Hello. Can someone tell me what the feck a flurrator is? I currently have several live animals in my office, running around, and the only information I have is on a sticky note that was on my door. There should be no live animals in my office other than the beetles. The flurrator delivery person was mistaken.
I think they ate one of my bones! I mean, not-- never mind. How does one remove flurrators? Is there a flurrator removal service?
Do they not realize we are going to have a fire inspection next month?
God is anyone else's mom traditional with weddings? I've just spent the last two weeks writing congratulation and or threat cards for like half of the town. Also does anyone have a good threat that I should put in. I've been using "be happy or else" but that's like kinda boring.
My sister recently married and our mother advised her to buy Epiphyllum oxypetalum and send one to every guest that attended the ceremony. Who's wedding are you celebrating?
[A route accidentally posts on Eve's Strava. It's a route in the Pines that Eve has run frequently, but part way through the route, she veers drastically off course. This pace, while still within normal human parameters, is fast by any metrics, and far faster than all of Eve's other runs (that she's posted on Strava)]
TIMING: Spring of 2008
SETTING: The Vanderbilt Museum & Planitarium, Long Island NY
PARTIES: Kal @kalnecromancer & Rosemary @necrosemancy
WARNINGS: None! (unless you count Benedict Kane being alive)
SUMMARY: A young Rosemary & Kal meet at a mutual acquaintances wedding.
Rosemary stood in the corner of the courtyard with a glass of champagne she’d stolen off a passing tray. The young woman didn’t think anyone would give her too hard a time for it. It was a wedding, after all.
Finn Mattison was the eldest son of the Mattison spellcasting family. They were a talented bunch of alchemists- very well respected, and from a family nearly as old as the Kane’s. Of course, the Mattison’s didn’t have to play pretend in public. Being an alchemist was niche, but it wasn’t taboo. Publicly, the Kane’s were known as a talented and old family of casters, particularly adept with elemental magic. Her cousins all practiced it- they had an affinity for ice, primarily. Rosemary probably would have as well, if she ever really pursued it. She didnt attempt much magic outside of the basics. It wasn’t what she cared about. What she wanted was bigger than little tricks with snow and ice. But there were always whispers in casting circles, about just who was capable of what.
Someone was clinking a knife against a crystal champagne flute, and there was a round of cheers as Finn planted a kiss on his new bride. There was a version of that day, in some alternate timeline, where Rosemary was the one in white, instead of the lilac silk that fluttered in the salty breeze that promised a warm summer that came in off sound. She shuddered at the thought, wrinkling her nose as the bubbles from the quick gulp of champagne burned her nose. She barely knew Finn, aside from brief conversations at weddings and funerals, and yet, Benedict Kane had been insistent that Rosemary should have pursued him. He’d been furious when the engagement was announced, and he’d watched the opportunity to use whatever leverage he’d had slip down the drain. Rosemary had been relieved. She had no interest in marrying herself off to someone she barely knew. None whatsoever. She wasn’t going to jump to merge the Kane’s with some other respected casting family just because her father said so. She may have craved his approval, but she simply could not force herself to bow to that demand. She wanted him to respect her as his equal- his heir. And if he couldn’t do that…
Rosemary slipped out of the courtyard where the cocktail hour was being held. Doing her best to avoid being seen, she crept through a passageway to the back of the old mansion, out to the rose garden by the cliffs that overlooked the water. She sucked in a deep breath of ocean air and closed her eyes, basking in the late May evening. The girl kicked off her heels as she wandered away from the party, relaxing more with every step away from the pageantry she took. She could be herself out there, away from her father’s scrutinizing gaze. Her moment of blissful calm fractured as a twig snapping under foot sounded from not far behind her. She jumped, champagne sloshing out of the coupe glass and landing on her skirt as she whirled to see who was behind her. “Oh shit,” she hissed, watching a the light purple of her gown grew dark purple in spots. She glanced up at the young man who’d crept up on her. “Do you always walk so quietly?” Rosemary asked, the peaceful bubble she’d found herself in utterly popped.
—
Kalabhiti was bored. Despite the fact that the wedding had brought together spellcasting families from all over the globe, his included, it felt too… impersonal. Plastic. Fake. He had known Finn since he was young, having spent a year with his younger brother at a secluded boarding school hidden away in the deep forests of Connecticut. He had always preferred Christian’s – Finn’s brother – company. Maybe it was the lack of pressure to perform a specific role – Christian had embraced, from an early age, the role of the family’s black sheep – or the fact that they could have actual, profound, and honest conversations. Maybe both. Unlike Christian, though, Kalabhiti was also the first son, the heir of the Pretayan-Blackwood dynasty. Finn was a mirror of what was expected of him by both his parents, and maybe that was the reason he felt a strange sense of resentment toward the other man.
After the wedding ceremony had passed, and Kalabhiti deemed it prudent to disappear from the social scene, he stole a bottle of champagne from the bar and headed toward the gardens, seeking to be alone. America was different from his home country, and the novelty of the first few days in New York City had worn off as soon as they had moved to Long Island. Despite having been born into a wealthy family – one with multiple properties scattered around the world, a personal vault in Switzerland, and multiple trust funds under his name – the ostentatious display of money nauseated him.. It was all about money and status; it angered him in a way he had yet to understand. No one spoke about what truly mattered: the capacity to achieve great things.
He was standing near the cliffs, overlooking the water crashing onto the rocks, when he heard someone making their way toward his spot. He ducked behind a rock, refusing to be nice to another stranger. Kalabhiti only ventured out of his hiding place when he saw a woman who appeared to be his age standing near the cliff. He was trying to get a better view of her when he accidentally crushed a twig beneath his foot. He cursed under his breath as the blonde woman turned around in surprise, spilling champagne all over her skirt, and reproached him for walking so silently.
“Sorry,” he said, a sheepish smile creeping onto his lips as he extended both arms in a sign of surrender. “I did not intend to startle you. I apologize.” His eyes then fell on the woman’s face, and his head tilted slightly to the right as he realized he didn’t know her. Curiosity spiked as he watched her. “Here,” he said, taking off his jacket and offering it to her, “you can wipe the champagne with this. I don’t mind.”
—
He was about her age- maybe a year or so older? And he was offering her his expensive looking jacket as a napkin to mop up the champagne she’d spilled. That was… unusual. Rosemary let out a surprised laugh, shaking her head gently. “It’s alright. It probably won’t stain. And if it does, we’ll, it’s just a dress. Not the end of the world.”
The witchling frowned at her now mostly-empty glass, and glanced at the boy with the perfectly good bottle of champagne in hand. “I’ll tell you what,” Rosemary shot him a sly grin. “If you share that bottle with me, and don’t tell anyone you saw me back here, we’ll call it even.”
It wasn’t really like her to hide from a party. But the world that existed up at the party- the world of old money, an egos the size of small planets- felt wrong. Like a shirt three sizes too big that she was trying desperately to grow into. Rosemary tried her best to make it fit her- she styled it differently, took different approaches. But she still couldn’t get her father to look at her like she wasn’t insane. Stuffy, dignified laughter echoed from back in the courtyard. She took on a deep breath, letting the rose scented sea air draw her back in. “I’ll never hear the end of it if it gets back that I’m hiding out here.”
—
Kalabhiti looked down at the bottle he was holding loosely in his hand as the witch mentioned it, having forgotten about it. “I didn’t bring any glasses, though,” he apologized sheepishly. “I can go and get one for me, so we can share the bottle” he offered, always the gentleman. Kal was used to spending time with women who were taught from a young age that their most important attribute was to be an accessory: shiny, perfect, and well-mannered. Women who would never in their life think of drinking champagne straight from a bottle. There was no reason for him to think of the blonde woman standing in front of him any differently. They were, after all, at a Mattison wedding secluded in Long Island. Her comment about her dress caught him slightly off guard, but he figured she was trying not to make him feel embarrassed for being the cause of the stain.
“I’m actually hiding from my mother,” Kalabhiti said, flashing the woman a sly grin. “So your secret is safe with me, as long as you don’t tell on me either.” He cocked his head slightly to the right as he observed the witch. She was beautiful — that wasn’t in question — but there was something off about the way she held herself. Kal wouldn’t say she was trying too hard to fit in, but rather the opposite. Maybe he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable with the artificiality of it all: the calculated laughter, the political seating arrangements, the way everything had to be a way to prove something instead of just existing. He wrinkled his nose at the idea of going back to the party.
“I’m Kalabhiti, by the way,” he said, realizing he hadn’t introduced himself before. “But you can call me Kal. Everyone back home calls me that.”
—
The witch let out a laugh, shaking her head. “Just pop the bottle. I genuinely could care less if we just drink straight from the bottle. I’m a big girl, I haven’t worried about cooties since I was eight.” He seemed incredibly polished around the edges. Maybe that was like to be born and bred and expected to be a part of the family legacy, instead of being an unfortunate disappointment that could at least have its uses, no matter how small. “You can relax. There’s probably not anyone scrying on the outside of the party to make sure there aren’t champagne theives. Unless you come from a strict anti-theft family with a penchant for divination.” Rosemary teased, setting herself down to sit in the sun-warmed grass, dropping her heels beside her in a careless heap.
“Your mother,” she echoed conspiratorially, a manicured brow arching up in interest. “Now what did your mother do that you’re running off and scaring girls in rose gardens to get away from her?” Rosemary didn’t spend a great deal of time with other casters, especially not ones her own age. College was everything she’d ever hoped it would be, but it was always shadowed by the cloud of half truths and lies she told, to keep up appearances. None of her sorority sisters knew. Her ex girlfriend had never had the chance to suspect, nor did her current situationship. Maybe it was because she didn’t give them the chance to- she held the world of brilliant but mundane people at arms length. This change of pace was a welcome one. The only lie she had to uphold was what kind of magic she longed to study. And after years of pretending magic was a fantasy, that would be a cakewalk.
“Nice to meet you, Kal,” The witch’s lips twisted into a pale pink smile. “I’m Rosemary. ”
—
It took all his willpower not to betray the surprise on his face as the blonde witch instructed him to pop the bottle. As she lowered herself to the ground, Kalabhiti moved swiftly and placed his jacket beneath her, so that her dress wouldn’t get dirty. “Allow me,” he said, flashing her a smile as he took a seat next to her and popped the cork from the bottle with grace, as if it were something he did every day. He courteously offered her the bottle first. “Here.”
“I adore that woman, don’t get me wrong,” Kalabhiti explained to the witch when she asked why he was hiding from Beatrice Blackwood. “But she’s gotten it into her head that I must start thinking about marriage, and it appears that a wedding such as this is a great opportunity for her to introduce me to eligible candidates.” He wrinkled his nose in disapproval at the thought. He was only twenty years old and barely thinking about marriage. Kalabhiti was much more interested in learning about the human body, its decomposition process, and other, much darker processes he could experiment with.
“Apparently, it doesn’t matter that I’m the eldest son trying to keep our family legacy alive and well,” he said, frustration visible at the edges of his words. “It is much more important to discuss marriage and inheritances.” Realizing he was oversharing, Kalabhiti cleared his throat and apologized. “Sorry,” he said, flashing the woman a sly smile as he shrugged, embarrassed. “You don’t need to hear me ramble about such things.”
As the witch shared her name, Kalabhiti nodded. “Rosemary,” he said thoughtfully. “The herb of remembrance.” He smiled as he quoted a line from Hamlet from memory: “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. People used to carry it at funerals.”
—
The lengths to which the boy was going to uphold decorum had a laugh desperately trying to free itself from the witch. Rosemary wasn’t used to guys practically tripping over themselves to set down their jackets so she didn’t get her dress dirty in the garden. She was used to guys spilling beer on her accidentally at a frat party, or fighting over her to be on their team for beer pong. The man screamed uppercrust spellcaster in a way only Rosemary could understand. Educated, well bred, and with eyes that spoke to the multitudes going on in his mind. She was willing to bet on him being the first born before he’d even admitted to it.
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” She snickered with a sympathetic smile. “I’d ask if your mother was Mrs. Bennett, but my father is quite literally the exact same way. I’d say the only thing he’s more irate about than having to show face at a social event, is the fact that this isn’t my wedding. Which, thank the fucking gods it is not.” Rosemary took a long sip from bottle, wrinkling her nose at the bubbles. “And at least you’re being allowed in to your family legacy,” she grumbled, taking another swig before handing the bottle back to him. “What kind of magic does your family practice?”
“Also good for protection, purification, mental clarity, and transformation.” She closed her eyes, rattling of the list of other things the herb could be used for. “I’m not much adept at any of them. Not my forte.” Rosemary shrugged.
—
“Jane Austen,” Kalabhiti nodded, rolling his eyes at the thought of his mother as Mrs. Bennett. Some days, it could very much feel that way. “Seems my mother hasn’t read anything from this century.” At the mention of her father, Kal raised an eyebrow. “So it’s not just an English thing, then,” he said with a faint smile.
He chuckled as she admitted she was glad it wasn’t her wedding. Even after only a few minutes of conversation, Kalabhiti could tell Rosemary wasn’t cut out to be a Mattison — or, more precisely, Finn wasn’t husband material for her. The younger woman he had married, Adelaine, fit much more closely with the sort of women he was used to spending time with than the blonde witch sitting beside him. “So, I take it you weren’t pining for Finn Mattison? That would be a first,” he said lightly. Finn was a coveted heir among the spellcaster families: wealthy, handsome, and widely admired. Kalabhiti hadn’t met anyone who didn’t harbour at least a small crush on the young man.
“They didn’t exactly give me a choice,” Kalabhiti explained, though it wasn’t as if he minded. He was proud to be the heir of a recognised spellcaster family, and he intended to learn and uphold their millenarian necromancy knowledge. He knew that in some families, their line of magic was frowned upon — but he could not care less what others thought. He had seen countless spellcasters arrive at his family home in London, seeking their parents’ assistance, and he had long considered them hypocrites. Working with death was as respectful as any other form of magic — arguably more so, given its precision. When asked about the kind of magic his family practiced, Kalabhiti did not flinch. He sat a little straighter and replied, “Necromancy… and also mediumship. My mother is well-versed in divination and spirit reading. My father… well, let’s say he prefers to experiment with necromantic practices.”
As Rosemary shared that she wasn’t adept at magical practices linked to the herb she was named after, Kalabhiti raised an eyebrow. “No? With a name like that, I would have thought you’d be a natural,” he said. Kalabhiti smiled and tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “Then what type of magic are you learning?”
—
“It made its way over stateside. Wherever there are old, stuffy families who care immensely about tradition, there will be parents trying to pair their children off with an advantageous match.” Rosemary sighed, stretching out on the grass. There was muffled laughter, and the dim sound of music that echoed up from the courtyard behind them. Rosemary was all too happy to tune it out, focusing on the crash of waves and seagulls circling overhead.
The witch let out a deeply unladylike snort. She wrinkled her nose, shaking her head as she grinned over at Kal. “Not in the fucking slightest.” Rosemary had barely even known the groom. She could list the things she knew about Finn Mattison on one hand. One, his family was somehow indebted to her father. Two, Finn was a spellcaster. Three, he was now married to someone that was, thankfully, not her. “I’m not about to marry someone I don’t love, much less someone I don’t know, all for the sake of brokering a deal for a magic power couple or something.”
The grin on her face softened into something more sympathetic. She knew what it was to not be given a choice. Rosemary couldn’t tell if inheriting the family legacy was something he actually wanted, but he didn’t seem completely miserable about it. She didn’t blame him. She’d have given anything for her father to give her just one chance. Kal sat up straighter at her question— unsurprising. Spellcasters had egos. She should know. Her own had been bruised for years every time her father made it clear she wasn’t good enough. With a little more time, she’d make it impossible for him to say no. She was already fluent in Latin, and able to read some Ancient Greek. She was putting herself in a position to go to law school, to better help with the front facing side of the family business. She was smart, and capable, and wanted so desperately to be worthy.
The word Necromancy caught her by surprise. She thought her mind was playing tricks on her for a moment. But no. Kal had just admitted to being a necromancer. That had just happened. The surprise on the witch’s face morphed into an expression of insatiable curiousity. “You’re studying to be a necromancer?” She asked, as though that wasn’t exactly what the boy had just said. “Tell me everything. My family’s all necromancer’s— well the first born sons are. I’m blocked out of it by some stupid, archaic, antiquated tradition. It’s the twenty first century, and my father’s insisting we follow great great grandpa Cornelius’s stupid rules, so he wants me to get married so he can just skip a generation and bypass me entirely. Even though I’m perfectly fucking capable.” The witch flopped backward to lay in the grass. She hadn’t told anyone that before. It had been bottled up tight for a decades, because there’d never been anyone who’d be able to understand. Rosemary held out her hand for the bottle. “Sorry. What I meant to say was I’m meant to study elementalism. All the casters on my father’s side seem to have an affinity for ice.”
—
Kalabhiti smiled as Rosemary snorted. “Love. How scandalous. Next you’ll tell me you expect to like the person as well,” he joked. He thought about his own parents and wondered if they loved each other. He had seen them share a look here and there, a passing caress, but he couldn’t quite tell whether it came from love or simple courtesy — more a habit expected of them than a genuine expression of feeling. Then he considered what he himself wanted. He wasn’t certain that love was the only — or even the most important — condition when it came to marriage. Not for him, at least. He imagined his lifelong partner as someone he could respect, someone with whom he could build something meaningful. Affection and care, he believed, would follow in time.
The surprise on Rosemary’s face when he mentioned his family’s craft did not shake him in the least. It was a reaction he was accustomed to receiving whenever he revealed that both his parents practiced and studied necromancy. What came next, however, caught him off guard. Rosemary was not merely surprised — she looked curious before proceeding to reveal what Kalabhiti was quite certain was a family secret. If her family had been open about their craft, as his own had always been among spellcasters, he would have known of them. The Pretayan-Blackwood family maintained close ties with most — if not all — necromancer and exorcist lineages across the world. Rosemary’s reaction suggested something different: not only embarrassment, which he quietly frowned upon, but the fact that she herself had been barred from studying necromancy. What a pity.
“It’s a shame, really,” Kalabhiti said, shaking his head as he looked down at her. “Traditions that suppress both talent and devotion to the craft are precisely why spellcasters are no longer held in the regard they once were.” Not that Kalabhiti particularly cared about reputation. What interested him far more were the limits of magic — how far it could go, and what moral boundaries, if any, should govern it. Where ought the line to be drawn? What moral compass should necromancers — and spellcasters in general — follow as they pursued their craft? Could one truly act under the pretense of doing good or evil? These questions occupied his mind constantly, and he had yet to find satisfying answers.
Then he thought of his father, Samar, and clicked his tongue softly. “My father is one of the most talented necromancers I know,” he said with quiet pride. “His family has passed down their knowledge for generations. He promised to teach me this summer.” Kalabhiti frowned when Rosemary censured herself. He would not have it. She was a force of nature, he could already tell. Her father was a brute for depriving her of such knowledge.
An idea occurred to him. “Come this summer,” he offered, flashing her a shy smile. “Come to London. Stay with my family. My father could teach us both.” Kalabhiti was quite certain that Samar Pretayan would happily invent a suitable excuse to host Rosemary if it meant passing on knowledge. He was an exceptional teacher, and he suspected he would welcome two pupils rather than one.
“And Rosemary,” he added, lowering himself to lie beside her in the grass, “don’t do that. Don’t diminish yourself.” He turned his head slightly toward her. “You were meant to be a necromancer. It is a sacred form of magic, perhaps the most sacred of all. Uphold it.”
—
“I know. Incredibly modern of me. God forbid I act like we live in the twenty-first century.” Rosemary sighed wryly. She’d been too young to ever be able to tell if her mother had felt anything for her father. She’d known Violet had loved her fiercely, but she couldn’t tell if that same care translated to her father. Her fingers rested on the little gold heart that nestled in the hollow of her throat as she pushed the thought to the side. She knew her father hadn’t mourned. Not really. Not like she had. She didn’t want a life with someone who would treat her departure from the world as just another Tuesday.
Jealousy coiled like a viper in her gut, ready to strike out. It must have been nice, to inherit the family legacy without putting up a fight. It was just going to be bestowed upon Kal, like a prince inheriting the crown. All Rosemary seemed to be good for was a bargaining chip to marry off to another kingdom. But then the boy was smiling at her, and offering to share the knowledge. The young witch blinked, unsure what to make of the offer. He was just… offering it to her. Everything she’d ever wanted, ever worked for. Right within her grasp. She wouldn’t have to fight for it. She could finally just take it. Her breath caught in her throat at the thought. She could learn alongside Kal— then she could prove she was enough! Her father would have to see reason, then. If she was good enough for another distinguished line of necromancer’s, then she might finally be good enough for the Kanes.
“You only met me five minutes ago,” she teased, swiping back the bottle with a wry smile twisting on her lips as she stole another sip from the bottle. “What makes you so sure I’m destined for this?”
—
Kalabhiti considered Rosemary’s question. He had only just met her, but he had been taught since childhood that necromancy was not a craft one simply chose. It was a calling — one that very few people were capable of answering. Not everyone had the temperament for it. Discipline, for one. Authority, certainly — the ability to command the dead without hesitation. But to Kalabhiti, the most important trait was something simpler. A lack of fear. Necromancy required accepting a truth most people spent their lives avoiding: that everything was finite. Death was always present, always waiting, and time continued to pass regardless of how one chose to spend it.
“Because necromancy is a call not many people answer,” he replied with a small shrug, watching as the witch took another sip from the bottle. He flashed her a crooked smile, tilting his head slightly as he studied her. “And I can tell you want to honor it. Your father’s a twat for not letting you study the craft.” It was unlike Kal to insult someone so openly, but the thought of a father denying his daughter knowledge she was clearly meant to pursue irritated him more than he cared to admit. “But I’m only guessing,” he added after a moment. “Why do you want to learn necromancy?”
As the question left his mouth, fireworks suddenly burst across the night sky. Kal glanced upward, eyebrows lifting in quiet surprise as streaks of color bled into the stars. “I suppose that’s our cue to return to the party,” he said with a sigh that made it clear he wasn’t particularly thrilled about the idea. “Come on.” He pushed himself up from the grass and offered Rosemary his hand.
—
He was right about that much– Necromancy wasn’t a call many people answered. Probably because so many people looked down at all that they perceived necromancy to be; a perversion of the laws of nature. But wasn’t that most magic? Flames didn’t sputter to life out of nothing naturally. A match had to be struck in order to light a candle. And yet every caster Rosemary knew was capable of causing a flame to ignite on a wick with a snap of their fingers. If that simple task that broke the rules of nature wasn’t a perversion, then why did necromancy have to be? Because of the cost? Rosemary had heard plenty of stories of casters burning themselves up into nothing to fuel a spell, before. Why was the cost only acceptable when the caster was the one on the line? And there was so much good that could be done with necromancy. People could be healed from injuries that would otherwise maim or kill them in a matter of moments, with no trace of the injury that had imperiled them remaining. People, good people, who had been robbed of the long lives they deserved by chance, could be made whole again. People like her mother…
The witch weighed the words carefully in her mind before opening her mouth to speak. “People like to paint in broad strokes. They want to paint necromancy as something inherently bad. But it isn’t. It’s a tool. So much good could be done with it, if they’d give it a chance.” Rosemary tapped her finger against the green glass bottle before holding it back out to Kal. But there was a part she wouldn’t speak aloud. Not to this boy who was basically a stranger. The boy who was the heir to his own family’s secrets, who had never had to fight to deserve them. She wanted to be good enough. She wanted her father to be proud of her.
Fireworks sparkled overhead, and Kal was standing up. Rosemary reached up to take his hand, when a deeper voice cut through the evening air. “Rosemary Madeline Kane, what are you doing?” Benedict’s voice was calm and collected on the surface, but Rosemary had pissed her father off enough times to hear the undercurrent as he spoke. “Just catching some air…” The young witch scrambled to her feet, smoothing out her gown in an attempt to make herself the sparkling example of the perfect heir. Benedict’s eyes alighted on Kal, and his demeanor shifted. “Apologies— Benedict Kane. You are?”
—
Kalabhiti’s eyes were set on Rosemary when a profound masculine voice cut through the air as she grabbed his hand to pull herself from the grass. He made sure she was standing properly before turning to meet the man who had spoken, noticing right away how Rosemary’s entire demeanor seemed to change. He knew, even before looking at the man, that it could only be her father. Once his eyes fell on the older man, Kal noticed the resemblance immediately, confirming what he had figured out seconds earlier.
“My apologies, Mr. Kane,” Kal said, his voice proper as he extended his hand for the other man to shake. “It is my fault. I was the one who asked Rosemary to accompany me to get some air. I’m not used to this weather, so I asked if she could join me,” he explained nonchalantly before standing straighter as he finally introduced himself. “My name is Kalabhiti Pretayan Blackwood. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Kal looked at Rosemary from the corner of his eye and gave her a quick wink before adding, “I believe you might know my father, Samar Pretayan.”
Before Benedict Kane could muster another word, a gentle voice called out, “Kalabhiti Pretayan Blackwood!”
Kal’s eyes focused on the figure approaching them. Wearing a black translucent gown covered in golden stars, Kal’s mother made her way toward them with a smile on her face. The gown made her appear as though she were floating, though that was simply the way she walked. Her long black hair was neatly styled into a mermaid braid that framed her face in a way that made her look younger.
“There you are! Your father and I have been looking for you all night. There’s someone we want you to meet…” At the sight of Rosemary and Benedict Kane, Beatrice stopped short, realizing who her son was speaking to. “Oh!”
“Mother,” Kal intercepted before she could say anything else. Beatrice Blackwood was known for speaking her mind without considering the consequences. “This is mister Benedict Kane and his daughter, Rosemary.”
Beatrice snorted softly before saying, “My love, of course I know who Benedict is. He has visited your father a couple of times to discuss important matters.” She gave Rosemary’s father a complicit look before kissing both his cheeks as a greeting. She then turned to Rosemary and flashed her a warm, open smile. “You never said your daughter was this beautiful, Benedict,” she reproached the man before acknowledging Rosemary. “I’m Beatrice. It is lovely to meet you.” Beatrice flashed Kal a knowing look before adding, “I hope my son has been nothing but a gentleman to you.”
Kal rolled his eyes and sighed.
—
Rosemary knew precisely where every strand of her hair was, exactly how every pleat of her skirt fell, how every muscle in her body braced for some withering, yet socially acceptable commentary on whatever new flaw her father could divine as the newest reason she wasn’t good enough for him. She did her best, but there was always some new hurdle to overcome, or some new imperfection she needed to polish in the hope she could get it right. But the attention slipped onto Kal quickly, and the witch was glad to have her father’s attention on someone else for a few moments. She hoped the champagne that still stained her skirt would have evaporated the next time he glanced her way.
Benedict’s hand gripped Kal’s in what Rosemary could only assume was a display of power, watching the way the muscles in the back of her father’s hands flexed as he gripped– perhaps just a bit too tight– the young man’s hand in a shake. Before her father could speak further, a woman’s voice cut through the evening air. The black fabric of the woman’s dress glowed in the rosy sunset as she approached, all smiles. Something in the center of her chest that she thought was long healed over felt like it was bleeding once more, as Kal’s mother swept across the lawn as she made her way across to her son. Her hand drifted absently to the dainty pendant that rested between her collarbones, catching the golden heart between her fingers in an attempt to feel closer to her own mother.
It was news to her. Rosemary had not once heard of Kal and his family. Part of her wondered if it was because he considered the Pretayan Blackwood family as competition. The rest of her knew it was because her input on family matters wasn’t needed, and it certainly wasn’t desired. Still, she rolled her shoulders back, and offered the woman the same gracious smile she’d developed into her muscle memory. Clever. Smart. Talented. She repeated the three words in her mind over and over as the woman made her assessment.
She tried to ignore the sound of her own heart fracturing just a bit further. Beautiful. She knew where that road went. She could already see the wheels turning in her father’s eyes as he glanced at Kal, giving him a second glance. No… No, no… Rosemary’s smile didn’t falter. She dipped her head in an attempt at modest bashfulness, while what she really wanted to do was take her half drunk bottle of champagne and take her risk hitch hiking her way off of fucking Long Island. “I’m Rosemary. It’s a pleasure.” The words came out of her mouth like she had been possessed by a version of herself from another timeline– one where she didn’t care so much about wasting all her potential, solely to meet the expectations of her father. “Kal’s been a perfect gentleman. We were just chatting while I caught some air.” Benedict’s eyes narrowed back on her, and she stood taller. She knew what would happen. He’d push for them to get married. He could align them with another family of necromancers. He’d be able to extend his grasp internationally. He could have the Kane legacy strengthened by marrying her off to Kal. But Rosemary didn’t know Kal. She didn’t love Kal. And she was not going to marry someone she barely knew, and had no feelings for.
“Yes, this is my daughter, Rosemary.” He said, the disappointment ever present in his voice. “She shows some promise as a minor elementalist…” The necromancer’s mouth broadened into a cunning smile, as he glanced between their two children. “Beatrice, perhaps we should continue our conversation over drinks. You and your husband should come to my home in Connecticut– in Mystic, just across the Sound. A few hours drive from here–” The witch could see her father’s mouth moving, and she knew what was coming. Her mouth felt dry, and she could feel her heart trying to escape the prison of her ribcage, and the witch did something she knew she’d regret later. “I’m so sorry– You’ll have to excuse me, I need to go…” What the hell did mature people say as an excuse? “Powder my nose.” She finished. She saw the frustration simmering in her father’s eyes as she hurried to turn away. She offered Kal an awkward half smile as she gracefully made her way across the lawn and back up to the party. The second she was out of sight, she grabbed another bottle of champagne as she all but ran to the bathroom and locked herself away. Surely the wedding festivities wouldn’t last too much longer. Just a few several more hours, and she could lock herself away in her hotel room, and pretend she wasn’t just another pawn on the chessboard. She could pretend there was a world in which she could simply study alongside Kal, instead of have him foisted upon her as a match. She popped the cork on the bottle and took a gulp, and prayed the next wedding she attended wouldn’t be her own.
[pm] Hey, this town’s big enough for two necromancers. It’s been forever, we should definitely catch up. When I’m home, I’m over in Oldtown. You’re welcome to stop by— I don’t have any weird ass sigils to keep other casters away from my shit, so I must not be that territorial.
Great question. No clue. It’s kind of offline? It sucks, frankly. Everyone’s impacted one way or another. I’m working on fixing it with some others right now.
[pm] How the tables turn. I still remember you being rather jealous when I began studying reanimation.
If not your home, then somewhere private. There’s something I’d like to show you. I stole have a family book I’ve been trying to decipher, but… it doesn’t behave as it should. The text changes. It would be easier if you saw it yourself.
Is there a source of magic in town? Has something happened to it? I recall my father mentioning that our family once lost access to their abilities after a cemetery under their care was destroyed. It took decades to restore the source, and some abandoned necromancy altogether because of it.
[pm] Kal!! Oh my god, talk about a blast from the past. How have you been? God, it’s been years… can I talk you out of moving to Wicked’s Rest? […]
I’m realizing that sounds territorial- SO happy to hear you’re in town, nothing about you. This is fully about the fact that magic here sucks right now. I haven’t even been able to hands free stir my coffee in weeks. If you need help with something magical, I can try, but until magic’s back online we’re a bit SOL. What’s up?
[pm] You’ve always been territorial, Rose. Though, with any luck, I’ll only be here for a couple of weeks at most. Still, I would like to see you. I can’t recall the last time we did. Would it be alright if I came by your place sometime this week?
What do you mean the magic here sucks? What happened?
[pm] Oh my god! You're the hot Oxford guy! She's was (or is still, I guess! You're engaged!!!) soooo crazy about you. I used to get texts every day about the back of your head or something. And then we stopped And then [...] What's the big news? Is she pregnant? Before her wedding. Whoa. That's so embarrassing for her. Not for me though. Am I invited? We don't really I haven't talked to anyone in my family in I don't I miss her
Anyway, yeah. Sure. Sunday's my birthday so I'm busy (I have plans) (really fun plans) (amazing plans) but any day after? Monday? Tuesday? Wednesday? Stop me if you've heard this one before but... Thursday, even? We could meet at Just Coffee. You sound like someone who would like Just Coffee. Is she going to be ther Is this going to be another intervention about
I didn’t realize your birthday was on Sunday. I’m sure Aurelia would have loved to celebrate with you. What are the plans? If it runs in the family, I imagine it will be quite the occasion.
I’ve recently moved to Wicked’s Rest, so my schedule is rather flexible. When would be convenient for you? And yes, Just Coffee sounds perfectly fine. I’m still getting acquainted with the area, so you pick the place.
"I don’t raise the dead. I manage unfinished business."
SPECIES: Spellcaster
OCCUPATION: Unemployed
AGE: 39 Years Old
PLAYED BY: Andy
FC: Sendhil Ramamurthy
BIOGRAPHY:
Kalabhiti “Kal” Pretayan-Blackwood was born into an Anglo-Indian aristocratic house. His family’s home in North London appeared unremarkable from the street, but its foundations held ash older than the building itself. His great-grandfather had arrived in England carrying a sealed iron vessel wrapped in red cloth. Inside it was cremation ash taken from a burial ground the family had tended for generations. The ash was mixed into the mortar beneath the house during its construction – a foundation ritual meant to anchor the Pretayan archive in a place already steeped in death.
Officially, the Pretayans had once been scholars and mortuary specialists responsible for preserving the dead and recording funerary practices across several regions of South Asia. Unofficially, their work had long blurred the line between ritual and magic. Over generations, their funerary duties evolved into something far more dangerous. The Pretayans became necromancers. Rather than treating necromancy as a crude display of power, the family approached it with almost academic precision. Pretayan necromancers studied resurrection rituals, reanimated corpses when a sacrifice was not provided, and experimented with the delicate balance required to return the dead to life successfully. Failures were documented as carefully as successes. Every experiment – successful or catastrophic – was catalogued.
Kal’s father, Samar Pretayan, continued this tradition with clinical discipline. In public, he was a respected professor of comparative religion who dismissed supernatural belief as cultural symbolism. In private, he conducted necromantic research beneath the house after midnight. His work focused on resurrection rituals and the limits of equivalent exchange – how much life was required to restore another, how precisely wounds could be transferred during magical healing, and why some necromancies succeeded while others produced only mindless reanimated corpses.
Kal’s mother came from a very different lineage. The Blackwoods, of Northern English and Scottish descent, were not necromancers but mediums. For generations their family had produced individuals capable of perceiving and communicating with spirits. Their work involved guiding restless souls away from the living, identifying hauntings caused by violent deaths, and performing exorcisms when the dead refused to move on. Where the Pretayans manipulated death through ritual sacrifice and resurrection, the Blackwoods dealt with the spirits left behind by it.
Kal’s parents met at a conference on mortuary anthropology in Edinburgh. That was the polite version of events. In truth, their union had been arranged long before, a calculated alliance between two families whose abilities complemented one another. The Pretayans studied the body after death. The Blackwoods understood the soul that sometimes lingered beyond it.
Kal was born from obligation rather than affection. As the first son, his future had been decided before he could walk. The family’s necromantic legacy would pass through him. Samar introduced him early to the structure of ritual magic – the sigils used in resurrection rites, the mathematical precision of equivalent exchange, and the terrifying consequences of mistakes. Beatrice’s influence was quieter but no less significant. Though Kal lacked the ability to see spirits himself, he grew up listening to his mother describe them – the confused dead she encountered during séances, the violent spirits her family exorcised, the grief that kept some of them anchored to the world. Between them, Kal developed an obsession with the boundary between life and death. While he inherited his father’s magical aptitude, he did not inherit his mother’s mediumship. He could not see or communicate with spirits – a limitation that frustrated him deeply as a child. His younger sister, however, inherited the Blackwood gift and could perceive what he could not.
Kal left London to pursue a PhD in Anthropology at Oxford, where he could study death and burial traditions without revealing the true nature of his family’s work. There, he met Aurelia Yang, a spellcaster from a well-known alchemist family in the United States. Five years passed, and Kal was ready to propose to her before his father decided it would be more advantageous for the family’s lineage to marry into another necromancer house.
A heated argument ended in cold-blooded murder. Kal returned to the apartment he shared with Aurelia only to find her severed head placed carefully on a silver plate in their kitchen – the rest of her body scattered throughout the Thames. Heartbroken, Kal confronted his father. No remorse came from Samar Pretayan. Blinded by rage, Kal stole his father’s most important possession: a book written by the first Pretayan custodian. He fled the United Kingdom and took refuge in one of his mother’s family homes, a secluded house in the woodlands of Wicked’s Rest. His plan was simple: burn the book and the family’s legacy to the ground. But the longer the book remained in his possession, the more its contents began to consume him. Kalabhiti Pretayan-Blackwood had never been very good at walking away from knowledge.
Kal’s very proud of being a necromancer, though he doesn’t feel the same about his family’s lineage. In his mind, the Pretayan-Blackwoods have grown complacent, content to inherit a legacy they no longer had the will to live up to.
He wears the ring he bought Aurelia on a chain around his neck, both to keep her close and as a reminder that one day he must take revenge on his father and his lineage.
Despite knowing he cannot listen or talk to spirits, every night at midnight, Kal carefully sets Aurelia’s ring beside one of his mother’s spirit boards and attempts to contact her, recording the result of each ritual in a small notebook that, so far, contains nothing. Every night, he feels envious of his younger sister for being able to communicate with spirits.
Kal has a perfect memory for conversations. Even if decades have passed, he remembers small details, tone, exact wording and context of conversations.
He speaks several languages, though he pretends to only speak English. It lets him overhear things and know who people are when they think he can’t understand.
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