Fantasy Beasts & Burdens

[sspky]

(( new scene new case? ))

Fredrick caught the coin purse and slipped it into his pocket, offering Thom a quick nod as he ushered his partner out into the lane. Meanwhile, Robert had lit one of his pilfered cigarettes, his fourth in the few short hours they’d been here and seemed to have mentally checked out almost entirely. He followed Robert, shoulders slumped and head pounding.

Both men savoured the smell of the Chelsy morning air. The raw sewage and coal-scent of London were almost heavenly after spending so much time cooped up with that maggot-corpses stank.

Fredrick flagged down the first cab they spotted and were back at Whitechapel by late morning. Robert spent most of the journey in fitful sleep, and when they did finally arrive back at their apartment complex, Fredrick had to jostle him roughly out of the cab, through the lobby, and into the perilous old elevator.

Sensing his partner's ill mood, Fredrick chose to keep his distance. Once safely back in their suite, the mute scrubbed his skin raw in a blazing-hot shower, before collapsing in their shared bed, where he slept undisturbed for the next 12 hours.

In that time, Fredrick had been busy visiting old acquaintances -- a bookseller, a curio-shop owner in Chinatown, a butcher who specialized in exotic meats -- and learned all he could about flesh-worms and how to kill them.

 

[Pith]

Elijah returned to his work with vigor, all but throwing his assistant out of the lab with the assertion that whatever was left in the corpse was almost certainly completely dead, and that he would be very careful. Moreover, he pointed out, whatever they'd brought the corpse in had to be disposed of sooner rather than later, considering the shared nature of the alley. Thom didn't like it, but he couldn't disagree. And so he'd spent the early morning hours breaking down the noxious-smelling cart, though he noted it wasn't quite so bad outside of the lab, with what little airflow the backs of the homes afforded.

The smoke produced from the furnace had been enough to empty the contents of his stomach with the first whiff, and he knew he would be apologizing to the neighbors all afternoon on the doctor's behalf. Only once the last of the wood was crackling and spitting away did he stop for a cigarette, and realize with a swearing fit that his case was gone.

There was no word from the doctor for over a week. Every waking moment he was not engaged with a client or social obligation he had previously been committed to was dedicated to studying everything he'd taken, dried, and preserved from Adelaide's form. When he'd finished there had been surprisingly little to burn, as seven her bones had gone brittle and cracked, easily broken down to powder. It almost appeared as thought something had eaten her very marrow.

Dr. Walker wanted those notes, and any literature he could get his hands on. Thom had to remind him that he had clients and appointments, and he could hardly afford to enlist the rather pricey services of the Whitechapel pair if he did not continue to operate normally. The doctor was persuaded, but the assistant was sent to go pick up anything Robert had managed to copy, and to comb the area itself for any interesting shops. The strange and unnatural did not, of course, happen more in Whitechapel than any other place, but it was one of the easier burghs to buy and sell things only slightly more plainly.

 

[sspky]

(( and now ✩ chaos ✩ ))

“Aight, trops up here like this again, ya’ porky slag, I’ll bash ya’ gray-matter in with a fecking prybar,” the voice echoing out from the half-closed door was obviously Fredricks, though the accent had devolved considerably since the last time he’d been in Thoms company.

Like last time, the wobbly sound of music screeched out of a gramophone in the apartment. Unlike last time, Robert was not alone.

There was Fredrick, strung out and underfed and so angry his face had gone purple, and there was the woman.

Said woman was large in every possible way. She stood a good five inches taller then Fredrick, had thick thighs, enormous breasts, and a pair of arms that looked fit enough to crush a man’s head. Given how bloody the knuckles were on her right hand, it seemed entirely likely she was the cause of the considerable swelling around Fredrick’s right eye.

The belligerent cut-throat adored her about as much as he completely loathed her, and their argument had been enough to drive most of their neighbours out into the street for the evening.

“Try it, ya’ crab-dicked ponce,” the woman spat back, “Try it, an’ I’ll beat ya’ so hard the worms in ya’ empty noggen ‘el be seeing double.”

Between the argument and the music, no one present would have noticed Thoms arrival. It seemed the door itself had been kicked in, broken wood splintering out of the doorframe where the lock had once been attached, and there appeared to be blood on the wall outside.

While Fredrick and the large woman argued, Robert had been sitting at his work desk, his head buried in his arms, where he’d been content to remain until one of the two murdered the other. That was until a stray bottle shattered on the edge of the table, sending a few of his dismantled clockwork trinkets flaying.

At this point, Robert’s internal monologue was more or less one continuous line of abhorrent profanity. He jumped to his feet, grabbed his coat, yanked a bottle of whisky from Fredricks grip, and stormed out the door, into the litter-cluttered hallway beyond.

 

[Pith]

( I ADORE HER TOO. Poor Robert. )

It was easy enough to sense something was off the moment Thom had set foot inside the building. He could hear the noise from upstairs, though it was faint and completely unintelligible from that distance. But it was barely beginning to be dark and there wasn't a single sign of a living soul down in the lobby, which to his mind was just short of unnatural. No matter how bad the neighborhood or shoddy the building there was always someone around--whether management, old timers sitting out smoking away from the gripes of their women, children making due with limited entertainment, or even various bodies for hire.

But no. Ghostly, save for the yelling.

He recognized one of the speakers as he made his way upstairs, though the deterioration in his accent gave him a half-second's pause. There was very sincere doubt in his mind he was going to be able to get anything from Fredrick if he was in some sort of mood, but he'd continued none the less. It wouldn't be his first time waiting out a fight and speaking to an agitated party, and sometimes the prospect of money could calm nerves. Sometimes.

The blood on the wall had given him additional pause, and he'd stopped just outside the opening to glance inside. He had no expectation of recognizing whoever the woman was, but the shorter man was a sight, that was for certain, all bloody and near-rabid. Hanging back from the door and sighing, he lit a cigarette, slipping his new case and matches into an inner pocket, determined not to given potential pickpockets another chance at this things. Not that he had anyone in mind, of course. Whitechapel was a dangerous place.

Decisions, decisions. He could wait the fight out, or leave and return, hoping to not find a murder scene. He wasn't about to go in and break up a couple of strangers just for some papers and a few questions--even if Fredrick didn't have a go at him, the woman obviously had a mean hook. But a third option presented itself as Robert suddenly rounded the corner, drink in hand.

"My chances better with you or him right now?" he called after him, not particularly caring if Fredrick heard, though he assumed he was somewhat preoccupied.

 

[sspky]

(( he just wants to work on his little mechanicals in peace, dang it. ))

Robert stumbled to a stop at the sight of Thom, his expression mostly surprise and partially annoyance. Of course, a client would arrive in the midst of one of Fredrick’s tantrums. Of course. Because an ounce of professionalism was too damn much to ask for these days. Professionalism and a moment of peace and blood quiet to do his work.

Pointing the neck of the bottle at Thom, Robert opened his mouth and, had he the ability to speak, the above rant and more would have tumbled out in a waterfall of vitriol. Instead, he made a sort of choaked-off growl, before tipping the bottle back and drinking deeply.

As he lowered the bottle, he pawed at his coat with his free hand, found a weathered notepad, pawed some more, and failed to find a pen. Exhaling slowly, he silently counted off the pulsing in his ears, before marking a writing gesture with the hand currently holding the bottle.

With any luck, Thom would have a pen on him, and he wouldn’t have to again weather the ugly storm raging in their apartment.

 

[Pith]

(( a man of simple needs. ))

At first Thom wasn't certain if the initial gesture was meant to indicate that he ought to take up things with the partner left inside, but he stood still and simply smoked while Robert huffed and took an obviously much needed drink.

He couldn't say the situation surprised him at all, and not only for the neighborhood or people the doctor was working with. People were always a bit different behind closed doors, and had their troubles. He didn't need to know much about Fredrick to accept immediately that he had some vices and control problems.

The writing tool he was able to facilitate immediately, pulling one of the little pads of paper the doctor kept from the inside of his coat and fishing out the pencil he'd stuck in it. The thing had been nicked from the doctors office on his way out the door, just in case.

 

[sspky]

Snatching the pencil away, Robert strolled over to the stairwell and took a seat precariously on the railing. He certainly trusted the structural integrity of the old wooden banister a lot more then it seemed to deserve.

Balancing the notepad on his knee, Robert wrote a single word before holding the paper up for Thom to see.

‘Notes?’

He took another, much shallower drink, the pencil in his other hand clinking rhythmically against the glass bottle. From down the hall, the music matched his casual tempo, and beneath it, Fredrick and the woman continued their dispute. Phrases such as ‘thieving rat’ and ‘two-faced, lying slut’ were thrown about, along with various insults to each other’s social standing and family tree.

With every moment, the argument seemed to grow more heated. Yet Robert didn’t seem terribly concerned for the well being of either party. He simply sat, tapping along with the melody, his dark eyes steady on their guest.

 

[Pith]

The weathered rail gave a saddening moan, though it did not appear to bow or break under Robert’s form. He might survive the fall, the servant mused, especially if he could clip the stairs on the way down. None the less, he remained standing firmly in the hall, just far enough away where he wouldn't have to struggle to read any of the responses.

“That was the idea, yeah…” Thom answered after glancing the note, and looking back to the broken apartment door out of the corner of his eye.

Ever-increasing levels of vitriol were spilling into the hall along with scant later-afternoon light, and somehow the croaks and groans of the music made it sound just a little more mad.

“…I mean to wander the neighborhood for a bit, so I suppose I can come back.” He sighed and took another long drag on his cigarette, thoroughly uninterested in staying long after full dark but knowing that was likely the time it would take for the fight to run its course. “Boss wanted me to ask if there were any titles I should be on the look out for, especially on the sacred geometry.”

 

[sspky]

‘Wait.’

He wrote on the note, and then raised left hand, all four and a half fingers raised. He seemed to be communicating a rough time estimate, as if, by the pure misfortune of experience, he knew how much longer the two brawlers would last.

Robert took another sip of the bottle, before holding it out for Thom to take. He seemed a lot calmer now then he had been when he’d stormed out of the apartment a moment ago. Perhaps it was thanks to Thom’s presence giving him some sort of distraction from the madness currently destroying his cramped little home.

Nodding, he considered Thom's question and then began to write.

‘Long names. Will show you copies.’

He had a few books inside, and a few names already recorded in his notes. While he wasn’t willing to let anyone borrow them, he would allow Dr. Walker or his associate a chance to (carefully) thumb through the pages.

 

[Pith]

"Happens that often, eh?"

Thom accepted the bottle easily enough, taking a quick swig gratefully. He wouldn't rob the man of too much, even with something of a small debt technically in his favor, but he had his own stash and he wasn't even certain what he was drinking. It burned and warmed his insides well enough, though, which was all that really mattered.

Something crashed, though he wasn't entirely certain it had come from the apartment. There was some vague curiosity as to what the fight was even about or who the woman was. Lover's quarrel came to mind, or it may have been a more professional disagreement, but the insulted sounded well-used and ready to be hurled. Normally he might have thought stiffed landlady, but she didn't appear to have any issue with Robert, and the pair had just been paid well enough to certainly cover a small apartment. Still, wasn't his business, and he could wait a few minutes.

Craning his ear to listen past the insults and the heavy-handed imagery, he turned into the moan of the gramophone. "Quite the taste in music," he mused before looking at the second note, nodding. "Thanks." The books wouldn't mean a great deal to him, not really, but if he could get a solid look at whatever books and materials the men considered to be legitimate then he'd be better able to assess the sorts of things he ought to be looking for.

 

[sspky]

He scoffed at the comment. In just about every facet of his life, Fredrick fought. Lovers, illness, monsters, men, bar brawls and fisticuffs, illegal boxing matches, screaming matches, and hissed arguments whispered in the shadows -- to say this happened often would be a remarkable understatement.

Back before the incident that cost Robert much of the meat on his throat, he and Fredrick had also bickered constantly. As soon as Robert had lost the ability to fight back, the arguments had tapered off. Fredrick was a bully, true, but he saw little thrill in an unfair fight.

Plus, they both knew that Fredrick would carry the near-crippling guilt of that fateful night with him the rest of his miserable life. Neither needed to comment on how their relationship had since changed.

Humming at Thom's comment about the music, Rober began patting his jacket pocket. Finding it empty, he rose his hand to his lips and mimed smoking, before gesturing to Thoms cigarette. It was a cocky request, certainly, but Robert was a surprisingly cocky individual.

 

[Pith]

The scoff spoke volumes. Thom wondered why the chose to live together, since it was clearly somewhat vexing for the taller man, and they were clearly not hurting for cash. They didn't appear related, but clearly something held them closer than simple work-related convenience.

The other man regarded Robert with a long, pointed look at the request, and he took second, longer pull at the bottle before reaching into his inner breast pocket. He removed a shabby case only long enough to remove a single cigarette, lighting it off the end of his own rather than taking out his match box, and passing it over.

He didn't consider himself to be a pushover so much as he had a tolerance for just about anything these days. Living and working with a man who's desires and demands often reached manic levels had tempered his own impatience some years ago, and while he was far from an unfeeling machine, he'd learned to let go of what he could.

 

[sspky]

Flashing Thom a surprisingly pleasant smile, Robert took the cigarette and inhaled deeply. It seemed, between the whisky, the distracting company, and the tobacco, that much of the man’s earlier aggravation had been worn away.

He watched the older man a moment, noting the pocket he’d squirrelled away the case into, and wondered what else the man might have on his person this time. He’d already knicked a little purse from the woman in his apartment, and he took a dry delight in knowing that, once its absence was realized, she’d likely break Fredricks face over her boot.

Speaking of the incident in the apartment, the shouting seemed to have reached a crescendo. And then, quite suddenly, it was replaced by the faint but telltale sound of flesh meeting flesh. Someone, it seemed, had thrown another punch.

Quite suddenly, the woman stormed from the apartment. Fredrick followed in her wake, his lip split open and his eye now newly swollen shut, still cursing a blue streak down the echoing corridors of the old apartment.

“Bloody birds. Bloody stupid, crazy birds. Shit. Hey Thom,” he nodded to the two familiar men at the top of the stairs, “Be back in a few, Rob. Feckin tarts. Fuck.”

And as his roommate stomped down the stairs, Robert hopped off the railing, clapped Thom on the shoulder, and sauntered back into the apartment.

 

[Pith]

It was strange to see Robert smile, he thought. It was perhaps an unfair judgement, given he'd really only been in the man's company less than a half dozen hours in total, but there it was. He was grateful, at least, that he hadn't stormed off and left Thom to weather out the storm.

He'd have taken a bet on who threw the punch and was satisfied to see he'd been right when the two appeared in the hall. Not that he didn't think Fredrick would hit a woman, but a swollen eye and split lip made for excellent reconnection targets. Moving to the side immediately to give the woman as wide a berth as possible, he stayed put as Fredrick followed in her wake.

"Mr. Rémy," he answered with a nod, sighing softly. What was a few? he wondered. Minutes? Hours? Days? But at least the apartment could be accessed under less unstable conditions.

Following Robert inside, he took care to avoid any bits of broken door and splattered blood on the ground. There was glass and other rubble, including little clockwork bits gleaming softly from around the flat. He whistled once in appraisal of the mess, and set the whiskey down on the first relatively clean surface he could find. The very first impulse was to find a broom and bin, or to mop up the blood before it tried, but he held the compulsion in check.

 

[sspky]

Crouching down, Robert collected a few of the more salvageable mechanicals and place them gently back on his work desk. Thankfully, the larger contraption he had been working on seemed more or less unscathed.

The apartment was small and, had it not been so cluttered with junk, it might have even felt cozy. There was a kitchen near the front entrance, with a gas stove, a grimy sink, and a disused icebox, some counter space, and a narrow table with two chairs. The rest of the room, the presumed common area, was occupied by Robert’s work desk, three large bookshelves, a threadbare sofa, and a mostly forgotten fireplace.

There was a large bay window on one wall, and two open doorways on the other -- one leading to a small lavatory, and the other to the apartments single bedroom.

To the untrained eye, the clutter that covered every surface and a good portion of the floor consisted of a mismatch of junk. Anyone savvy in the sort of business these two excelled at, would notice some more peculiar details: dismantled safes and custom locks; an assortment of acids, metal scrapers, probes, and picks; prybars, crowbars, bolt cutters, hammers, and knives; what appeared to be a rather large sword half under the couch and...was that a crossbow hanging by a leather strap from an off-kilter curtain rod? There were books, papers, a mortar and pestle, various alchemical reagents in various containers scattered in various seemingly random bundles, an assortment of skulls: a human skull on the mantle, a fox skull tucked behind one of the couches disgusting throw pillows, another altogether stranger skull with three eye sockets and a pair of tucks, sitting pretty on a shelf of books.

The more one looked, the stranger it all became.

Robert took two clean-looking stout glasses from a cupboard in the kitchen. He filled one and left the other beside the whisky bottle, evidently for Thom, before side-stepping a pile of Fredricks discarded clothes on the way to the bookshelf. He scanned his collection, occasionally taking down a book and placing it carefully on the work desk behind him.

The gramophone still wobbled away, the beauty of Franz Schubert's Allegretto taking on an uneasy, distorted echo that seemed to only compound the madness that choaked at the disorderly apartment.

 

[Pith]

On his previous visit Thom hadn't taken much care to look around the apartment and examine its contents beyond identifying the doors and any particularly worrisome items. His concentration had rested much more squarely on the stranger with quick fingers he'd been sent to deal with, and he hadn't made it more than a few feet inside. Given a clearer look and a moment to appreciate the various tools, oddities, areas of disuse, and countless conversation-starters, he felt his skin crawl just slightly at the thought of attempting to live or, worse, work in such wildly cluttered surroundings.

He'd lived in smaller places himself that had never gotten so messy, though he hadn't been in any line of work that would necessitate such a variety of items, or of a mind to become much in the way of a collector. Most of what had taken up the space in his old apartment had been bottles and first aid supplies, all neatly lined on the table until he broke them, cleaned up the mess, and started over. These days most of what he would rightly call his own, save his clothes, fit into a single side-table next to his bed.

After pouring himself a couple fingers of whiskey he moved further into the apartment, likewise taking care to to avoid touching anything. The tools and weapons made sense, and though he didn't recognize the uses or application for all of them, or the mechanicals, he could at least classify them as work-related. He wondered at the need for the skulls beyond perhaps ambiance, but didn't comment. Dr. Walker kept worse things just because it delighted him.

As Robert began pulling down texts from the shelf, Thom set his bag on the floor near the table and intended to scan the names on the sides of the books as they were placed down. But his attention turned to the clockwork pieces and delicate looking tools scattered about, some of it upset by shattered glass. Sure enough he spotted the same spectacles Robert had been in possession of the last time he had visited, and he looked curiously at whatever it was the man evidently was tinkering away at. He kept a good distance from everything, not even within arm's reach of the project, but moved around the side for a better look.

 

[sspky]

A third book was placed on the table, followed by a thick, leather-bound folio. After that, Robert turned, ready to share the titles with Thom, and noticed the man’s attention was on his unusual machine.

The device itself was a maze of delicate gears, spindles, pumps, and wires, all designed to fit inside a cube of 30 centimetres across. The case lay on the table nearby and seemed to have been crafted out of an old safe. Once fully assembled, it would look like nothing more than a simple, metal box with a single, small keyhole at the center of its face.

Inside, it was phenomenal. The amount of detail and care that went into the planning and assembly of the contraption would have been obvious to even the laymen. As for what it did? That bit was less clear.

Beaming, Robert gestured for Thom to come closer, and then leant in and pointed into the heart of the thing, where a second, much smaller box was suspended on a sturdy chopper chassis. This box was glass and currently appeared empty. Robert then pointed to the lock that would eventually connect to the keyhole on the face.

He plucked up a lockpick and thin tension wrench from the desk and slid it carefully in place. The lock was presently lacking in any sort of outer shell, so the viewer could see each tumbler on display. When the tension wrench pressed up against the plug mechanism, a chain of events unfolded inside the contraption.

It was a puzzle-box.

The man who had never met a lock he couldn’t pick had been slowly building a contraption designed to stump the masters. It was uncertain what prize was intended to be stowed away in the glass box, although knowing the sort of men who pursued this hobby enthusiastically, the real goal was likely to just crack the damn thing. Everything else was filler.

Fredrick called it an obsession, and it was clear from the gleam in Robert’s eye that this device was something immensely important to him.

 

[Pith]

He was amused to see a look of damn-near excitement on Robert's face, though it reminded him a bit of when the doctor encountered something nasty or unexpected inside of someone else. In a way, he could see how it would be the same, being enthused about the inner workings of things. But he and leaned down obligingly in order to get a better look inside.

Inside was a miniature mechanical marvel, and Thom's eyes instinctively followed the movement that followed the twist of the tension wrench throw its motions as best he was able. He could see where gears would turn, releasing rods or rotating pieces that would set into motion another shift in the metal guts of the machine. It looked like it would be easy to break, but once encased in the safe would render whatever it was going to protect near invulnerable.

Thom had seen a few puzzle boxes in his time, though mostly simple wood things opened by means of sliding particular panels on an inlaid pattern. They were sent to the men on the front, bearing a token or sweet from loved ones, reminding them at home while giving them a brain teaser to occupy their time in trenches and tents. He'd been encouraged to try his hand at one, once, but didn't have the knack for it back then, nor the patience. He imaged he could give one of the simple sorts another try at this point in his life, but he'd sooner be walking on water than coming halfway close to understanding the thing Robert appeared to be constructing.

"It's beyond me, so I don't know if my being impressed means much, but it looks damn complicated." He was rather certain that was the point, and was honestly the best he could manage as far as a compliment went.

He was curious where Robert meant to keep the thing, once it was done. Nothing that brought that much delight was meant to actually protect something of value, it was for people to wonder over.

 

[sspky]

Thom’s response earned him another quick smile. Fredrick's eyes usually glazed over whenever he looked at any of Robert's personal projects, and the usual sort of guests they had at the apartment weren't usually considerate enough to even foreign any interest.

If Robert ever did manage to finish the thing, he planned on sending it off to one of his contacts that peddled in curiosities. He didn’t care if it never earned him so much as a pence. He’d engraved his sigil on a few of the inner pieces, as well as on the chassis itself, and quietly hoped the right sort of expert would one day stumble upon it.

It was a dream that Fredrick neither understood nor approved of.

Chewing his lower lip a moment, Robert finally leant back and gestured towards the small pile of books on the edge of the table. He plucked the folio from the top and opened it carefully, to reveal a collection of handwritten notes. At the top of the loose bundle of papers, he had written a list of names down. Some were related to numerology, some to alchemy, others to astronomy, and most to a wider range of the occult.

He placed the paper flat on the table and pointed to a few specific names, including The Four Pillars: Number, Geometry, Music, Cosmology by H. C. Chauveau, in illustratione (with no author given), and Tslil Kdush by Naftali.

Robert, unfortunately, did not have a copy of either of these books but knew from valued sources that they were among the best material available on the mysticism of music and numerology.

As for the three books: only one had a title, The Divine Triangle: Pythagoreanism, although there was no apparent author. The other two books were hand-bound and very old. Clearly, they weren’t the sort one would find in mass print.

(( all books are made up, but inspired by real whacky cult stuff. ))

 

[Pith]

( Thanks for saving me some Googling. The titles sound legit. )

Following Robert's direction to the books he turned his attention fully to the small stack, and began to read the titles down the list, paying special attention to the ones singled out. His lips mouthed each names silently, committing the titles to memory. This might have been the copy he'd been sent to pay for or it might just be a good starting point, but he'd rather learn what he was looking for right away rather than looking through his bag and a list like some sort of amateur.

In truth, he didn't want to be the one to track down these particular books. Acquisition was a time-consuming processes, and as much as the doctor might want to accrue a stash of legitimate material the both of them had other things to do. Still, while he was currently short on his own contacts he could at least know what he was keeping an eye out for.

Moving into the small stack, the first volume earned a soft snicker. He knew Dr. Walker's collection of books back to front, and there was indeed a volume on Pythagoreanism, thought he doubted it took the same tone as this particular book. It was one of the books he'd determined to have been opened perhaps once, rendering it uninteresting, a gift, or both. He was slowly making his way through the library in his rare spare time, but that wasn't a title he'd planned on prioritizing.

He emptied his whiskey glass and set in on the floor near his back, and under the table. "All right if I take a look?" he asked, gesturing to the pair without titles.

 

[sspky]

Nodding, Robert made a swooping gesture with his right hand, apparently inviting the man to poke through his entire library. While Thom looked through the stack of books, Robert knelt to collect the rest of his scattered mechanicals. He brushed some of the glass aside, before carefully reassembling what could be salvaged of the fragile components.

He seemed content to tinker for a moment and left Thom to his investigation.

The two books were well-worn, and the thinner of the two appeared to be significantly newer. The larger gray book was mostly text, written by several different hands, and seemed to be a cross between a journal and a recipe book.

The thinner blue book was filled with hand-drawn diagrams, sigils, anatomical drawings, and depictions of plants, artifacts, and strange ruins. Some of the text was in English, some of it was in a less obvious script. It looked to be good quality a translation of a far older, far more valuable text.

“Surprised he’s letting you touch that stuff,” said Fredrick from the doorway. He strolled into the room, his eyes lingering with distaste at the mess about the floor as if he wasn’t primarily responsible for the most recent storm of chaos that had battered the place.

“Davie’ll fix the door tomorrow,” he said to Rob, before tossing the silent man a small loaf of bread wrapped in a white napkin, “And Molly’s fine. Sorted. All is forgiven. My face is fine too, thanks for asking.”

Robert rolled his eyes, already tearing into the surprisingly fresh loaf of bread. As he ate, he glanced over to Thom, curious as to what he was currently reading through.

 

[Pith]

The invitation to sort through the books at his leisure was somewhat unexpected, and as he honestly had no idea where to even start nor a personal, vested interest, he decided to look through what was on the desk first. At first he kept the first volume on the desk to look at, but craning down quickly became a pain in his neck and shoulders, and carefully, he cradled it in an arm and paged through.

It was difficult to spend long on the grey book, dense as it was with text regarding subject material he barely had any foreknowledge in, but he paid closer attention where something was obviously formatted as a recipe. After cleaning up the noxious, acidic work and ridding the lab-level of the stink of rot for days after, he was keen to learn any practical solutions for the messier side of things.

The blue book held more interest for him, and he hadn't realized how engrossed in it he became until Fredrick returned, substantially calmer. He glanced to Robert then shrugged, returning to his page.

" 'suppose that means I am too."

The sigils in particular interested him. He had grown up seeing them here and there, everyone has, especially when dealing with rougher times. They'd been tattoos, primarily, but his nan always boxed his ears if he stared at them too long with her warnings about meddling in things beyond him. And he'd continued to see them, but true to warning, never inquired about their purpose.

Sometimes people would go off about them out of the blue, usually when they were drunk, and often claiming they were for protection. Most of those men had died, near as he'd seen, so he'd doubted the validity.

"I also suppose I ought to be paying you for whatever I can take with me," he added, carefully closing the book and placing it back on the table, noting the thinning light.

 

[sspky]

“I supposed you ought to be,” Fredrick scoffed. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms folded as he regarded the two men at Robert’s work desk.

Hopping out of his seat, as if suddenly reminded of the reason for Thom having come all the way out to Whitechapel, Robert pulled open the folio again and withdrew three fresh, single-sided pages. One contained mostly text about flesh-parasites, outlining a few known examples of the creatures. There seemed to be a common thread among them; they consumed the host, grew disgustingly large, laid their eggs, and eventually died.

The second sheet contained what looked to be mathematical formulae alongside intricate, flowing mandalas. This, eventually, was an example of the sacred geometry Fredrick had mentioned a week earlier.

The final page contained simple sigils. Some were designed for the flesh, others were intended to be carved or branded onto material possessions. They were to be incanted with a mixture of blood and salt, and would apparently protect a house and it’s inhabitants from a range of otherworldly ailments.

Tapping the pages, Robert held up three fingers. Although his penmanship was neat and precise, the mute hadn’t truly given the transcriptions any great amount of effort. In their line of work, the content of these three pages was rudimentary, and he’d managed to write them out over the course of two lazy afternoons.

 

[Pith]

Rudimentary or not, it was going to be new knowledge for the doctor, and theoretically it would be accurate, considering the source. He nodded, understanding the price, and retrieved his satchel from the floor to sit on the edge of work table, though he took care to make sure it wasn't on top of books, papers, or mechanized pieces.

The locks opened with a soft pop following the entered combination, different than it had been previously, though it was less likely for Robert to notice, given Thom's continued positioning of himself in front of it. The satchel interior appeared largely empty, save for a leather folio, which he removed only after fishing around in one of the inner pockets for the necessary coins. Once placed on the table in clear view he took the sheets, cycled through each one curiously, and carefully stowed it all away again.

"Originally Dr. Walker wanted to inquire about a book, but I think his own.. inexperience is making him reconsider that job," he said, activating the locks once again.

Thom, inexperienced as he was regarding creatures and curses, had known Dr. Walker was grossly overestimating his understanding of the things that interested him, and had made the point on several occasions. Eventually he'd simply let the man be, knowing he wasn't going to see reason until proven otherwise. Still, he'd hoped the body the two had brought would have been only that. A body where something nasty had been.

"If you run into any copies if anything you're not using and he might find relevant, I'm sure he'd compensate the expense and pay a finder's fee. Same with 'specimens.' " He hefted the bag on his shoulder and picked up his used glass, placing it in the sink on his way to the door. He turned and nodded to the pair. "Thank you, Mr. Middle. Mr Rémy... best of luck with the swelling."

For all the apartments were quieter, Thom noted on his way down, it hadn't done much to spark activity within the building, and still leant itself to a haunted feeling with the gramophone's music echoing behind him. Outside showed considerable more bustle, and with a sight, he made for the direction of the nearest market.

 

[sspky]

“The way he’s holding that bag of his,” Fredrick observed as their guest left, “You’d think he doesn’t trust us.”

Fredrick crossed the room, plopped down on the couch, and reclined, long-limbed and catlike.

“I don’t suppose you’ve given him any reason to think you might be quick-fingered, eh?” he continued, “Now, I know you wouldn’t go picking the pockets of an envoy of our most gracious employer, my dear Bobby.”

Robert, who had swiped a pocketknife from Thoms jacket when he’d been showing off his clockwork machine, merely shrugged and began putting his books away.

Behind him, Fredrick scowled, before drinking deeply of the half-empty whisky bottle. He stewed awhile until his temper built to a serviceable level. Then, with little warning, he sprang to his feet and yanked his partner up from the desk chair, where he began to lecture him about professionalism and standards.

Robert, who had little interest in hearing what Fredrick could possibly have to say on that particular subject, indulged him for only a moment before jabbing his thumb into the bruise beneath his friend's eye. The struggle lasted briefly and it ended with Fredrick, who had clearly not been out for blood, laying back on the sofa, nursing his suddenly throbbing head.

It was very early on a dreary Tuesday morning, a little over a week later, that the dysfunctional duo found themselves back in the good doctors' neighbourhood. The sun had not yet cracked over the peeks of the houses, and the district was being choked in a dense fog.

Fredrick wasn’t certain how early the office opened, but from what he’d gleaned during his last visit, it seemed that the man lived on the premises, which meant they were likely not about to come knocking on a deserted building.

It was Robert who was doing the actual knocking, while Fredrick hung back a little, slunched forward with one hand about his midsection and the other holding a large, gray sack steady.

"If he doesn't open soon, just let us in yourself," Fredrick hissed