Bringing In The Sheaves
Beignet carefully smoothed his dressing gown, and laid it across the wooden frame on his side of the bed before sliding into bed beside Prissy, letting the efforts of the evening wash away as he ensconced himself again in the warmth and comfort of prosperous middle class existence. Twice in a month to chase through the sewers, fighting the dead and the ever undying, from Necromancy to darkest paganism. It really was rather too much.
Madame, (although in his mind always Catherine) had taken in new strays, perhaps more dangerous then a wyvern. The dreadful Arceneaux woman was one thing. Street people to train overnight into a lady. A lady with a hobby of spell craft yet no scientific bent to guide and direct her actions. It was intolerable, and bore witness to the curse that dogged the footsteps of red haired eldren, no matter how immaculately sweet and innocent they might personally be.
Prissy shifted in her sleep, her warm, freshly shaved feet brushing against Dion's bare leg where his nightshirt had shifted. Cold shot through him, despite the warmth of covers and comfort.
I walk a tightrope, he thought to himself. To make the lord worthy to have my Priss serve him; to provide for Catherine when the lord should pass, and the new lord and lady... the money, always money... more mouths, more hands held out looking for money, money, money, money. The thieving cat-girl, brought in by the Arceneaux, the well bred but avaricious archeologist always looking for sponsors, cousin Bertie despite his own stolen fortune... schools, training, medical care for the lord, pretties to keep Catherine becalmed. Fencing for a girl who is in no way ready to be a crime boss, competing with the overlarge pirates of finance to carve a piece of legitimate revenue. Houses, parties, clothing replaced because of ethereal ichor or bullet holes. Money, money, money. Tonight, with a wool blanket, cotton sheet, and the children huddled around us, I should be much happier with a simpler woman with simpler tastes.
Dion forced himself to relax, to simple things. At night, in Belgium, in the tiny little hole in the ground in the tiny little villiage the great huge ovens never cooled enough to need more then a sheet to sleep. I would wake in the night, to push away my brothers, too hot to feel the touch of skin against me even in deepest winter. There had been cold, living on the streets in Brussels; cold bitter enough that taking service at a hotel catering to Doublings seemed wise. And nights on the moors, practicing spell craft, steadying a pistol aimed at a scarecrow while the drunken gentlemen laughed and took bets on whether he'd shoot himself or just fall over in the mud from the kick had been very cold indeed.
Dion stretched, and carefully pulled himself from bed, reaching for his dressing gown and slipped from the room before lighting a candle in the hallway. He padded on bare feet to his study, and the time to think. Not react.
It comes simply and finally to Arceneaux, he thought to himself. The adventures, the missteps, the crimes. The street people, the dangers. She cannot be eliminated, neutralized, or converted. Some arrangement must be made. What possessed the woman to hate me so, to attack me at every turn, and to bring insult and injury to me, threat to Catherine and the lord, and dragging the poor kitten back into the filth?
Dion laughed to himself about the little Evie girl. None but a hobbit would take serious Little Donut as a lover, ah... ah but the kitten shall find I am wise to the ways of seduction. She shall enter the homes of the comfortable with an eye to a main chance, but she shall quickly find the gifts men can give a pretty girl are more dear to the heart then the gifts given to another woman for her attentions in a sack tossed from a third floor window are precious. When the right boy gives her a ring not worth pawning, stolen diamonds will seem tawdry.
The lord was progressing, amenable to reason, even if not exactly bloodthirsty in pursuit of his own interest. Rebecca Spencer held promise, if another chore left to do. Bertie and his Flora had settled into comfortable self sufficiency. "Josephine, more properly called Eris, we must meet and settle who shall guide. Too many will be hurt if you drag them all into your war with appearances."
The short hobbit pulled open his desk drawer, and pulled out a fountain pen and a clean sheet of paper.
"Make appointment to talk to Madame Arceneaux. No guns."
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