while you were looking the other way, while you had your eyes closed

[motherspider.livejournal.com]

*Esmerelda has been, by her own measure, remarkably patient with Dearborn throughout their thirty-something years of marriage. He is gone nine months out of the year, sometimes disappearing totally from her radar only to pop back into the manor itself spattered with blood or with some ridiculous and obscure wound and some beast's carcass to match. Of course, these bits of plunder do the best of their business; heaven knows someone has to kill unicorns, as dutiful virgins for plucking tail hairs are in awfully short supply and they are in steady an unrelenting demand for wand construction. And the blood goes for hundreds of galleons a pint, and goblins are unsurprisingly fond of the meat itself, and--well, he doesn't go gallivanting off to various foreign backwaters for no good reason.

But now is not the time. The various cut-rate wandmakers and shady potioneers can go emptyhanded for now; their son honestly thinks he's going to be wed to that thing--that girlshaped beast--that horrible succubus--she will suck him dry and that will be the very end, the final and terrible period at the bottom of the Rosier name. It's not something she takes lightly and it's something he shouldn't either, but all of her owls have gotten in response has been silence and, on the occasion of the third howler, an only slightly bloody chest full of goblin-made jewelry.

She has him now, though. She keeps a close eye on his itineraries and knows that he'll finally be passing through a real town with inns this morning if he hasn't slept in it the previous night. If he doesn't floo her from one of the inns, the last howler threatened, he may suddenly find himself removed from his genitals late some evening should he choose to return to the Estate.

When the fire in the hearth finally--finally--turns green, she rises from behind her desk, leaving her correspondence behind to stand, unamused and arms crossed, before it.*

It's about time.

Comments

[fatherfarther.livejournal.com]

*It is only a real town with inns in a relative sense. It's more of a hamlet, so thoroughly accustomed to being crushed under various lordlings or Dark Wizards or new experimental governments that even the buildings themselves look hunched. The inn itself serves something a bit like Firewhisky in jam jars and, in what appear to be lidless tomato cans, something clear that smells like flowers and burns like poison. Even Dearborn isn't entirely sure what it is, and he has an encyclopedic and comprehensive knowledge of such things. But he's on his fourth, now, and in one more he's fairly certain he'll solve the puzzle.

In truth Dearborn's most comfortable in backwaters like these, and always has been despite his upbringing. He and Druella were raised in a handsome manor home with every conceivable luxury--well, within reason, the Rosiers had never bothered with such ludicrous fripperies as white peacocks, being neither so respectable as to be able to get away with it nor so gauche as to attempt and fail. But in truth as he's grown older he's cared about such things less and less, and continues to play the game when he is at home only for Esmerelda's benefit--and, presumably, Evan's.

Still, he doesn't appreciate when it intrudes into his other interests more than absolutely necessary. Esmerelda is more than competent, she is a damned miracle, and he is accustomed to her simply taking care of things while he's away, not writing him letter after hysterical letter. And Howlers, that had been inconvenient considering the compromising position he'd been in with those sisters in that--well, had it really been a barn? And what is this little flowery drink--

In any case, he's ignored her long enough: the threat to the genitals is not a joke, at least he knows her well enough for that. It is with an elaborately patient expression that he rests his hands on the inn's decaying mantlepiece and pokes his head into the flames. This hearth is old, and the connection is bad, but after awhile her image appears and he summons a smile.*

You wrote, dear?

[motherspider.livejournal.com]

*She presses a single finger to her temple to stave off the inevitable headache that this conversation and the bad connection will both incur.*

You read the owls?

Your son thinks he is getting married.

[fatherfarther.livejournal.com]

My son?

Let me explain to you how it works, Esmerelda--

*It is perhaps fortunate that the next few words and their associated gestures are obscured in roaring green flame. When the connection improves, he is passing his hand wearily over his face as if heavily put-upon. His words are very slightly drawling, thanks to his lunchtime experiments with the flower-liquor.*

I don't see why this can't wait until my return.

It is a girl, yes, you know I've had worries--

[motherspider.livejournal.com]

*Esmerelda does love Dearborn very much, she could swear that she does, but the condescending birds-and-the-bees nonsense that she can infer through the poor connection makes her want to strangle him and spit on his limp corpse.*

--She's a werewolf. Your son has taken your mother's engagement ring out of the vault and given it to a werewolf.

[fatherfarther.livejournal.com]

Not that horrible thing. I wonder how she could ever move her hand--

*Beyond the hearth, there's impatient shouting in something that sounds like Georgian over his shoulder, and Dearborn makes a rude gesture to whoever is behind him and shouts something back. When he returns his attention to Esmerelda, his face is beginning to redden. The liquor seems to be catching up with him. As for the revelation of the girl's werewolf status, it rolls right off him--it wasn't even hours ago that Dearborn had gone sporting with a vampire, they just didn't make them that way in Britain, not anymore--

Anyway, to the matter at hand.*

Darling, as long as you're keeping the thing quiet I don't see why you're in hysterics. I'll be back in two weeks--

[motherspider.livejournal.com]

The thing will not stay quiet. Lucius knows, and you know how he is. He would publish it on the front page of the Prophet out of sheer spite.

*She leans in, toward the flames.*

I refuse to let this family--this business--be blown to bits just because Evan is in love and Lucius wants to ruin him.

I've begun the process of disowning Evan. You'd be proud, he's had me running in circles. It's more complicated than Walburga led me to believe.

[fatherfarther.livejournal.com]

--disowning him. Disowning my son.

Esmerelda, you will do no such thing. I'm surprised at you. Two weeks. Surely you can keep a lid on your overreaction until then.

*His face softens, a bit, and the white-hot anger that had appeared there is gone just as quickly. He adopts a placating sort of tone, running a hand through his hair: for a moment blood-grimed fingernails, his signet ring, his wedding ring are visible, even through the bad connection.*

Sweetheart, it'll pass, he's always been like this, remember the mess with Bellatrix in '75, and that little French piece, what-was-her-name--just have Lauren make you a stiff drink and try to calm yourself, hmm?

I mean, she isn't a Mudblood or anything like that?

[motherspider.livejournal.com]

*She lets out a harsh and unladylike snort of humorless laughter, ignoring his moment of fury.*

Oh no, her heritage is as long as we'd like, which would all be well and good if she hadn't been disowned summarily at the age of 17 for running away and working as a damn barmaid.

*And there's the headache, strong as thunder. She puts both hands to her temples and closes her eyes.*

Dearborn--I forbade it, even tried to pay her off to move her along, tried to get Antonin to stop it. I am going to continue pushing him out of the family until he comes to his senses or he's destitute, and if you disagree I strongly suggest you discuss it with him yourself. Or Lucius, for that matter, though I can't think of a single thing that'd keep him quiet on this subject.

[fatherfarther.livejournal.com]

*At the mention of Lucius, Dearborn heaves an irritated sigh.*

Oh, him. I'm sure you can, if you set your mind to it. He is a pissant and a girl, Esmerelda, you've four times the stones and he knows it. Why--

*No use getting off-track, though. Manfully, drunkenly, he struggles to find his thread again.*

Darling, you're going about it all wrong. The more walls you throw up the more poems the little fairy is going to write. Remember? You'll push him right into this little barmaid so stop meddling. Two weeks.

[motherspider.livejournal.com]

Give me something I can use against Lucius, then. I've checked with my contacts at the Ministry and it looks like all records about her have been destroyed, but Lucius sent me her file--she's got a file, Dearborn--

*She heaves a sigh, but she's spent herself, and he's right, though she hates to admit it.*

Heavens. Anything to avoid more poetry. Those poems to Bellatrix were awful. What was it--something about comparing her to a fruit, and he kept using the refrain the thirst, the thirst, the thirst. Do you remember that one?

[fatherfarther.livejournal.com]

I don't know, the little shitstain's got all those bits and bobs under the drawing room floor, I'm sure you'll think of something.

Ugh, don't remind me. I'm surprised that side of the family still speaks to us. Adolescents.

Oh, I forgot. Saw this and thought of you.

*Unceremoniously, he produces a small and lumpy parcel wrapped thickly in rough muslin. Inside is an iron cameo from under the floorboards of the last goblin family he negotiated with. He thrusts it through the fire, in a brief moment when the connection is particularly strong.*

Have it curse-broken, Horntail, I haven't a clue what it's got on it.

[motherspider.livejournal.com]

*She takes the parcel and unwraps it, careful not to touch the thing. It's gorgeous, and exactly in her taste too, and she softens a fraction.*

Oh--It's lovely. Thank you.

*She rewraps it and sets it on the desk, arranging their resolution.*

I'm not going to undo what I've done so far, Dearborn, he's got to be put in line. You wouldn't believe what the goblins were telling me about the vault, he's been spending like mad on account at Twilfit's and a handful of little shops. Like he's planning to redecorate his flat in antiques. He's got to be shut out from the vault, at least. We both know he's got enough to get by on just fine.

[fatherfarther.livejournal.com]

*But he's shouting over his shoulder, again, in his clumsy Georgian, and when he finally looks back at her, there's an air of dismissal about him.*

Of course. Let him rough it until I get back, he won't starve.

Twilfit's. Just be glad he isn't buying her fruit plantations, I wouldn't put it past him. The thirst, honestly.

Two weeks?

[motherspider.livejournal.com]

*Her tone is bone-dry.*

I'm counting my blessings as we speak.

*She waves a hand like a flag of surrender, but she is smiling.*

All right, all right, two weeks. But I want you to talk to him when you're back. There's got to be a better solution than just allowing this to happen.

[fatherfarther.livejournal.com]

Kick in the pants ought to do it.

*Dearborn is not speaking metaphorically.

He blows his wife a kiss through the flames, says something that's inaudible under their static roaring: I love you, possibly, or don't worry, or don't be stupid, and then he's gone.*