*Dorcas can feel the headache building behind her eyes: a dull, disappointing pressure becoming more and more difficult to ignore. The cacophony of the boarding plane had only accelerated the process. The chatty passengers, the crying baby--why was there always a crying baby?--and the bustling flight crew, all conspiring to wear Dorcas down to her last nerve
( ... )
By the smell of you, I'd guess not. If I knew any better, I'd suspect you found the one pub in town and drank it into the ground.
*She rolls her eyes upward, in a moment of silent prayer for patience. The hum of the engines is intensifying. The stewardess at the front of the cabin is instructing the passengers on proper safety procedures, in Portuguese of course. Horrible, backwards language. She can't help the indignant bark of laughter.*
Roots, my eye. I wouldn't know this place from the back of a post card.
*Dearborn lights his cigar, fumbling only very slightly with the Muggle device he's obliged to use in places like this, and begins puffing with every indication of perfect contentment.*
Did you manage get anything out of that old dead cunt?
*Dorcas tamps down the urge to rip the damn cigar out of his fingers, instead surrendering to her fate. Surrounded by clouds of acrid smoke and vulgarity it is then.
Her eyes dart around the rest of the cabin, trying to see if there happen to be any empty seats. Of course not. That would be too easy. She's mentally cursing her decision not to use more traditional modes of transport. But Muggle customs are always so much easier to get through, and old habits die hard.*
Honestly? Nothing at all. That maid's a right bulldog of a woman, if you ask me. You?
That's a bit rich coming from you, wouldn't you say?
--not a damned thing, actually. I can't imagine what she'll do with it all.
*The answer, like as not, is sell it to Rosier and Sons in a few months, once the crumbling moneypit of an estate crumbles a little more and the squatty little woman discovers you can't eat ivory statuary. And if she needs a little persuading, perhaps she'll discover you can eat ivory statuary. But it wouldn't do to rush things or fly off the handle, not on a trip he's been so public about.
*She finds herself laughing despite herself. As much as she and Rosier clash, there is a certain familiarity one becomes accustomed to after decades of bickering about the same damn thing with the same damn person. Even knowing who he is, and what his comrades had done to the poor Prewett boys just days earlier. The older she gets, the less she worries about the blurring of lines. Business is business.*
Appalling. I don't think I've seen a collection so poorly tended to. Not in recent memory, anyway. She'll be lucky if she can pass it off. I wouldn't touch it, myself. Shame. Some impressive volumes there, too, if you can believe the rumours.
*She waves away a cloud of smoke that drifts in her direction, and settles further into her seat as the plane levels out. She barely noticed the take-off.*
I'd hoped to pick up the one of human skin everyone kept mentioning. Thought I could beat you to it.
*Dearborn, on the other hand, is grinning. A broomstick just didn't compare to this, the funny sky-tossed feeling of riding in the belly of a fragile flying machine held up without magic. And the baby seems to have stopped crying, a definite blessing. Dearborn is indifferent at best to infants and often despises them. He hadn't taken much of an interest in even his own son until the boy was old enough for Firewhisky; seven-year-olds seldom cry.*
Well, here it is then. Three hours to mull over Irene Gamp and our respective failures. At least the babe's shut up.
*And thank Merlin for that. She was about to silence the damn thing herself. The headache isn't getting any better, but it's not getting any worse, either. Small blessings.*
Don't worry, Rosier. Human-bound books are hardly one in a million. I'm sure there'll be another one for me to outbid you on any day now.
I'd hardly take you as one over-concerned with appearances, old man.
*The stewardess is making her rounds now, which is practically a joke on an aircraft this small. After a bit of linguistic fumbling, Dorcas manages to get the coffee she was asking for. The temptation to ask for whiskey is a strong one, but it is early. And she'd rather stay sharp.*
Old man? From you? Don't start, it's a crack in the sidewalk by now--
*But now the stewardess has his undivided attention.*
Hello there. Oh, none for me, thanks--and you are? Adelai-Adelaida? A-de-lai-da. That's a pretty name. Like a song. Oh, you know, song. Song. Er. What is it. Canção? Yes, that. Look at her blush, Dorcas, isn't she a peach? Peach. Peach. No, I don't know peach. All right, off you get, you've other passengers to captivate I'm sure--
*If she rolls her eyes again, they might fall out of her head. She practically bites her tongue to refrain from commenting, but jabs about their minuscule age difference are old hat at this point. She side-eyes the stewardess, suddenly very interested in her coffee.*
Oh, here we go. *she mutters into her mug, and waits for the poor girl to move along, restraining her vitriol just long enough.* Sometimes I wonder just how many foreign service workers you've dallied with over the years. It's simply mind-boggling.
*The smile falls off his face the moment the stewardess is looking elsewhere. The old spinster's disapproval is pouring off of her in tangible waves, and it's annoying. Dearborn grits his teeth and starts rummaging in his breast pocket.*
Not all of our minds are quite so easy to boggle as yours--
*And he finds it: a decent-sized silver flask, deeply engraved with a motif of lions eating one another. After he unscrews it and sips, the look he tosses her is genuinely ugly.*
I must say, you're awfully brave to go back to Britain, what with the troubles we've been having.
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Who says I've been to bed?
You're looking well. It must be nice getting back to your roots.
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*She rolls her eyes upward, in a moment of silent prayer for patience. The hum of the engines is intensifying. The stewardess at the front of the cabin is instructing the passengers on proper safety procedures, in Portuguese of course. Horrible, backwards language. She can't help the indignant bark of laughter.*
Roots, my eye. I wouldn't know this place from the back of a post card.
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Did you manage get anything out of that old dead cunt?
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Her eyes dart around the rest of the cabin, trying to see if there happen to be any empty seats. Of course not. That would be too easy. She's mentally cursing her decision not to use more traditional modes of transport. But Muggle customs are always so much easier to get through, and old habits die hard.*
Honestly? Nothing at all. That maid's a right bulldog of a woman, if you ask me. You?
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--not a damned thing, actually. I can't imagine what she'll do with it all.
*The answer, like as not, is sell it to Rosier and Sons in a few months, once the crumbling moneypit of an estate crumbles a little more and the squatty little woman discovers you can't eat ivory statuary. And if she needs a little persuading, perhaps she'll discover you can eat ivory statuary. But it wouldn't do to rush things or fly off the handle, not on a trip he's been so public about.
And the he-she doesn't need to know that.*
And the state of her library. Did you faint.
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Appalling. I don't think I've seen a collection so poorly tended to. Not in recent memory, anyway. She'll be lucky if she can pass it off. I wouldn't touch it, myself. Shame. Some impressive volumes there, too, if you can believe the rumours.
*She waves away a cloud of smoke that drifts in her direction, and settles further into her seat as the plane levels out. She barely noticed the take-off.*
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*Dearborn, on the other hand, is grinning. A broomstick just didn't compare to this, the funny sky-tossed feeling of riding in the belly of a fragile flying machine held up without magic. And the baby seems to have stopped crying, a definite blessing. Dearborn is indifferent at best to infants and often despises them. He hadn't taken much of an interest in even his own son until the boy was old enough for Firewhisky; seven-year-olds seldom cry.*
Well, here it is then. Three hours to mull over Irene Gamp and our respective failures. At least the babe's shut up.
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Don't worry, Rosier. Human-bound books are hardly one in a million. I'm sure there'll be another one for me to outbid you on any day now.
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*The stewardess is making her rounds now, which is practically a joke on an aircraft this small. After a bit of linguistic fumbling, Dorcas manages to get the coffee she was asking for. The temptation to ask for whiskey is a strong one, but it is early. And she'd rather stay sharp.*
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*But now the stewardess has his undivided attention.*
Hello there. Oh, none for me, thanks--and you are? Adelai-Adelaida? A-de-lai-da. That's a pretty name. Like a song. Oh, you know, song. Song. Er. What is it. Canção? Yes, that. Look at her blush, Dorcas, isn't she a peach? Peach. Peach. No, I don't know peach. All right, off you get, you've other passengers to captivate I'm sure--
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Oh, here we go. *she mutters into her mug, and waits for the poor girl to move along, restraining her vitriol just long enough.* Sometimes I wonder just how many foreign service workers you've dallied with over the years. It's simply mind-boggling.
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Not all of our minds are quite so easy to boggle as yours--
*And he finds it: a decent-sized silver flask, deeply engraved with a motif of lions eating one another. After he unscrews it and sips, the look he tosses her is genuinely ugly.*
I must say, you're awfully brave to go back to Britain, what with the troubles we've been having.
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Good of you to care, but I can take care myself quite well thank you.
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