Snapdragons

A Tale of Two Detectives

March 1st, 1891
London, Britain

Song reverberated through a slanted theater and awed the crowd. High notes left entertainingly painful echoes, low notes followed and charmed the viewers to continue watching, to admire the voices, the costumes, and the intricate theater. Characters portrayed through singing and rich viewers smiling in blue blood ways. Attending an opera out of curiosity regardless of the possibility of being deeply bored was precisely what Alistair was up to in very early March. Maybe it was strange accepting a ticket from the tailor down the road who seemed a bit too excited to get an opera off his hands. But denying a free experience like that would be pointless.

The theater was warmed with applause, hundreds of hands coming together at their own pace, creating a pleasantly disorienting sight and deafening cheer.

What a perfect sound to cover up screams. Plenty amusement to hide a slaughter, as well.

Alistair was always paying attention to his surroundings, aware of the possible misfortunes. Ready for death, but not his own. If something bad happened, he would be prepared. That was necessary in his mind.

The theater cleared out, clusters of patrons lingering in rows, chatting, laughing. Alistair edged his way past the groups, smiling and muttering a few "pardon me"s.

The outside world was foggy, the silhouettes of once lit up viewers disappearing ominously. It was raining. A cold rain, the sort that would have been refreshing if the surrounding air wasn't just as cold. Alistair shivered. His breath turned to condensation as he stepped forward to find a carriage home.

But as soon as Alistair had come to the curb separating him from splashing puddles and turning wheels beyond...he froze. Weight had settled over his shoulders, pressure applied to his neck, and it wasn't until after that puzzling sensation that he processed the thumping footsteps that had led up to it. Alistair lowered his stare to see an unfamiliar coat resting over his own. He carefully turned.

The man before Alistair was slightly taller than himself, prompting the shifting of his gaze to get a better look. The vaguely familiar figure had rusty brown hair that could be described as nothing other than auburn. His eyes were a lighter adaptation of his hair color, a liquid amber. His stance gave a hovering impression, as if he was observing your every move and judging, fixing your wrongs and nodding when you did something right. His coat, Alistair noticed, was dark brown and at least a size too big for himself, though it would fit the stranger nicely as if it'd been expensively tailored.

"Alistair Fairfax, was it? Pleasure to finally meet you."

His voice wasn't as liquid gold as his eyes. Consonants were rough at the end, extenuating a heightened accent. He sounded like he'd be trained to sound rather important. But now it must have been second nature as he sounded lax while still being intimidating.

"Do I know you?"

The stranger tilted his head to the side. Alistair could see his features in finer detail, fog clearing into the background. Light freckles dotted his thin nose and cheek bones. He seemed to always be wearing a sly expression. His hair curled in a heart-shaped peak before cascading to his eyes.

"No, perhaps not. But I thought it was time we met. You looked cold, by the way."

Alistair glanced at the loose-fitting coat around him. His shivering had dissipated. Though maybe that was just because of all the effort going into holding sluggish conversation. He was getting embarrassed.

"Who are you, anyway?"

"Edwin Deighton."

He extended his hand. Alistair shook it. It was warm.