Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"sit- yes, just...mm, turn your head a little, you look like an animal when you stare like that."

L turns his head a quarter to the left, staring not at you, but at the sconce on the wall behind you. "Are ladies supposed to call their guests animals?"

"Are men of high society supposed to be alone with ladies?"

he takes a long, slow sip of his tea, lips pinkened as he sets it back on the dainty china plate to the left of him.

With no answer, you begin. You wash the canvas in blue, a backdrop for his gaunt features to stand out in. In truth, the room was a deep, jewel-toned green, lined with oak bookshelves. There were a few round tables, some to sit at, some to support tea sets. You yourself sat with nothing other than your materials before you: a small tray to hold your paints and brushes, your canvas, and your muse.

there wasn't a lot of light, but a few strategically placed candles created a lovely shadow. Upon L's request, all of the windows were drawn, their velvet curtains blocking the afternoon sun. All, but one.

One, open and parallel to you, allowing the warmth to spread across your face, and your face only. It highlighted every intricate detail of your handstiched dress, the rich red fabric, the white lace of the petticoat that peeked out from beneath, the silver buttons lining up your sleeves. Covered, from head to toe.

he could do nothing other than watch as you dip into some colors, wipe off others, attack the canvas with precision. The brushstrokes were honest, confident, so sure as your hands flit back and forth. He couldn't see what you were making, only the process that accompanied it.

What were you adding now? The linen of his clothes? The still veins of his arm? The downward curve of his lips?

Whatever it was, you were looking at him with more intensity than anyone ever has before. As if you could see into him, as if you were picking up the vast, unending hunger in his eyes.

a summer breeze sweeps in. Rustles his hair. Stirs the still, quiet air, against your skin, into his nostrils. His mouth waters. His jaw clenches.

"Is everything alright?"

He guzzles down the remaining tea in his cup.

"Yes. Fine."

Chapter Text

L.

One letter. That's all he needs.

It makes everything easier.

Across countries and across time, it stands as a symbol of his boundless skill. A testament to his enigmatic nature.

In this country, at this time, it may seem a tad uncouth, but it paired nicely with the rest of him, and like it or not, he got results.

the train is loud.

Even in his private cart, it is loud.

He was on an express trip.

Death always pervades England, it pervades most places, but occasionally, a person may die of causes beyond the usual. Beyond disease, beyond infection.

Occasionally, a person dies of stomach fever.

3 persons, All related to one woman: Mary Anne Robinson. Before that, she was Mary Anne Ward, and before that Mary Anne Mowbray, and before that...Mary Anne Robson. Just Robson, no -in previous to -on, or alternatively, following behind Rob.

No, stomach fever is not unusual, but when one follows the death records of every country in one's approximate area, one notices a few things. One notices the deaths of 3 husbands, and the insurance that is provided to one widow. It was a perfect coincidence, he had just returned from his work in Russia, the first 20,000 names happened to contain intriguing information. Nobody had requested his assistance, but this was far too interesting to pass up. He had no evidence besides these deaths, for all anyone knows they're natural, an outbreak. Children in the area have also passed to the same cause...but she hasn't. Immunity, perhaps. Or, to his interest, murder.

So here he was, on a train to England. He had hoped to stop and rest in Wales, enjoy some of the local delicacies, but what could he say? He was a slave to his passions.

As much as he'd like to return to the house, his first stop will be the Gravenore Estate. He'd need funding for this endeavor, and he'd rather not dip into his savings. It was best to have the wealthy Duke Edwin and Dutchess Amelia pay for everything, to keep what he has so he can expand it further.

He stands, padding over to his suitcase, through the fathomless dark of the train car. Wammy, ever diligent, had shrouded his private car in darkness right before his arrival. The sun was not threatening in the way you may believe, he would not shrivel up or turn to dust, but it was highly irritating. He simply preferred to be without it; seeing in the dark was no issue, and it's warmth was easily provided by a well-kept fireplace.

Inside the leather, handcrafted travel bag was his dreaded daywear. A cotton undershirt, a black necktie, a black cutaway coat, a black waistcoat, and black trousers. As much as he'd rather dress in his usual pajamas, the Gravenores were highly traditional, unabashed in criticism, and highly...miserly. So, social contracts were to be followed.

Wammy, busy preparing for reaching the station, was unavailable to dress L, much to his disappointment. Despite his high intelligence and experience, he was less than skilled at mundane tasks. There was a time, once, when he took care of himself, but he hardly remembers anything of it. There was no reason to, long after the callouses on his hands softened.

By the time he was done, the train had begun to pull into the station. Wammy retrieved him, carrying their few personal affects, and leading him quickly from the bustling station to a private carriage.

The drive afterward soaked up the last of the day, it was late evening by the time the landau rolled upon the driveway of the grand Gravenore Estate. A servant, stocky and red in the face, hurried out to usher the pair into the antechamber, where he gathered their coats and luggage, and took Wammy along with him to the servant's quarters. L didn't plan on staying long, but he would need a place to hold his items, and a coat closet would do as well as any other area. All he needed to do was go in, make nice, and leave with a proverbial blank check in hand.

A second servant, this one a grave looking woman, announced L's arrival with a flourished opening of the main doors. There stood the duke and dutchess among the pastels of the drawing room, dressed in busy red plaids and floral pink prints, respectively.

L tips his head in acknowledgement, greeting first Dutchess Gravenore, then her marital counterpart. They go through the motions of social convention, the lady searches for a seat for him, he finds one for himself, the lady offers a snack, he refuses, she offers again, he accepts. It seems the man does very little within hospitality.

Now, after everything, conversation may begin.

The matron of the house speaks first. "Detective, it is truly a pleasure to see you again."

"As it is to see you, your grace."

Now, the patron. "I hear your travels have been successful."

"Indeed, though not without the support of my many sponsors."

The dutchess continues, "You visited the east recently, yes?"

"Yes, your grace."

"Ah, you must have heard the stories."

"Stories of what?"

She titters, picking up her glass of wine, swirling it around, never sipping. "Why, of vampires."

"Vampires...no, I can't say that I have."

"Only stories, of course, but I hear of an awful ordeal of deaths in the sweetest towns." She frowns, perhaps ostentatiously, eyes downcast to the bitter liquid.

The duke gestures behind him, to painting of a rough, boisterous man, lips curled in a displeased sneer. "My great grandfather was said to hunt vampires for sport," he chortles, endlessly amused by the idea. "A legend, nothing but."

"Nothing but..." L nods, sipping out of his own wine glass. "How is your family?" It was customary to ask.

"Well, in some ways. My sister and her husband have...passed, just two years ago. But, my niece was placed in our possession, and I cannot be happier to have a ward to father. She would have come to greet you, but she was feeling unwell and decided to take an early night."

It is an unspoken fact that the duke and dutchess have never been able to produced an heir. Even still, this ward will not inherit any title, but the Duke's joy seems to be genuine. The dutchess...

"It is good, to have a proper role model for the girl. She came to us quite...what is the proper word- impolite, to speak lightly."

"She was in mourning, of course."

"She was raised by a poet and a painter, hardly the example of refinement. She is lucky to have a proper woman to learn from."

The room falls silent.

"...but," the dutchess continues, trying to salvage courtesy, "she has grown into a lovely woman. A perfect image of high society."

"That is...very good," L remarks, unsure of what needs to be said.

"Now," the duke starts, adjusting in his seat. "Chatter aside, let us adress your true purpose for visiting. This case of yours...you're positive it will gain attention?"

Many members of society liked to fund these adventures, not out of the goodness of their hearts, but of the appearance in the press. At his core, the duke was rather involved in appearances. He wanted to be liked by the public, and his name next to "charitable" in the paper was a sure way to achieve that.

"Quite positive. Quick, as well- I already have a suspect."

"Wonderful. And if you recieve any exterior compensation in the aftermath..."

"My debt to you would be innumerable, your grace. I would be more than honored to repay it." A flowery lie, unnecessary as any of them could see through to the undertone, but appreciated otherwise.

"Shall I draw up the papers?"

"Please do."

An hour of contracting later, L's goal was reached. There was only one hurdle remaining: leaving.

"I urge you detective, stay with us for the duration of your investigation," the dutchess pleads. It was late, it would be taxing on her driver, but more importantly, hosting the heroic detective would look even better to the public.

"I would be happy to, your grace, but there are many things I must tend to at home."

"Very well...allow one of my servants to guide you to the facilities before your departure."

The facilities? That would be the usual thing to do, the trip would be long. A servant slides up beside him, and with his delicate acceptance, guides him upstairs. The manner is vast and aged, dark oak peaking out between elaborate paintings, carpets, and sconces. The walk is silent, accentuating the creaking of wood beneath the servant's feet. L is left at the door to the restroom, where he enters, stands in the middle of the room for a moment, and flips on the water just to turn it back off. Good enough.

L exits, alone in the hallway. He knew his way back. He turns to leave, and bumps into something that was not there before.

He can smell it first, before anything. Rich, vivacious, sweet. Mouth watering. And then, he sees it.

A fetching young lady, no older than 20, staring up at him. Her hair was still done, as a lady's hair often is, though her dressing gown is evidence she was not expecting company in this portion of the house. She immediately curtsies, stepping back to allow him room. "Excuse me, sir. I didn't hear you...excuse me."

He blinks, dumbfounded, tilting his head like that of a curious animal until he finally dips his head in respect. He takes the most delicate hand he's ever felt between his fingers and palm, kissing the back in greeting. Not unusual, though entirely unnecessary. This way, he can smell it far better, the way it pulses in her wrist, the way it flows through her veins. It was as if he could taste it on his tongue. He swallows back the saliva threatening to escape his lips, and drops the offending hand. "I am L."

"Yes...the detective...I must retreat, if you'll allow me, it is most improper to meet this way."

"Of course." He watches her scurry off, a field mouse retreating into brush.

No, not a field mouse. She...you are no field mouse.

You are a fairy, he's sure. A charming and subversive creature, meant to guide him off course, meant to disarm and consume him.

You, consume him.

What an amusing idea.

L returns to the drawing room, his coat and luggage in the arms of the same servant who took them. "I do hope it is no imposition, but I'd like to take up your hospitible offer, your grace."

"You'd like to stay?"

"Yes."

"Wonderful! Please, follow me to the guest wing."

Chapter Text

the morning starts as any other.

you rise from your mattress at the commotion of windows closing, drawers opening, all the daily chores of your handmaid. She prepares all of your clothes, your corset, your chemise, your wrapper. You didn't plan on accepting company, nor leaving the estate, so simple wear it was.

As soon as you're on your feet, padding across the royal blue rug, your servant is removing you from the dressing gown you slept in.

She slips the chemise over your head, then the corset around your waist, nice and loose. The jewel-toned green wrapper went next, no petticoat, held to your body by the buttons running up the middle of the garment. Loungewear.

Afterward, you're set in front of your vanity, watching silently as the diligent maid works your hair into a shapely bun, the sides looping over your ears before being braided into the back. There's nothing to do as she fusses with the strands, nothing other than watching the rising sun glint off the silver frame of your mirror in shades of yellow and orange.

Finally, you are led to the dining room, breakfast already served to your seat. Your uncle Edwin sat at the head, reading the paper and sipping coffee, while your Aunt Amelia picked at her bread and stirred her tea.

"Ah, there she is! Did you rest well," Edwin prompts, gleeful as ever to see you. You liked uncle Edwin. When you were a young girl, selfish and entirely feral, he would shower you in gifts upon every visit, and regale you with tales of your ancestors.

"I did, thank you. And yourself," you respond, bringing a mug of coffee to your lips.

"Quite well! We'll be recieving a guest tonight, I would need the proper sleep to be at my best."

"Tonight?"

"Yes, a detective. You should like to meet him, he must have stories to share."

"Perhaps..." you didn't care for your uncle's friends and acquaintances. The single ones liked to stare, to question your marital status and offer to remedy it. The married ones were decidedly worse, their beady eyes scouring your form in sordid little glances.

"He's unwed, you know," Amelia finally chimes in. "Though all of that traveling...mm, and so far below your station."

Already planning and canceling your wedding.

You watch as she lifts a butter knife, plunges it into jam, and swipes it across her bread.

You stare at the jar for a moment, taking in the details. How the light hits it, how the glass shimmers in a prismatic glow, how the thick material within holds the form of the new crater. Then, the knife. Still red with jam at the serrated edges, speckled with fruit seeds along the blade. Silver, dim in the shadow cast by the plate to its left.

Inspiration strikes at the oddest moments. It seems ideas are mere combinations of concepts, linked through your train of thought. This idea, for example, had come to be through perfect coincidence; a combination of the jam, the knife, of marriage and it's expected traditions. But it was an idea nonetheless, a precious pearl to share only with yourself, for now.

"May I be excused?"

"You've hardly touched your breakfast," uncle edwin hums. It was nice that he cared.

"I could take it with me."

"Very well, if you insist..."

"So long as you're ready by our guest's arrival," Amelia adds.

You didn't ask her.

You stand, take your plate, and suppress your smile as you retire to your chambers. Free at last from the confines of society. That was dramatic, the breakfast table was fine enough, but it was so nice to be alone. You appreciated solitude, you found comfort in it's hush.

The first thing you did was enter your bedroom, to crumble your toast into small pieces. You fling open your window, taking in the fresh air wafting over the blooming gardens. After a cursory glance, you find your friend to be uncharacteristically late.

You spread the crumbs over the sill, lean out to look around once more, and let out a low whistle. "Birdie..." you coo, half to yourself. How annoying.

Of course, now that you've signaled snack time, the highest leaves of the lone Hawthorne tree on the farthest end of the gardens shiver with movement. He sets off, inexperienced wings flapping to a half-practiced rhythm in your direction. Those dark feathers, still a soft brown at the belly, cling and glide against ancient wind, all the way to the wood of your window frame. His flapping disturbs the pile of dry bread, half of it falling all the way to the dirt.

"Oaf," you chide, watching as he pecks aimlessly. Distracted by pennies, you leave him to retrieve the gold.

You pinch a slice of salmon between your fingers, raw fish you refuse to eat but are provided by the cooks anyway. He's already peeking into your room, tilting his head from one side to the other, staring at the treat. Upon your return, he nips at your hand, and you promptly yank it away. The fish flops in your grasp, juicy and pink. "Say it."

The bird cocks his head.

"Go on. Nnnn..."

"Nevermore!" The raven screeches, mimicking the feminine notes of your voice. Birds don't care much for gender constructs. If you train them on your voice, they will speak in your voice. He doesn't know that he sounds womanly. You doubt he knows he's perceived as a man. In fact, he is neither. He is a bird who wants salmon, and nothing more. In two seconds, he will be a bird who wants neck scratches, and in two more, he will be a bird who wants to leave. It's a perfectly hedonistic system, one that you admire.

You toss the flesh in his direction, and he snaps it up in his empty maw. Once he swallows it down, and he does at once, he observes your dulled countenance, staring out into the crisp air.

"Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore. Quoth the Raven?"

"Nevermore!"

"Other friends have flown before—On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before. Then the bird said?"

"Nevermore!"

"Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore...Quoth the Raven?"

"Nevermore!"

"Is there...is there balm in Gilead? Tell me. Tell me, I implore. Quoth the Raven?"

"Nevermore!"

"Tell this soul with sorrow laden if- within the distant Aidenn- It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore...Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore. Quoth the Raven?"

“Nevermore!”

"Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door. Quoth the Raven?"

“Nevermore!”

"And my soul from out your shadow that lies floating on the floor...Shall be lifted?"

"Nevermore!"

"Very good."

You scratch around his neck, watching his feathers plume in satisfaction. Bird or not, you liked to believe he enjoyed your company for more than food. You liked to, but as soon as your hand drops, he sets off, flying back to his Hawthorne tree.

With that, you sigh, and push off from the ledge. "Ungrateful twat."

You exit the bedroom, taking your half empty plate with you, and enter your sunroom. You were provided vast chambers when you moved in, and upon request of the duke, a room made almost entirely of windows. He thought the sun might help lift your mood. The sun, while perfectly fine in many circumstances, did little to alleviate the grief of a girl, freshly 16, rendered parent-less. Eventually, about a year ago, you felt comfortable enough to turn this room into your studio. It was covered in seating, easels, parchment, paints, brushes, absolutely everything you might need.

You set to work at the easel closest to a window, right in front, a bare canvas already set out for you. You lose track of time, unsure how many seconds pass between each line of your charcoal pencil. The sun, previously high above the estate, is now perched above your canvas, marking late afternoon. Your creative self, the one who toils on in silence for hours upon hours, presents your conscious self with a shaded drawing of a glass jar, dripping in thick jelly, penetrated by a glinting knife. Well done. You'll set to painting it tomorrow.

Now, it was time for your other project. You stand, stretch your compressed bones, and wander out of your chambers, down the stairs, and into the garden. It was just barely blooming, the late spring air fostering new growth for the sea of roses. They grew by color, blooming in ombre. First, there were white roses, the shrubbery speckled every now and then with pristine little sprouts of cornflower. Next, there were pink roses, tight-budded and dethorned. Those were Amelia's favorites, therefore the best kept. Lastly, and your personal favorites, red. Red, vibrant roses, leading up to the Hawthorne, still budding. You couldn't wait until summer, when the sun singed the edges of the full roses, purpling their petals. But, that wasn't what you were here for.

among the roses and other flowers, butterflies liked to frolick. They found it a lovely breeding ground, much to the dismay of the gardeners, but you enjoyed their presence. Eventually for the butterflies, as all living things experience, their time here...ends. and they leave fresh, pretty little wings in their wake. You don't feel particularly bad, you aren't offing them...only...making use of them. After a smidge of digging around, you find a perfectly in tact butterfly, passed on, but resting in the shrubbery. As delicately as possible, you lift the creature, and walk it back to the manor. It isn't often you find one, but when you do, you like to incorporate it into a certain piece of art you've been working on.

The tedious walk back to the sunroom is a little easier when you have a pretty bug in you hand, one to turn over and marvel at. As soon as you arrive, you pull up a chair to your work desk, and take out a thin iron stand, holding a rotatable magnifying glass. It comes with multiple different magnifiers, all for different purposes. The butterfly is laid out, beneath the glass, and you bring the magnification to its highest intensity. You can see every groove, the tiniest scales ranging in shades of orange. This butterfly was one you've seen before, a Comma Butterfly: it's wings a vibrant orange, dotted in black and striped in brown. You pick up a small, precise scalpel, and cut the wings off at the base, as close to the body as possible. It takes a few minutes, you have to be insanely gentle, but soon enough you're done with both extremities, and can move on to the best part.

Behind your desk, wedged between one of the few solid walls and the oak of the furniture, is the biggest canvas you own. It takes far too much effort to remove, but when you finally do, you lay it flat on it's back. From the top right corner, down to a quarter of the canvas diagonally, the sheet is covered in butterfly wings. Some vivid, some dull. Some big, some small. Some solid, some ripped. All dead, all sealed in resin. You gently lay the new wings down, in succession with the last pair, leaving no white space. Once down, you take your pot of liquid resin, dip a flat brush in, and paint over the delicate material with a thin, clear layer. It will have to dry for a few days before you can put it back. You slide it into the darkest, most secluded corner of the room, hoping it will be enough to keep others from finding it. Your aunt, specifically, would never approve of such an "unfeminine" hobby. Collecting the wings of dead butterflies to glue to a canvas was less that lady like.

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"You've hardly touched your potatoes," Uncle Edwin remarks.

"...I'm not feeling well," you sigh, rubbing your temples. It was late-evening by now, and your guest should arrive at any moment. "Pehaps I could lie to rest early tonight?"

"Well...I suppose of you're ill, you must," your uncle mumbles. "Though it's a shame you won't be able to meet the detective. He's quite the character."

"A shame," you parrot, nodding solemnly. You take your plate, and leave the dining room, watching as a multitude of servants clean like the pope is coming to visit. The moment you reach your bedroom, you sigh, shovel some food into your mouth, and collapse onto the bed. Freedom.

A tapping draws you from the bed, followed by a screeching, "Nevermore!"

"Nevermore," you mumble, grabbing a hunk of chicken from your near-empty plate. "Never hello, never how are you?"

You gently open the latch, and hold the chicken in your palm. He snaps it up, gulping it down in one bite.

"We'll have company tonight," you relay. "Have you your evening gown, and your hair done in curls to greet him?"

The gluttonous raven tilts his head, looking at you with one eye, then the other. "Nevermore!"

"I ought to teach you something new," you sigh.

A rumbling shocks your feathered friend, to which he hops to one side of your window sill, searching for the sound. His carriage was pulling in. The detective wouldn't see you from here, he would be entering on the complete opposite side of the building. Loud carriage.

"Go watch him for me, tell me what you think," you tease, scratching beneath the bird's chin. To your surprise, he sets off in flight, down and around the manor. A coincidence, you're sure.

You close up your window again, and take a seat on your bed-bench, using the opportunity to finish your food.

Just before the last bite of chicken, the tapping returned, and you rise with final bite in hand, begrudgingly.

"Back so soon?"

You dangle the chicken before his black eyes. "Is our guest a true gentleman?"

"Nevermore!"

"A proper young man?"

"Nevermore!"

"With well intent?"

"Nevermore!"

You titter, and toss him his treat. "Nevermore" was a fine catchphrase after all, perhaps that is all he needs to know.

You wondered what this detective's business was here. What would a detective want with your family? Money, surely, but for what? Now was as good a time as any for snooping.

You creep out of your room, down the stairs, and to the drawing room, just outside of the door. Slowly, you press your ear to the wood, and listen in.

"It is good, to have a proper role model for the girl. She came to us quite...what is the proper word- impolite, to speak lightly."

Aunt Amelia. Obsessed with propriety. Your propriety, specifically. Why did she care so much? She was so...difficult to please.

"She was in mourning, of course."

Uncle Edwin. Understanding as ever. But you didn't care for your grief to be spoken of to someone you've never met.

"She was raised by a poet and a painter, hardly the example of refinement. She is lucky to have a proper woman to learn from."

lucky?

She...did she truly believe you were lucky?

It seems there are things not even Amelia would say to your face.

You pull away. That was enough snooping for one night.

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Eventually, your handmaid came to bathe you, assist you into your bed clothes, wash your face, and undo your hair.

Halfway into undressing you for the bath, you feel the need to...use the facilities. Your handmaid helps you into a dressing gown, and allows you into the hall.

When you reach the bathroom, there's someone standing at the door. A man. Tall, lanky frame. A vest, an undershirt, black trousers. A mess of black hair. He turns, and bumps directly into you. At fist contact, a sort of shock goes through you. Fear, or anger. It surges through your veins, into your hands. You've never felt this way before. It's some force, some aura he emits that sends a chill down your spine.

But then, he looks down at you. And you see those eyes. Black, fathomless, enchanting eyes. Big, curious, intelligent eyes. On reflex, you step back, and curtsy. "Excuse me, sir. I didn't hear you..." how couldn't you hear him? These floors were so old, mice made the wood creak... "excuse me."

He blinks at you slowly, long lashes fanning across pale cheeks. He's quiet as he examines you, tilting his head from one side to the other, neck craned to observe you closer. Then, he lowers his head. His hand slips into yours, and he brings the back to his lips in a chaste kiss. It lasts a moment too long, before he releases you, and lifts those giant eyes to yours. "I am L."

you hesitate. This man has managed to astound in three words. You shouldn't forget yourself in front of a guest. "Yes...the detective...I must retreat, if you'll allow me, it is most improper to meet this way."

he nods, a twitchy jerk of his chin. "Of course."

You can feel those eyes as you turn, and run off to the safety of your bedroom. Your handmaid is still waiting by the tub, drumming her fingers on the side.

"That was timely."

"Well I-"

You...

You forgot to actually take the goddamn piss.

Chapter Text

"Miss?"

You rise from slumber, an hour too early, rubbing your eyes. "Mmnnwha?"

"It's time to get up."

"No it's not..."

"D-Dutchess Amelia would like you to prepare for company."

"Company?"

"Yes, the detective has decided to stay for the duration of his investigation."

"What? Why?" You're already on your feet, and being led to the dresser by tentative hands.

"I'm not sure. But dutchess Amelia would like you to dress in proper wear while in his presence." she leaves you to light a few oil lamps, then returns to her duty of changing you.

"Of course..." you lift your arms, and your handmaid pulls the chemise up and over your head. She guides you to the connected restroom, the bath already heated and filled with water. You step in, the warmth lulling you back into sleep.

"Miss..." the maid urges, beginning to scrub your shoulders with soap, scented by rose oil.

"Yes, yes," you grumble, sitting upright.

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when you descend the staircase, dressed in an innocent shade of pink and swallowed by petticoats, you're greeted by your uncle, your aunt, a few servants...and no detective. All of that effort.

You take your seat, silently fuming whilst shoveling bland oatmeal into your mouth. "I hear the detective is staying with us," you comment dryly.

"Yes, he's taken office in the guest study. Apparently he came down earlier, but he's been quite busy," Amelia explains.

"Busy with what?"

"With his case."

"What is the case?"

"You're bitter when you're tired, I should hope you don't act this way in front of him," she prickles.

"There's been an outbreak of stomach fever he suspects to be murder," Edwin answers.

"I see," you nod. You doubt that was the whole of it, as good to you as he was, your uncle wasn't the smartest, nor the best listener.

"Once you finish up, I have a task for you," Amelia announces.

"A task?"

"Nothing too strenuous. I'd only like for you to take him breakfast, and introduce yourself properly. I've already spoken fondly of you, so you should have no trouble in charming him."

What she meant by fondly, you have no clue. "Why should I charm him?"

"Because you're as much a host as I," she remarks. "Now, chop chop. I'm sure he's hungry, according to the staff he has yet to request a meal."

You're hungry, why should you have to hurry just because of him? Knowing no argument would be had with her, you take a few more bites of sausage, wipe your mouth, and walk to the kitchen to retrieve a plate for him. The cook mounts the plate in potato, sausage, grits, egg, fruit slices, and pancakes, enough to feed a small army.

It's a balancing act, trying to keep everything on the plate as you trek back up the stairs, to the guest chambers opposite of your own. As soon as you cross the invisible line that separates the threshold of the staircase and the hall of guest rooms, a sort of chill raises the hairs of your arms, some odd pins-and-needles feeling that only amplifies as you approach the study. You knock thrice, await an answer, and carefully enter at no response.

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L has been released from the shackles of propriety. Yes, he would have to act moderately formal in the presence of the peerage, but now that the contract was signed and approved, he could do as he pleased with little consequence. So, despite a brief voyage into the dining room to determine the manor's sweets situation, which was intercepted by an insufferably chatty dutchess, he has done nothing but research. Wammy has provided him with his necessary tea, and some emergency cookies to sate him. Currently, Wammy was searching for an appropriate bakery.

L had no distractions. He flipped through pages and pages of medical research, germ theory, how true stomach fever acts, a record of poisons and their symptoms, anything related to give him background understanding. Knowledge changes so much, so frequently. There are always new things to learn, new information unveiled. Some things he's already discovered long ago, others are taught to him through reading. He preferred to read about things as they come to be important. That way, he would have the most recent information when necessary, rather than working off of science or technology from the 17th century.

Yes, L was working with undivided, singular focus.

Until a fairy entered his domain.

A vampire's domain was something sacred, something that came with it's own limitations, as well as it's own gifts. It was flexible, in the sense that it could be anywhere at any time. He was expressly designated the guest chambers, therefore, it was his new domain. His power was heightened here, his senses were sharpened. He could hear anything that happened here, see anything, smell anything. Any lifeforce he consumed in this space would be translated directly to his own, as opposed to a weaker affect that would take place if consumed outside of his domain. Conversely, he could not control these sensitivities, so if for a moment he acknowledged any external action, he might crumble in overstimulation. It was best for him to work in this space, rather than dwell on sensation.

All to say, when you stepped across the threshold, every bone of his undead body felt it. He could smell you, rich and sweet and delicious, even beneath the stench of roses. He could hear you, breathing in and out as humans are so fond of doing. He could see you, somewhere between his eyes and his skull, rolling your eyes and mouthing choice words, no doubt in response to whoever sent you here.

When you knock, he sits stagnant. What would you do? To little surprise, you entered, finding him dressed only in linen sleepwear, before a table littered in books and research.

Seeing no space, you decided to set his plate on a nearby tray, next to his tea. "I do hope I'm not disturbing you."

He watches as you curtsy, and clasp your hands before yourself. "Do you," he questions.

"...I do," you snip.

He was glad to hear it. According to your aunt, you were a vapid conformist. She described you as someone who kept up incessantly with your looks, who solely enjoyed feminine activities such as knitting and going to balls, who wanted nothing more than to be a blushing bride and barefooted mother. In short, you were a boring extrovert. But here, as you glare at him, he finds himself charmed by your lack of sociability. "So you do. Is that for me?"

"Yes..." you look longingly upon the food, before turning your sharpened gaze to him once more. "Designated by your hostess. She was worried for your diet."

He sips his tea, grimaces, and picks a sugar bowl up from the tray. He plucks the cubes out, plopping them into the drink one by one. "There's no need to worry. I'm quite satisfied. You look hungry."

"Pardon?"

"You appear to be in want for food. Perhaps she should worry for your diet."

"I'm not sure what you mean by that," you snap, crossing your arms.

You were so easily set off. Were you always like this? He doubts it, he's heard nothing but fine remarks from a multitude of aristocrats. Your honesty was refreshing. He would rather rude, petulant honesty than pretty, polite lies. Saves him the dance. "I can't speak any clearer. Please, eat." He ends the statement with a half-wave toward the plate, already back in his book.

"I would appreciate some sense of- of respect! I came here to acquaint myself with you, not to be spoken down to."

"I'm sure you would. I believe we're perfectly acquainted; I am L, you are Lady (Y/n) of Gravenore, I am busy, you are frustrated. Perhaps it would be best to call it a day." He sips his tea, stirs it with his finger, sips it again, drops a few more sugar cubes in. It's as if you aren't even there.

"Perhaps we shall," you grit, snatching an orange slice from his plate and storming off.

He only looks up when the door is slammed shut, and only relaxes when you are off the premises of his territory.

What a remarkable woman.

He wished you could have stayed longer, but unfortunately, your presence was becoming too much for him. Your perfume irritated him, and your blood excited him, an uncomfortable combination that overwhelmed his every nerve. His only option was to make you leave.

Later, when he was better fit, he might find you again.

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What a horrible, insolent, vile little man. Well. Little was metaphoric, he was quite tall, but otherwise...all could apply directly. You hated how his buggy, condescending eyes flicked over you. You hated how his sharp, thin nose turned up to your direction. You hated how his snobby, judgemental voice denied your every advance toward civility.

You slam the door of your bedroom shut, stand there, and promptly exit to storm into your sunroom.

The second you're there, you rifle through a drawer, dig out a journal, and grab a charcoal pencil. In a flurry of rage, you settle on the floor by your knees, as your dress only allows such movement, and scribble your thoughts in poetry. It was messy, unstructured...and quite childish, but it helped to put it all down. By the time you were done, you forgot most of what you've written. It's half legible, but as you read, you fill in the blanks.

It blinks.

One eye, then the other.

It eats.

Tongue in air.

It walks.

Stuck to dirt.

Is it human?

Nay.

It is a frog.

Lumpy, idiotic, slimy.

It looks up,

And it thinks,

"Tis nothing above me. Therefore, I am God."

This is because it rests beneath a leaf.

And therefore,

Shall rest beneath my foot.

Not your best work. Cheeky, at most. But it did help a tad. The thought of crushing him does give you a sense of malevolent glee. Then, you read it again. And again.

You were so petulant.

Throwing a fit because a person didn't deign to act as you expect. What was wrong with you?

You scoff, toss the notebook aside, and stand, dusting your hands off. Unfortunately, you owed your guest some leeway...and an apology. Even though he made snide comments about your appetite...or, maybe he just noticed your hunger. He was a detective. Christ, you really did need to apologize.

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much later, at the long and ornate dinner table reserved for impressing guests, L's seat goes unclaimed.

"You did invite him," your uncle questions, patting his wife's hand.

"Of course I did. (Y/n), be a dear and fetch him for us. He hasn't eaten since breakfast."

Great. Another meal interrupted. At least you'd be able to clear the air.

You rise, taking the laborious walk across the manor once again. This time, it was longer. This particular dining room was accessed after a winding tour through the most opulent rooms of the house, more peacocking. By the time you reached the guest study, you were winded enough to ignore the change in the air.

The wood echos through the chamber as you knock, this time adressed with an answer. The door creaks open, a tall, elderly man towering over you. "How may I help you?"

"The duke and dutchess request L's presence at dinner."

"He is occupied, at the moment."

"Can I speak to him?"

"He requires the utmost focus. I'm sure you understand."

"Well...I'd like to see him privately."

He opens his mouth to speak, but L's voice breezes through before he can. "Let her in. Allow us privacy."

With the obedience of a trained dog, the man steps aside, allowing you in and exiting after you. L hasn't moved since, as amphibious as this morning. His tea is still sitting there, presumably refreshed. His breakfast lies untouched, the fruits wilted and the pancakes soggy. He doesn't say anything, he keeps his eyes on his parchment and his hand on his pen.

"...I have something to say to you."

"I heard."

"Look at me when I speak with you," you huff, furrowing your brows.

He sets his pen down, exactly parallel to the paper, and turns his sunken eyes to yours. "I am doing important things, you know."

"I- well, I wanted to apologize for my nasty behavior this morning. It was rude and immature of me."

"There's no need to apologize. I found it...honest."

"It was honest, at the time. And I'm being honest now. So please, if you may, accept my apology and I can take you to the dining room."

"Whatever for?"

"...dining."

"Ah. Yes. That is what you do." He picks up his pen again, returning to his notes. "There's no need. I'm content here."

"Do they not eat in- wherever you hail from?"

"They do. I hail from here. England, that is. Wammy provides my meals, do not worry for me." He sighs, bored of this now.

"Wammy?"

"My assistant. He discouraged you from seeing me, which...I'm begining to consider necessary..."

"I'm sure you'd love to stay here and scribble-" you gesture to his slanted, illegible handwriting- "but it would be beneficial to both of us if you would show face."

He scratches one toe with the other, his lips pulling into a tight line. "I suppose it would be unwise to be reclusive this soon."

You had a sense that his hemming and hawing left out a large amount of context, but it seemed to lean in your favor. "Yes, it would."

His eyes flick back to you, tracing up from your skirts to your face. "Very well." He stands, and instead of reaching to hold your arm, or even wait for you to exit first, he breezes past you, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You grimace, and trail after him, closing the door behind you. "I'm beginning to regret apologizing in the first place. You're making things very difficult."

He doesn't avoid your company, but he certainly doesn't slow down for you. No, he leads the way, as if he knew better than you the layout of your home. "You will regret a great many things in my presence. To your benefit, I would recommend avoiding my company entirely."

"Are you troublesome then?"

"As much as you are naive."

"I am not naive."

"And I just as much am troublesome."

You have to keep a few paces faster than usual to stay at his side, otherwise he would surpass you. "You say you recommend this to my benefit. What, then, would you recommend to your benefit?"

Finally, he stops. His head twists to face you, eyes wide and curious. He looked...a little like a bird now. "My benefit?" He looks upward now, a thumb lifting to graze his lip in thought. "I suppose....I would recommend you visit me often."

He was so different here. Not quite slimy and irritating. Not quite predatory and intimidating. No, he was...curious. thoughtful. Genuine...and perhaps childish, in a sweet sort of way. In the way an animal looks upon a new plaything, bright and inquisitve but cautious all the same. "Why?"

His eyes greet yours again. "I would like to know you better."

Before you can once again ask why, he turns back to the hall, and continues the soon-concluding walk to the dining room. You scurry back to his side, staring at the profile of his face as you contemplate his words. He wanted to know you better. People seldom took interest in you. At events, you were blocked by thick, dense walls of society, polite activity, the things that kept any substance of a person from showing through. Here, where you spent much of your time, neither your aunt nor your uncle cared very much to know you. Your uncle wanted you safe and healthy, yes, but he didn't care about your art, or your personal thoughts per se. He didn't see it as important. As for your aunt...well, your aunt made her disinterest in you clear.

This was the first time anyone, especially a man, has bothered to so openly state he wanted to get to know you.

Suddenly, he clasps a frigid hand around your arm, and pulls you to the side. Before you can tell him off for yanking on you like a ragdoll, you realize he's just saved you from smacking into the wall. "I- Thank-"

"You should watch where you're going," he states plainly, pushing the dining room doors open.

this guy made it really difficult to like him. You fold your hands before you, and follow after him, your head lowered as you regain your seat...directly across from him.

"There's our honored guest! I was beginning to worry for you," Amelia beams.

"How is the research going," Edwin prompts, digging into his steak.

You pick at your own food, too busy trying to decide how you feel about your "honored guest" to focus on eating.

"Fine," L answers, not rude, not polite, as he so enjoys doing. "How are your parliamentary duties?"

"Droll," edwin laughs, a little too hard to convince you the wine beside him was his only glass. "Far less exciting than detective work, I would bet!"

"I would agree. Politics are droll," L indulges, picking at his own food. Whether or not he believed it, he sold it to your uncle.

"Oh, it would be wonderful to trade lives for a day," Edwin chuckles, shoving more food into his mouth.

"Yes," L nods. Disagreeing with him was generally ill-advised. He didn't have the upper hand here, unfortunately L needed the duke more than the duke needed L.

"(Y/n), dear, has the detective gotten the chance to see your wonderful needlework?"

"No, not yet," you drone, low beneath the boisterous chatter of the men. Well, beneath Uncle Edwin. L sounded equally as bored as you.

"You must show him, it's a lovely craft to have mastered." She had that look about her, the one that said she meant business.

Mastered was hardly the word for it. You might have mastered painting. You might have mastered poetry. But needlepoint? You had no passion for it. Therefore, you had no mastery in the subject. "I must," you mimick, silencing yourself with food before you can nip any further.

"I must be returning to work, if that's no issue," L announces, standing. He locks eyes with your aunt first, silently requesting permission from his host.

Amelia gawks. "Already? But you haven't-" she glances down to see a clean, pristine white plate, not a spot of food left. "I could have...weren't..."

"Good evening, Your graces-" he tips his head to the duke and dutchess, locking eyes with Edwin- "my lady-" he nods at you, charcoal irises glinting in the lamplight.

"One moment! (Y/n) should escort you, detective. It's only proper."

Hardly proper, but there was no arguing with her. He lets out a ghost of sigh through his nose, and waits for you to rise and join him. Why was she so adamant about you tending to him? She herself said he was below you, the last thing she'd want is a match.

The moment you're next to him, and the two of you are out the dining room doors, he's off, once again leaving you behind. The walk is silent for while, up until you reach the top of the stairs.

"How did you do that," you murmur.

"Do what?"

"Eat so quickly."

"I was hungrier than I thought," he excuses.

"Yes, but-"

He stops, just before the first door of the guest wing. "You ought to return to dinner. You've escorted me." His gaze was trained on his study door, ready to jump at the first signal.

"...I don't understand," you bristle. "You say you wish to know me better, and then you turn me away at every opportunity. Did you lie before? Or are you lying to me now?" He was so confusing. Gentlemanly sometimes, distasteful others. A man. An animal. You can't tell if you hate him, or adore him...and you've only known him 12 hours.

He finally faces you. He seems to be searching you for something, some reason, some answer. Then, with unabashed staring directly into your soul, he speaks, slow and gentle. "I will see you tomorrow."

He turns, and leaves you at the top of the stairs. Before you can blink, he's in the confines of his study. You take a step down the stairs. Then another. Then you clutch the banister, entirely flushed.

How his large, intelligent eyes appraised you. How his nose curved so delicately from his symmetrical countenance. How his low, patient voice caressed your ears like siren song.

you were inflamed by him. Utterly debased. How could a man be so annoying at the top of the morning, and so sensuous at the end of the evening? You float back into the dining room, chest and neck hot with this onset seduction you're sure he didn't even mean to enact. You settle down, staring blankly at the full, hearty plate across you.

What?

You blink. At his seat. Food, just as he left it. There are still divots in the mashed potatoes, from where he poked at it with his fork. You look to your aunt and uncle, enraptured in their own conversation.

"The detective, his-"

"Ah, yes, did you show him your work?"

"What? No...but-"

"Why do you think I sent you? Oh, dear...well, there's always tomorrow." She waves to a servant by the door, gesturing at L's plate. The servant removes it without question, balancing the contents on one arm. "Incredible how hungry he was," Amelia pouts. "The poor thing."

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L sighs, rubbing his brow. He rolls a pen beneath his fingers, across the desk. Hypnosis was so fickle. He was sure to remove the effect from you before you left, otherwise he'd have to maintain three illusions instead of two. This thing would be sucking up his energy all night, or at least until he can lock eyes with it's other two subjects, the duke and dutchess.

At least he has something to look forward to. You would visit him tomorrow, he's sure. He would have liked to talk with you more over dinner, but your uncle took the opportunity from him.

Not to mention, he was absolutely starved.

L lifts his teacup, tilting the empty China back and forth. When staying with humans, he had to take the watered down stuff. He thought he could handle the transition, but it's been hard on him. "Wammy."

And there he is, beside the honored detective.

"I require something stronger."

"A man of 40 years has died of natural causes, roughly two days ago."

"...fine. Thank you." Men tend to have less emotional regulation, which leads to more stress, which leads to thicker blood. Not his favorite, by no means what he would like at the moment, but necessary for now.

L now sits alone, unable to focus on anything other than the crushing weight of his starvation. Sitting across from you at dinner, with the open neckline of your frilly dress, it was torture. You smelled divine, you looked divine, you sounded divine. It only got worse when you walked him back, his very nature worked against restraint. Vampires were creatures of seduction, and he's found that at his hungriest, some base part of him knows when he's got "prey" cornered, and releases a pheromone to both trap it and bring all of it's blood to the surface. The process was rather interesting, when isolated. When enacted around an already irresistible woman, it was more than aggravating.

He's tasted many, but none have ever smelled as sweet as you. It might be your diet, or your mental state, or even your soul that scents you so deliciously. He doesn't care. What he wants is to feel that blood slipping down his throat, but he doubts that would be an option.

So, why keep you around? Why offer to torture himself with your presence?

This was simple. It was because, despite himself, you sparked something in him. Something different than the chase he valued so highly. Something new, and a little scary. He wanted to understand it, he wanted to understand you, he wanted to know why he wanted this so badly...

A new, black teacup is placed before him. Just as he suspected. Thick, dark red liquid, practically sludge. Not only was it dense, it was old. And it wouldn't be warm. Quality was not L's concern here.

He guzzles it down in one go, trying to ignore the sour flavor.

Just like that, his body heats. His cheeks flush. His lips redden. His fingers buzz. Bliss. Hunger sated. Life renewed. He wouldn't have to do that again for a while.

Chapter Text

"No...the purple one."

Your maid sets aside the sky-blue dress she had selected originally, and retrieves your requested garment.

The eggplant fabric drapes over your petticoats, padded at the hips and shoulders. You always felt you looked grand in deep tones, and if you were going to visit L today, you ought to put your best foot forward. With reasonable, polite intent, of course.

After doing your hair and powdering your face, the handmaid releases you to breakfast. You sit, make quick work of the food before you, nod along with the conversation, and stand in the middle of a thrilling tale about dinner napkins. "I should take our guest a plate."

"Now?"

"It is morning, isn't it?"

"No, dear. Now, you're interested in pleasantries?"

"Why shouldn't I be? I might enjoy catching up with him."

"Well. Don't enjoy it too much..." your aunt dabs her chin, her lips pursed and her brows raised, as she always does when she thinks she's being wise.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means what I said. Only a suggestion, that's all. Off with you then, take him his plate."

You bite your tongue, for now, and march into the kitchen. The last dash of salt was being added to his porridge the moment you entered, just in time for you to scoop the platter into your hands and veer toward the guest wing.

Three knocks, just like last time, and just like last time, no answer. Annoying. You stand there, waiting to be invited in. Yesterday, you thought he wasn't in, but now knowing there was a chance he wouldn't answer just because, you wanted to make the effort to appear polite. He made it difficult to do so.

Just before you barge in anyway, he calls to you so quietly you're not sure how you manage to hear it. "Come in," he drones, as if he didn't invite you here in the first place.

The door creaks as you edge it open, trying to balance the tray on one hand. You can hardly see him in the candle light, crouched before the same table, equally as disheveled...the both of them. Has it always been this dark? You hadn't noticed before. He scribbles one last note- or diagram, you can't really tell- and sets his pen down. "Hello."

"...hello."

He gestures vaguely to the table beside him. "Set that there."

You turn, spotting the food from yesterday. Cold, untouched, soggy depending on the item. Wasted. "You never ate?"

"I told you, Wammy provides my meals."

"Where does he get the food?"

L picks up an envelope with his thumb and forefinger, holding it longways and tilting his head to read the print. "External sources. Are you going to sit, or...stand like a houseservant? It's no issue to me either way."

Your lips purse, but despite his mordant demeanor, you pull up a plush barrel chair and settle across from him. "Is this how you are all of the time?"

"Much of the time. Is this how you are all of the time?"

Your nose wrinkles. "How am I?"

"Stubborn and irritable."

"I am not stubborn, nor am I irritable."

He picks up his teapot, the same ornate china as yesterday, and pours himself a steaming cup of pink tea. "Am I wrong to assume you are being stubborn and irritable right now?"

"...I wouldn't be so irritated if you weren't so..."

"Honest?"

"Insufferable was the word I was looking for. But yes, sure, you can be insufferably honest."

He drops sugar cubes into the liquid, one by one. "If you find honesty insufferable, perhaps you're more accustomed to polite society than I imagined."

"Of course I'm accustomed to it. However, honesty isn't my issue, it's the way you go about it. You're very cynical."

"I never said I found your manner to be negative. I believe you are a healthy amount of stubborn and irritable. If you found it cynical, that only speaks to your own ideas."

"Oh, please. Words have meaning, how they are percieved is entirely up to the connotation and tone."

Instead of arguing farther into meaningless circles, he stirs his drink three times, first clockwise, then again counter-clockwise, and takes a slow sip. "You're passionate about language. Do you find yourself enamored by it?"

You adjust in your seat, caught off guard by the change in subject. "Enamored...I suppose."

"Do you write?"

"On occasion."

"Stories?"

"I prefer poetry."

"About what?"

You pause, considering his question. To be honest, or to be polite? His brazen words compelled you to be honest with him, as a means of returning to favor. But you hardly knew him, and the things you created reflected your deepest desires and interests. "I write what I feel. It's entirely dependant."

"Do you enjoy anything else?"

"Of course I do. I like to paint."

"Then you're an artist," he confirms.

"I'd like to say so."

"And what do you paint?"

"The same things I write...I thought you were busy, why are you asking so many questions?"

"I've said already, I have an interest in you."

"Why is that, anyway?"

He looka past you, thoughtful. "Morbid curosity."

"What's so morbid about me?"

"Not everything has to do with you."

You nearly flinch with onset...irritability, for lack of a better word. Was this conversation not directly about you? This time, you held your tongue. "Fine."

Silence passes for a few moments, enough time for you to gaze upon the books on his desk. "What are you doing?"

"Reading. Can you read?"

At the sheer insult of your scoffing, he realizes he may have been too blunt, yet again. Nearly 300 years, and conversation without the bars of propriety is still difficult for him. He likes to talk freely, but when starting any sort of relationship the boundaries between what is right and wrong to say become blurry. "As in to say, do you read often enough to cultivate the skill?"

"...yes. it's another of my past times. What are you reading about?"

"I'm researching germ theory."

"Germ theory? Do you believe it?"

"I do."

"Good. It does make sense, doesn't it? Moreso than 'bad air,' or what have you."

"It does. You seem familiar."

"It was part of my schooling in...in my old home." When you were with your parents.

"I understand. Did your education change when you arrived here?"

"It did. My parents believed in equal opportunity education, Amelia does not. Or, she rather prefers, 'teaching that suites a young lady's needs.'"

"I see. What does that include?"

"Utter poppycock. Balance and needlework and social skills and religion. She would have liked my general education to end when I was twelve."

"Social skills can be important."

"I don't need lessons, I'm perfectly fine at social skills."

"As you've proved so elegantly, yes."

"You're awfully sassy for a detective."

"As you were saying, you were educated properly untill you were..."

"16. Until 16."

Perhaps he's coming too close to a sensitive topic. "Yes. what did you study?"

"Biology, anatomy, literature, ethics, maths...anything a normal education would include."

"I'd wager your education was better than most."

"How were you educated?"

"Experience, in most things."

You grin, toying with a tassle of your skirt. "Experience? How much experience does a man of..."

"25."

"25 have?"

"Very much."

Something about his tone is exciting, in some unfortunate way. "Anyway...I would have liked to go to college. To study history."

"History, really? Not the arts?"

"I don't need to study the arts, I know enough to satisfy myself. I find history to be enthralling. The lives people have lived, words I'll never hear and languages I'll never understand...even now, I'm in someone else's history. And I think that's beautiful."

L's eyes flick over his table. He takes a sip of his tea. "You have a very romantic view of the world."

"Does it not interest you? Life, and it's imprints?"

"No. No, I suppose I've too much experience to be interested. What college would you attend, if given the chance?"

"I don't know...I've always wanted to travel. Perhaps Notre Dame, to see the Americas."

"Travel...due to more romanticism, I presume."

"You speak of it as if I'm dim for finding these things pleasing."

"You're being cynical again. In fact, I find you to be intelligent."

You sigh and roll your shoulders back, sitting upright. "Fine, you win. I meant to ask earlier, what exactly are the details of your case?"

"That information is confidential, I'm afraid."

"What can you tell me?"

He gulps down the last of his tea, gaze floating from your collar to your face. "There is a possibility of murder in the area, and I have a suspect in mind."

"Is that it?"

"All I can say."

"Well...is it fun, investigating?"

His eyes zip across the open book nearest to him, and he turns the page with spindly fingers. "It's stimulating in a way few other things are."

"Like...a puzzle."

"Yes. A very large, very complex, very important puzzle. Now, as much as I've enjoyed our chat, I must return to work."

"Alr-" already? But, you can't ask that, because asking would be admitting that you enjoyed yourself in the presence of such a smart-ass. "Alright."

he watches as your eyes dart back and forth between him and the fresh platter of food. "Take it."

You stand silently, lift the platter, and head for the door. Just before you leave, you murmur a quick "Thank you," and scurry into your room.

There, you sit at your vanity, and gobble up the lukewarm meal. Still good in your opinion. The only thing left was a cut of fish, and some sliced beetroot. The moment you lay back in your chair, there's that familiar tapping at your window. Did his greed know no bounds?

You stand, fish held at a distance between two fingers, and greet your friend at the glass. "Have you seen the detective," you ask, holding the meat by the raven's face. His head flicks to one side, then the other, before he snatches it out of your hand. With one claw, he holds it down, and with his beak he rips it to bits.

"Have you," you ask again, resting your chin on your hand. "Detective?"

The bird looks up at you, curious.

"Detective? Detective?" you repeat. He clicks a couple of times, before responding in your voice, "detective?"

"Very good," you praise, scratching his neck. "Have you seen him?"

"Detective, detective, detect-ive," he repeats, playing with the new word, over and over, until he finds the particular tones he likes.

"Alright," you sigh, gazing out at the foggy morning. "You were right you know. He was no proper gentleman. Mm, but...he was a good listener...and very candid, if not annoying. I don't know how he does it, but I feel so much like myself when we speak. I'm- honest in a way I'm not used to..."

"Detective, proper," the bird coos. He clicks a couple of times, and speaks again. "Nevermore!"

"I can't tell if you're the smartest or dumbest creature I've ever met."

"Red," the bird drones.

You glance behind you at the glistening beets. "You'll make a mess."

"Nevermore!"

"Fine," you sigh, holding it out to him. "But take it away from here, I don't want it staining the glass."

He tilts his head, reaching to bite it.

"Ah-ah, away. Do you understand? Away from here."

He pauses. Then, he snatches the sliced beet from your hand and flies around the side of the building. Wherever he was going, it would look like murder after he was done.

Chapter Text

He still can't figure it out.

Why you're so enticing.

He was hoping it would be obvious, so he could focus on his actual case, but he still has yet to find the reason behind why he craves you. It was no issue, of course...he was only curious. It only rang in the back of his head, every minute of every day.

It was enough of a conflict for him to pry into your personal details. He managed to scrounge up a book of your father's family tree, to try and see if any of your relatives might have crossed his path and been especially tasty, but there's nothing. Nothing he remembers, anyway. He has to admit, his 70s were blurry.

Either way, he realizes this would need a little more attention than he initially expected. It would need more than a conversation spent watching your little tics and discerning the base notes of your scent, it would need...observation. He had to watch you in your natural habitat to really understand you. No better way to get to know someone than to make a concerted effort to monitor and meticulously note their habits.

That would be tomorrow's task. He needed to prioritize his job. Today, he would write to his several connections in the medical field, visit the mortuary for an impromptu autopsy on a body, and retrieve some much needed data from a few courts. He would be very busy, and unfortunately, very open to the public. He'd like to sit inside all day, take care of things from his personal bubble, but he could hardly send wammy for everything. It would take too much time for him to go, do as ordered, come back, relay the information, et cetera. L needed to work in person.

He stands from his table, the wood of his chair creaking at the loss of a near constant weight. He's been working all night, going over notes and memorizing new facts, the only break a bath and a change of "going out" clothes.

He gathers a few of the letters he had prepared, and takes a slow walk around the study, blowing out each and every dying candle. The room was now pitch black, the morning light hours from breaking over the horizon. With a final glance over the cold, empty room, L took a final sip of his tea. "Wammy."

And Wammy is there, standing behind him.

"Take these, please. And prepare a cart."

"Of course, L."

the letters are swiped from his hand, and into the shadows Wammy dissappears. L glances back, scratches at his scalp, and follows.

Shadow travel was convenient for short distances. One step into the inkiest, blackest depth, the murkiest corners, two steps through, another out and into his carriage. Like nothing. It was cold, and sightless, it required trust in his ability to focus only on one place, and one place only. If his confidence wavered, he could end up somewhere entirely different. His confidence never wavered.

Their first stop was the bakery. Wammy had to make the final payment for L's sweets order. Now was a time for quick decision making: to stay in the carriage, or enter with his benefactor? Would being elusive drum up more rumors, or would showing his face? He decides he should probably go, and attempt to make nice. If the people of the town like him more, they'll be more willing to listen to him when he has something important to say.

So, he enters with Wammy, doorbell jingling and steps inaudible on the uneven cobblestone floor. There was a long wooden table in the center, topped with a register and a display case. Bread, mince pies, lard cakes, none were too appealing to him. However, behind the register, tall glass shelves lined the walls. Croissants, Macarons, eclairs. French pâtisserie.

He remembers his first time in France, vaguely. Wammy took him when he was young. Truly, physically and mentally young. He doesn't remember the weather, or the sights, or the people. But he remembers the smells. The flavors. Creamy, airy, light, buttery, cheesy. There were few things L ate at that time, but in France, he could feast.

The baker comes out from the backroom, warm air wafting in from the various ovens and bodies that spent their hours kneading dough. He was stout, maybe 40, with pronounced jowls and heavy black brows, hair half grey and eyes hollowed with constant early work. He's noticed this in people who work to survive. They all have the same eyes. Sometimes blue, sometimes black, anywhere in between, but always hollow. Wanting for something.

"Come to settle?"

Wammy nods, removing his hat and pulling out a check from his coat pocket. The baker takes it, holds it to the light, examining the paper carefully. He glances between Wammy and L, gaze particularly sharp on the detective. Of course, he appeared odd. His hands were resting beside each other on the countertop, elbows tight to his torso and eyes anywhere but on the conversationalists at hand. Dressed as a young man of class, holding himself like an airheaded child.

"Wammy, is it? Would you be related to the house in Winchester?"

"I own it," Wammy confirms.

The baker opens the register, setting the check in it's own compartment. "Mmph. I hear you raise imbeciles."

"...the students we raise are quite gifted. They only express it in ways different from the usual."

The baker looks L up and down once more, a slight curl to his upper lip. A snarl. "Your order will be processed when the check clears. Expect the delivery in two weeks time."

"Thank you." Wammy puts his hat back on, and turns to leave.

"I recommend you turn off your ovens," L muses.

"What's that?"

"There's a gas leak. You wouldn't want your employees to suffocate." He turns and follows Wammy out, leaving the befuddled man atop his high horse. He calls that successful. Judged as he was by the baker, giving a warning was nice enough to do. Hopefully that should even out his reputation when the gossip is spread.

That's another thing about people, of all classes. All of them thirst for something exciting, something to break through the monotony of life and satisfy the curiosity that lives within them. Therefore, gossip was spread like wildfire. Where he went, talk followed. Usually, it started with a seperation of ideas. The ruling class he spent most time with described him as brilliant, if eccentric. The working class he confronted in day-to-day interactions described him as a dotty lunatic. By the time those two ideas converged, usually through the trickling down of maids and other house servants speaking to friends or family, the general consensus was that he was "a little screwy." Or, batty, loopy, unbalanced, deranged, squirrely...dealer's choice.

So long as he was respected enough to be listened to, he didn't mind what people called him.

L joins Wammy in the carriage, feet planted firmly on the ground. He'd like to sit as usual, but travel like this required a certain amount of balance he did not have when curled into a ball. It was times like this that he wished there were some sort of bar or strap to hold him in place while he rode.

The next stop was the probate courthouse. By now, the sun has shown itself, kissing the streets with goldfinch lips, beckoning children to play and laborers to rise. L watches, for a moment, and the carriage moves closer and closer, into patient light. Kind light. A small child crouches by his house, watching a toad hop alongside the grass, mimicking it as best he can.

Wammy pulls the curtains shut, heavy velvet shutting out the warmth.

L stares for a moment, not at the deep red curtain, but at the image that sat behind it. At the memory of the boy, and the frog, and the sun. Then, he glances to the side, and sits forward in his seat. "Thank you, Wammy."

He wouldn't want to burn.

They don't bother with the bureaucracy of requesting a file, having various warrants checked, waiting for everything to be signed off on, and possibly being brought the wrong file anyway. Instead, Wammy has them park on the property of the courthouse, and the pair stand within the carriage. One step in, two steps through, another into the file room.

Towers upon towers of boxes, stacked to the top of the high ceilings on iron shelves. L glances around, opens the first box he sees, and flips through the files within. Another box, the same thing. Another shelf, repeating the process.

alright, he got the gist. Each file was ordered alphabetically by last name, each box was ordered by last names, letter-letter (eg. A-C, D-F), and each shelf was by a particular topic, such as death, marriage, and guardianship. Files that included two or more people were ordered by the man's name first, then women, then children. By that algorithm, he would need the birth and death certificate boxes pertaining to the relatives of Mary Ann Robson, Mowbray, or Ward, or her past husbands.

Wammy was already on it, two files in hand. This may take a while.

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L had everything of importance written down. After searching various files across the entirety of the room, he's gathered a halfway coherent story.

Mary Ann and her family moved to this area when she was 8 years old. Two years later, her father, Michael Robson, died falling down a mineshaft. The cottage they rented was in his name, so it was likely they were evicted. A year later, her mother remarried to George Stott, another miner. At 16, she left for a nearby village to become a nurse. Three years later, she returned home. A year later she married William Mowbray, and 4 years later she gave birth to Margret Jane.

The question was, why would she wait so long to have a child? Childbearing is a compulsory social expectation, surely if she could, she would have children as early in marriage as possible...so, she either lacked the means to do so...or there are children not documented in these files.

two years later, she birthed another girl, Isabella, and in another two years Margret Jane passed. She had two more children in quick succession, another Margret Jane and a John Robert William, but the boy died in one year from gastric fever.

yes, two children have documented deaths under her care, but L isn't convinced these are the first deaths at her hand. Not quite, anyway.

her husband died of an intestinal disorder two years after her son. Both lives were insured, for which she recieved a hefty £37 in total.

While this may not be the start of her killings, it could certainly be the makings of a motive.

after William died, she moved once again, and at this time the second Margret Jane died of Typhus. She took up work as a nurse, and married George Ward months after her first husband's death. A year later, this year, he dies of cholera and Typhoid.

There were several gaps, but he had a starting point.

"Schedule a visit to these homes," L sighs, scribbling down a list of houses and the villages they reside in. He passes the paper to Wammy, and Wammy slips it into his breast pocket.

The pair turn, slinking through the black shadows and into the carriage once more.

"Not much more," Wammy assures. As if that was any comfort, telling him what he already knows.

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"Row 23, section B," L nods.

Wammy reaches into his pants pocket, removing a small tin box. About the size of an anchovy case, and decorated with his signature W in the center, Wammy's tool case came in handy for many occasions. This time, it was for picking the lock of George Ward's body locker. He slides the magnetic lid open, not a moment wasted on picking the perfect tool: a flexible, asymmetrical needle resting on the black padding within the container, beside the other small knives and utensils. Every item, though they shone like silver, was made of a heavy metal alloy of his own invention.

It only takes his gloved hands a few seconds to angle the tool just right, poking and prodding the lock until a soft click sounds from within the simple mechanism. He pulls the locker open, sliding on wheels to reveal the half-rotted body of Mr. Ward.

George sat in a puddle of his own jelly, the fluid formerly within now preserving half of his body. His hair was gone, as were his eyes and much of his hazel wood skin, slimy bone peaking out between chunks of flesh, gleaming artichoke in the lamplight. His jaw was slack, blackened teeth rotted by his own bile and framing the flaccid grey tongue that stuffed his throat. He had been here for many months, untouched and uncared for. It was clear this place wasn't meant to preserve bodies. Honestly, it was a surprise they didn't toss the thing entirely. Still, he could work with this.

L slid on his own gloves, and held an open palm to Wammy. In his hand is placed a scalpel, and a small syringe. He slices open the naked belly of the man from his navel to his ribs, hot rancid air seeping from the incision. Neither L nor Wammy react to the stench, they only kept to their duties. L inserts the syringe through the deflated rubber of his stomach, and sucks in the slightest amount muddy red stomach acid.

Should be good.

He caps the instrument, and hands it to Wammy. Wammy takes a wooden box from his other pocket, and places the glass amongst soft, merciful cotton. L rolls the body back into it's casing, and takes off his gloves.

Back to the carriage.

L stays in for their next destination. All Wammy had to do was package their outgoing mail, stamp it, and hand it in to be shipped. He didn't need L's supervision for that. So, he curled up in the landau, hearing the sounds, smelling the smells, none too important. A finch in the trees, a squirrel in the bush, postal workers bustling about. All sweat and dirt and blood. He missed being inside.

10 minutes later, Wammy enters the carriage again, distinguished as always. "Homeward," he assures, again, as if L needed it. He was glad to hear it though, he could finally rest in his chambers, perhaps take a nap, or perhaps pour over countless textbooks. Either way, he would be satisfied, and out of heavy day clothes.

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L sits calm and silent in the porcelain bathtub. Wammy goes about washing him, sponging his back with warm, soapy water, and scrubbing down his arms with firm, clinical precision. He hated feeling dirty. It always brought this sense of panic to him, this feeling of pressure and anxiety he couldn't shake without cleansing it entirely. Wammy has always bathed him, since he was a child. It was something of a bonding activity, a gradual trust that came after many months. Now, it's a thrice-a-week chore, because L never learned to clean himself. He could, of course, but that required more energy than he had. And this was routine.

He rests as a ragdoll, lanky arms picked up and dropped off with ease. He moved not to hinder the washing, nor to help it. The moment Wammy releases the arm held high above his head, no longer needing access to his translucent, ribbed side, the limb plummets into the water like dead weight. The only tension in his body remained at his neck, holding his head above the aromated water. It was soap from home, a concoction of Ruvie's. Many ingredients were repelling for their kind, at minimum in smell, but this product contained wormwood, pine, vetiver, and lemon. Simple scents that were pleasing to the nose and easy on the skin.

The bath ends at his feet, a quick scrub over his heels and toes, and the moment L stands his hair is toweled and his waist is wrapped in terrycloth. Now into the connected bedroom, sultry Russian violet wallpaper contrasting against towers of pale candles, melting atop every surface. L liked to have candles burning, even if the smell was odd, and even if he could see fine without them. They were warm, and bright, and...he liked them. That was all.

Towels drop, and linen pajamas are slipped over his head, onto his legs. Finally, comfortable. He decided it was best to sleep. There was little need for creatures like him, but sleeping helped clear his head. Something like sleeping, anyway. It was more...letting his body relax, and letting his mind slow behind closed eyes.

Wammy leaves him be, into the shadows once more. L lays back against the blackberry comforter, cotton pillow cases still fluffed from when the room was prepared days ago. He had the throw pillows removed, stacked neatly on the rocking chair by the balcony window. What time was it? Constantly blocking out the sun left him guessing the time of day. If he left at 5, then...it was 2.

Not important.

It's time to sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep...

...Sleep...

"Has he returned?"

L's eyes shoot open. You were at the doors to his study, asking for him. With the prettiest navy dress, decorated in bows at the shoulders, ribbons on the skirt. Your hair was braided by your ears, roped into a bun at the back. You held a tray of sandwiches, and a pot of tea.

"L is resting. You may visit at a later date."

"I see...will you take this to him?"

You never brought lunch, only breakfast...which meant when you discovered he had stepped out in the morning, you went out of your way to bring him something in the afternoon. You wanted to spend time with him. Out of what, he may not know, but this was surprising news. It was one thing to humor him, but another entirely to seek him out.

"Of course, my lady. Thank you."

Wammy takes the tray. The door shuts...and he sets it with the other old food trays.

It's not like he would have eaten it, anyway.

Back to sleep.

Calm, quiet sleep.

And a tap at the window.

Now what?

It repeats, rhythmic.

Perhaps a tree? No...there were no trees by his window.

"Detective!"

Your voice. How did you...he slips out of bed, takes two steps, and pulls the curtains to the side with two fingers. Light pours in, across L's papery cheeks. He can already feel it tingling. A few more minutes, and he could walk away with a nasty sunburn.

A bird.

A raven.

Odd things. always searching for something rotten, ripping it's corpse to bits. They could have berries, or nuts, but they choose morbidity. They choose to feast on suffering.

"Detective!"

It has your voice. You must speak to it often, and it must enjoy you enough to allow it. L doesn't respond, he only watches the bird, as the bird watches him.

"Proper detective. Gentleman- Nevermore!"

"So you've come to taunt me." As annoying as the interruption was...it was in your voice. A sweet, luring voice. A passionate, firm voice.

The raven clicks, rattles, and repeats, "taunt me. Taunt! Me. Taunt me- taunt me."

Fast learner. Hearing his own voice was enough to release the curtain, letting it fall back into place.

Even as the bird sat on his balcony, chirping a variety of- "taunt me!" "Detective." "Proper!" And oddly enough, "blue. Blueeeeee."- L was able to slip into rest. Into something he always forgot felt so good.

So...human.

Chapter Text

Red.

Red, red, red.

All over the place.

on your hands, on your cheek, in your hair.

"My," you mutter, "what a mess..."

You sigh, dropping your painbrush bristle first into the crimson water. After hours, you were finally done painting the strawberry jam within the glass jar of your subject. You weren't even close to done with the entire work, but you had made solid progress.

As much as you'd like to scrub your hands clean on your nightgown, you were sure the proper thing to do would be to actually wash them. Even as you do your best to move in silence, sliding between the demask ottoman you previously rest atop and the half-blank canvas you previously worked upon, and tiptoeing toward your only burning candle, the ancient oakwood floor still manages to creak beneath your feet, groaning against every other step forward. It was as if your ancestors were personally trying to get you caught.

You don't know why you felt the need to sneak out. Well. It was hardly sneaking out. Leaving bed to paint, it wasn't very rebellious. It's just that...passion was ignited. And with passion comes creativity. You couldn't get the image out of your head, the finished product, so you had gotten up, sometime around midnight, and slaved over canvas.

You peek past the heavy door, at least an inch thick, and crane your neck to look at the face of the towering grandfather clock standing between you and the bathroom. Three in the morning. You would be tired tomorrow...unless you never slept. Stay up long enough to dress and eat, take a nap after your visit with L. If he was in. You hate to admit it, but your interest in him was peaked, even more so after he disappeared in the middle of the day. He must have interesting stories from yesterday. You do love a good story.

Creeping past the ticking clock, the silver pendulum sweeping back and forth in its case, you push into the bathroom. It takes no more than a minute to rinse the paint from your hands, although without a light you can't tell if they're stained. As you shake your hands dry, you look up at the mirror, admiring your silhouette. Mother.

All your life, your mother would go into the bathroom, blow out all of the lights, and stare at her silhouette. When you were little, you would ask why, in that pure, whiny sort of way children always adopt. What are you doing?

she told you she was loving herself. You didn't understand it at the time. When you got older, and you asked once more, she finally elaborated.

"We women are powerful when we believe it. More so than any god. You can see it in our bodies, and our hair, and our smiles. Curves are powerful. If you look at yourself in the dark long enough, you can see the glow. Isn't it beautiful?"

She always loved ornate prose. Suppose that's why she married dad.

You're still not sure what she meant, not entirely. But if you stand there, and stare.

And stare.

And stare.

Something does start to shine. Between the rivulets of your hair. And the space between your dress and your skin. And the thinner gaps of your teeth.

A chill runs down your spine. Your heart leaps up and into your throat. Not from your self-worship, but from something external. Something that told you to run. You turn, slipping out of the bathroom to scurry toward your bedroom.

"Good morning."

You whip around, clutching the brass knob of your door.

Oh.

It was L.

L?

He stood before his own door, several feet down the hall, hands stuffed in the pockets of his pajamas. His back sloped down and out, a hunch only pronounced by his thin frame. His head was bent in your direction, owl eyes examining you as you examined him.

"Good morning, detective..." you take a few steps closer, holding his gaze with firm certainty. You wanted to look away. You wanted to lower your eyes in demure respect, as your many etiquette classes taught you to when addressing a man. But something base, it told you watch. To wait. Don't let him out of your sight.

"It's early."

"Yes."

"Are you always up early?"

"No."

His hand raises, fingertips first.

You flinch, pacing once backward.

He takes a small pause, allowing the appendage to hover, before drawing closer and swiping his middle finger down your cheek, a moment's contact. "You smell different."

You watch as he holds his hand before his face, examining the new smear of red. "Paint."

"No. Not paint," he murmurs. "That would be like you, to smell of paint."

"...could I go?"

"...yes. Go."

After three evenly spaced backward steps, you turn, and hasten to your room. Quietly as you can, you close the door behind you, resting against it by your back. You smell different. What does that mean? And to touch you so carelessly. He had no sense of propriety.

No.

He had a fine sense of propriety, but he chose not to use it.

Still, what kind of man remembers a lady's scent? You suck in through your nose, trying to discern the smells of your room. Candles, paper, roses, cloth. As a room often smells. Is that what you smell like?

Your pulse begins to decline, returning to favor.

It was his fault.

Was that why you wanted to be around him? He thrilled you? He did thrill you.

Aside from your parents, you've never known anyone to be so free from expectation. You used to be free. And the way he walks around in linen, as if he were alone.

He's seen you in your pajamas. Sheer, loose pajamas.

That was enough to send you back into the comfort of your pillows and blankets.

A body is nothing to be ashamed of, you shouldn't worry about being seen as an animal would be seen. That's all anyone is, an animal.

It was like your mother was right in your ear.

To the memories of soft, nurturing liberation, you begin to doze.

As soon as you realize, you shoot upright. Can't forget your plan.

Reading may help.

You open your drawer and sift through various memorabilia, eventually finding your little box of matches. You bought them at an artisan market not too long ago, on one of your few trips to town. Usually, your handmaid lit your candles with a spill, but these came in handy for sneaking about.

You strike a match against the side of it's box, leading it to the candle at your bedside. The flame stretches away from the wick, distanced by invisible hands, but the moment it makes contact, it envelops the taper, consuming it until they burn bright together.

blowing out the match, you reach for your current item of obsession: Jane Eyre. You read it once, when you arrived here, and ever since you've clung to it for some sense of camaraderie. Jane reminded you of yourself, in some ways. It felt as if you were at the beginning of her tale, and that someday, you may reach the end she found.

Where did you leave off? Ah, yes, chapter 27.

“Don't talk any more of those days, sir,” I interrupted, furtively dashing away some tears from my eyes; his language was torture to me; for I knew what I must do—and do soon—and all these reminiscences, and these revelations of his feelings only made my work more difficult. “No, Jane,” he returned: “what necessity is there to dwell on the Past, when the Present is so much surer—the Future so much brighter?”

Perhaps you were a worse person than Jane was, but if you had true love so close to your grasp, you might not care about an ex-wife, under these particular conditions.

I shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion.

“You see now how the case stands—do you not?” he continued.

This was one of your favorite parts.

“After a youth and manhood passed half in unutterable misery and half in dreary solitude, I have for the first time found what I can truly love—I have found you. You are my sympathy—my better self—my good angel. I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you, and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.

To write as Charlotte Bronte would be to write as a goddess. You cannot tell if you are insanely jealous, or insanely infatuated.

Would you ever find a man who would speak to you as Mr. Rochester did? You weren't a fan of his burly exterior, but to have a man speak so passionately of you would be enthralling.

Of course, the truth was you would find no such thing. Not on your own. Marriage would be arranged, as it often was. If he was obsessed with you, and you with him, it would be a merciful twist of fate.

That reminded you: debutant balls were coming soon. You never attended with your mother, and you got a free pass for grief last year, but this year it would be a requirement.

You don't mind looking pretty. You doubt anyone does. It was the constant showboating you hated. You've seen it, the way women stake their lives on impressing men. You can't blame them, their lives did rely on men. And now, so would yours. You would catch someone's eye, and with a dowry as large as yours, be married off in no time. What would you do if you hated him? Exist in suffering? That might be your only choice, beside murder.

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"Morning miss," your handmaid announces, bustling about your room with unusual cheer.

"Christ..." you grumble, forcing yourself upright. You fell asleep, and now you were miserable.

The handmaid drags you out of bed, already pinning your hair up for a bath. "Your dance instructor is visiting today, my lady."

"Today? Already?"

"Every Saturday," she nods, unbuttoning your night slip.

You had to dance while feeling like fresh death? "Do you know what we're learning?"

"Dutchess Amelia says you'll be brushing up on the Viennese Waltz, for the impending season."

"Fantastic," you scoff, plodding toward the tub.

"Isn't it," the handmaid blithes.

You step into the bathroom, but she pauses at the door. "Hello?"

"Oh, yes, apologies!"

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"One two, one two, back straight! One two, one two, reverse!"

You glide around the vast ballroom, unused over many months, held at the back by your instructor, Sir Morozov. His tall, statuesque frame towers a head or two above yours, his tailcoat wrapped firmly around his abdomen. He was a picture of discipline, years of hard work showing through his greyed hair and sagging cheeks. He used to perform in the russian ballet, before moving to every form of ballroom, before becoming your instructor.

You grasped his upper arm, just below the cap of his shoulder, and in his opposing hand was your own at a distance from your bodies. There was a respectful amount of space between you, nothing but practiced pacing and expert spins. The young violinist he employs stands in the corner, nervous and pinstraight as he plays the Waltz of The Flowers...to his best ability without the assistance of an entire orchestra.

"Smile, you must smile!"

Your lips curve, plastering a demure pout to your lips. He's been strict recently, with Summer approaching. Summer meant you had to take all of his teachings, as well as the teachings of your many other instructors, and put them to use.

At your final set of steps, you curtsy, he bows, and the two of you seperate.

"Bravo. More practice, and you will be ready."

You used to be shit at organized dancing, but his teachings improved you immensely. The structure of it all was less than titlating, but so was any other class.

"5 minutes! Then we do waltz Quadrille! Emile, enough," Sir Morozov barks, silencing the boy's instrument. Emile's eyes were locked elsewhere, somewhere toward the door, before he was startled out of the trance. You turn to see what he was looking at, but nothing is there. Just the open double-doors of the ballroom, and the sconces on either side.

Enough dawdling, you need water.

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"Have you the necessary materials for your study?" Even in the foyer, Morozov's voice boomed.

"Yes sir," you nod, hands folded politely over your gown. He was assigning you a research project on the history of waltz, to help you connect with the art. You don't see how it would help, but you were willing to do the work. There should be some good books in the library on it, so it could be done without fret.

He nods back, turning on his heels and marching out of the mansion. The thick doors begin to fall closed, soft light bringing attention to the dust floating about the room. "Emile!"

Emile zooms past you, clutching his violin case in one hand and catching a door with the other. "G-Good day, my lady," he pants, running as if the carriage would leave without him.

"Good day," you hum, no effort on your part to be heard. The moment both doors are finally shut, you leave the hall, headed for the library. You pass your handmaid in a matter of seconds, bright eyed and bushy tailed as she dusts the decorative table before the foyer door. You wouldn't comment on it, it was none of your concern.

Halfway to the library doors, you realize...you hadn't seen L all day. You planned to visit after breakfast, but you spent the morning dancing. You ought to swing by after you pick up your books.

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"Come in," L calls. He was in the middle of stacking toothpicks, end to end, creating an angular circle to rest even more toothpicks on.

You bustle in, nothing to offer in your hands as you settle across from him.

"No lunch?"

"Did you want lunch?"

He stacks one toothpick over the other, binding them together with pure leverage. "No. I'm surprised you came without an excuse."

"I don't need an excuse. It's my home, is it not?"

"It is."

"By the way...where did you run off to yesterday?" You tried to sound cool, calm, and collected, but by L's searching gaze you're sure he can see how interested you truly are.

"Errands. Many things."

"Will you need to leave often?"

"Yes. Are you concerned for me," he murmurs, leaning in as if it were some big secret.

"Please. It's entertaining, that's all. I'm bored, all I can do is paint and take classes and go to church."

"Ah, yes. Are you religious?"

"...are you?"

"No."

"Nor am I."

You were cautious. It made sense, people valued Christianity so vivaciously in Europe. He didn't find much use for it personally, and given your background, he doubted you would either. "And you go to church."

"I suppose it's nice to sit around in new scenery. I don't despise it, truly."

"How do you feel about it?"

"I feel...many people find solice in their religon. And that's a fine way to live. But many others find excuse for immorality. I do believe there may be something to a power beyond humanity, but I'm not sure it lies within God."

"Have you experienced other religious beliefs?"

"Not exactly. I've read about beliefs that come from asia and the americas, but I don't trust the authors to relay the information properly. Have you?"

"I have. I've traveled to many places, and I have seen many ways of life."

You glance down to find a foot-high tower of toothpicks, blending into each other. "What is it like?"

"It varies. However, despite what you might have read, no religion is immoral by nature. That is, I have yet to find a religion based entirely in immorality."

"That much is easy to tell. Where have you traveled?"

"Everywhere."

"To solve murders?"

"Or other high profile crimes. I've just returned from russia."

"Was it cold?"

"Extrememly."

"Would you go again?"

"If I must."

"Where do you travel for recreation?"

"I don't."

Silence stretches as you watch him thatch a roof together, and place the makeshift covering atop his yard-high tower.

"What did you do yesterday?"

"Confidential work..." he pauses, considering first the tower, then you. He's deciding something. "I visited the courthouse."

"You did? For what?"

"Files on my suspect. But it seems there are things that are missing."

"What kind of things?"

"Important things. I have to confront witnesses...tomorrow."

"I see," you hum, picking at your skirts. He got an adventure, and you got stiff pews. Yes, church was bearable, but at the thought of actually going somewhere new, somewhere exciting, it paled in comparison.

"Would you like to join me?"

"Join you?" You freeze. Was he serious?

"Yes. I believe you would work well as a middle ground. People will want to tell you things."

"Isn't it dangerous?"

"It won't be. I can promise, I will keep you safe to the best of my abilities."

you eye him, up and down.

His best abilities were suited for houseflies, not for criminals.

But you craved more than routine, you needed an adventure to sustain you. And that would have to involve risk. You smooth your skirts back out, and sit up straight. "Fine. I suppose it wouldn't hurt."

"Good. We will leave at 5."

"5? Won't it be dark by the time we arrive?"

"No, light. 5 in the morning."

"In the morning?"

"Are you not up to it?"

"...I am. 5 is fine."

"Fine," he echos. "That's all. You may leave now."

You nibble on the inside of your cheek, vexed by his dismissal of you. Did he want you here or not? What was the point of visiting if he cast you out after 10 minutes? You don't bother saying goodbye or wishing him a good afternoon, all you do is stand, swipe an apple from an old tray, and stomp out of the room.

He watches as you stew, silent.

So he was deciding to be rude as well.

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He swears, his heart pounds.

It has not moved in many, many years, but it pounds for you.

He forgot to say goodbye, he was so enamored by your exit. He has no idea how you feel about him. You like talking to him, he knows, but you always leave this study irate by the time he's done with you. You seek him out daily, but when you actually spend time with him, you distance yourself. You open up, you shut him out.

He's confused by you.

He's entertained by you.

You make the lining of his stomach pulse and twist.

Not just when you speak with him.

When you paint.

He watched you. Late last night into early this morning, he hovered in the deeper dimensions of your studio, consumed by your feverish creation. It was something else, watching your eyes flick from one end of canvas to the other, striking it with furious rouge.

You were bare.

Not because your hair was down, uncut and mussed from sleep, or because your nightgown slipped over your shoulders, but because you were feeding. Feeding is vulnerable. It's naked.

He knows what it looks like to feed. To be starved, and to devour your vice as vulture devours deer. To have a mad sort of glint in the eye as pure passion slips down your gullet.

His vice was blood. Yours was art.

And you looked ethereal, drinking it in. You were glowing in the moonlight, teetering on the edge of composure and depravity.

He doesn't know why, but it made him reach for you. He wanted your skin against his. He wanted to feel how warm you were. How alive. He wanted to share your vulnerability.

He wanted to feed too.

Icy fingertips, inches from hot, bare back, froze the moment your paintbrush clattered against the glass of water. It was enough to shake him from his trance. He left you there, escaping through the dark corner he entered from, breathing only when he landed in the hallway.

It was close, too close to repeat.

And yet, when you abandoned your easel for the guest bathroom, he stayed. He listened to the sink spurr to life. He listened to the break in flow every time you dipped your hands through the stream. He moved seconds before the door cracked open, ending before the entrance to his room.

There was something fearful in the way you ran to your bedroom. A panic he incited somehow, he's sure.

He knows it was selfish of him, to call to you. To force an interaction when you were no doubt seeking the comfort of your bed. But he needed to hear your voice. For what reason, he does not know.

He needed it. That's all.

He was looking forward to tomorrow. Progress in the case would be made, and progress in his understanding of you would be made as well.

Things were becoming...comfortable.