The Lost Scribe of Justitia

The Truth

          Petrich returned to his room with his equipment. He sat it all down, took the leather bound journal to his work table, and sat staring at it in the dark of his room.  In it there were all the answers. In it held the fate of a newborn baby and possibly its mother. In it also held the slipping sanity of a certain celestial scribe.
         Nobody could be sure just when the last L'enfant Oublies had been committed. Although legal, it was never officially documented, such was the shame it brought to the family who had among them a woman who bore such an atrocity.
           If there were no legal heirs other than the illegitimate, then it was legal for the husband to take one of two actions after being rid of it: force another pregnancy on his wife for a true heir or legally have her quietly executed so that he may marry again.  If  a woman was executed, this was never officially documented either.  It was an effective way to 'forget' that these two persons ever existed. 
          As he continued to stare at the still unopened journal, Petrich felt miserably fatigued. His nerves were stretched and frayed nearing a breaking point.  He now understood the need of an assistant more than ever. Someone who could just understand the emotional turmoil of it all. Someone to hold him close, stroke his hair and just let him cry against them.  But he did not have an assistant, and perhaps he never would. He was completely alone.

         In his own way he was very similar to Dietfried Baugainvillea. Dietfried was, to be honest, also alone in the world, and tried (and failed) to fill the void with meaningless affairs.       The void of an absent soulmate was something Petrich simply refused to fill with random lovers. Sexual intimacy was just not an acceptable substitute for the psychic synchronicity of a bound assistant with a female or even a male.  But sometimes it was the only option when one felt so incredibly lonely in a vast, ever expanding universe.
        In such an emotional state, he understood the tragedy that was Lady Lydia Rykindella. Up until the vision, Petrich had already determined the garçonniere as being her one place of happiness, even when the Earl was not even on the premises. The one place she could go and dream a life away from her meddling mother-in-law and her pompous, arrogant ass of a husband.  How terrible for her to lose such happy solitude.
And now there was a baby. The only discernible features that told Petrich anything about its parentage belonged to his mother, as many first born children tended to have. The ginger coloring of Lord David Huxley just was not present. But that meant nothing really.
         Petrich stretched out his hand and opened the book. There was going to be no rest for him tonight anyway. Might as well let truth be known in order to process his next step, the next step being. . .well, nothing.
          Unbeknownst to the Duchess, his threat to terminate the commission contract was an empty one. Once signed, the commission contract was just short of being as bound as an actual contract.  If breeched, a celestial scribe would be put into exile for a time, not associated with either guild.  With an assistant, going strictly freelance was possible. Difficult but possible. Freelancing alone was too daunting a task, to say the least. Petrich was simply not willing to put himself in such a predicament, but given the circumstances, he might have to reconsider.
          Petrich, against his better judgement, retrieved a cut crystal decanter of whiskey and sat it down. Beside it he placed a short cut crystal glass, and poured a small amount of the amber liquid and threw it back. It would be first of many, as he gathered the tools he needed to calculate the truth.
         By the time the light of early dawn streamed through the window, the work table was completely covered in draft paper. Each sheet completely covered in calculations and geometric shapes.  Other draft paper showed patterns of the geometric shapes. The floor around the table also had paper strewn about, all covered with recalculations again and again. . .and again.  Work of a mad man.
        Petrich lay in the bed, still dressed except for his shoes and waistcoat. Everywhere on his body ached, his back, both hands, his head. The pain kept him from closing his eyes and drifting into the oblivion of sleep, not that it would have been restful, anyway, for the truth had been found. It was written all over the front and back of all that strewn about draft paper.
             "Can the stars tell of future events, Sir Barnabas?"
          "They can. . .unfortunately. All that has ever been or ever will be is already written in the heavens.  But the heavens keep their secrets well hidden. It is good that they are, my dear Petrich.  Do not go in search of them. There is only pain in knowing that which you can not change."
         ". . . Yes, Sir. ."
           Petrich stared out of his aching eyes, up at the smooth coffered plaster ceiling.  He did not go searching for future events, and yet, one was revealed.
Could have just kept that one to yourselves, you know. Petrich thought miserably to the heavens. Why bother when I can do nothing??
           Petrich covered his eyes with his arm to block out the sunlight that was becoming  brighter with the morning sunrise.  He now knew the baby was, indeed, not a Rykindella. Petrich could only assume little Lord Jonathan was the product of Lady Lydia's rape by her trusted cousin.
Petrich also knew that the Duchess would ultimately not keep her word, for he could see the date of a future event. The baby's death date. And it was only six weeks away. . .
But who am I to rewrite what has been written? Who am I to interfere?? What would happen to me if I even tried? Would it anger the very heavens? Would lightening strike me?
After a long moment of pondering, Petrich rose, a bit unsteady from exhaustion, and took a long bath. Once he was presentable and, for the most part, sober, he took himself downstairs, in search of Lady Lydia.
In his search, Petrich did not find the Lady Lydia, but the Duchess, sitting down to her morning meal of coffee. . .just coffee. When she lifted her eyes to Petrich standing in the open double door threshold of dining room, she smiled alluringly.
"Good morning, Master Hollenburg." she greeted, "I will not even waste my breath in asking how well you rested, for I can see it was not well at all."
"Such is the life of a celestial scribe with a work in progress, Your Grace." Petrich replied as a servant made ready a place setting for him.
He was offered a variety of different food, but Petrich found them all rather off-putting.  In the end he settled for his own cup of black coffee.
"I was concerned for you, dear Petrich. You were literally shaking after your vision in the garçonniere. I wonder how you did not fall over."
"I managed, Your Grace."
"Oh, yes. You're young and virile." Her cunning eyes narrowed. "So. . . You are, indeed, a High Mystic. The rumors are true."
Petrich was in no mood to talk about what he was as the Duchess gloated with self-importance. He looked at her from his still untouched coffee cup. "There's something I simply do not understand about this commission, Your Grace."
Her fine, thin brow raised. "Oh? And what is that?"
"If the young Lord is, indeed, illegitimate, then why all the bother in hiring my service? Why invest so much in that which you could have eliminated? Or does my signature on an art piece mean that much to you?"
The Duchess sat down her cup after sipping the coffee. "Why does ANYONE hire you for this service, dear Petrich? Your work is extraordinary. To be perfectly honest, I see it as hitting two pretty birds with one stone. The assurance of a true heir AND I shall be not just one, but the FIRST in this entire region to own one of your works." The Duchess flashed a secretive smile, "Beyond all of this, of course, is actually witnessing you having a vision. It was. . .exhilarating, to say the least. Your expression. . . so spent. What other woman has ever seen such vulnerability from you, Petrich? It was truly the most erotic moment I've ever known."
Petrich would have interrupted the Duchess before she delved deeper into her sexual fantasy, if it weren't for the Lady Lydia entering the dining room. Her timing couldn't have been better.
Petrich stood to greet her as the Duchess sipped her coffee demurely, not even looking in her direction.
"My Lady," Petrich bowed and sat down only after Lydia.
"Good morning, Master Hollenburg." she replied easily.
The servants brought out a variety of foods for Lydia and she chose an egg, toast, platter of sliced fruit and herbal tea. The Duchess glanced at the amount of food with revulsion, having no consideration for her son's wife and the fact that it took tons of energy to feed a baby from one's own body.
"Your Lord husband will be arriving back home tomorrow." the Duchess announced, her tone cooler, authoritative.
Lady Lydia paused, looked at the Duchess, thanked her and continued eating.
"I'm sure you'll have lots to talk about." the Duchess continued, talking to Lydia but casting a knowing glance at Petrich. He caught the glance and glared back at her, then ever so slightly shook his head.
Don't you fucking dare bring up her rape, you inconsiderate cow!
"Oh, well, Huxley hardly ever talks about his business trips with me." Lydia replied.
"Hmm. Well, there's always the baby to discuss."
         "Is there?" Lydia asked with a light laugh. "It's only been a couple of days."
          "A man will always want to hear about his own child." the Duchess replied, as she stood from the table. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must begin my day."
           Petrich stood and bowed as she left the room, then sat back down and looked at the young girl opposite him with a heavy heart.