Words and Soft Strange Ways

[Libertine]

Note: Open. Please PM me you'd like to hop in! Else I'd be solo-ing this thing.


“I want your family jewels,” Sceatt declared brightly, striding into the audience hall with a swagger in her gait. “The heirloom ones. Not the other type.”

Lord Whitaker’s servants ran after her, offering platitudes of the Lord is not ready yet and please wait, ma’am, the other hall is being prepared for you and the Lord is in a meeting—

She was interrupting a meeting—a rather vehement argument between the Lord and Lady of the house. But arguments died in their lips at an outsider’s entrance. The servants watched in abject horror, their torrent of words falling to silence, before bowing low and scurrying away, unwilling to be further implicated in this blowout. If Lord Whitaker’s anger was akin to a volcano’s tumultuous rage, then Lady Whitaker was the frigid vehemence of a Siberian winter, and both were unpleasant to face.

“You have a guest.” The Lady curtsied stiffly without any discernible change in her ice-cold expression, and swept away with the long train of her scarlet skirts trailing on the ground. Lady Whitaker paused when she passed by Sceatt, pursed her lips in distaste, and left the hall.

“I don’t like your wife,” Sceatt said. “And stop staring at my breasts.”

Whitaker was a shifty-eyed bastard, Sceatt decided, because he was squinting at her*. He was a short and pudgy man, barely her height, robed in rich gold and purples. His robes clashed horribly with the navy blue drapes and shined oak flooring, but he was only a very minor nouvelle rich merchant, and therefore she had to allow him some leeway in terms of taste.

“Who are you?” Whitaker scowled. He was still staring at her very provocatively half-bared chest. “How did you know about my family heirlooms?”

“Sceatt Wræcca. Aren’t you offering me a seat?” she demanded. Just because he was standing did not mean she had to. Without waiting for an invitation, she dragged over a high-backed ebony chair, and slumped herself over it with all the grace of a wilted octopus. Her skimpy green robes skirted on the hairline of common decency, and couldn’t decide on where to fall.

He was still scowling, but at least his eyes were off her chest. He stood huffily like a giant old prude, hand crossed before his chest and chin tilted high, eyes looking down on her.

Sceatt grumbled under her breath and shifted her arse on the uncomfortably hard surface of the chair.

“Your wife told me,” she said snidely. “Your daughter and only heir’s disappearance. There was a ransom letter, wasn't there? I’ll take your family jewels as a reward when I bring her back. Your wife told me that too. What’ll you do with magic tokens? Might as well hand it to someone who can do something with them. Cheaper than your ransom, really.”

It wasn’t his wife. It was his wife’s brother, whom Sceatt had the fortune—or the misfortune—of meeting three days ago in a pub of bad repute. The man opened up like a fountain after a few decent drinks. And he seemed to know something of the runes running up her arms. Sceatt liked the good Sir Whiskers marginally more than she liked the Whitaker couple, and she wasn't above a small white lie or a dozen to discomfort those she did not liked.

“My wife. How do you know my wife?”

“Go ask her that,” she retorted. “Better yet, ask her what she does every Wednesday afternoon when you’re out on your businesses. Ask her brother too. You’d be surprised.”

A pause. “You can get my daughter back?”

The suspicious little snit went from paranoia to sniffling doubt and arrogance in a split second, and his shrilly little eunuch voice was grating on her nerves. And he was still squinting, that bastard. She shifted again in her chair, and unknowingly hid her face beneath the shadow cast by the tacky wall of portraits and paintings. Probably fakes, the whole lot of them.

“Yes,” Sceatt snipped. The shadows cast upon her an ominous aura, and her eyes glowed bright with impatience. She was rude, but so was he, and she was the blueblood nobility here, thank you very much, which meant she had a right to be rude to a puny little merchant.

“Deal. For the heirloom.” Lord Whitaker said, finally, and resignedly. And that was the end of that.

*The Lord is near-sighted, but Sceatt is of the not so humble opinion that a squinting, pudgy man equated lecherous leech.

[Leopold]

A Few Days Before

Good news was only good news if few people heard it. Unfortunately, in the noble households, good news travelled very fast. It spread like wildfire amongst withered home-makers and old, disgruntled lords.

“I am not sure I’m happy about this, Ruby.”

Leopold Winchester, one of such lords, was not disgruntled. He was, however, extremely worried.

“Listen, honey, I am going to be fine.” Her matter of fact tone told her husband all he needed to know about his chances of swaying her. “I will be back in a day or two, no more, with the jewel about my person.” She sashayed back and forth a few feet, dancing in a spiral to let her dress sway and glimmer in the sunlight.

“You said that last time,” he said. He rolled his eyes.

The last time Ruby Winchester had gone on a little adventure, one of the noble households in Scara Brae had quite literally vanished off the map. She had nearly lost one of her many lives in the process. He wrinkled his lips into a contemplative and cruel smile.

“This time I am doing it for Duffy,” she said, deadpan. She stopped spinning. She glared at her husband. “All you have to do is sit back, relax, and drink excessive amounts of bourbon.” She held her hands together piously.

The summer was high and warm in Scara Brae. Leopold and Ruby had together decided to take a few weeks respite in the capital. Leopold had taken this to mean long walks, plentiful expensive dining, and cosy evenings in by the fire with the love he had fought, and died, in numerous wars to marry.

“I should have known better…,” he moaned. He picked up his cut crystal glass and rolled it tantalisingly before his nostrils. It smelt peaty, amber, and heavenly. He was going to save every drop for when she departed. “Alright,” he began, setting the glass down on the peeling iron top of the garden table, “but if you get into any trouble…” He paused. He pushed himself out of the chair. He adjusted his waistcoat. “You’re on your own.”

Ruby, expectant, nodded with a curtsy and began to turn. She had only come to tell her husband what she intended to do. She was not here to obtain his permission. Letting him have a say in the matter, however, would earn her favours in the future. She smiled warmly, and before Leopold could make further objections, she was away and striding towards the low archway that lead back into the courtyard, and eventually, into the house.

“I’m going to be hearing about this from the wrong sort of people…,” he grumbled.

Leopold watched her disappear, and after a short, longing stare, he turned his attentions to the dancing marigolds and begonias that lined the rockery and bedding squares that made a mosaic of colour in their mansion’s sun lawn. The freshly painted pine fences, sweet pea trellis towers, and sunflowers wavering against the fire outer wall came together to calm his nerves. He slumped back into the chair. He picked up his glass.

“But I did warn her…” he said churlishly. He tipped the glass in the arch’s direction, and thought no more of Ruby Winchester and her growing independence.

[Ruby]

With white hair, glowing in the moonlight and blade held tightly in her right hand, Ruby Winchester waited. She had been waiting for far too long.

“She is supposed to have left by now…surely?”

She narrowed her attention back on the door of Whittaker’s mansion. It was as imposing and uninviting as any other in the district was. Somehow, this particular portal was more indomitable than the rest. The dutiful door attendant was twice as sour. The columns to either side of the porch were cracked and worn, missing fist sized sections of their structure to time and disrepair.

Ruby had lost track of how much time had passed since the woman had entered. She had been this close to walking up to the door herself, though with much more decorum and civility. The way in which her supposed rival had earned her passage had almost shocked the matriarch, but she was used to women in her life being prettier than she was at present. She curled her lips. She stepped out of the shadows. She edged over the street and pressed her back against the tall wall that separated the wild flower garden of the mansion from the cobbles.

“Unless they offered her dinner…” Ruby thought aloud. “No, don’t be stupid Ruby…” She shook her head in disbelief.

Her heart pounded.

“Come on…” she heard her husband say. “Just come home. You tried your best.” She pictured his all knowing smile, pudgy cheeks, and curly locks by an imaginary fireside, and scowled.

“Oh no, you don’t,” she addressed her self-doubt. She rose.

In a flash, she sheathed her blade and tucked its sheath under the outer folds of her spider-silk gown. It took her a few moments to appear at the foot of the path to the door, but when she did, she caught the doorkeeper’s attentions with a flick of her fringe and a smile that melted hearts. He stood to attention rather too keenly, stomped his foot, and saluted.

“Is this the residence of Lord and Lady Whittaker?” she shouted. Her voice was angelic, buoyant, and warm.

The doorkeeper nodded several times, then realised he had forgotten his manners. “Yes m’lady!”

Ruby nodded. She approached, feet making short work of the rising stairs, and heels clicking against the marble edges of each individual step. He stood to attention when she mounted the porch, and stepped to one side. Though he appeared to let her pass, he held out his halberd across the door defiantly.

“State your business m’lady.” His voice was gruff, and accompanied his beard, grizzled chin, and scars.

Ruby cleared her through. She adjusted herself in the indignant manner of a woman being accused, and explained herself in simple terms.

“I am Lady Ruby Winchester.”

The name seemingly meant something to the guard. His eyes widened. Before Ruby could thank him, the door was open, and she ushered inside into the audience chamber.

Apparently, she was expected.

“His lordship heard about your offer, m’lady. He needs ‘elp!” the guard clucked. He pressed a palm against a golden door, and practically threw Ruby inside by the elbow. She nearly tripped, but remained upright and strode into the unknown.

“Just watch out for her!” he roared into an ear, a little too loud.

Ruby looked over her shoulder at the now closed door and frowned. She sighed. The temperature was scorching inside, and she felt herself begin to sweat beneath her gown. She turned.

Her eyes immediately drew to the dark chair and it’s occupant.

“Oh…” she mouthed. “Her…”

[Libertine]

The deal was sealed with a spoken promise, but the promise left a lingering unease in her gut. Most promises do, especially one earned so easily, with so little opposition. She had pushed, but by her definition the push was almost gentle. The bare bones of an insult and a few disconcerting truths was enough to throw the man overboard, lying demure beneath her proverbial stilettoed feet.

Perhaps he truly was desperate. Perhaps. She reserved her rights to a dose of healthy skepticism.

The clamor at the doors signaled the entrance of another visitor. She tilted her neck back to steal a glance. A woman. Another woman, and one that sent the man in Sceatt whistling. A brow rose involuntarily. The good Lord was a busy man today, and Sceatt wondered what his good Lady would think.

“Good to do business with you, m’Lord,” she said, drawled, and rose without fanfare, patting the skirts that clanged to her thighs as she stood. “I’ll leave you to your next visitor.”

He sniffed slightly at her departure. She strutted towards the door with a well satisfied smirk, like a cat with a bellyful of milk, and tried to push her unease to the back of her mind.

When she passed the newcomer by, Sceatt paused. “Don’t get in my way,” she said, and left without another word.


***

“You aren’t the only one my brother-in-law hired,” Whiskers said as soon as she sat. She snorted at his news and looked at him. The man was hunched into his stool, torso cowed forward and head bent, brown-gray tunic thin and well-worn. Not a single lick of pride existed in those bony shoulders, and she wondered when he last had a decent meal.

She did not trust Lord-what’s-his-name. She did not trust the man in front of her either.

The tavern maid sassed forward with a tankard of ale, and a swig of it had Sceatt gagging for reprieve. They were in one of the shadier pubs on the outskirts of town, as far away from the Whitaker’s halls as anyone could get whilst staying in the boundaries of town, and it was an inn-slash-tavern frequented mostly by sailors and outlaws and the occasional honest man who knew no better. Whiskers was not an honest man, and Sceatt was, at the moment, neither honest nor a man.

But not for long, if what Whiskers implied was true. The Whitakers had a sorceress for an ancestor, and the sorceress passed down a few interesting trinkets.

Sceatt spat on the floor, filling the cavity of her mouth with fetid air instead of the stink of bad ale. “He didn’t hire me. I volunteered. There’s a difference, you ass.”

Whiskers peered at her warily over his own drink. She stared right back. Sceatt Wræcca had a motto, and it went something along the lines of fuck you and I do what I want. Silence stretched between the two, drowning out the cacophony of the bustling inn, the swearing sailors and the lying lepers, the whores with their upturned skirts and the drunkards parlaying their coins.

Then the man shrugged, and by the sudden stronger set of his shoulders, seemed to have decided something. He pushed his tankard aside and drew his stool in closer, and eyed the surroundings as though to make sure no one was listening to their quiet little corner. His voice was a low hissing whisper.

“I don’t know much about the other one my brother-in-law hired, but my sister has the ransom note. I can arrange a meeting for you. The note might’ve said something about a drop-off point. You might find it helpful.”

She nodded. A ransom note might come in useful, despite her fervent hope of never having to meet the frigid Lady Whitaker again. Sceatt did not take to insults lightly. On the other hand, there was a niggling suspicion coiling in her chest, poised like a serpent for a poisonous bite, and there it stayed ever since Whiskers had spoken to her of the Whitakers and their child nights ago.

“Why aren’t you going after the kid yourself?” she asked abruptly, not bothering to keep the accusation out of her voice.

“I’m not allowed to,” he said after a moment of hesitation, mumbling about laws and familial relationships beneath his breath. “I have a… I have a condition. I try to stay away from children.”

The excuse was flimsy at best. She pulled back and narrowed her eyes, fingers tapping a rhythm-less hymn upon the rough tabletop. He was hiding something. Whiskers was either a very smart man dangling her a bait, or he was a poor liar doing the same. The only certainty she could draw was that Whiskers not an honest man and she would do well to remember it

She did not trust the man in front of her. She did not trust Lord-what’s-his-name either.

“Arrange the meeting,” she said instead. “You know where to find me.” Here, at this inn.

The reward was too good to pass up on, and Sceatt would chase after even the merest hints of anything that could break her curse. A magic jewel—she would have her hands on the darned thing, one way or another.

[Ruby]

Ruby waltzed out into the brisk night with a grin on her face. She had proven her husband quite incorrect about her ability to earn a man’s trust. She had relied on kicking them in the genitals, or screaming at them, to gain compliance when she needed it.

“Apparently asking works, too,” she mused aloud.

This was a revelation to Mrs Winchester. If she continued in this manner, she might not have to unsheathe her blade again, nor sing a fiery note. She set her sights on the end of the drive, and advanced towards the rickety gate that had long since abandoned its hinges.

“I may have to drink a few whores under tables, though,” she added.

Lord Whitaker had seemed confused by her arrival. This immediately put Ruby on edge. If she was expected, but not expected by the Lord of the household, then clearly, somebody else was pulling the strings. She turned the corner, and continued left and eastward along the boulevard as instructed. She wrapped her hands around her shoulders, and regretted not bringing a shawl. It was clearly not a night for lingering, though her thoughts did just that.

“…a woman…” she whispered. She keened her gaze, picking out the cobbles so that her heels did not slip between the cracks and end her adventure prematurely. “Behind every good man,” she chuckled. Her voice danced into the night with jovial echo.

In Scara Brae, the motto was pretty much a mantra for the women of the city. Though guilds-man and knights were men, it was quite often the women behind the scenes that held the power. Save for Queen Valeena, who needed no other woman, it was a universal truth. Ruby had to work out who the woman was in silence, as she continued towards the destination Lord Whittaker had instructed her to visit.

“It has to be Lady Whittaker…,” she concluded. It had to be, unless Lord Whittaker had a mistress. She wrinkled her nose at the thought. “No…it’s definitely Lady Whittaker.”

Throughout her meeting with her employer, she had felt scrutinised. It was not the sort of inspection a sagely man applied to a student, and she most certainly felt aggrieved by it. She shuddered. Turning south, she advanced through a small group of evening gentlefolk, bowed politely, and swerved into an alleyway. From there, she made her way through the backstreets, and out into the residential district cluttered with revellers, charlatans, and people she assumed were street vendors.

In this city, you ended up selling things to them you never wanted to part with.

“Not tonight, thank you,” she said, several times, when dirty hands stretched out indescribable goods under her nose. “I have three already and…” she hissed, “I’m allergic to those!”

She stumbled over a sluiceway, hopped over a crate, and ducked under a limping elf wearing nothing more than a cleverly placed leaf. She pictured Lord Whittaker’s gold pile before her as an incentive to remain on track. He had promised a considerable reward for the rescue of the missing party. Ruby had sworn she would find her before he had detailed the remuneration. When he had, she had practically swooned.

“I'm not fussed about the gold," she tried to tell herself. "I want the crystal, though,” she stated.

She came to an abrupt halt before a grubby looking tavern. The ramshackle awning had once been pure white and red. It had windows, many moons ago, though only drunken sailors hung in the panes now. The three steps leading inside were glistening, and Ruby could only hope it was with rain, spilt beer, or magic. She straightened herself out from her agile run through the market, and approached.

Inside, Lord Whittaker’s aide had said, she would encounter her first lead. All the way, Ruby had wondered about one thing…

“Why on earth would Lady Whittaker want to meet here?” she said aloud. She raised an eyebrow. She rested a hand on the hilt of her sword. She ducked inside, and immediately felt sick. Her suspicious rose when she set her sights on the woman in question, and saw the other woman…the one she cautioned against, weave her way through the bustle of sweltering patrons towards her.

“Oh she is really getting on my tits…,” she grumbled.

[Libertine]

The tavern’s door cracked open. Sceatt looked up, and in walked a familiar face. A woman. That woman, and one who was not this place’s usual fare. Those who frequented these holes of bad repute had, most often, a fetor to their demeanor and foxiness in comport. Sceatt would know. She had willingly spent half her life in these places.

That woman with a white mane made her way towards their table. Whiskers followed the newcomer’s movements with his eyes. So did Sceatt, a second after.

“That’s the other one,” Whiskers said, nodding towards the approaching woman. “My sister recommended her.”

“Thought you didn’t know who else your bro-in-law hired,” she quipped at Whiskers, annoyance surging up her chest. “Why’d you need me when you’ve got someone else, bastard?”

Whiskers shot her a peeved look. “I said I didn’t know much. Didn’t say I don’t know who it is,” he said pointedly. And he made sense, damn the man. Sometimes what went unsaid was as important as what was spoken. “And we need you. We need the extra hands.”

So I’m the extra. The bitter gall of her slighted pride pricked at her throat, and her face twisted into a sneer. She pushed her stool back and stood. The wooden stool scraped and jarred against the scratched ground. Their meeting would go nowhere from now on, and it might as well end now.

Whiskers drained his tankard and followed suit. “Lady Winchester,” he bowed as the newcomer approached, now seemingly a connoisseur of courtly politesse. His voice seemed wrong against the visage of desolate poverty his clothes hinted at.

Lady, Sceatt thought. Winchester, Sceatt thought. The name rolled off her tongue scalding. Sceatt did not know the lords and ladies of the city, newcomer to the city of Scara Brae that she was, and Sceatt did not want to know. She wanted to insult someone, and preferably more than one someone.

“I will arrange for a meeting with my sister, the Lady Whitaker, tomorrow at noon at her manor,” Whiskers interrupted. “You’re welcomed to attend, Lady Winchester. We’ll be looking at the ransom note. It may be a clue.”

Sceatt waved her hand, putting on airs of being bored with it all. “Yes, yes. I’m sure the Lady Winchester will want to meet a derelict vagabond and his sister tomorrow. Away now, peon.”

Whiskers’ back stiffened. He bowed and left.

Sceatt, though, edged forward till she almost touched the Lady’s face. As a man, the act would have brought her trepidation in bundles, but she had spent the last two years of life as a woman, and she had grown into her own skin and did not take well to being challenged in any way, shape, or lithely form.

Sceatt Wræcca was, if nothing else, adaptable.

“Thought I told you not to get in my way, princess,” she murmured venom, eyes half lidded. The night peered through the broken windows, casting a fluid dance of shadows upon their flesh. “Don’t try too hard, m’Lady. I don’t like competition, and I don’t work well with others.”

“And the name’s Sceatt. Remember it, m’Lady.”

[Ruby]

“I’m sorry,” Ruby, disdainfully, sputtered. Her eyes told the woman she was surprised. The sudden arc of her back to right her stance made her feel it. “You think I’m your competition?”

There was a tone of incredulity in Lady Winchester’s question. At no point since she had come face to face with her supposed rival had she considered her competition.

“I think you will find we are in fact allies.”

This was true, in its small way. They had both been hired by Lord Whittaker to find, and rescue, if need be, his relative. It was not her place to question her employer’s motives in pursuing different avenues to the same ends. If they got a reward, did it matter if they pooled resources or not?

“I work alone,” Sceatt repeated. Her voice was as dry as the gin Ruby pictured.

“I’d much prefer you did,” Ruby clucked. She looked around the bar to find something familiar to cling on to with hope. When she see saw Blind Bill and Awkward Annie, she found her feet. “However, we can work together, instead of hindering our respective progress, and come out smelling of roses and rich twice as quick.”

There was irrefutable logic to her suggestion. Sceatt, with her usual raunchy attitude, gave it some thought.

“I am listening. Do go on…,” she erred.

Ruby gestured to an unoccupied table far from where they were facing off. It was a rickety, circular affair, with three chairs, several burnt out candle slag heaps, and stains even Ruby could not identify. It was perfect for the company she had to entertain. Sceatt took the hand gesture to mean ‘this way Madame’, and waltzed towards the nearest seat with a firm stomp and a rump that moved several feet behind her.

“I suggest we pool together our resources. You are a name to be remembered in the noble circles of this island.” Ruby paused. She waited for Sceatt to sit, and then sat opposite. She gestured at a rather attractive young waiter, with buxom red curls and a penchant for bangles, and waved her over. “My name too, carries weight with it.” She would have gone deeper, but she had made that mistake too many times.

“I’ve never heard of it,” Sceatt said flatly. She glared at Ruby across the table. The chatter of the tavern and the sound of the occasional tables being less useful after a blunt impact over a head broke the silence.

Ruby ignored the snide remark, and continued. “I suggest we find the relative, return her, and share the reward. We will get it in half the time and I only wish to use the stone for a day, if that.” That was as close to the truth as she could admit. What Sceatt did with the artefact after she had examined it was no business of hers. She had to try to heal Duffy, at the very least.

“Why should I trust you?”

Ruby smiled. “You should trust me because I am more like you than you’ll ever realise.” This was true, sort of. Ruby thought she had prettier eyes, but there was no denying their mutual matriarchal charm, charisma, and eye for a good pair.

Sceatt stifled a chuckle.

“Order drinks, anything you like,” Ruby offered. She pointed to the waiter. The waiter smiled, and Sceatt looked up at her lips pursed to take on the woman’s hospitality.

“Anything I like?” she asked, lips curled into a smile. Ruby nodded. “Well then…,” she continued.

[Libertine]

Fuck allies, Sceatt thought, but goddamn she never turned down a free drink or twenty. The Lady Winchester was offering so nicely too, and even if the ale tasted like horse piss on a good day, there were ways to take one’s mind off miseries and focused on the good stuff, and sobriety looked like a poor option now.

In other words, once you’re piss poor drunk, the taste stopped mattering.

“Well then,” she said with a merry grin that did not reach her eyes. “Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

There was a hint of mockery in her voice, like a bare scraping of foam above the sea. Her fingers beckoned for the serving maids, and she proceeded to lay down an order that would last her a night or two.

Allies, Sceatt thought. She liked allies. She loved allies. She especially loved the sort of allies who would do all the work and heavy lifting while she picked at the best of the loot. With allies, she wasn’t particular about attributing any glory, but she could be plenty particular about attributing the blame if things went south.

When the barmaids came, Sceatt raised her tankard and toasted the new partnership. “To our partnership, my Lady.”

As for sharing that jewel, that stone—

They would see about that.

***

The next time she saw Whiskers, he stood at attention behind his sister’s side. The waistcoat fitted him like a glove, its rich blue velvet a startling contrast to the white silk of his shirt. His brow quirked at Sceatt’s entry, and she had to bite down a whistle of appreciation. The man dressed up well. She would give him that. Was he still bitter about her vagabond comment from yesterday?

But she refused to apologize even if he did take offence. Sceatt apologized to no one for nothing, and that was a fact.

Lady Whitaker sat primly open her chair, back straight and neck high, hands laid neatly upon her lap. Her dress was white and laced to her throat, and her hair smelled of perfumed lavender. They were in a finely tended garden towards the side of the residence. There was a small sitting table held tea and a sealed letter, and two more chairs arranged in a neat little triangle facing the Lady.

Sceatt sashayed over, pulled one of the chairs back, and plunked her ass down. Invitations and social etiquette be damned. She slouched and leaned against the back of her chair, with her chin tilted upwards and nose in the hair. Her hands fell carelessly to the sides, brushing against green tunic pants.

Her good ally, her dear Lady Winchester was shown to the garden moments later, and pointed towards the other chair.

“My show first,” she whispered when the other woman sat, all bleeding pride and burning egotism.

When all the participants were settled, Sceatt swiped the letter off the table and asked, “This is it?”

Without decorum, she flipped the thing open. The paper was a crumbly yellow sort that anyone could buy off a street vendor, and the words were blocked and printed and devoid of personality. The threats ran along the lines of gold, or we’ll kill the child and don’t get the law involved. The drop-off was scheduled for a full moon three nights from now, and the location was an abandoned hovel of an apartment rather close to the Whitakers’ residence. Sceatt knew the darned place. She had passed by the darned place on her way here, and she was pretty sure no one lived there.

“Rather unimaginative, isn’t it?” she muttered, passing the letter to her side, towards her ally. Had Sceatt been the one writing this, the threats would at least be bloodier and more threatening.

Lady Whitaker sipped her tea, and Whiskers continued feigning an expressionless statue. Neither deigned a reply. Sceatt considered them, then the letter, and them again.

“Tell me. Were you planning to pay up?” she leaned forward, curious. Her arms crossed against her chest.

The Lady and her brother glanced at each other. It was the Lady who spoke. “My husband… is rather hesitant. The amount they wanted will bankrupt his holdings.”

My husband, Whitaker said. His holdings, Whitaker said. And nothing Lady Whitaker said mentioned her opinions or her holdings. Sceatt took mental notes of the omissions. Most questions had the unfortunate habit of begetting more questions, especially for someone whose default mode of operation was paranoia.

“Your enemies. Or your husband’s enemies. Who’re they? Who’s got the fucking incentives to do this?”

The Lady and her brother shred another look. Whiskers nodded, and the Lady was suitably solemn when she answered. “We have few enemies. But my husband offended a werewolf pack recently while expanding his holdings. It was a rather messy business.”

Sceatt bit down a whistle. Werewolves always led to messy businesses, and that was a fact. But the hesitation behind that woman’s words scratched at an itch in Sceatt’s mind. Lady Whitaker did not reek of belief when she spoke.

“What about you? Who’d you think it is?” Sceatt asked.

This time, Whitaker did not look at her brother before answering, but instead looked Sceatt straight in the eye. This time, her answer ranged suspiciously true, and yet the words felt ridiculously wrong.

“My husband. I think my husband orchestrated my daughter’s kidnapping,” said the Lady Whitaker earnestly, hands clenched tight around a bundle of skirts.

This time, Sceatt did not bite down her disbelief. She whistled. Had she somehow unknowingly stepped into a familial drama? “You suspect your husband? What does he have to gain from this?”

“My holdings,” Lady Whitaker answered promptly. “My personal holdings from my family, along with his, are more than enough to pay the ransom and leave us comfortable afterwards. He never liked my family or my parents either. He has incentives, and he never spent time with our daughter.”

“He hired me to look for your kid,” Sceatt pointed out.

“He underestimates women.” Whitaker snapped.

The issue with truth was that sometimes you had it and didn’t know you had it, and sometimes you don’t have it and thought you have it. Sceatt settled back into her chair with a calculating face and picked up her tea. There was something filthy about this situation, and the good Lady suspected her good Lord of a darned husband, and wasn’t this an interesting situation all around?

All of a sudden, Sceatt was very, very grateful to not have a family that gave two shits about each other.

“So. What do you think?” she asked, nodding towards the silent Lady Winchester.

[Ruby]

Ruby raised an eyebrow quizzically. She had been listening intently throughout the entire exchange, quietly biting her tongue to save herself the effort of putting the man in his place. Something about him made her spine tingle, her skin crawl, and her stomach churn in its bodice cage. She moistened her lips with her glass’s contents.

“What I think, my dear, is that no man would have to go to such lengths for a woman’s coin purse.” Her contempt was obvious, her loathing audible. “Speaking from regrettable experience, all he would have to do is proclaim him estranged, and wishing for a divorce.” She clucked.

Sceatt frowned. “You sound horribly like a man I once knew…”

Ruby chuckled. “I have been divorced, I know how difficult it can be…to be left with nothing,” she sighed. Her simple, stoic gestures and hand movements brought life to the history that drove each of her words.

“Tell me about it sometime,” Sceatt said with far too much relish. “But back to the matter, what do you think?”

“I was getting to that,” Ruby stuck out her tongue. She was beyond airs and graces now. Gin had a wonderful way with her sensibilities. She turned to Lady Whittaker. “I think that something is untoward about this whole affair. I am not going to act on my suspicions until I have evidence to back them up.” She set her glass down on the small table next to her chair, and stared intently at the floor for a few lingering seconds.

“But?” Lady Whittaker pressed. Her voice was short, sharp, and embittered. It was every bit the tell Ruby needed to pursue her gut instinct.

“Wherever or not this was orchestrated, or a happenstance crime,” she looked up with renewed vigour, “it does not change the fact that your daughter is missing.” She had every intention of finding the girl, taking her reward, and leaving the Whitakers to their own sins. At the very least, the authorities of the city would see to their petulant ways, and she would be free to go on her merry way. Assuming, of course, Sceatt did not slit her throat before she got the chance.

“True enough,” Lady Whittaker said, in a somewhat softer tone.

“I think we should concentrate on finding her,” she pointed at the picture on the mantle above the fireplace. “So, what can you tell me about her last days? Anything is helpful, down to what she was wearing, or her mood, or her plans for the afternoon and the gentlemen she may, or indeed, may not have been courting.” She turned to Sceatt.

“What?”

“And even what the letter you spoke of smelt like.” Perfume, as Ruby suspected Sceatt knew all too well, was a world of telling and personality in the hands of a knowing woman.

All the same, it was turning out to be quite an afternoon. Ruby was even warming to her enforced companion, for all her icy charm.