though cruel. The way he’d had it designed. From beyond tidily trimmed hedgerows, and well-groomed topiaries, bickering voices rung out. Both ones Barok knew. The two of them pranced through his imposing gates. One a lithe, blonde man with a thin face and knowing green eyes, dressed in a loose tan-brown trenchcoat designed to warm, topped with a detective’s hat, and a set of brass goggles with peculiarly clover-shaped lenses. The second a young girl of considerably shorter stature, and fiery, vividly rose-pink hair; herself with a set of goggles sat upon her head, and done up in a maroon and cream dress. Their shoes tapping against the uniform tiles that led into the estate. Rising to meet them, Barok tugged the rough and gashed gloves from his hands.
Noticing his approach, and pressing his pipe to his lips, Sholmes first addressed him. “My, my, Van Zieks! I hadn’t thought of you as one to tend to roses! Have you not staff? I should think a man of your wealth would have gardeners employed!” Piercing a glance at him, Barok quickly rebutted. “There’s joy to be derived from the menial, Sholmes. Regardless, the species is a rarity from the Netherlands. I’d trust no-one else in tending to them.” A tidy smile on Sholmes’ lips, he exclaimed. “Well! Power to you, I say!” Eyes burning from out from beneath his heavy brow, he simply enquired. “I should hope you’ve informed her of her lineage?” Pointing his index to the skies, Sholmes heartily proclaimed. “Why, of course! She’s well-informed, my Iris!” Squishing the rosy skin of her cheek with her index, she exasperatedly exclaimed, “Well, you kept it from me long enough!” Dropping his arm to his side, Sholmes rebuked his eccentric daughter. “And did you not go to several measures to deduce it on your own? What you did secure was astounding! Especially considering no actual records existed of it.” A beaming smile on her round face, Iris clasped her hands as she turned to look at Barok. “Well, either way, I wouldn’t have expected my uncle to be you, Mr . Reaper!” His eyes lingered on the girl a moment. Perhaps it was hard to believe, but she was the last living part of Klint… though what his brother had done had been far harder to believe, again… Curtly, he gave her a quick bow. “In the end, yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Iris. Though you needn’t refer to me formally, or by… incredulous epithets.” An ancient weight momentarily bearing again on his shoulders, he bowed his head, allowing himself to steal a glance away from painful recollection.
Clasping her hands over her mouth, Iris fumbled over her words. “Oh, I’m very sorry! I-I didn’t mean for that one to slip out!” A stern look snapped onto his face. “No, you needn’t apologise, either.” Her eyes shining with blossoming tears, Barok looked to Sholmes. “You’re fine with leaving her here so, Sholmes?” A seriousness air developed around Herlock, as he firmly replied. “Only if you’re happy to see me go, Iris.” He caught her eye as he spoke. As if like a dime, a cheery and beaming grin snapped onto her face. “Of course, Hurley! I’ll be back for tea, mind!” Matching her smile, Sholmes declared. “There you have it! I’ll leave you both, so. Are you able to have her sent back to Baker Street, Van Zieks?”
“Undoubtedly.” Turning heel, Sholmes strolled away, backwards, addressing Iris as he passed the iron gates of the Van Zieks estate. “Farewell, Iris! I shall see you shortly! Your game is afoot!” With the tip of his hat, he disappeared beyond the hedgerow, and out of sight. Barok’s gazer lowered, to meet Iris’s eyes. “Well, should you like to come in?” With his open palm, he gestured to the arched, imposing doorway of the mansion, at least triple his own height, nevermind poor Iris’s. Though her reply came quickly, a sluggishness and restraint showed in her movements, not nearly as bouncy as they had been with Sholmes. “Yes! …May I ask, Mr. Zieks, why the offer of babysitting with Hurley?” Beckoning her to follow with a wave of the hand, Barok moved to the imposing doorway. “It felt a bit too direct to ask to see you in connection with Klint. …Though I certainly doubt you require supervision, despite your age.” The stout spires and buttresses of the building pierced the sky as the fance did, but to far more effect. With a push, the door yawned open, as though woken from an ancient slumber. Stained glass was mounted in the windows, arching into sharp, angular points. The floor and walls were fashioned from crude, stone bricks, the stone itself riddled with brighter minerals that speckled across the dark surfaces like stars. Candleholders clung to the wall like the buttresses did on the other side of the wall. As of the moment, no flames wore down the wicks, though scorched wax had tumbled out from several of the holsters. The walls themselves towered, bearing down on you from great height like a judgemental god that had witnessed every little slight and sin that could have possibly marred the defendant’s life. The dull, ashen blacks and greys did little to help the energy of the mansion’s great hall, and dust iritated the nose, seemingly having escaped the cleaners in the wearing wedges in the brickwork.