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Post by Lyall British on Aug 30, 2011 21:07:46 GMT -5
"Lauren Goolsby..." He was standing in the "great hall" of the town. Semi-great hall. Well... actually, the great hall in this town was hardly more than a moderately sized house that most didn't give a second glance. Well taken care of it was just small. He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked back at the single attendant that worked there.
"Oh, the Goolsby family," she said slowly. She already knew who they were but she was opening the large dusty book of town records anyway, "I believe a few of them still live here."
"Yes, yes," Lyall said, adjusting uncomfortably in his skin, "What about Lauren, then?" He hadn't been staying in town, just visiting during the day and trying to find well, that particular person. So far spending time in some of the local places hadn't turned up the name he was looking for. Just that it was familiar and that they were sure so-and-so lived nearby. He'd been forced into this dusty place.
"Oh, I see," She ran her wrinkled finger down the page, 'Lauren Goolsby does still live here. She paid her taxes a month ago, anyway. Says she works at the local bakery or... you know, when they did the census."
"Thank you," Lyall was short with her, he just knew if he stayed any longer that she would regale him with every local bit of history and really, he just didn't have the attention span to listen. He found these days his thoughts were rather crowded.
Stepping out onto the street his eyes went down the walkway. He shoved his hands into his pockets and sighed as he looked at the inn. He should just go ahead and rent a room here. Just for a week. None of his jobs ever went smoothly. Perhaps it would pay off just to plan for the delay instead of staying in his tent. Why did he try to set up tents, anyway? They always leaked and looked misshapen and generally people tried not to laugh when they looked at them.
He pulled his hat down with a sigh. First thing first, it was time to check the rates around town.
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EmilyDay
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Lost Girl
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Post by EmilyDay on Aug 30, 2011 23:34:50 GMT -5
The Offices of Fogerty & Dammer
Tittlewerth examined the face of the woman before him with no small amount of cynicism and displeasure - women were not his favorite things and this one, fuelled by all the bantam one could fit inside those frilly pockets, was aggrieving him all the more mid-noon - nevermind the towering headaches of paper all over his desk. He really did need a filing system and he would see Elda got onto that.
"I insist."
"You insist, do you?"
Past that pert, freckled nose Emily narrowed blue eyes, her fingers curling into fists at her prim and bodiced sides. "I am his appointment. I suggest you acquaint yourself with Fogerty's calendar more closely."
Tittlewerth's face flushed as he grew from his chair, seeming to ascend from the steam his fury generated. "Madame, I highly sugg--" "Is that my Emily?" came a croaked question behind them both. Emily turned an eye below the brim of her feathered cloche to smile a greeting, one that lifted her chin high. Tittlewerth glowered as sprite heels carried her away. Women!
"Jones", she curtsied and outstretched a crochet-gloved hand, which Fogerty accepted and kissed politely. With a we're speaking later glance towards Tittlewerth, Jones Fogerty led Emily Day into his offices, pulling the blinds that sat on the square of glass within the door. "How can I help you, dear? You'll pardon Tittlewerth. He never can mind himself, or the opposite sex."
Gracious, Emily sat herself down smoothly, folded her stripe-stockinged legs and flushed delicate hands down the wrinkles of her pleated skirt. She was a portrait of discretion - those bright locks peeking from under the hat, the highneckline of the velvet coat - burgundy and worn nearly everywhere; a thing to pity really, showing the first signs of attrition as it was.
He respected the sensitive nature of her visits and all that came with them. Her head shook, "you needn't worry, he hardly bothers me. I come prepared." Her throaty voice seemed at odds with her fair appearance, but worked in her favor need be, especially when she was being given a rough go. The playful sneer she demonstrated for her confidant had him chortling. "That's the girl!" He leaned against the sizable table at his back and regarded her with a solemnity, loosening his tie, as though he was already feeling too tight, too pressed. He anticipated something bad already. "Now... please. Illuminate the terms of this... this venture." He cleared his throat.
"It's The Gar. I had hoped they would be lenient given the situation, but I fear I am in over my head. They have sent a letter of address."
He was versed in her dilemma not a week old. The response was everything he had hoped her news would not be - but you know what they say about the news.
"Emily, you do realise these people would betray their own Mothers. There is little I can do or say to influence them otherwise, especially, especially, when it concerns a young woman who is worth scrap to them and one who headstrongly, audaciously made an ill-informed decision. You are a delivery girl, nothing more! Not to them."
Puff went from her shoulders and a light fizzled in her eyes. Lashes dipped with the direction of her gaze. Softly it came from her, summoning his sigh, "I did what was best."
"You did, but it was not in the better interests of your employers. This is not a good situation. Not at all."
The Gar, Sargarsso Knott, that is, was a terminal point for the inport, export of curiosities for those with an inclination towards the antique, unique and eccentric. Emily Lucy Day had been an intermediary, ensuring once an item was purchased, it's origin and authenticity was verified and that the transaction that transpired was as honest as could be between dealer and buyers. Essentially, Emily was footsteps and penstrokes, when she was not folded sheets, fluffed pillows, and polished glasses. This here, was a paid ruse; a means to learn of rare and unusual items, like the one that shone in the back of her mind like a bad dream, that silver snake eternally biting its tail..
"My job is to certify. The Gar broke their contract by falsifying nearly everything about the object. The original belonged to a man who had nothing else but. It was all he had, Jones."
And Henry Law, the owner and first seller of the bust in question -an artifact rumored to have beginnings in Atlantis, had only a rickety house and that bust. Stolen by a shady dealer of The Gar, in a flyby transaction that had left the man penniless, in fighting the town hall for the return of his bust, carrying the infer that he had been slighted. Emily had seen right through it all and in her ernest, had taken a decidedly louche course of action: retrieving the bust and returning it to Law. And now, Emily was seated before Jones, who had helped her before and did not know that he could help her again.
"I'm afraid, Mizz Day, that you will indeed have to go to the town hall yourself on state terms. Things are as they are, and now you too must play the game.
His posture shrunk into himself as he stared at her. His back was on the line if he tried. "I am very sorry Emily." She sat forward, her hands wringing, playing with the lace seams of her gloves.
"I truly am sorry. You do not know how much."
With finality the two embraced. It was twelve thirty and she was already several minutes late to the Inn. Emily bid Fogerty farewell with a pile of rocks in her stomach, a clipped curtsy and made quickly for an exit, rounding all the desks and chairs, stopping only briefly at the hatrack to collect her scarf from one of its boughs. The tell-tale shine to her eyes on her flight out gave Tittlewerth only a sting of satisfaction, before a gust advanced with the closing door to send his papers into a hurricane, a frenzy of gulls.
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Post by Lyall British on Aug 31, 2011 14:23:35 GMT -5
In the woods a mile from town was a mass of cloth and sturdy supports that were wrongly arranged like broken bones in a flesh bag. The leaves of the area were scattered in the throws of some great brawl that since had settled. With a bit of imagination, one could have believed it a respectable tent in the hands of another man. Now it was abandoned, yawning at some argument won which left it lifeless and alone.
In town, he was shouldering a heavy bag. He stopped at the outskirts of it. It always felt like his skin was sweating, but this time it wasn't just his imagination. He gleamed like coming from an oil bath. His right hand turned up, exposing his wrist where he checked the time.
There was a new addition to Lyall that even those who had known him a great deal of time might not recognize. It wasn't because they weren't paying attention but because the change in him was so extremely mundane at first glance. It was the watch he wore whose weight seemed to keep the face of it rather on the inside, than outside, of his wrist. The issue with his watch was that it was embeded in his skin, the face exposed but the band of it as though it encircled his bones and not his flesh. It was not unlike the embedded collar of a dog.
"Five days." He said to himself, pushing his glasses back up his sweaty nose. Now, where was a place to stay around here? The bag had to be shifted to the next shoulder and he went to the first place he saw. It was an endearing little place called The Sleeper's Nook. It didn't look as though this town got a great deal of foot traffic but no one was paying him very much special attention. Maybe there was some sort of festival they did which made the locals nonchalant to strangers. He liked it.
It took some struggling to get the door open with his bag and all. It wanted to shut on him before he was really through and finally, spit out by its mouth he righted himself and went to the counter. His bag he set down on the ground in front of him. That was one of the new things he learned, setting his bag of things before him instead of leaving them outside.
"Hello, Sir." The woman behind the counter said walking up to him. She had such a cheerful disposition that it made him feel suspicious. Her brown hair was wrapped back in a loose bun and she wore earthy colors. Lyall imagined she liked to read a lot and would pass a boy a stern look for cursing.
"Good Evening," He cleared his throat and then his eyes looked for the ledger, "Do you have any rooms for rent? I'll only be needing it for five days." The watch of his wrist balancing on the edge of the counter as he thought. Lyall's hat was pushed back, his dark blond hair wet. The place better have a shower. If it didn't it better have a community shower. Or be really cheap.
He was already reaching into his back pocket to pay the woman for the night as she brought over the ledger, "Why, I think we have a few rooms available, actually. Are you in town for anything special."
"Huh? Oh, no. Just visiting."
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EmilyDay
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Lost Girl
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Post by EmilyDay on Aug 31, 2011 18:38:00 GMT -5
A delirious sort of mood struck Emily as she entered via the scullery door and up the spiralling stairs to the dining quarters above, stealing a carrot on the way for a bite. Her chew stopped abruptly as the sensation developed into a near overwhelming light-headedness which did see she ensnare the rail with a gloved hand to steady those weak knees. Once certain the feeling had passed, she carried on into the foyer, where her eyes surely deceived her - Mrs Goodwin was running the rates by a face that had her so stricken she ducked back against the rose-patterned hallway wall and covered her mouth. The feeling hit her like a crushing wave and Emily all but fell into the wall behind her, and wondered to herself, briefly, that she would have been glad had she been sucked into some vortex. How long had she been hoping to be enlightened of that silver snake and the man, that man outside, who had possessed it?
A name for so long she had tried to suppress from her thoughts floated up and past her bow-lipped mouth. That man out there with Goodwin had exposed her to an old feeling, an ancient name.. Jamie. A hand crept under her hat and pulled it off.
“Cheapest rate in town and our service is personalised, our maids will shine your shoes, warm your towels, clean the wax out of your ears if you wish! In fact, the one I was to assign you is tardy, twenty fiiiive minutes late!” Goodwin chuckled to herself and lifted her brows with her eyes. “No point crying over spilt milk. I’ll set you up with a girl who will take care of you.” She looked down her roster. “Emily must be caught up, no doubt she’s lost something again, you’ll have Delilah, and she’s a doll!”
Her chest rose and fell rapidly listening to this, her cheek to the wallpaper, a hand curling right against her chest. She had to be his maid, not anyone else! But first she had to be absolutely certain it was him. In a fluster, Emily stepped quietly towards the linen closet where fresh, spare aprons and shirts waited – an apron tied on with a fat bow at the tail of her spine and she swapped her bodice-hugged chemise for a blouse. The coat and hat were tucked behind the cream colored towels and giving a quick, final fluff of her hair, she took up the stack of yesterday’s papers on the mantle nearby.
Opening one, Emily hid her face behind its accordion and lay the rest down on the counter gently by where Goodwin stood. Blue eyes peered over the side of the day prior’s elixir column, pushing snake venom as a skin plumping agent. Was it actually him and moreover, how could he look entirely the same after all these years? She had been but a child and now a young woman, years gathered between them. Turning the page she rounded behind Goodwin for another angle, peeking just over the paper.
“Emily, whatever is it that you are doing behind that paper? You are twenty eiiiight minutes late! This here is Mr British and you are seeing to him!”
Pot luck, that’s what Emily would call such a triangle, standing before this man, entreating him to the paper in her hand as she closed it. “Here you go, do you believe they’re using snake venom as a beauty balm?!” and all but danced to the bags at his feet thinking he must using something extremely potent to look as he did all these years later. Lyall's bags given close inspection while her head was bowed. “This way”, and Emily Lucy Day heaved them up, gave Goodwin a terse nod and headed for the stairs, composure intact even if her chemise was buttoned wrong and the pins loose in her hat-pressed hair.
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Post by Lyall British on Aug 31, 2011 20:44:49 GMT -5
Cheap and wonderful. Isn't that the petition that Hell usually propositions? All that you could want, ear cleaning and all, for just the smallest thing to offer? Lyall found himself both skeptical and inordinately happy all at once. The awkward mesh of feelings came across his face as a pressed smile with a shove of his glasses back up his nose.
And Emily? The young woman she addressed? Lyall hadn't the faintest recollection of her, only that she was perhaps the most comely woman to have much of anything to do with him these days. It wasn't that Lyall was a complete disaster. With women, yes, he usually was. Work heavily distracted him and he didn't seem to grasp the importance of dates, or time, or spending time, actually. Perhaps that was some peculiar irony to his new situation imposed by the forever Mr. A. The Collector. His head shook. It was best not to think about him now. It depressed him to think about the things he could not change.
"Lip balm?" His glance went between her and the keeper as though he weren't sure that his conversation happened, "Snake venom?" It became more tangled around him and he blinked. "Sure, I guess... yea, snake venom..."
There was no way that Lyall could understand her, she should have spoke another language for all the clarity he felt. For her loose hair, beautiful as it was, he wanted to pay her compliment but didn't know what to say. He felt like that, often. One hand grabbed his bag, dismissing her from doing so. The hand stuck out in front of him as a wave, "lead the way."
He followed her to the room indicated, wondering if really this woman would be paid to pamper him as exactly the other said. No, but really, the ears? Why did he feel like he was always sweating? Surely downwind from him she must be gagging? Why did he think like that, why was his mind always scattering to those trivial...
... the clock on his wrist, it was telling him five days. A glance to that and the neurotic war stopped and he had the capacity to offer her what she deserved, "Thank you."
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EmilyDay
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Lost Girl
Posts: 19
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Post by EmilyDay on Aug 31, 2011 21:53:42 GMT -5
Bald-faced about it all now that there was no Herald paper to peekaboo with, she turned to look towards the Visitor several times during the journey between front desk and fixed room; up two sets of unbearably creaky stairs and down a forever corridor. It was as if each and every glance held further confirmation that this was that man without a sliver of doubt upon her. Older, she saw him with new eyes yet, while despite her concentrated efforts to avoid men at all costs since Cutcliff had tried to pry her panties off with months and months of squirm-worthy sweet talk (and had almost succeeded had she not had the gall to bite his nose, trapped between the Earl and a barn wall one Solstice evening!) Emily could remark to herself that the man, whatever his leanings, had character and a markedly attractive face; denying that even for her would be a stretch too far.
A thick, brass key was unhooked from its ring and wedged into the lock with a delicious click - the door swept wide, Emily beside it, the bag she had grabbed by her feet, arms folded behind her, those frank, wide blue eyes lifted to the Visitor, the man with the mystery corded all about him. She could not stop herself from staring had she tried, for regardless of his physical merits, he was a question mark etched into her life; indelible and very, very deep.
“What she says about the ear cleaning is a sales trick, we don’t really do that”, it was whispered low, as softly spoken as she usually was, every word of that sentence was crystalline. A long, steady pause, she closed the door with a bump of her shoulder and turned the knob with a hand still at the base of her back. “I don’t do that. Delilah would, and more. But you never know where her hands have been. Your money, your choice”, Emily quipped; it was laced with caper and paired with a shrug. Then she rolled her eyes, lazed back against the door and got on with the rigamarole.
“Give me your list and I’ll see your shoes are shined, the towels are warm when you return, your curtains opened before you wake, and closed before you sleep...” The eyes returned to him. “You do want those services don’t you?”
Blink.
"Don't you?"
Killing time, that's what she was doing, bluffing with needless chatter until something meaningful might suffice. She hoped he would leave himself open that there be some chance she could barter the truth out of him.
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Post by Lyall British on Sept 1, 2011 9:00:40 GMT -5
It was hard to tell why Lyall always looked occupied, just that he was. His mind was crowded with thoughts, here and there. She couldn't have known how incredible a bath sounded to him. Why was he always ending up so dirty? He hated feeling homeless like that but really there wasn't a home to go to. He didn't have a house or anything so, yea, he supposed he was homeless. The face of a watch told him he was drifting and he drew his focus back to Emily, looking over the frame of his glasses at her as she spoke. They stood at the door, it opened wide like a kind yawn.
As she gave him the routine, the offered services, he picked around the room. Checked the drawers for anything abandoned. The way he inspected his surroundings did not come off as someone mildly curious but cautious, perhaps even paranoid. It was as though he was expecting to find something unpleasant in the drawers. He took off his glasses to wipe them off, shoulders pointed toward her as he did. He gave her no indication of his thoughts about her more promiscuous coworker though, honestly, being bedded by a woman sounded amazing. The last time a woman flirted with him it ended up being a man. Why was he always unlucky that way? First a man and now a prude. It was never going to happen.
“I would…actually, like my shoes cleaned. It’s been a rough week,” he admitted, knowing it wasn’t something she was keen on doing, but he was paying her and her employer for it. He put his glasses back on and looked at her. One hand rubbed the scruff of his jaw and he admitted, “I need to find someone to wash my clothes and get a shave and a haircut. Is there someplace like that around town?” He had mostly located Lauren Goolsby, he wanted to take the precious opportunity to peel off the weeks that had piled up against his body. She was not amused, he could tell. Her eyes perched on him too hard, as though she were trying to determine if she recognized him or if he was a questionable character. It tended to make him nervous when people stared at him too long. It usually meant it was time to leave town. As the moment passed it was clear he was getting uncomfortable about her being near his bag, “Oh, don’t worry about that,” he went to intervene, draw the bag away from her and put it atop the bed. The muscles of his jaw flexed and relaxed and he looked back at her. Some part of him knew that interception was odd.
"I'll only be here a couple of days. Do you happen to know Lauren Goolsby? You're a local girl, right?" Absently the thumbnail of his left hand went around the face of his watch.
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EmilyDay
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Lost Girl
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Post by EmilyDay on Sept 1, 2011 19:33:15 GMT -5
Emily was of a mind to harbor a lean contempt when it came to the wayfarer, but it was a scorn without legs. For her, any resentment needed a strong foundation to bear it at all, sensible as she was, and the way the man crept around the room, poring over the unfamiliar, had the lost girl turning her face, her feet and her guilt towards the expanse of cupboard on the east wall where a wide drawer was ushered out and from it a foot stool, polish to offend the nose but gladden the leather, brush and cloth and headed to the end of his bed, where the stool and accoutrements landed, with her. The blonde sat before it all, preparing the lot deftly. She did not speak her acquiesce, to ask him sit, but lifted her eyes and nodded his way, once.
The young woman knew what it meant to wander and that any help, even a passing smile, made the day, the world seem infinitely more tolerable. For no matter how good you were at being lost, for it took some skill in that endeavor, there was a cat purr that urged you be careful. Emily had not intended to be baleful nor rude but hadn't been far from either. Asked, it was only because his very presence seemed a boon. The cords of that mystery tangled around her too, twining and knotting and twining and knotting. Lost girl in a net of Lyall’s making.
That quiet was disturbed by Goodwin’s jarring knock, her fiddle with the skeleton key and opening of the door. Whether it was what she found or simply that she had nothing to expel, Mrs. Goodwin stared at the two of them for a fat second and slowly closed the door, securing it again. Emily looked only towards the door only as it shut, then bowed her fair profile with a slight sound in her throat, something of a smile.
“I will run you a bath. It is the least I can do.” The brush taken up, the cloth, she waited for his say-so, the jar of shine and smudges open on her lap.
"As for Lauren....", a tilt of her head, "she delivers bread every day to this very Inn. That's about as much as I know of her. And that her father works at a legal office further in town, Fogerty & Dammer." No asking the implication of his question, the cloth was fingered thoughtfully. "I am not from here, like you."
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Post by Lyall British on Sept 4, 2011 9:57:46 GMT -5
It might have comforted her some to know that Lyall did not feel particularly resented but most often found that anyone associating with him periodically did have the air about them that he was being tolerated. This distracted him at times when waiting in line for something. Why should it always be that they were tolerating him and not him they? If situations tended to play out the same then the sad result was that it was somehow of his own making and to that, he could not understand. Yet she was honoring the mentioned favor and that made him, tolerated for the request or not, excited.
A bath. Yes. Yes. Yes. But on the outside a smooth double nod that was only unveiled by his widened eyes, "I would order five baths if I could, I very much want one." Had he said something about them before? He was pretty sure he hadn't, which made him wonder if the need was so great that it was universally understood.
Before he sat down for the shoe shining he took off his coat and hung it on the hook in the wall he discovered. It was a slightly heavy coat, not ideal for the weather though, perhaps, it was getting colder. Some stains, the wear of it and smell was enough of an indication for how often he wore it. In the breast pocket of the thing was the outline of a journal he was still working on. His pockets were usually heavy, sometimes with items of purpose and other times rocks. People underestimated rocks. A properly sized rock did the trick as well as any other thing.
Boots and pants were brown. He sat on the edge of the bed and propped his foot up. His shoes were like the coat, just easier to salvage. There was some scuff marks on the outside of the right shoe. The man was an average right handed person. His shirt was white cotton, so thin the color of his flesh came through it. He pushed the sleeves back up, behind his elbows which held their place on him well. The right wrist with the embedded watch also wore a few random thread-woven bracelets. The band of the watch beneath his skin somewhat visible but the oddity of it, perhaps, easy to dismiss because of the bracelets and well, watches were something that most people just wore. Lyall found that people often overlooked remarkable things if they only were mundane at glancing.
Now Emily had his attention. He blinked at what she said, "Lauren Goolsby delivers bread here? I need her to see me personally when she comes and that is of... outstanding significance. It's... four hundred boot shinings, yea?" Why Lyall felt the need to illustrate what important meant to a full grown woman wasn't important. Her comment about him being from out of town was not addressed, he was swept up fully in the details of this other. Clearly, the man from her childhood had business with someone who didn't know him.
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EmilyDay
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Post by EmilyDay on Sept 5, 2011 9:01:25 GMT -5
Getting to work, the tallow readied and it seemed now too, the gentleman's feet, Emily took the cloth from pot to crease and began to restore the leather to some condition, with an emphasis on some, judging by the perverse state of his shoes. She was of the mind to consider them a travesty. A glance stolen at her lap told her she would very likely be requiring a second pot too if she was to get anywhere.
"You could visit the bakery upon Copperbee Lane, or I, as your maid....", nodding to the man's feet, working around to the back of the heel, "could deliver a missive. Errand running is.. " is, was, had been, her what, her specialty? Her shining talent?" "Part of the services.." That sparsely freckled face tipped upwards to him and with it flew those vagrant tresses; flying everywhere with no memory of being pinned and falling in the way of a countenance, though young, vivid and lush with determination.
Emily saw herself as the dandelion seed who flew until someone made a wish on her. As she was for the Sleeper's Nook, The Gar and client, from footsteps, to penstroke to shined shoe. Lyall needed but blow a single breath upon her brow, and she would all but float into the direction of his dreams, do as he bid, and land again, sown for another gust.
Fair hands began on his other shoe, quick but thorough. It was after a few moments, having let her offer settle, that there was the lift of an eye from under the shadow of a curl; it sparkled with a surprising candour. Should he accept, the door would be opened and there would be no turning back for either of them- he would get Lauren and afford this lost girl secret passages of history and all that had eluded her, painfully, for years.
"You would be wise to make friends quickly around here." Hands were black with ash and ink.
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Post by Lyall British on Sept 5, 2011 10:59:32 GMT -5
"You're my maid?" Lyall hadn't thought of her like that but after it was stated he supposed, yea, she was his maid. She was in his room, talking about the services and shining his shoes. He supposed that he was her responsibility during his stay or at least, during the shift that she worked at the inn. At the mention that she would approach Lauren directly, there was some discomfort. after all, he did not know her personally, he was not sure a direct address of her would be well received.
Though hesitant to involve her in his details, he admitted,"Lauren Goolsby is no familiar acquaintance of mine. I am here to see about acquiring something which belongs to her." Perhaps there was such a thing as someone being helpful for him. He hadn't experienced it much but he was not yet ready to discount that it was real. People were helped every day and all the time and surely this would just be something added to or wrapped up into his bill. His life was much like Emily's, though neither were really aware of it at the time. Lyall dealt a great deal with delivery, did she remember? Seeing him on his horse that long time ago? For him, it was more recent. She was still a little girl and he remembered her the most clearly from when she woke up in the tent. He hadn't liked being in that tent or going to Maggie's funeral.
"Before I meet with Lauren Goolsby, I am interested in the shower and getting my clothes clean. So if you speak with her today ensure the arrangement is for tomorrow? If I give you my clothes could you have them done properly by some service?" He imagined that the inn might have their own and that it could tend to be expensive if they weren't using some local service. Maybe the town and the travelers coming through were so few that they did use a local service. Lyall scratched the back of his head and found that he was smiling. Oh no... when was the last time he smiled? After realizing it he tried to keep away the ominous feeling which followed all his peaks of joy.
"So in delivering her a message, then, I suppose it would be best that she know I'm interested in making a transaction with her on behalf of my employer." Yea, that sounded just about right.
When he saw the shine of his shoes he let out an exhale as though something had been done which he needed for weeks. He leaned down, unlaced his shoes and removed them. His glasses he removed as well, which gave her the brief advantage of being wrapped in a plastic, opaque sheet. He could make out her shape and where she was, but could not have really understood her expression. The glasses he set atop the dresser, "Taking a bath now is a big priority. Oh, here," He went to his bag and pulled out old clothes and put them in a pile at the foot of his bed, "These are what I need cleaned. Can you please or I mean... could you please?" He reached to get her a coin for a tip. People tended to destroy your belongs and fowl up errands if you didn't tip them.
The problem with Lyall wasn't that ill luck or problems sought him out, but that he accidentally perpetuated their existence. In this scenario, he was not checking the pockets of his old clothes to make sure nothing had been left. He was caught up in the zeal of being taken care of, the comfort of comely company and the relief of being cleaned up after the longest time. Oh and a bed, a real bed that didn't smell like horse. He could not help but be so taken with it all. His wrist felt warm and he checked the time and saw that his watch was telling him four days. That meant he'd be going sometime in the afternoon.
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EmilyDay
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Lost Girl
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Post by EmilyDay on Oct 4, 2011 23:35:09 GMT -5
"I'll see to your every single request" and it was simple as that, that Emily made the deal with her devil, to press his clothes and run his bath and polish his hooves. Her smile was a vanishing element to her face, like a mirage, hovering, as she allowed herself an open stare. It was strange, too strange, quite strange, that he be here as he was, looking at her blindly. She could see there was some reliance of his in those frames he wore, but really..... It was something else that he did not see her for who she was.
But then, Emily had hid herself for years and perhaps the years hid her too well now, nothing of high-collars and white cheeks hidden under hats. Perhaps time had caught up with her more than she liked to admit, no doubt gravity was coercing her breasts in some unwished direction and too, perhaps, the real sense of herself as she was. There comes a time when a girl is no longer a girl but a reflection of herself, and eventually you are face to face with everything you have passed upon. But she would always be Lucy. Wouldn't she? Or had she lost Lucy when she had died. Had she become Emily straight away, when the kiss of life had her gasping her second first breath?
These things fell like so much china off of a table in her head. Rattling, spinning, smashing.
"As for your obligation, to your employer, is Lauren in any danger?"
The words had no sooner been asked that regret colored her face in red. "I will not run her into trouble, sir. And it is Goodwin's honor that I should ask you such a thing."
Standing, she wiped the last of the tallow from her blackened hands on the apron at her waist, a ritual so delicate and timed that it was something old in her now, and moved towards his bed, to fold back the pristine sheets not unlike the revelation she also hoped to turn from him.
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Post by Lyall British on Oct 5, 2011 8:53:53 GMT -5
Lyall could no longer relate to people that lived in a linear fashion.
This was not a hugely new revelation. Before the incident, he couldn't relate to people who lived in a linear fashion then, either. Since he could remember he never could quite seem to understand what it was other people were doing and talking about, only now it looked less awkward on him because he was now the oddity he always felt he'd been. In a way it made his discomfort with others easier to grasp because there was some other, impending reason for it other than some inner defect. Lucy had not changed a great deal-- Lyall just had absolutely no clue that he should be looking for her at all. If someone had told him that that little girl would find him again, next week, all grown up and lovely as she was, he would have scarse believed them. Often it was that people sought at Mr. A, not Lyall. As a messenger he did not think that he was the person that warranted the focus or attention.
"Lauren in danger?" He blinked at her and then made a quick frown that was followed by, "No, not danger. Not from me or what I have to do with her. If she's stolen something or gotten mixed up in something, I've nothing to do with it."
The outside complication was now flooding his brain, "I suppose that could happen though. I hope not, I don't have a whole lot of time to deal with a vexed woman. She is a woman, right?" Lyall blinked as he judged Emily's face, "She's not like a little girl or anything, is she? I don't like... you know, dealing with children."
He removed his shoes and set them off into the corner, looking back at Emily then, "So! Where do I go to get something to eat?" He was assuming that he would come across Lauren tomorrow, when she came by to do... what was it she had said? Didn't Lauren deliver the milk or bread or something? Anyway, she was coming here tomorrow, presumably, for a delivery. All he had to do was stay put for one day and he would come across her again. He'd make the offer, she'd accept and then... yes! He would enjoy a day or two to himself until...
... he looked down at his watch. Until he had to go back.
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EmilyDay
Somewhat Respectable Poster
Lost Girl
Posts: 19
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Post by EmilyDay on Nov 16, 2011 22:42:23 GMT -5
Between Lyall's second and last ramble-rush, Emily had taken it upon herself to close the distance and squint, squint very hard and lean up on her tippy toes so near she could see the fine hairs and pores of his face. "You don't like children?"
Perhaps she was testing the fates.
"What an odd admission. But no, Lauren is no child, not least by age nor the times she had parted her thighs for the city. But that's another matter." Swaying back onto the balls of her pert feet, she tapped her chin, offering an animated smile. It practically chimed with cunning. "You are an odd man. Very odd, very very odd." She curtsied, rather abruptly, and turned for the door, the fat ribbon of her apron whisking the air like a satisfied cat's tail. "I'll show you to the dinner hall. Have you preference on the meat?" The door was held. Her breath. Her smile.
There was a grave sensitivity to the moment and the entire engagement, so heady was she with question and foreboding she was sure her frame must be humming. Jamie, gods. Wouldn't it be something to see him again. Did he know Lyall, did Lyall know him? Had they all criss-crossed one another and never known it. Life turned in patterns of enigma. There was no following which way it might lead. You hoped for the best, sometimes that hope flickered and sometimes it was snuffed, but if you kept trying it would smolder back to life. That was happening right now. A flame in her chest flickring back to life. None of it had ever made sense. None of it. Not until Lyall had walked into her life again like this. Between the lines, there was a story here, there was a game they both could play, one step ahead of the script and writing. Perhaps Sargasso could be the key, perhaps that was the thread to pull first. From one antiquarian to another.
The door her breath and smile were held.
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Post by Lyall British on Nov 22, 2011 10:06:04 GMT -5
He often found that people were calling him odd. Usually it wasn't to his face and sometimes it was with polite and indirect language. It wasn't often that someone leaned in so close to him with the statement like he were a mueseum specimen, unaware of their study. He thought that the moment should have had some sexual tension to it. There she was, a young woman, tending to his needs, leaning into him but... no, he wasn't as lucky as all that. Her breath wasn't tight or a blush about her cheeks. Her voice was calling him odd and rather instantly he took himself to be of some amusement to her.
It was rather suiting since she was some amusement to him. Had he thought about it, he most certainly should have reflected the sentiments about her being odd directly back.
"Children are rather awkward, don't you think?" He was rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt and looking at her with all seriousness, "I don't know what to say to them most of the time. They just stare like you're the one being weird when they're the one staring. Oh! And they'll steal your stuff, straight out of your pockets. They act like they have a death wish with how they go about life." A little girl, once upon a time, had curiously taken a shiny braclet from his saddle bag.
He didn't put his shoes or coat back on, he assumed this dining hall was inside the building and he didn't have to get ready for the world outside again. "Do you know Emily personally? Is that what the curiosity is about?" Though in his experience a woman needed only the faintest suggestion that there was something to be curious about. Or she just had to be told not to be curious about something, then she'd most definitely set on it with a rampaging need to know. Best not to say it was worth being curious either, it just confirmed her desire to find out. There just wasn't much in the way of getting rid of a curious woman, no matter how he sliced the situation. Best to be dour and bore her away.
He took his glasses and let the rest high on his nose, instantly sharpening the world he saw. There was a small nod, his arms crossing his chest as she lead the way, "So I guess you grew up around here, yea?" She knew everyone or was at least doing a good bluff that she did. His questioning had been mindless, loose in the air. It had no awareness of the closeness it shot toward her heart and mind.
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