(no subject)
My father glared at me with mild disapproval in his eyes. "Could you have not done that outside?" he asked, and at once I was filled with a shame that pushed aside my revulsion as though it had been childish phant'sy, though I knew even then which was the more mature emotion.
"I beg your pardon, sir," I replied in a tiny voice.
A moment passed in which my father continued to stare at me, and I continued to blush, until finally said, "Well? Clean it up!"
Horrified, I cast my eyes around the room looking for something to use to sop up the vomit. Holly let go a sick and wheezing laugh behind me as my father briefly rummaged through a cupboard near his desk and produced a wad of scarlet fabric. He tossed it in my direction, and I unfolded to find that it was a red alchemists' robe. I was meant to use it to clean up vomit. Even raised as I was with an inherent scorn for alchemists, I found this use of the garment offensive, practically sacriligious.
I fell to my knees and began, if not precisely cleaning up the mess, then at least pushing it around enough that it created the illusion of labor. Meanwhile, my father continued to speak to Holly. "Newton rarely leaves Mint Tower, and to attack him there would be greatest folly."
"I s'pose this is when you reveal the twist of the plot that brings him away from his little fortress."
"Indeed it is. There are very few things that can draw him out of the Tower, save civic duty and the hangings of goldsmiths."
I looked up from my work in time to see Holly flash a toothless grin, and immediately returned my attention to the floor. "I happen to know there ain't another hanging day for some three weeks," said the criminal.
No emotion crossed my father's face. "You are correct. I have created for us a scenario to draw Mr. Newton out of the Tower, in only two days' time."
"Very convenient."
"Not particularly. If you should fail, things are likely to get rather messy for me here."
"How's that?"
"It's not your concern." My father paused, and I dared to look up again. My eyes treasonously fell not on his face but beyond it, to that space on the wall where his instruments of torture hung neatly on their wooden pegs. I imagined a spike being driven through my own tongue. I have always been far too imaginative for my own good. "The event is an opera to be performed at Dorset Gardens."
"Didn' take Saint Newton to be much of a patron o' the arts."
"He is not. He is simply lending one of his most valuable assets to the company due to a premeditated indiscretion on my part."
"Doesn' he suspect something?"
"Of course he suspects something. Even if he were not predisposed to suspicion, I have worked for him for many years and have never been indiscreet. Even now, it is dubious that I will even live to see this opera." A beat passed without words before he continued. "This I expect and await, and perhaps I shall die and pass on to the next world, whatever that may be."
"S'that your fancy Puritan way of sayin' I'll see you in Hell?"
"Something like that."
"I beg your pardon, sir," I replied in a tiny voice.
A moment passed in which my father continued to stare at me, and I continued to blush, until finally said, "Well? Clean it up!"
Horrified, I cast my eyes around the room looking for something to use to sop up the vomit. Holly let go a sick and wheezing laugh behind me as my father briefly rummaged through a cupboard near his desk and produced a wad of scarlet fabric. He tossed it in my direction, and I unfolded to find that it was a red alchemists' robe. I was meant to use it to clean up vomit. Even raised as I was with an inherent scorn for alchemists, I found this use of the garment offensive, practically sacriligious.
I fell to my knees and began, if not precisely cleaning up the mess, then at least pushing it around enough that it created the illusion of labor. Meanwhile, my father continued to speak to Holly. "Newton rarely leaves Mint Tower, and to attack him there would be greatest folly."
"I s'pose this is when you reveal the twist of the plot that brings him away from his little fortress."
"Indeed it is. There are very few things that can draw him out of the Tower, save civic duty and the hangings of goldsmiths."
I looked up from my work in time to see Holly flash a toothless grin, and immediately returned my attention to the floor. "I happen to know there ain't another hanging day for some three weeks," said the criminal.
No emotion crossed my father's face. "You are correct. I have created for us a scenario to draw Mr. Newton out of the Tower, in only two days' time."
"Very convenient."
"Not particularly. If you should fail, things are likely to get rather messy for me here."
"How's that?"
"It's not your concern." My father paused, and I dared to look up again. My eyes treasonously fell not on his face but beyond it, to that space on the wall where his instruments of torture hung neatly on their wooden pegs. I imagined a spike being driven through my own tongue. I have always been far too imaginative for my own good. "The event is an opera to be performed at Dorset Gardens."
"Didn' take Saint Newton to be much of a patron o' the arts."
"He is not. He is simply lending one of his most valuable assets to the company due to a premeditated indiscretion on my part."
"Doesn' he suspect something?"
"Of course he suspects something. Even if he were not predisposed to suspicion, I have worked for him for many years and have never been indiscreet. Even now, it is dubious that I will even live to see this opera." A beat passed without words before he continued. "This I expect and await, and perhaps I shall die and pass on to the next world, whatever that may be."
"S'that your fancy Puritan way of sayin' I'll see you in Hell?"
"Something like that."