RE: Incident [TEXT]
12-08-2013, 10:46 PM
(This post was last modified: 12-09-2013, 12:33 AM by whoosh!.)
If anything needs your attention, it’s the disappearance of Dominique. Retrieving the business card of her sister, you drop it on the desk in front of you and dial.
“You’ve reached the receptionist of Antoinette Fabron, Professional Consultant. How may I help you?”
“I’d like to talk to Ms Fabron.”
The man on the end of the phone laughs.
“Yes, you and everyone else. I’m afraid the waiting list for an appointment with Antoinette is booked up four months in advance, but if you’re happy to wait that long then –“
“This is urgent. I need to speak to her about her sister.”
“Her sister? I didn’t know she had – oh. Excuse me, one moment please.”
You hear a faint exchange on the other end of the phone, but the words are impossible to discern. He returns a few moments later.
“Can I ask your name?”
“Alexus Silk.”
“I see. It seems Antoinette was anticipating your call, and will be happy to talk with you at three this afternoon. I trust you have the address?”
“I, uh, yes. Thank you.”
“Have a good day.”
He hangs up on you before you can complete the pleasantries.
What kind of consultation is Antoinette Fabron giving that’s put her in such demand? And how did she know that you would want to speak to her? Katherine could have told her, but she said herself that she’d never so much as seen Antoinette. It certainly opens up a few intriguing possibilities.
Perhaps you’ll get some answers this afternoon.
You replace the receiver and reach for the pad containing the agent’s phone number only to be interrupted by a knock on the door. You swing your legs up and rest them on your desk, relaxing back into the chair.
“Come in!”
The door opens cautiously. A thick set man dressed in a suit evidently tailored to emphasise his intimidating bulk (and to gloss over any hints of an individual or personality) leans in. Dark glasses obscure his eyes, but his movements still make it clear that he’s doing a quick once over of the cramped office. He nods to someone in the other room, and a nigh identical man files in after the first.
“Ms Ashe requests your company at The Blue Rose. A car is waiting outside.”
You grin at them both.
“Let’s not keep the lady waiting, then.”
_ _ _
You kept up the appearance of insouciance for the entire ride, in spite of the two goons sitting in stony silence on either side of you. A third drives.
When you finally step out of the car, the Blue Rose looms before you: glass, stone and art nouveau curves. The scent of the sea greets you and you turn your head to stare out at the turquoise waves beyond the cliffs. The Blue Rose sits near the mouth of the river that runs through Victraedis, close enough to still be central to the city but far enough to cultivate a sense of isolation away from the docks and warehouses. In the same direction of your gaze, further than the naked eye can see, lie the shores of Riisneia. You silently curse it for what it let loose.
One of the suited thugs watches you as you ascend the steps to the restaurant, but they don’t follow you. They at least respect your intelligence enough to believe that you’re well aware of the inadvisable nature of letting the Red Queen down. To their credit, they’re right.
A smartly dressed man at the door opens it for you as you approach. You nod at him and step into the cool interior. The Blue Rose is just as impressive inside as it is outside. There’s very little artificial light on display, the natural daylight and clever placement of large windows having been utilised to their fullest extent. The result is a very light and airy layout, and a majestic view of the ocean. A slight, warm breeze laden with the smell of the sea wafts through the restaurant, weaving its way around the other delightful smells on offer. Waiters in black and white glide around the tables, as light on their feet as dancers. The Blue Rose is certainly very busy at this time (all the tables appear to be taken) but the noise level is restrained to gentle chatter, with the odd burst of polite laughter. You linger for a couple of seconds to take it in, and then walk over to the maître d’.
She accosts you with a bright flash of a smile.
“Good afternoon. Do you have a table booked?”
“I’m here with Ms. Ashe.” At the mention of the name a steely glint enters her eyes, but her air of professionalism doesn’t falter.
“Of course. Name?”
“Alexus Silk.”
“Ms. Ashe has already arrived. Right this way, if you please.”
You notice that she doesn’t even consult the booking list sat on the lectern. But perhaps it’s standard for someone of her position to be aware of who’s expected at any one time. Perhaps not.
The maître d’ leads you across the main room and out onto the sun-soaked balcony. The chattering of the diners fades and the distant crash of waves amplifies. There are fewer tables out here, and they’re spaced further apart. The two of you walk around the curved balcony a short way, and there she is.
The Red Queen. The maître d’ has paused a few metres away from the table where she sits, her posture rigidly upright, her face blank with an imperial indifference. Victoria’s gaze was directed at the sea, but as you watch her head turns towards you. She smiles gently, somehow managing to exclude any semblance of warmth from the expression, and you freeze in place. You knew this was a bad idea, but only seeing your mother in the flesh do you realise how poor your situation is. A waiter appears at your elbow, hesitating with the rest of you, before sweeping forward to remove the previous meal's dishes from before the Red Queen. She's clearly been making headway on the courses without you.
The maître d’ flashes you a look of pity. “Here is your table. If there’s anything you need, please inform the serving staff.” Moving a little faster than might be considered usual, she turns and departs back into the restaurant. The waiter, laden with his dirty dishes, hurries after her.
You walk towards the table.
“Good afternoon, Alexus,” she says. “I took the liberty of ordering your main for you. I trust steak will suffice?”
You stare at her. You haven’t even sat down and already you feel completely disregarded. You don’t reply and take a seat, then place the message you typed between the two of you on the table.
“This was what you wanted, I believe?”
Ashe makes no move to pick up the envelope, although she does glance at it.
“I thought you realised: it was a pretext. Although I’m very sure the rambling of a madman will make for interesting reading, this scrap of paper is not the reason for us meeting.”
“Then what is? You’ve been quite content to stay out of my life following that incident on my eighteenth birthday. It’s been, what, six years now?”
“You refrained from getting kidnapped and used as leverage prior to this point. Your happy anonymity has come to an end, and arrangements must be made.”
The hairs on the back of your neck rise.
“Like my death?”
She smiles again. “If Kierkgaard had her way. But that seems distinctly unfair. It is by no means your fault that you failed to live up to the standards I expected of you, so I will be merciful.”
A thought occurs to you.
“Where’s Daltroy? What’s his take on all this?”
Ashe sighs.
“He was never particularly interested in you. He came along to our last meeting at my request, but after that point he left your affairs entirely in my hands. And so we come to my solution to the problem of you.”
She holds out a hand towards the bodyguard lurking behind her chair. They produce an envelope and place it carefully in her hand, as if it was made of paper rather than glass. The Red Queen places it next to Number 6’s envelope, which she picks up and opens.
“Take a look,” she commands. Pulling out the sheet of paper you typed, she starts to read. A quick glance at her face rewards you with a flash of irritation across her face, but then you reach for your own envelope.
Inside are boat tickets, for a departure time on Saturday night. The day after the Festival of Faces.
“Arnova? Why would I need to go there?”
“To live. Both in the sense that you will be moving there, and in the sense that if you don’t Kierkgaard has my permission to kill you.”
“What? I can’t just leave Victraedis.”
“Everything will be provided for. Money, lodgings, bodyguards, an entire new identity. You will indistinguishable from the other wealthy socialites who move out there. No one will know who you are, and the distance will ensure that any of my enemies will have quite some difficulty finding you. Of course, it’s entirely up to you whether or not you board that boat, but you only have one chance. After that, you are completely on your own. If your life is placed against any part of my property or power, I assure you that you will die. If Kierkgaard finds you, I assure you that you will die. The choice is yours.”
She folds up Number 6’s letter and returns it to the envelope, which she places on the upward facing palm of her other hand. She looks at it ponderously until it simultaneously disintegrates and bursts upwards, an explosion of dust. The sea breeze carries it away, and then the letter is gone.
The welcoming aroma of steak serves to further distract you from your discomfort. You turn to see a waiter approaching the table.
“Native Lobster for the lady,” he says as she places the plate in front of Ms. Ashe. “And Sirloin Steak, medium rare.” The meal is set down before you. You thank the waiter and mechanically start eating, trying to figure out a response to this situation.
What do you say?
“You’ve reached the receptionist of Antoinette Fabron, Professional Consultant. How may I help you?”
“I’d like to talk to Ms Fabron.”
The man on the end of the phone laughs.
“Yes, you and everyone else. I’m afraid the waiting list for an appointment with Antoinette is booked up four months in advance, but if you’re happy to wait that long then –“
“This is urgent. I need to speak to her about her sister.”
“Her sister? I didn’t know she had – oh. Excuse me, one moment please.”
You hear a faint exchange on the other end of the phone, but the words are impossible to discern. He returns a few moments later.
“Can I ask your name?”
“Alexus Silk.”
“I see. It seems Antoinette was anticipating your call, and will be happy to talk with you at three this afternoon. I trust you have the address?”
“I, uh, yes. Thank you.”
“Have a good day.”
He hangs up on you before you can complete the pleasantries.
What kind of consultation is Antoinette Fabron giving that’s put her in such demand? And how did she know that you would want to speak to her? Katherine could have told her, but she said herself that she’d never so much as seen Antoinette. It certainly opens up a few intriguing possibilities.
Perhaps you’ll get some answers this afternoon.
You replace the receiver and reach for the pad containing the agent’s phone number only to be interrupted by a knock on the door. You swing your legs up and rest them on your desk, relaxing back into the chair.
“Come in!”
The door opens cautiously. A thick set man dressed in a suit evidently tailored to emphasise his intimidating bulk (and to gloss over any hints of an individual or personality) leans in. Dark glasses obscure his eyes, but his movements still make it clear that he’s doing a quick once over of the cramped office. He nods to someone in the other room, and a nigh identical man files in after the first.
“Ms Ashe requests your company at The Blue Rose. A car is waiting outside.”
You grin at them both.
“Let’s not keep the lady waiting, then.”
_ _ _
You kept up the appearance of insouciance for the entire ride, in spite of the two goons sitting in stony silence on either side of you. A third drives.
When you finally step out of the car, the Blue Rose looms before you: glass, stone and art nouveau curves. The scent of the sea greets you and you turn your head to stare out at the turquoise waves beyond the cliffs. The Blue Rose sits near the mouth of the river that runs through Victraedis, close enough to still be central to the city but far enough to cultivate a sense of isolation away from the docks and warehouses. In the same direction of your gaze, further than the naked eye can see, lie the shores of Riisneia. You silently curse it for what it let loose.
One of the suited thugs watches you as you ascend the steps to the restaurant, but they don’t follow you. They at least respect your intelligence enough to believe that you’re well aware of the inadvisable nature of letting the Red Queen down. To their credit, they’re right.
A smartly dressed man at the door opens it for you as you approach. You nod at him and step into the cool interior. The Blue Rose is just as impressive inside as it is outside. There’s very little artificial light on display, the natural daylight and clever placement of large windows having been utilised to their fullest extent. The result is a very light and airy layout, and a majestic view of the ocean. A slight, warm breeze laden with the smell of the sea wafts through the restaurant, weaving its way around the other delightful smells on offer. Waiters in black and white glide around the tables, as light on their feet as dancers. The Blue Rose is certainly very busy at this time (all the tables appear to be taken) but the noise level is restrained to gentle chatter, with the odd burst of polite laughter. You linger for a couple of seconds to take it in, and then walk over to the maître d’.
She accosts you with a bright flash of a smile.
“Good afternoon. Do you have a table booked?”
“I’m here with Ms. Ashe.” At the mention of the name a steely glint enters her eyes, but her air of professionalism doesn’t falter.
“Of course. Name?”
“Alexus Silk.”
“Ms. Ashe has already arrived. Right this way, if you please.”
You notice that she doesn’t even consult the booking list sat on the lectern. But perhaps it’s standard for someone of her position to be aware of who’s expected at any one time. Perhaps not.
The maître d’ leads you across the main room and out onto the sun-soaked balcony. The chattering of the diners fades and the distant crash of waves amplifies. There are fewer tables out here, and they’re spaced further apart. The two of you walk around the curved balcony a short way, and there she is.
The Red Queen. The maître d’ has paused a few metres away from the table where she sits, her posture rigidly upright, her face blank with an imperial indifference. Victoria’s gaze was directed at the sea, but as you watch her head turns towards you. She smiles gently, somehow managing to exclude any semblance of warmth from the expression, and you freeze in place. You knew this was a bad idea, but only seeing your mother in the flesh do you realise how poor your situation is. A waiter appears at your elbow, hesitating with the rest of you, before sweeping forward to remove the previous meal's dishes from before the Red Queen. She's clearly been making headway on the courses without you.
The maître d’ flashes you a look of pity. “Here is your table. If there’s anything you need, please inform the serving staff.” Moving a little faster than might be considered usual, she turns and departs back into the restaurant. The waiter, laden with his dirty dishes, hurries after her.
You walk towards the table.
“Good afternoon, Alexus,” she says. “I took the liberty of ordering your main for you. I trust steak will suffice?”
You stare at her. You haven’t even sat down and already you feel completely disregarded. You don’t reply and take a seat, then place the message you typed between the two of you on the table.
“This was what you wanted, I believe?”
Ashe makes no move to pick up the envelope, although she does glance at it.
“I thought you realised: it was a pretext. Although I’m very sure the rambling of a madman will make for interesting reading, this scrap of paper is not the reason for us meeting.”
“Then what is? You’ve been quite content to stay out of my life following that incident on my eighteenth birthday. It’s been, what, six years now?”
“You refrained from getting kidnapped and used as leverage prior to this point. Your happy anonymity has come to an end, and arrangements must be made.”
The hairs on the back of your neck rise.
“Like my death?”
She smiles again. “If Kierkgaard had her way. But that seems distinctly unfair. It is by no means your fault that you failed to live up to the standards I expected of you, so I will be merciful.”
A thought occurs to you.
“Where’s Daltroy? What’s his take on all this?”
Ashe sighs.
“He was never particularly interested in you. He came along to our last meeting at my request, but after that point he left your affairs entirely in my hands. And so we come to my solution to the problem of you.”
She holds out a hand towards the bodyguard lurking behind her chair. They produce an envelope and place it carefully in her hand, as if it was made of paper rather than glass. The Red Queen places it next to Number 6’s envelope, which she picks up and opens.
“Take a look,” she commands. Pulling out the sheet of paper you typed, she starts to read. A quick glance at her face rewards you with a flash of irritation across her face, but then you reach for your own envelope.
Inside are boat tickets, for a departure time on Saturday night. The day after the Festival of Faces.
“Arnova? Why would I need to go there?”
“To live. Both in the sense that you will be moving there, and in the sense that if you don’t Kierkgaard has my permission to kill you.”
“What? I can’t just leave Victraedis.”
“Everything will be provided for. Money, lodgings, bodyguards, an entire new identity. You will indistinguishable from the other wealthy socialites who move out there. No one will know who you are, and the distance will ensure that any of my enemies will have quite some difficulty finding you. Of course, it’s entirely up to you whether or not you board that boat, but you only have one chance. After that, you are completely on your own. If your life is placed against any part of my property or power, I assure you that you will die. If Kierkgaard finds you, I assure you that you will die. The choice is yours.”
She folds up Number 6’s letter and returns it to the envelope, which she places on the upward facing palm of her other hand. She looks at it ponderously until it simultaneously disintegrates and bursts upwards, an explosion of dust. The sea breeze carries it away, and then the letter is gone.
The welcoming aroma of steak serves to further distract you from your discomfort. You turn to see a waiter approaching the table.
“Native Lobster for the lady,” he says as she places the plate in front of Ms. Ashe. “And Sirloin Steak, medium rare.” The meal is set down before you. You thank the waiter and mechanically start eating, trying to figure out a response to this situation.
What do you say?