The Lost Scribe of Justitia

The Recovery

       Petrich Hollenburg was finally coaxed into taking a light sedative and put to bed.  When he woke, well into the next day, two young women awaited him.
      Petrich sat up, looked at them and sighed.
"Dietfried. . ." he murmured, shaking his head. He did not have time to be 'entertained'. Continuing his work was of upmost importance. 
        The longer he looked at the two women, however, the less they seemed to be of the entertainment sort.  They were in uniforms of pure white and over their arms were fluffy towels and what looked like a bath robe.
       "Your bath is ready, Master Hollenburg." said one of the women.
         He paused, then made to get out of bed. He found himself stark naked. He paused again.
       "Come, Master Hollenburg." The women turned and opened the double doors revealing a floor level bath the size of a small swimming pool.  The windows beyond hosted a stunning view far above the port of Leiden. It was a beautiful day.
Without even looking at him, the women laid the towels and the robe nearby as Petrich submerged into the bath. A groan of ecstasy escaped him.

(A bathing pool with a view)

"Feels nice, does it not?" Dietfried asked, strolling in fully dressed in a white suit. He took a seat at a marble bench as the women took their leave. "I will not bore you with all the details of what makes those swirling waters so very invigorating. Just enjoy."
"Thank you, Dietfried." said Petrich sincerely.
"Always here for you, my boy, BUT now that you are with me, you will not have permission to spend every waking moment completing that document."
"But, I must." Petrich insisted.
"And you will, only within reason. You're ruining yourself at this rate. I've set up a schedule for you and while you are here, you will follow it to the letter."
"Schedule?"
"Yes, after your bath, I have set you up with an appointment with a professional masseuse/ reflexologist to deal with your spine and your extremities."
"Hmm." said Petrich doubtfully.
"Don't believe in the power of a good massage and joint adjustment?"
Petrich shrugged.
"Well, it makes no difference whether you do or do not. You'll have it anyway.  Then only after will you be allowed into your new studio."
          "New studio?" Petrich asked, bewildered.
          "Yes. Converted sun room. You've worked so long in poor light, no wonder at all your eyes are failing you."
            "And my equipment and supplies?"
             "Already unpacked, cleaned up and ready for you."
             "You've the makings of the perfect assistant, Captain."
             Dietfried laughed. "Well, I've had a crew of assistants myself.  You've been taxed to just nearly your breaking point, dear Petrich. And you may see all this as extravagant luxury. It IS extravagant, but the perfect environment to learn how to take care of yourself, or you will look and feel like an old man way before you ought."
           Petrich knew Dietfried was right and followed the instructions without any further argument. The massage session was nothing short of miraculous. A renewal of his back and neck muscles were a welcome relief. As for his hands, they were massaged, as well as poked with a multitude of thin needles around known pressure points. The tight stiffness of the finger joints slowly loosened and Petrich was able to stretch out his fingers and ball them up in a tight fist without wincing.
"The acupuncture of your hands should be done every couple of weeks." Dietfried informed him, "After a while you'll only need it once a month, then once every couple of months."
Petrich, marveling at the returning flexibility, nodded obediently. "Yes, Dr. Bougainvillea."
Dietfried did not stop with Petrich's health, but also went as far as ringing up his own personal tailor. "You are not part of the Justitia guild any longer. No need to dress as a schoolboy in sixth form."
"True. . ." Petrich agreed, morosely.
Dietfried patted his shoulder, as would an understanding uncle. "I'll let you go to your studio now."
Petrich was more than ready to return to his work.  But he was allowed to work for only 4 hours when he was made to come to supper. 
Petrich reluctantly obeyed.
         They dined outside in the balmy comfort of an early summer evening.  Petrich disclosed the details of his banishment from Justitia.
         "And just like that?" Dietfried snapped his fingers, "You're ousted? No council? No weighing out the why and the wherefore? Seems awfully obtuse of them."
          "I could have challenged and I still might. I have no stomach for all the bureaucracy of it right now."
          "Their loss, I say," Dietfried declared, "And have you heard from your Ms. Fritz?"
          "Fitz," Petrich corrected.
          "Whatever," Dietfried sniffed.
           "I have not. Of course, if she is trying to contact me now, she wouldn't be able. Perhaps I'll send a telegram to inform my whereabouts."   Which he did the very next morning.
            Within the hour of sending the message, she replied.
Made progress in case stop contact me while in Dresgorn stop.  GF

Petrich sent back:
Should be in Dresgorn a week from tomorrow stop I will be in contact stop Consider going to Rykindella estate for Grand Showing as my guest stop PH

"Honestly, Petrich," Dietfried complained, "The likes of your mannish Dresgorn police inspector at a Grand Showing?"
Petrich grinned. "And why not? I want her to see my work."
"She'll probably show up in trousers. Amelia might not approve."
"Fitz will be MY special guest, so the Duchess will just have to lump it. Besides, she'll be far too busy showing off her original Hollenburg to people who will not have a clue as to what it truly means."
"Speaking of hidden meanings. . .when will you feel obligated to tell the Duchess what she wants to know?"
"The true parentage of Lord Jonathan? Hmm. I think I'll just leave it to whomever shows up from the Woxlichen guild. If they are as gifted as they say they are, then everything about the baby can be deciphered quite readily."
"You're very much like an illusionist, my dear Petrich."
"A magician? And how is that?"
Dietfried relaxed back into his chair.
"I saw an act a very long time ago as a child, well, an older child as it were. Gilbert, my younger brother, was only 5 or so, and was enthralled at the performer using all these flashy props. As young as he was, he took these tables covered in black cloth and colorful boxes here and there at face value. Pretty, showy things. I knew better. Every prop was placed in a very specific position and each had a specific purpose. Nothing was happenstance. Even the elaborate movements of the performer were painstakingly precise to pull off a trick of the mind, an illusion."
"And did you think less of the magician?"
"Good heavens, no! I thought him most brilliant! But I kept this from Gil. I did not want to shatter his unquestioning belief ."
"Perhaps you are right. Each line, each brush stroke of my work has purpose, just as the configurations of the heavens have purpose."
For a moment they quietly contemplated the magnificence of the celestial heavens, until Dietfried, puffing his pipe, broke the silence.
"I'm willing to wager she's never even worn a frock."