In a far less muggle corner of the city, the morning had started off surprisingly sunny for an equally surprisingly good-tempered witch.
Phaedra had woken up to the pale yellow fingers of watery English sunlight poking through the curtains, reaching across the small desk and spilling onto the wooden slats, and just that one peep of brightness had been enough to bolster her entire mood. Despite the lumpy mattress and the cold water, both of which she'd finally grown accustomed to ending and beginning the day with, respectively, and despite the rather unbelievable task that lay ahead. All that was set aside for simple enjoyment, because it had been a while since she'd witnessed even the promise of warmth- not since she'd swapped the sultry Italian summer for the very grey, dreary London streets.
Not that she'd even meant to come back to the capital, but that was a whole other basket of worries.
But this sunny, promising morning, Phaedra was awaiting a letter. One the thought of which only served to improve her mood as she was rather impressed, yet again, by her own resourcefulness and tactical thinking. If she was fortunate enough, at least one part of her troubles would have a good chance of being solved without having to resort to law-breaking and conspiring.
When the blasted owl- now tentatively the blasted owl, Hemera- finally clattered through that same window, a much less welcome visitor than the morning sunshine, these hopes would be doused in the very cold light of reality, a far more fickle friend than even British sunbeams.
The owl dumped the missive rather unceremoniously into her owner's coffee and flapped across to her perch, claws painfully catching on a lock of blonde hair on her way to the feeding tray in a move Phaedra considered a little too routine to be accidental.
She brushed her hair behind an ear, unfolded the embossed parchment, and read:
Niece,
How pleasant to hear from you, after all these years. Provence is beautiful in the summer and I daresay France is much more pleasant than England, in these uncertain times. High society is quite booming, though these days I find I much prefer the peace and quiet of the manor, where only the old house-elf may bother me. A foul creature, but remarkably industrious. I do not see the need to uphold my dear husband’s family tradition quite yet.
In answer to your request, I hold no ties to the old Rosier Estate in Buckinghamshire, though as you know both I and your great-grandfather spent our childhood there. Gerardus left it to Evan and I was given the French manor, where I reside. You may very well come here if you so wish as there are no enchantments to my knowledge that will keep a Rosier off Rosier land- save for those who choose to sully their name or blood. I daresay these are new wards that Eirion has established. Heirless and wifeless, I cannot say what he hopes to achieve.
It is a bad business with your family, ever since Gerardus’ eldest grandson and that horrid scandal he brought upon our heads. As I remain in France for my few final years, I regret I am unable to return to England and address my nephew on your behalf. I can only offer you these words of advice: Marry pure and marry well. An heir will tie you to the fortune you seek.
My very best,
Druella Malvolia Black
The last paragraph more than confused her, because as far as she knew, Eirion had never been particularly scandalous. Or at all, really. All her uncles had toed society’s very narrow line a little too faithfully her whole life. She couldn’t recall any ‘horrid scandals’, not in her time.
And the suggestion Druella had so helpfully provided was laughable. In fact, Phaedra did allow herself a scornful little chuckle as she read over the lines again. Marriage,
really. Nothing about her current situation made marriage to her an appealing prospect for any British purebloods, and she wasn’t ready to give up her little venture, which was what marrying any of the eligible Italian gentlemen would require. She was almost a little too old to be playing the coy debutante, besides.
And actually, she didn’t much fancy the prospect. If she were honest with herself- which was proving a challenge, admittedly- she did relish the little freedom absolute destitution had afforded her. Not enough for it to outweigh the perks of not being an outcast, but independence was something she'd grown surprisingly fond of.
Still, something niggled at the back of her mind. It wasn't anything to do with those two qualms, but whatever it was escaped her. Had Druella spoken some sort of sense that she wasn't picking up on?
No, she decided. Her great aunt was going senile. At her age, it was to be expected. It certainly explained why she preferred staying alone in France with only a house-elf for company over coming back and helping h-
Of course.
House-elves.A few hours later, once she'd picked up the copies she'd managed to track down of a horde of previous bank statements but failed to find any evidence at all of her father's will, Phaedra checked the time and deemed it late enough in the afternoon to head to Keiran's without having to twiddle her thumbs and make stilted conversation until the others arrived.
She didn't know who would be joining them, of course, but she'd already decided she wouldn't be continuing the charade she'd had to pull with Frank. Not clothing-wise, at least. Because despite the fragile sunlight and cloudless skies the tail-end of September was still remarkably chilly, and so Caterina's wardrobe had been categorically confined to the bottom of her suitcase until the next possibility of Mediterranean warmth. Today, her usual get-up would have to do, if not her usual behaviour.
She wasn't actually devoting much thought to such petty concerns because she was far too excited about the discovery she believed she'd made. Though her initial plan had been struck down, the realisation Druella's letter had triggered was almost enough to make up for it. It was a change from frustrating helplessness, at any rate.
Since the wards had finally been lifted for her, she apparated neatly from Diagon Alley into the familiar foyer, expecting the sharp
crack to herald her arrival and elicit some sort of greeting. But the hall remained empty, faint murmurings of conversation floating down from the living room. So, Phaedra simply showed herself in, following the wave of voices. The light clicking of heels across the tiles would be indication enough, anyway, if the louder noise hadn't been enough.
They definitely weren't loud enough to muffle the conversation as she got closer- there seemed to be some kind of disagreement going on about a potion and a floor, but because Phaedra was far too mannered to ever even hint at eavesdropping (though evidently not enough to wait to be invited into the room in the first place) she strolled in with a cheery greeting on her lips.
“Good afternoon.”
That was where it ended.
It took her a second to assess the scene in front of her. Not that it was much of a scene, except that apart from Frank and Keiran there was a stranger on the couch who was very clearly in the throes of some dreadful illness. She hadn’t seen a person that green since the Green Itch had come around- and that was something she didn’t want to remember, thank you very much.
In any case, this sickly stranger looked as though he was about to empty the contents of his stomach right onto Keiran’s floor.
Actually, the faintest hint of acridity in the air suggested that had already happened.
She crinkled her nose, eyebrows quickly following. Her eyes eventually settled on Keiran (with Longbottom and Sickly the only other options, where else could they go?) and it was to him that the deceptively calm comment was directed. A question, really. But definitely
not a joke.
“I'm almost afraid to ask what you have in that bottle."