The Stoat Insists

[themorbidsocialite]

 For once, a guest did not have to find Tularemia. Instead, Tularemia found the guest, scampering up to the Tailor and immediately ramming into their ankle. She hissed as she grabbed the edge of their sock, tugging with all her might in the direction she came. There was nothing that could halt this courier from her self-appointed rounds; not rain nor sleet nor heat of day. If Tularemia decided that the Tailor was needed, then she would stop at nothing to retrieve the Tailor.

She was, though, wearing her new ribbon, so she may have had to pause to let that be applied, but her every pause ended eventually!

Tularemia had sprinted through hoards of hungry bats (perhaps snatching one as a snack in return), across puddles of moonish water with care, behind allies and away from cats, over rooftops and even across hats and heads. All to get to the Tailor.

Comments

[themorbidsocialite]

Mori slept for a good while afterwards, doomed to a stuff back and knees from their twisted position. Eventually, though, sleep ran out and the snoring stopped.

With a groan, Mori stirred, slowly coming out of sleep. If anything was happening, it would be best to finish up before Mori awoke fully.

[theanachronistictailor]

There was a gentle tsk from roundabouts the lounge where the Tailor was crouched over. "Slowly, go slowly, your body is not going to thank you for your choice of bed. I'll be over in a minute, I'm nearly done with this patch."

In the time they were taking, Mori would be given the opportunity to get their bearings and take in the room. The chair at the desk had been adjusted, pen in a different place and chest lightly moved more into the light, though seemingly undisturbed otherwise. The laudanum from the evening prior had been located, as well as a small bottle of tincture, and both were set beside a glass of water placed on the low table, close to Mori.

The Tailor had pulled their suspenders back into place, but their sleeves remained rolled, and indeed had been pushed up to the elbows entirely. They were darning a spot in the lounge seat, and close examination would show two other small patches already complete. Tularemia was still asleep in their mess of hair. They'd not seen fit to remove her.

"I've prepared the kettle but I didn't start it, I didn't want to make you have cold or over-steeped tea on waking. We may want to check your bandages, but you didn't toss and turn by the looks of things at least."

[themorbidsocialite]

It took a while for Mori to process what was happening and why, eyes squinting at the slightly adjusted room around. A drowsy yawn and a slow pop of their back pushed Mori into moving to sit on the loveseat. "Sorry to have left you to your own devices this morning..."

His gaze lingered long on the chest until he could determine that, no, it was not opened. But it would need to be moved back into the shade, which they were not particularly excited about. That could be a problem for later Mori. Their gaze focused back on the Tailor. "So, did you sleep well? Or sleep at all? I admit, I nodded off not long after sitting with you."

Tularemia did occasionally wake to adjust herself, but otherwise stayed safe and curled in the Tailor's hair.

[theanachronistictailor]

The Tailor shrugged, barely seeming to look up from their work. "I'm restless by nature. I slept fairly well up until your little shite of a stoat--" and their eyes crossed on trying to look up, as if trying to spot her to no avail "--bit me square on the nose." There was no heat in the insult and if one looked, one could see the beginnings of a drying scab of blood from how they'd pulled. They shook their head, finishing the patch and standing. They arched into a stretch, hand on their lower back, and sighed quietly.

"There. Your work was offending me," they said dryly. "It's a lovely chair, and it should last." It was a tease; at least, they hoped it would be taken as one. "If anything, I should ask after your own sleep. Do you need anything? I can go start the kettle, but I want you comfortable first."

They raised their hands, still with thread, needle, and embroidery scissors in hand, and added, "I know, I know, I'm the guest, but consider: I want to. You can only keep me still so long."

The child in them from last night was hard to see in them now, but that was less a matter of walls, and more a matter of habitual self-reliance.

[themorbidsocialite]

Mori chuckled at the mention of the bite, but listened to the Tailor talk and considered the reawakening memories of the night previous. The sleeplessness, the Tailor's evident nightmare, the vulnerability they shared. Every word spoken had been without overthinking, without fear or shame, without practice or poise. Stubborn and restless and both nothing like and everything like the youth that attempted to help them, even after a nightmare.

Mori found themselves smiling, hoping there was an understanding, that the Tailor was well on their way to becoming family, that a father's heart could be big enough for all his children. "If I cannot stop you, then I will not. I'll make us a small breakfast, if you can fix up tea and set the table? You've already done too much this morning, just rest a wee moment."

Mori made the effort to stand, a prolonged action that required a multitude of strange sounds and joints popping, but eventually got Mori into a standing position. He checked the watch left on the desk as he wound it and tucked it into his pants. "You'll want to wake Tularemia as well. She'll be by with word of Enoch's return, if we set her on course now."

[theanachronistictailor]

"I'll do what I can to sit still more than five minutes," they said with a crooked smile, hands lifting to their hair to gently pluck the stoat out of the nest she'd made, "but you mentioned cake last night, so if you take too long you risk me helping myself."

Their hair looked a mess of a thing, curls every which way, and it always made them look several years younger. They set Tularemia onto the armchair as they passed it. "Yes, I know you're groggy," they told her, stroking her little head, "but we all have to earn our breakfast, don't we?"

In the doorway to the kitchen, they stopped, their back still to Maury, and they didn't turn but they spoke over their shoulder. "I didn't open it. I just wanted to pay my respects. You were looking last night, and I know better than most how big a ten-year-old is. We used to play hide-and-seek in a similar way."

And then they'd slipped into the kitchen to put away their things and start the kettle. On the desk, below the transcription of the song they'd remembered last night, a note was added in a hand that was not Mori's.

ELDER CONTINENT

[themorbidsocialite]

Mori let the silence settle and carefully bent to put a hand on the trunk. He was rather glad the Tailor hadn't opened it. The girl inside hardly looked a girl anymore, even wearing her favorite dress, curled and carefully encased in cushioned silk. It would've simply been distressing, even if the removal of organs kept her from rotting. As well, it was better for her body's continued preservation that the seal remains airtight. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," Mori whispered. "You'll see light again. I promise." And the trunk was carefully moved back to where light couldn't reach, where the cold and dark could keep her safe.

Mori moved through to the kitchen, stuffing that dull pain down deep in his chest. He put a hand on the Tailor's shoulder, a silent gratitude, a few seconds to let it rest.

"You are welcome to the cake, though I do pride myself in being a semi-decent cook in the least. Acceptable enough. And I was thinking, over breakfast, we might discuss our plans for next week, should you feel comfortable doing so." The implication was there. 'I intend to follow your song. I wish to talk it over with you.'

Meanwhile, Tularemia, shaking off sleep, found her way through the crack in the brickwork and on to the streets of London.

[theanachronistictailor]

"Long's you're gentle with yourself," the fellow said from the stovetop, the kettle already in place and the thermometer in hand. Their sewing supplies had only made it as far as the small dining table, set by their coat and vest. "I'd be fine discussing it, though I worry I won't be much further help, if I was at all to begin with."

They stretched their back again, pressing their wrist to their mouth to conceal a rare yawn. "I don't suppose you'll let me at an iron and board? Or am I pushing my luck too far?"

[themorbidsocialite]

"The iron will be with the board in the bedroom. You have my permission to enter, there's nothing damning. And nonsense, you've been plenty helpful. But my main concern in this respect is your request from the night previous. If I'm to do something reckless and dangerous, then I should call on you, is what you've requested. I am holding to my promise."

Mori knelt carefully to retrieve ingredients from the ice box and rose to grab more from the pantry. "How do you feel about blood pudding? I'm afraid the eggs may have gone bad in my bed-ridden state. Breakfast, before today, has been an effort too far, it would seem."

[theanachronistictailor]

"Ha! Fair enough," they said, not at all expecting to be called on so soon. "Black pudding will be fine, and I'd like to stress again to only do what your body can handle, at the risk of sounding like a broken clock. If you need to sit, please do."

They moved from the stove, allowing Mori space to it and the kettle. "I'll work in the other room, call me when it's ready, or if you need anything, alright?" They, for once, returned the shoulder squeeze. "And then we can discuss whatever's in your head already."

[themorbidsocialite]

Mori nodded with a smile. "I look forward to it. Best of luck at the iron and I'll be sure to call for you, should I require assistance."

With that, Mori started on breakfast, trusting the Tailor to use the iron with care. He did, of course, leave a burner open to heat the iron, but the rest became occupied with back bacon, toasting bread and mushrooms, and beans. One personal- not social- thing Mori liked to dedicate funds to were spices and seasonings. His mother had imparted in him a love for decadent flavor that the whole of London didn't often share. If there was one personal indulgence he'd allow himself, it was a dash of paprika and cumin in the beans and a sprinkle of salt, black peppercorns, and a dash of chopped garlic with the mushrooms. It would... likely take a while to finish cooking, the plating quite ambitious, but why would he skimp against a guest?

[theanachronistictailor]

That breakfast would take time, decadent as it was, would work in the Tailor’s favor as they went to work with the tools they were familiar with. The iron board set up, they had plenty of opportunity to press first the rumpled articles their host had left aside on the lounge the evening prior.

When it came to their own attire, there was some small hesitancy—not out of any real modesty, mind you. It was complicated. But they did eventually put on a stern expression and strip their shirt and corset to let their spine breathe, and their body relaxed immediately. Sleeping in the latter garment had been… well, they’d done it before but it did leave them stiff and aching.

They set the thing aside and pressed their own shirt, suspenders of their trousers looped over their own loose combinations.

The smell of the meal was getting to be enticing as they worked, and they were struck with the discomfiting notion of how domestic the entire scene was. They were trying to recall when someone had last cooked a meal for them in such a way outside a dinner party when they finished the shirt and slipped it on sans corset to do their trousers with a modicum of decency. Breakfast for them was usually a simple affair, and they hadn’t been given an option to be terribly picky but they’d never put a terrible amount of thought into what they ate.

They popped their head in, curious. “I thought you were making black pudding? Smells like a hell of a lot more.”

[themorbidsocialite]

Mori looked up from the cast iron pan containing the back bacon with a wide-eyed expression, only a fraction like an animal caught causing a ruckus in the dark. Instead of absconding, however, Mori smiled somewhat sheepishly. "Just black pudding for breakfast? When we only had tea last night? I may be injured, but I'm certainly not going to turn down both showing off and treating you to something special."

Some of the showmanship had returned, but it was somehow more honest, like a man showing who he wanted to be rather than who he needed to be, with a touch of self-aware comedy, over enunciating the claim of showing off, as if mimicking a character seen in a play. It was Mementomori and Socialite blended into a strange characterization of himself.

For the sake of comedy.

It wasn't a side often seen in them in class or even in hosting. Playful, kidding, a joke at one's own mask. Of course, the Socialite would wish to show off, but the true purpose of it was spelled outright just seconds later: treating the Tailor to a nice breakfast.

Mori turned back to the pan. "And it's no bother. It keeps me upright, avoiding folding the stitches. The only issue is the leg and, as you can see," they leaned back in a gesture at the chair they had their knee propped up on, "I've found a solution to that. It's almost ready, if you wanted to finish up the tea. Your choice this time."

[theanachronistictailor]

It was nice, to see the fellow so very themself in every feasible way. The Tailor didn't know how he managed it.

Mori was treated, for their part, to a bright grin. "Careful now, or the treatment will go to my head," they said. "Give us a mo' to finish up and I'll pop right in."

And indeed it was only the work of a minute or two before they reappeared, mostly dressed and presentable, to sort out the kettle and the pot. "I took the liberty of pressing your things as well, habit from work. I'm a simple sort, I think, I like a hearty breakfast tea when I can manage it. Point me in the direction of your selection."

They'd grabbed a fresh pot and cups from the curio already, and it occurred to them that the sensation from yesterday, the feeling of being out of place in a well-loved space, had lessened a little.

They... had no idea what to do with that.

"Thank you," is what they eventually said. "For being so welcoming to me."

[themorbidsocialite]

"Thank you for ironing my clothes. I truly appreciate it." Mori gestured back and to the opposite of them from the door. "Those tins, their contents labeled on the paper sleeves. The black and red teas are on the left, if you prefer a heartier, stronger tea. However, you're welcome to any that catch your fancy. There is still some little of what I can only assume is a 'blue' tea in the far rightmost tin."

At the Tailor's last words, Mori turned back, brow furrowing softly as he searched for the right words. "Always. I do hope I could make this a comfortable stay. I know we don't live in extravagance, however..." He paused, finding a new path in his sentence, that wasn't well worn by the steps of proper society. "I hope... you may have found the comfort of home in our little flat... You're always welcome to return, invitation or no. I hope you will return, always at least once more, so that the possibility of the final visit may not be reality. Our door is open to you."

It was a difficult truth to find gentle, unpressuring words for, a soft desire simply to see someone again, to have them feel like this place could be home, but not so forward as to scare them off. Mori pushed the slices of black pudding in the same pan as the back bacon, preventing them from searing too quickly. "You're right," he said, offering a change of subject, if the Tailor so wanted it, "a black breakfast tea would likely be lovely for this."

[theanachronistictailor]

What to say?

Mori's home was a kind of dream they'd never imagined even as a child. Extravagant? No, not at all. Small? Smaller than one might have expected from the 'Socialite" known in public. Warm and welcoming and more real than they knew was an option, though.

(The Garden's not for-)

The corner of their mouth twitched, and they turned their attention to the teas. The variety was impressive, but, well, by the smell of things in the kitchen as a whole, it would make sense for Mori to enjoy a selection so expansive. They looked through the selection, allowing themself the chance to sniff a few before choosing one, and returned to preparing the pot.

"Is this your space, then? I mean, are all these notes yours?" A vague gesture at the rest of the kitchen, its notes and general clutter, the pots and the stove.

[themorbidsocialite]

Mori looked around with the gesture and gave a soft chuckle. "Oh, not hardly. I enjoy cooking the most among us, but the kitchen is a shared space, like any other. I doubt I would enjoy crossing off potential sightings of the Vake," Mori gestured to a half-folded map on the table covered in scratched ink circles and crosses, "or forging... documents... Apologies, I believe that one may be a private matter; pay no attention to it." He turned away, pale, from a sheet of practiced penmanship in what looked to be a 'Mr. Edward's' hand.

Clearing their throat, Mori refocused. "However, many of the cooking utensils and ingredients are of my purchase. Free to be used by anyone, but it's a minor goal of mine to perfect the recipes my mother taught me, or at least the flavors of them to be used in different meals. She never did write the things down, so it's all guesswork and foggy memories."

[theanachronistictailor]

Oh, right, people did have parents and things passed down to them. It was easy to forget that and take a person as wholecloth, existing in a way, forgetting there were influences around them impacting the person they might grow into.

"She taught you cooking, then? She must have been very good at it, if your own guesswork smells as good as it does."

They didn't quite know how to handle the subject, so was reduced to uncertain prodding, but at least it wasn't necessarily bitter, just a little awkward. They were turned to the small table, tea steeping, when they added, "which places should I set, then? Do you have a preference at the table?"

[themorbidsocialite]

Mori laughed at the mention of his mother being a good cook. "Oh, not at all! Often over or undercooked, bland or with an odd array of flavors and textures, and served with no small amount of contempt, I've taken it upon myself to do the research and improve them, perhaps make them more as my foremothers had. Goodness knows, she was never faithful to it."

The meats were removed from the pan alongside the mushrooms. "There's no preference, take whichever place setting you wish."

[theanachronistictailor]

They flushed a little at the error, but quietly sat at the table, at one of the places more regularly used, avoiding the pristine spot and clearing the space to make room for the meal. Two sugars set into their teacup, and two set for Mori, but they didn't pour yet, giving the tea another moment to steep and their host a chance to join them.

"Was she from anywhere in particular?" they asked. "I admit, my Surface geography knowledge is lacking, but I know your accent is at least British enough, if not-" they gestured a little vaguely "-London locale."

[themorbidsocialite]

"She was from Shincliffe, same as I, but her mother was from the Carpathians, a village near Bistritz. I believe that would be... Romania? She'd married an Englishman and had my mother and her two brothers. I... didn't know much of my father, but they'd married young and he left before I was four. I was my mother's only child. Here, try this." Mori moved aside a tad, having lifted a spoon of the beans with a hand underneath. "It may be a bit strong, if you're used to London cuisine, but I think you'd enjoy it."

[theanachronistictailor]

"Romania... that's... mainland Europe, yes?" The Tailor tried not to wince at their own lack of knowledge. The spy system in London was all about these things, and they had been trying to pick up more information at the Foreign Office, but most of the time those fellows were talking about France, Prussia, and Rome. And the Americas, but those were very far away, they understood.

"Was she..." they dawdled around the thought, and took the bite instead, and their hand flew to their mouth as they processed the bright and loud flavors, and then the subtler heats. "Oh my god," they said, mouth full behind their hand, before remembering their manners and swallowing with regret. "I didn't know beans could taste like that. Jesus, Maury, what's in that?"

[themorbidsocialite]

Mori beamed, taking the beans off the heat. "That would be sweet and hot paprika peppers and cumin. Cumin is more found in the Mediterranean and Asia, but the varieties of paprika can be found in Eastern Mainland Europe. Hungary tends to specialize in it. The cumin was actually found here in the Neath, in a small stall with a Fourth City flare. The paprika, I had to bring in by less than legal means, but getting it straight from Buda-Pesth was well worth the risk. Has a broader flavor when it's fresh." He carefully brought the beans to the table and set out a plate with the back bacon, blood pudding, toast, and roasted mushrooms.

Unfortunately, even as they took a seat, they wouldn't let the Tailor forget the question, even if out of polite apology. "I'm sorry, I believe I interrupted your question. Did you have something to ask?"

[theanachronistictailor]

The Tailor settled back, trying not to stare with real interest at the display presented. The smell and the look of it, not to mention the remaining flavors in their mouth and the meany hours since dinner, meant this was an exercise in self-control. They glanced up, and recalled, trying not to wince around the awkward framing.

"It's not significant. I only was curious about what it was like. I mean, what she was like. But I didn't want to overstep."

Not every urchin was an orphan, in fact many weren't, it was just that their families were low class and they ran free. Some of them talked about their parents, and the results always were mixed. Some adamantly did not want to share about family. The Tailor, for their part, was prone to making up outlandish stories if ever asked. It was a game, mostly.

[themorbidsocialite]

"Please, help yourself. Breakfast is served." Mori thought over the question as he dished out servings. "I don't mind answering at all. She was... a stern, severe woman. Not the sort you would expect to be a good mother. And, well, for her, the assumption was correct. At times, I believe she saw too much of my father in me, driving the point home of usefulness and fealty and shame. At others... I was never an easy child to raise and she made that very clear. She passed while I was at university. I was chief mourner at her funeral and I believe most eyes were dry, among the guests. But, if there's one thing she's given me, it was a better pallate for seasoning and spice than most. And the determination to do better by my own children, now that I've chosen to be a father at all. Speaking of, how is the food?" It was difficult to tell whether he was referring to the spice tolerance or being a better father.