"For I am bound with fleshly bands,
Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;
I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,
And catch at hope."
The estate gives the impression of premature abandonment, like the Marchioness-to-never-be has already left long ago. Dust and antiquity thrives in all the guest rooms, likely due to the lack of staff.
(Five people, at most, as far as I know. Real quiet types. No cooking staff, as the "nobles" of this estate come and go into the kitchens of their own accord and prepare their own meals.)
I was obliged to stay overnight, to read up on some of the nobles I should recognize, out of case files hastily prepared for this exact purpose. Or so I assume, from the heavy presence of typos and vague descriptions.
"You know, I've read much better profiles than this." I remarked casually to the Marchioness, sometime before the eleventh hour.
"Have you?" Light from the candelabra flickered ominously over her visage. I was struck, perhaps not for the first time, by her beauty. All illusionists are beautiful, surely— if they can choose their faces, why not choose one they like best for the drivel of day-to-day life?
(Though, I had to admit that neither Nick nor Javier choose to alter their appearances on a regular basis. Surely, it must be too much of a hassle to bother with.)
But it wasn't necessarily even her features, her face, that struck me so dumb. Her overall allure benefits most not from construction but her posture, the composition of pieces put together. The relaxed arch of her eyebrows, the seriousness of her face that contrasts starkly with her young age. The soft smile she often wears when things actually go her way, when she predicts my actions before I put them into motion.
I suppose she's caught me, in my lack of care. I'd criticized her character profiles based on my experience with Petra Turner, my de facto guardian and lead investigator for the Nightguards. Secretive stuff, that, even more so than the University itself. Nothing we'd want Morgan Ivers thinking about too hard.
"My mother is a... detective. I help, for free. That's what I was joking about, when I told you there's a lot of things I do for no pay— I've solved murders, helped build criminal profiles. Among other things." I pause, before hastily adding another statement. "Not in this town, though, I come from... somewhere else."
Silence.
"I don't expect complete transparency from you. I have secrets I'd rather not disclose to you, as well..." Morgan sighs. "But at the very least I'd like to understand what you do. Where you're from. I have revealed much to you, in turn. Please elaborate on your alleged wagers and risks."
It takes a moment and much mental effort to exert a measure of self-censure.
"I do many things. There is value in being a community asset— you learn quite a bit." I laugh, bitterly. "I assist an old woman in her apothecary, on a regular basis, for no payment save information. I am a detective, on occasion, as I have explained already. But for a living? Well, I work for the man I hope to enlist to our cause, as a brawler. It's the reason I was dressed the way I was, when we met."
Morgan gives me a look of pure confusion.
"You... fight, in petticoats? I understand that we nobles sometimes dress up a bit for a duel, but even then—" She balks.
"I don't duel. I brawl. With my fists. The show is a bit craftier than you imagine— my costume is a mockery of you. Or, usually, it's other people like you. That's how I know he would be inclined, and helpful, to you." I interrupt, speaking firmly. I don't like to be compared to duelists. We have little in common, in build and in mentality.
