Chapter Text
Leonie Barrow stood outside the headquarters of the Dee Society, hoping the door wouldn't open. She didn't want to go in there. She sweated under her cleaner's coverall.
However: if she was turned away, she would make a different plan and try again. There was only one reason she was trying to get in, and it would not have been considered a good reason by most. The Dee Society had Johannes Cabal, and Leonie was here to get him back again.
She put her head down and tried to look bored instead of so nervous she was ready to dance out of her skin.
***
Earlier that evening
He considered his choices for the night. Black? No, too severe. Grey was almost right, but… the brown. The brown would do nicely. Travelling had left things rumpled, and the fabric of the brown had more or less recovered. Would he wear the matching vest, or go with the subtle stripe instead? His stomach reminded him that he was hungry, again. He sighed. What would he do about breakfast?
Earlier than that
She dressed carefully as well, but with much more thought. It was fun, she thought, doing something as normal as dressing for tea with a young man. This dress, of course, the blue arabesque pattern. She could pretend the shoes picked out one of the colours, and really, they almost did. Hair…? Down, she decided. Informal and feminine. There wasn’t supposed to be a wind today. Now, makeup.
Yet earlier
He dressed without thinking about it. Linen, carefully brushed suit. His mind was on the day ahead.
He wasn’t nervous. He never was. Terrified, occasionally, but not nervous. Today was the beginning of the end of a threat that had hung over him - them - for months, and he was confident the risk was justifiable. He looked unseeingly at the green hills outside his house as he tied his cravat.
Earliest
Wake in the dark. What woke him? Was there something there? Check the wards. Check the locks. Listen. Listen again. He slept in a scratchy robe woven from dream-wool; if anything natural had tried to reach him, it would be deep asleep by now, but there were things that did not, could not sleep, and the robe would be useless against them. He must find or make something better. His stomach growled. Useless mortal frame, so vulnerable to cold, heat, hunger, thirst, knives, bullets. Today was the beginning of the end of a threat that had hung over him for months, and he was sure the risk was acceptable. He finished checking his defences and reached for a tin opener.
***
Dappled sun shone on the china, a soft breeze stirred her hair, and Leonie and the young man chatted of nothing much. They were seated at a little table on a terrace; the people around them were having a similarly lovely time. For once, the families enjoyed each other, the elderly couples held hands, and the young lovers darted looks full of promise over the steaming tea and elegant little sandwiches. The light pooled on the silverware like honey, and the honey curled up in its jar. Leonie laughed at something her friend said, almost inhaling her tea by accident. It was all terribly pleasant until the messenger arrived.
He didn’t look like a messenger. He looked like a tradesman. Leonie wondered why a plumber in a work overall was on the terrace. The part of her brain she had difficulty shutting down these days noticed as his eyes swept the tables, and he glanced down periodically at something in his hand. She felt a sudden impulse to hide. She smiled at Robbie and bent down as if to get something from her handbag; bad table manners, no doubt, but she had the oddest feeling…. When she arose, the man stood by the table.
He was a short man. His overall was marked with grease and bagged at the knees. His face was flat and hard. Robbie cleared his throat. The newcomer ignored him. “Miss Lay’nie Barrow?"
“Yes.” No point in denying that in her current company.
He thrust an envelope with grubby edges at her. The stiff cream stationary was familiar, as was the emphatic black ink. She took it. The situation had started to make a sort of sense, although it was no clearer.
The envelope didn't have a postage stamp or cancellation mark. Cabal's letters usually acquired several as they bounced between post offices and delivery services, but it was his stationary and his hand. The flap bore a small digit, 3, also written by Cabal. The man stumped away between the tables.
Robbie was looking at her expectantly. "It isn't your birthday?"
She forced a smile. "No, just some paperwork dad's lawyer wanted me to take to him tonight." It didn't look much like legal paperwork, but it was the best she could come up with. And better, it gave her a reason to leave town. She glanced at her watch. "I'm terribly sorry, Robbie, but I lost track of the time. I'd better be going."
“Is something bothering you, Leonie? I hope nothing’s wrong."
“No, just something tiresome. I might have to leave town for a few days. I’ll write as soon as I’m free. Thank you so much for today, Robbie." She kissed him on the cheek and left.
Outside the hotel doors she saw a scrap of paper, stiff cream stationary, on the pavement. She was surprised and a little amused to find a precise drawing of herself, full-face and profile. It had done its job for the messenger, and he had discarded it. She guessed whose fine-nibbed pen had produced the sketch: it was delicately drawn, but it was more like a zoological diagram than a portrait. He’d gone to a great deal of fuss for some reason; what was wrong with the mails? She’d open the letter when she was home.