[Solomon Ward] You have to love late spring. When the weather has no damned idea what it wants to do, ranging from humid days to chilly evenings, alternative between sunshine and rain. Currently it was raining. Thank you, Chicago.
Solomon was all over the house. Literally. At any moment he might get caught hustling between one of the main living areas to the library and back, stacks of books in tow. Puffing up from the basement as if in a hurry. Pacing. The priest has, in the past, alternated wildly between cool and calm and collected and wildly flipping his handle with (seemingly) little to no provocation.
Tonight was a new flavor. Manic. Even that requires a pause, which leads the man to poch with pipe in hand, stem clenched between his teeth. It's only after the pipe is well lit and the first puffs of smoke are collecting around his head in that humid haze that he considers the front porch is viewed by any one. Oh well, what ever.
It isn't often that Solomon comes off as..agitated. Nervous even. It explains the porch pacing.
[Nathan Spriggs] Cloudy day, low temperature, it seemed the leisurely sunny days weren't bound to last after all. Much as the Cultist enjoyed taking a trip to Grant Park just to read some books, or heading to his nearest bookstore, today's weather had prompted him to handle some loose ends.
Non-Awakened business came first, handled swiftly and precisely with no room for errors. His job required as much. Now came the part he looked forward to, and dreaded, most. A trip to the Chantry, hopefully catch Wharil or some other of his lack--Cabalmates. An 'official' Cabal had been created between himself and the Virtual Adept Jonathan, and come rain, thunder, or hell, he'd see to it that he got some damn access to the Node and books at the damn place.
Light steps through the pavement that made up the sidewalk, he threw glances around once in a while. Not his usual nervous-paranoid kinds, but alert nonetheless. Today, his usual attire was retired once more, black jeans and a light gray hoodie, and a pair of walking shoes, was all he wore. No light-brown, dirty trenchcoat. A good shave and haircut made him look different, at ease, refreshed maybe. A good, tranquil week had helped him with his usual tension.
It was the sight of a passing priest in the distance that made his walk grind to a halt, a slight tension surrounding him again. Not careful, simply wary. What had the confident, assertive priest who punched people out so strung out? Still, it wasn't enough to ruin his mood, or at least prevent him from continuing the walk to the Chantry after a few seconds of observing.
[Emily Littleton] It is raining when the Orphan (for now [Singer soon to be]) approaches the large house, with her head ducked and her jacket's collar turned up against the damp. The rain leaves droplets behind in her dark hair, to weigh down her curls, to glisten and glimmer in the amber light of the streetlamps she passes.
The air is thick with humidity, rife with the plaintive calls of small bugs, bereft of birdsong. She sidesteps a puddle, but doesn't halt her progress toward the house. Tonight she is resolute (Unrelenting), and it's threaded through the native Reverence that all but sings about her : that gives away her soon to be solidified choice : that ties her back to something greater.
So it is that the Cultist and the Orphan approach from opposite directions. She does not slow until she comes up the walk, notices the shadow pacing on the porch. The cloth he wears does more to comfort her concerns than any outward countenance might disturb.
Stepping out of the rain, the young woman says, plainly: "Evening, Father."
[Solomon Ward] The pacing stops, the priest turning slightly to regard who was approaching. A wave of his hand wafts heavy pipe smoke about the air, contrails of it curling slowly in the air before collecting up in the greater pool that's slowly becoming a vanilla haze around the porch.
Nathan he recognized on approach and his expression, aside from tension, evidenced curiosity. It was often he'd heard the man speak of the Chantry, much less visit it, though he had been there the last time when events had played out..poorly. So it wasn't a total surprise, just unusual as far as the priest knew.
The young lady, how ever ? Unfamiliar, to a degree. Seen in passing, felt, but not quite registered. Its her whom he greets first, a dip of his head within the blue-gray miasma. We all have our vices.
"Good evening, young miss", though there is never any condemnation in his tone when he adresses people like that. It's just some thing old school, gradually becoming archaic. A passing politeness that fades from this generations usual greetings of address. "You as well, Nathan. How are you both ?"
[Emily Littleton] Some things about the Father speak to older times, to other places, to evenings where smoking a pipe on the verdana is not odd at all. The States seemed to frown on the reflective soul-searching habits that thrived in other parts of the world. The sweet-acrid pipe smoke took longer to dissipate here, due to the waterlogged and still night air. It hung about him like a shroud, like a tempestuous cloud crowning his head, echoing his nervous mood.
The young miss is not at all offended by his greeting. If anything, it turns the corners of her mouth up in a gentle way. It smooths the tension in her eyes, slightly. Fondness. In that gentling, it's easier to see that she, too, brings her troubles to the Chantry. She, too, is pacing -- though her arc is far wider, encompasses a long linear stretch of the city, and many are the miles she's traveled in seeking.
"I am well, thank you," she says, but there are words hidden between these phrases. I am well enough, tonight, thank you. They remain shrouded by the vanilla haze, tucked into the subtleties of her expression : wearied eyes, warmed but not thawed through; a heavy sadness, still carried. (Confessions. [Burdens.])
"And you?" There is a foreign lilt to her words. Most notably British, then tinged through with other accents. The formality to her replies remain, however softened they are by her youth. Perhaps as respect for his station? Perhaps out of nervousness or a lack of social grace?
"Good evening, Nathan," she says, in turn, to the Cultist. No apology is tendered for how she disappeared the night before, leaving a half-full and warming pint on the board in her wake.
[Nathan Spriggs] For a second, just a moment, the Cultist paused in place in the pavement once more, watching the young Orphan approach as she came to his line of sight. Eyes followed her carefully, curious, of what remained unknown. Only after he noticed the small (feeble) impacts of droplets on the hoodie, slowly building up and making it wetter, did he move again.
A short distance remained between him and the Chantry, short enough that he arrived in time to hear the priest's greetings. A moment of understanding, so it wasn't that they were meeting in a pre-arranged manner. A spark of curiosity at what had the priest so tense then, eyes scanning over his features. Searching for a telltale sign on the surface as he was given a greeting, polite and old-fashioned as one might expect from an old priest.
"Evening, Father Wards. Doing well, was out reading until the weather got nasty." Same type of courtesy and politeness given to him returned in kind, a small nod in greeting followed. Corner of his eye on the Orphan, a note of her expression made in the recesses of his mind. "Evening, Emily."
[Solomon Ward] "As well as one can be, circumstances not with standing" he says, but there's a dour tone to it. Ominous even. It takes a few moments to click, but memories and statements and comments get dredged up in his mind, here and there. People greeting her the night of the Basil incident, statements Ashley and 'Dr'. Atlas (what is that hokey a doctor of anyway?) made, descriptions from Israel about voices and accents. Also, the meeting. Lets not forget that.
"You are Ms. Littleton, is that correct ? If it isn't too inconveniencing or stressing for you... I would speak with you. On the incident, in the park". He knows. Of course he knows, word travels fast amongst small groups such as their own. Its also in his eyes, that tired haunted look. The source of his anxiety of late. Her recent horrors are flected back in his own visage. There's little hiding it.
"Ward" he says, though not rebuking. Just correcting. "Singular, Mr. Spriggs" uh oh. He has his last name now... he'll likely never call him Nathan again. Why one would go 'out reading' is a little lost on the priest... thats why there are libraries, both public and private, and large wing back chairs and heavy desks that function double duty as military barricades that they're so large. Still, if the man liked to read out doors... well, this weather would dampen it.
Infinite Cosmic Power !
...and we're reduced to the weather...
..how quaint of us.
"If he House sets on fire or some such nonsense, don't be alarmed. Israel inside poking around for any of those remnant traps." ...
Right.
[Nathan Spriggs] The Cultist quirked an eyebrow in curiosity at the mention of a park incident, the Nephandus perhaps? Or was it something else? It intrigued him, though the fact didn't reflect outwardly. His expression was more or less the same, a small smile curling on his lips at Solomon's correction. It seemed his mind had wandered, to make such a measly mistake.
"Ah, I apologize." Note of the use of his name taken, he'd been the one to give it to him after all, though he wished it wasn't used publicly at the least. A slight cringe at his warning of the house being set on fire, it was hard to know if it was a joke from the usually stoic priest or not. For now, he'd assume it was. Or rather pray it was. "Speaking of, I need to do a scan of the house soon. Starting with the Node area." Already he was moving in on his new-found privileges, fuck what anyone else had to say. He'd done his part, handled the requisite, now no one could say no. Then again, the scan was as a favor to Wharil.
[Israel Cohen] She's been there for at least as long as the Priest [fine way to spend a Friday] though both have been following different pursuits. Solomon has moved about, back and forth, down to the basement, up to the Library, back again. At some point she threw together a meal for them from todays generous amounts of food brought along to flesh out the stores in the fridge, bread box and pantries. Beyond that she'd settled herself in a room upstairs, quiet and sequestered while scanning the house slowly and tediously for any signs of items or hidden places where a sense of masked or alarming Resonance may emanate.
She's been done for a bit now, but still the sense of her own Resonance [bittersweet sorrow; piercing perceptions and beneath it all a trace of something other, of someone else, a touch of the archaic, a whisper of the unyielding] still hangs in the house proper, slowly dissipating. The Rote had been extended and thorough but not tremendously powerful; that sense of her marked presence [workings] will fade in an hour or so.
Given the focus of the Working, it may come as little surprise that when the front door opens you can spy behind her - on the coffee table in the main living room - not just two mugs of steaming tea [classic loose leaf Earl Grey] but instead a tray with four such mugs [they do not match] and assorted fixings of cream, honey and lemon wedges for those who prefer it. Standing at the front door she could be the perfect hostess, dressed in dove grey dress slacks and a pale blue oval necked blouse, her hair loosely twisted up with jet hair sticks so that many wisps of it fall loose about the delicate structure of her face. Of course there is the problem of her eyes that rove slowly, without focusing, without settling directly on anyone as she speaks.
"Hullo, Nathan... Emily. The tea is ready, Sol... and I've poured out extra if you'd both like?"
[Emily Littleton] When he addresses her by her last name, the Orphan stands just a little straighter. The transition is masked by the travel of her hand, reaching up to tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear. It is a subtle thing, again, and missed by most. To most, she is only Emily, and only Emily is a slightly less rigid thing. He asks, and she nods.
"Certainly, Father Ward," (Singular) she replies. Though it is not an easy thing. There is a tightness to her voice, to the pleasant smile she maintains. Note: There is not a sideways, inclusive glance to Nathan, even though the Father's descriptor was hardly a unique identifier. (The incident, in the park [You'll have to be more specific...]).
That tension breaks, somewhat, when he mentions the House catching fire. The Orphan takes a small, subconscious step away from the door. There's a little, timid but not entirely skeptical glance upward. As if the rafter might already have begun to smoke wetly.
"Never a dull evening here, then?" she quips. It's light, but cannot cover that she's somber (shaken) by the Priest's request.
It's then that Israel appears, and Emily's attention is pulled toward her, travels back to the other Disciple, and comes to rest on the Orphan once more. "Good evening... Ms. Cohen." She opts for the more formal address, because Solomon has set the tenor of this evening's convocation and, in her mind, it must be proper to continue on in kind.
"I hope you are well?" And nothing is is on fire? Yes, well, that may be a first (metaphorically speaking) for an outing, for Emily, at this house.
[Solomon Ward] Solomon's attention splits for a moment, crow's feet encircled eyes skimming back and forth between Nathan and Emily for a moment. He'd like to avoid another conflict, especially while trying to speak to Emily (and in front of her again, what wonderful impression we leave...), though this is solved by the timely arrival of Israel at the door.
He takes a moment to puff the pipe one last time, before holding it upside down over the rail of the porch and tapping out the dying embers. "Thank you Israel. Mr. Spriggs, here, was just about to go down to the well, I believe ? Which requires some form of explanation, I believe ?" the double question.. never a good sign. Not that he sounds angry, per se, but there's definitely a tinge of 'stern priest in the Catholic school house' to his voice.
"Why don't we all step inside from this weather ? Mr. Spriggs can let us know what has changed the policy, if any thing, and... I'm not fully aware of the circumstances Ms. Littleton. I understand it wasn't pleasant and that such is a drastic understatement. Please, make yourself as comfortable as possible and I promise to be brief"
[Emily Littleton] ((Hello, the house? -- Awareness))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 6, 6, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Nathan Spriggs] A smell of tea filled the air as the door opened, smile forming as he caught sight of Israel. Now he was sure the priest had been joking. Which was a good sign, right? "Good day, Israel. I'd very much like some tea, yes," he called her by her first name, unlike the Orphan who seemed to have tensed in the presence of the two. The priest seemed to have that effect on people.
Body tensing slightly, Nathan's eyes slowly went up to the priest's as he got on the prowl, a stare down might ensue soon if left unattended. Similar but ultimately different than the one they'd had at his bar several weeks ago.
"We can talk all about it during tea, I'm sure? No need to rush, I'm not going down there yet, preparations need to be made." Nathan attempted to push the subject back for a moment, not comfortable revealing his cards just yet. A sense of apprehension made him subtly guarded, he needed no approval to go down to the well once the basic requisite was done. Especially not from someone who wasn't even part of the Cabal playing pretend saying they were 'in charge'.
[Israel Cohen] "Well enough, yes. And you?" The question at the last is not simple pleasant small-talk; there is a note of genuine concern there, subdued but present all the same. But the query isn't demanding - given the presence of others, she hardly expects the Apprentice to open up for a near stranger. Still, the gesture is made: She'd heard something of Emily and Owen's recent encounter and is compassionate enough to care about the younger womans well being. "And, please.. Israel." Solomon may be sticking to formalities, but Israel doesn't require the same, herself.
Most people usually see the blind woman in heels of some sort, be they dressy or boots or sneakers with a decent enough lift. She's taken off her heels tonight, though, tucked near the door inside, and so for once she stands at her natural height, the full whopping 4'11". There are curves there, modestly accented by the tailored clothing, but she still seems entirely petite, ethereal to the point of near-fragility. So when Solomon speaks, addressing Nathan with some sternness on matters of access to the Node, it is with some modicum of finesse that she manages to straighten, not tensing or anything so overt but somehow.. more. Her expression is, however; largely curious with an undertone of expectancy. Obviously also awaiting some explanation.
When Nathan does respond, one eyebrow arches, a musing look passing over her features. But for the time being she says nothing directly for the time being.. instead she nods lightly and reaches out a hand, touching the Priests arm lightly [to Emily and Nathan it would mean little beyond a display of their connection; there is nothing that would break the bounds of propriety there or even suggest such. the Priest, though, would recognize the touch for what it is: Her own opinion that they should keep things civil.]. Then she turns about and starts to move into the house again, unless stopped by Solomon. "Emily? Do you like Earl Grey? There's some herbal tea, too, or coffee though both would need brewing."
[Emily Littleton] Now there is a glance toward Nathan, as he garners a stern and directed response from Father Ward. There is a query in Emily's dark eyes, but it goes unvoiced. (Things held back [thought the better of] let lie). She does not pry; does not need to know.
They are invited inside, and Emily ducks her head slightly. She reaches up to turn down the collar of her coat, to smooth a hand over her damp and unruly curls. There are polite things to say, as they all move through the door, and the Orphan hits each cue in a practiced and mellifluent alto.
Tonight, she smells of rainwater and falling (fallen) sky. There is a warm and subtle note of jasmine, a stronger much of the vanilla-scented smoke that lingers (tucked up agianst he overhang of the porch). Somewhere, beneath the other cues, is the pungent greenery of fresh herbs. Of aromatic vegetables.
Once inside, she shrugs out of her coat, folds its damp sides together, folds it over her arm. To tea, she says Yes, thank you. She finds a seat, perches on the seat but does not relax into it. She is waiting on something, on some question, on the call to bear witness. Emily steels herself, keeps quiet, draws down to something deeper to steady her against the pervasive sadness that drills down into her bones, that calls up echoes of its own in her throat (a lump: swallowed down), a heaviness to her breath, to her eyes.
The piercing ache, bittersweet woe is not her own (woe). She can name it, know it, but will not own it. (Down to the well, indeed). Her fingers reach up to toy with the thin chain about her neck. She does not (yet) wrap long, chilled fingers around the bauble (Wonder : home like a bead [with a heartbeat all its own]) hanging there.
Nathan says We can talk about it during tea, and this draws her gaze upward. She looks from the Cultist to the Choristor, and then down to her hands in her lap.
Waiting. (Witness.)
"Earl Grey would be lovely, thank you, Israel." This is all she says, with any weight, with any true attention. It is not merely a pleasantry observed on her way across the threshhold, or a polite nothing to help her move aside of what is, undoubtedly, a brewing controversy.
"I'll wait, to speak with Father Ward, until he's sorted things with Nathan." This quiet suggestion is for the other Orphan, primarily. It says much about her reticence to speak on the other matter with such an audience. Not here, in this house, where the memories were forcibly pulled from her just over there ... in the kitchen.
[Solomon Ward] If Nathan's tense demeanor and growing scowl were supposed to mean anything to the priest, he either missed it entirely or was relatively unphased by it. Instead he just takes the screen door and held it open until every one was inside. His own coat is removed, placed over the back end of a chair in a half folded manner. A comfortably fitting leather cross cross cuts across the priest's black shirt, and though while Israel knows of its existence and he's mentioned it Nathan in passing, he and Emily may (or may not) be surprised by the fact the priest keeps a large caliber revolve in a shoulder holster.
Solomon had touched Israel's arm in return when he'd entered, but now that he was more or less comfortable and sitting, he might need a reminder. The petite woman was always reminding him to 'keep civil', unspoken or other wise. Some times you'd think he was younger than she, brash, and required the mothering... which, lets face it, he occasionally did.
He also only listened to her about half the time, and it's had some spectacular results.
"And you're going down there why, Mr. Spriggs ? And please, don't be so defensive. We're growing acquaintances, are we not ? Shared hearty conversations and the like ? So again, the Chantry policies... you'd be going down stairs in violation of them, or you've found yourself a cabal and perhaps, in haste and excitement, forgot to mention it ? Or perhaps there is some urgent manner that requires attention, also causing haste ? Or any other possibility, but please do enlighten us before the potential repercussions ensue, warranted or other wise"
He leans over and picks up the cup of tea, crossing his legs ankle over knee. He still has those damn sock clips.
[Nathan Spriggs] The tension was there, yes, but Nathan wasn't quite scowling yet as he followed silently inside. A look around the room, taking it in as though it were a new sight, maybe because it was all he ever really got to see. Some attention goes to the priest's gun, but Nathan didn't believe it to be a risk today. Solomon was dedicated to what he saw as doing his work, didn't seem enough to shoot him for not playing along though.
A seat on the couch first, taking his tea and sipping it silently, gaze studying each person in the room. His demeanor was quite calm at this point, the tension seemed to have faded, in truth simply being buried. A small smile at the priest's talk of Chantry policies and politics.
"Ah, yes, I did find a cabal, actually. I didn't forget to mention it though, it simply seemed... awkward to suddenly pipe up and mention the fact out of nowhere. Until this conversation of course. As to what I am looking to do down there, yes it is quite urgent as well. An idea Wharil and I had, to resolve the current Nephandic traps dilemma. Or at least aid in fixing it. Only delay was that it required I have... access to certain vital parts of the Chantry." A sip of tea there, giving it a moment, maybe letting them digest the information, maybe just seeing if his answer satisfied the priest's curiosity and defensive instincts so far.
"A simple Time effect, looking into the days when they were still caretakers. Follow them through to figure out how they had their Fall and what they might have planted, how and where as well with luck."
[Israel Cohen] She's taken a seat not in a chair or sofa, but instead on the floor next to the coffee table, sitting with her back against the loveseat, close to Solomon but not so much that it seems at all out of sorts. Her knees bent so that she is half curled and comfortable, she sips her tea while it still steams, listening as Solomon asks his questions and then Nathan responds, still with that sense of defensiveness.
Her response is simple and easy enough, "Congratulations. On finding a cabal. And the idea certainly sounds a good one... but is Wharil or anyone else from the Society aware of this change in your status? Your cabal has to be recognized before you'll gain access to the Node and Library." Simple, direct and to the point. Her words a re not stern or threatening in anyway; she sees it as no great hindrance at all. A sheer matter of how a Chantry works. She even smiles his way [placating; gentle] before continuing. "Once that is handled I wish you the best of luck in the Working -- I'm very interested to hear what - if anything - you find."
[Emily Littleton] In turn, Emily picks up a mug of her own. She wraps her long fingers around it and draws it close to her center, as if the rising steam might mitigate the chill left by the thin rivulets of rain-wet that fell out of her hair and slid across her skin. She wasn't sopping, but the girl was quite thoroughly damp. (She did not appear to own an umbrella)
It is polite to lower her eyes while the other magi talk, but she only manages this for a few moments. Then there is the quick-bright attention to their blue fields (deeply blue [slightly stormy]) as her gaze darts from one party to another. Politics were progressing quite pacifistically this evening, much to Emily's great appreciation.
Here, the Orphan posits a question. It must seem strange, coming from her, she who is not packed in with others (by Tradition [or otherwise]) as far as they know.
"What is required to have a cabal recognized by the Society?" she inquires. It is a carefully curled sound, her voice, unburdened by over-interest. "Are there forms to submit?" Ah, yes, ever the bureaucrat's daughter.
[Solomon Ward] "My mind reading skills aren't up to par, Mr. Spriggs" curtly. Apparently the priest, as much as he likes the Cultist, isn't impressed by the beginning of the mans answer. Israel quite effectively handles the rest how ever.
Then to Emily "No, no forms. But the Cabal that had taken over guardianship of this Chantry dictated certain policies, for every ones general safety. This house has, on three occasions, lost its care takers. One, possibly two, still exist, in esoteric forms. The second set was going mad when I arrived here the first time. It was not resolved when attentions drew me else where. The third set apparently went Barabbi or were heavily influenced by them. You can, technically, have a Chantry with out a Node... but a Node is a rare and special thing. It's a fountain of Quintessence, the very source of all of Creation. It is, in its most basic, the very essence of the Creator. Its raw power, to be tapped and used for any means."
"The last keepers here left us some nasty traps and we aren' assured we've discovered or neutralized them all. The policy of Cabals was set in place to avoid the possability of corruption. Each cabal monitors its members in the event that some devious trap has a corrupting influence, a favored tactic of the Fallen."
The last part he says for the benifit of Nathan, paraphrasing the man from their very first meeting. "We don't vote and say 'yes or no' to a cabal. We do, how ever,enjoy being made aware of them. That way if some one does nay thing funny with out making it known first, they don't get shot"
Emily probably won't catch the reference. That's fine. He's looking at Nathan when he says it.
"So that's settled. One Cabal knows, another needs informed. Its no big deal and we'd happily escort you down stairs. Given the hour and the nature of it, how ever, would you agree to meet me later, Ms. Littleton ? Here, my house, the Basilica of Our Lady of Sorrows ? What ever you are most comfortable with.."
[Nathan Spriggs] He's watching Solomon carefully when Israel interrupts his thought process, a look to her and a slight nod that he knew she wouldn't catch. "I did not come here to do my scan, I came to find Wharil." To the point, but not spoken rudely, simply informative.
Nathan shifted his position on the couch slightly to get in a more comfortable position when Emily got his attention with her question, both interest at the answer and why she asks, though some amusement present on his face at her mention of paperwork. The priest's answer gets a mild smile, knowing at the reference and amused, even some understanding and acknowledgment. Probably none of it what the priest might expect from the way he'd spoken.
"I understand the function of the system, yes. You are also very right, my mistake. Some of us need reminding some times. Good thing we're growing acquaintances and can remind the other when he steps out of line?" Nathan spoke calmly, and in what might not be his style usually, conceding the point fully. Not mocking, even his echo of the priest's own words was spoken more with amusement at the choice of words than a mock or test. "Speaking of which, call me Nathan. Mr. Spriggs seems too formal."
[Emily Littleton] Father Ward explains for her what a Node is, what this upwelling of Creation entails and it is immediately apparent that Emily understands why such a thing should be safe-guarded, protected, nurtured. That sense of Reverence in the Orphan goes deeper than her resonance, its threaded through her very sense of being, it was there long before her Will ever reached out to sense or shape, make or unmake.
There is curiosity there, too, but it is tucked away as carefully as she can keep it. No, the young Orphan has never been near a node. No, she had not quite grasped what it was this structure housed. And now there was a gnawing interest at whatever the Well might be, might hold. That would have to wait, though.
There is talk of shootings and in this place, in this neatly arranged, spic-and-span living space, the girl tenses. It's a small but sharp inhalation, a prickling of the hairs on the back of her neck. A poor choice of words, then, on the Priest's part? Perhaps. She smooths one hand over her jacket, folded into her lap. That hand rises to toy with the small silver chain that glints, shines, and finally tugs a small oval locket free of her sweater. The light catches it (there is Light within as well), but she does not bid it sing just yet, not here.
He asks after a later appointment, and she nods. "I will find you in the Basilica," she says, choosing Sanctuary over the other options. There's a lilt to the statement that turns it into a query, seeks confirmation. "Preferably without shootings," she adds, turning the tension to a small wry smile. It lifts the weight of memory from her features, just long enough to lighten her eyes.
Their conversation, then, is seemingly at an end. There are thank you for teas to say, and polite getting goings. Emily does not linger here, in this space, in this House with all its secrets and traps and taints and lies, and bodies buried (both metaphorically and literally). She'd rather brave the rain, again, than linger overlong on the topics broached here.
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