so we rode down to the river, where the toiling ghosts spring for their curses to be broken.
DOSSIER • SKELETON • PLAYLIST • PINTEREST • © as penned by nik (28, gmt+8, they/them)
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@theundertakcr
so we rode down to the river, where the toiling ghosts spring for their curses to be broken.
DOSSIER • SKELETON • PLAYLIST • PINTEREST • © as penned by nik (28, gmt+8, they/them)
BILLIAM.
Closed Starter for : @theundertakcr Location: The Parlour
Bill’s eyes narrow at Rahat.
The two of them managed, quite civilly, to maintain a facade of politeness, though Bill is not fooled for one minute, and does not believe that Rahat is, either. They do not say anything, they do not act upon it, but they do not like one another, and that’s all there is to it. The two are far better off when they stay far away from each other.
But then, Mr. Ashton invites them to the same blasted party, and the whole thing is ruined.
Bill takes a puff of his cigar, and deliberately exhales the smoke directly in Rahat’s face. With one hand, he makes a swooping gesture, motioning to his costume.
“It’s not bad, that’s not what I’m saying.” He begins. “It’s just all a bit literally, ain’t it? I mean, Charon. Ferryman of the dead. Have a day off, Ra.” He laughs at his own joke, and the purposeful shortening of Rahat’s name. “Or do you just love playing with dead things so much that you can’t?”
Bill raises the cigar to his lips again. Inhale. Exhale.
“I certainly hope you didn’t pay much for it, anyway. I’m not sure where you found it, but I’ve definitely seen better. Mind you, we all do what we can on a budget. I borrowed mine from The Theatre. Seems frivolous, wasting the amount of money most spend on rent in six months.”
•
BILL NARROWS HIS eyes at Rahat, but Rahat keeps their expression still, waiting for his first zinger of the night. Until now, they’ve done a good enough job of avoiding the man, having learned to distance themself and simply tune his existence out entirely ( a sizable feat, considering what they’d, er, discovered about him last year, thanks to a few certain individuals in their life ), and they’re only disappointed that Mr Ashton’s ball has ruined that streak for them both. They don’t care to show it on their face just yet, though, even when Bill unceremoniously shortens their name, or talks about the outfit Polly had painstakingly made for them.
“Ah, well. I’m nothing if not consistent, Billiam,” Rahat smiles when it’s their turn, the sheepishness put on, mixed with a kind of wry irony that’s almost mocking, albeit very subtly so. It disappears as soon as it had come, their expression masked yet again just as they turn the conversation over to how they had come to acquire their costume. They are not appreciative of the way Bill derides the ensemble, not out of any personal offense but out of offense for the person who'd done most of the work for it. Polly had done a marvelous job, and better too, they think, than most anything a good deal of money could buy.
“Since you’re so curious, this was made for me by a friend,” they answer, vaguely. “No shame in sticking to a budget and making do with what you have around you.”
This time around, Rahat takes a step back and gives the politician a once-over. They’d already seen the outfit, but they make a brief display of thinking about it. “On the other hand, you look positively smashing tonight. A self-aware choice, I dare say.” They nod and look back up at Mr Barker, tilting their head and narrowing their eyes slightly in feigned curiosity, that same wry smile from earlier deigning to make a comeback. “Do you play the fiddle, by any chance?”
ZOYA.
As her gaze sweeps across the ballroom, she’s reminded of the first party she’d ever attended as Zoya Fox. There, she did not attract the attention on her now; she was simply another pretty young thing in a pretty dress that didn’t fit quite right. It had been a test, too—how would she fare, thrown to the wolves not of hunger and grime but of velvet and brocade? August had introduced her around before stepping aside, as if to say, show me what you can do.
( Look at her, standing here. Look at how far she’s come from. Is there better proof than this? )
Similarly to that first ball, she’s faced with a sea of strangers. It causes her no unease; the art of mingling is one she’s perfected since that night of plastering on saccharine smiles and speaking in even more dulcet tones. Be nice. Be sweet. Be everything you’re not. So what is she now? She ponders the question briefly as she laughs at something a masked man has said, and does not come up with an answer.
She feels a set of eyes on her, and when she turns her head just so, she sees someone who might be able to tell her. The world suspends itself for a moment; they don’t move, and neither does she. I looked for you then, she thinks, recalling that first night surrounded by glittering strangers yet feeling utterly alone.
Maybe she is always searching for them; maybe they will always find her.
Then she smiles, and the world moves once more. Slipping away from the masked man, she closes the distance between her and Rahat. “Yes, this is much better than a white sheet.” She reaches out a hand, smoothing down their jacket lapel. It is a gesture she has done countless times before. It has never meant anything. ( Can you pretend it still doesn’t? ) “The cape is a nice touch. It’s not a crown, but it’ll do.”
•
THEY’RE NOT ONE to exaggerate, but for a moment, it had felt as if all of time itself had come to a standstill, as if everyone around them had become frozen in place, fading slowly out of view until only Zoya stood before them, a mere few strides away, looking as stunning as ever. Rahat does feel stunned, the way they haven’t in too long a time. Gazing at her now, they see it clearly, the very thing they’ve been attempting to push away since the nights spent together in her home last November, the two of them mutually in pain over Polly’s disappearance, both at a loss for what to do next. It reveals itself to them, like an old photograph slipping out from between the pages of a long-forgotten journal, and in an instant, Rahat is younger, much younger. And Zoya is too, and as they stand there, they remember.
She is an up and coming actress, a rising star, taking on bigger roles with every passing production, moving closer to the forefront for her curtain calls, earning louder rounds of applause each time, smiling as she bows gracefully onstage. They are a student, still one even after years of schooling already finished, learning as much as they can about the strange and uncanny path they’ve chosen for themself, and they watch her performances, are given special seats now that they’ve mended their friendship, taking some of the best views in the house as her guest. And though they’ve never seen her as anything other than a friend before that moment of realization, something had changed then, in a way that bothered them for how different it was — how unlike them it seemed to feel the way they had felt.
And yet, all too quickly, Rahat had quashed the feeling, had swept it under the rug in denial of it, refusing to allow themself to succumb to the idea. Improbable to begin with, likely to throw a wrench into the connection they’d only just found again, and the whirlwind week of daydreams and visions they’d had of the two of them walking hand in hand by the coast had been all but cast aside for something more real, something more practical. Rahat would not allow themself to fall for her, the way so many other admirers have, and they would not allow themself to become one face among many in the crowd, staring longingly up at someone too bright and distant to reach. And one more time, they endeavor to call to that same conviction now, to stop from falling in, to keep from daring to see her beneath a different light than they always have. Rahat knows their place. Knows precisely where they belong.
Rahat allows for a lopsided smile to come to them as she approaches, everything around them resuming once again as soon as they decide to push their thoughts back. She closes the distance between the two of them, and Rahat sees her in full detail, everything about her meticulously-chosen outfit, her immaculately made hair now closer than it was previously. She reaches out, casually, almost thoughtlessly, to smooth down their outfit, and comments something they’re only disappointed they hadn’t predicted themself. “Polly made it. I deserve none of the credit.” They hold tightly onto the smirk, school their expression, keep their emotions manageable, before briefly tilting their head over to her.
“You look radiant,” they say, at once casually and meaningfully. But Rahat, being Rahat, downplays it with an added remark. “As always, of course.”
POLLY.
Closed Starter for : @theundertakcr Location: The Ballroom
“There you are!”
Polly has been looking for Rahat since they arrived, but with the crowd of impeccably-dressed party goers, the music, the dancing, and the opportunity to explore the largest home they had ever been in, they had been distracted. But now they have spotted them, and there seems nothing more important than enjoying the night together.
So Polly bounds over, face flushed in their excitement. It shouldn’t be a surprise, but when they take in Rahat’s appearance, and note the outfit they had created together, that Polly had spent hours ensuring was absolutely perfect, has indeed been worn for the festivities tonight, their expression breaks into one of complete joy.
“And you wore the outfit!” they exclaim, noting with pride how well it looks on Rahat. “I didn’t think - well, it doesn’t matter. It looks great.” They nod, as though that settles that. “Have you danced yet?” They feel like they could guess the answer with a high degree of certainty, but they ask the question anyway. “I want to, but I don’t know any of the steps. Everyone else seems to.”
•
THEY HEAR POLLY’S voice before they see them, but the moment they do, Rahat’s expression brightens considerably, in a way it doesn’t often do with most other people. Dressed in a delicate, flowery ensemble, Polly bounds over to them — excited, they’re certain, for many reasons tonight but excited in this moment too, they hope, to see them at last. As soon as they’re close enough, Rahat gently runs a hand down the side of her head, careful not to ruin their hair. They seem surprised to see that Rahat had worn the outfit, as though they’d given any indication beforehand that they wouldn’t.
“I don’t see why I wouldn’t have, Polly,” Rahat says truthfully, with a slightly amused, slightly incredulous face, head tilted and eyes narrowed just a bit. The two of them had worked on this together, though perhaps that’s giving Rahat too much credit when it had mostly been Polly who’d done all the heavy lifting. They couldn’t possibly express their gratitude more than they already have. Not wanting to keep the attention on themself for too long, though, they motion to her and her dress immediately after.
“You look absolutely perfect, on the other hand.” The indirect invitation to dance isn’t lost on them either, so they smoothly turn the conversation over to that, offering an arm out for Polly to take. There’s a slight pointedness in the way Polly had brought up dancing, but considering just how addled the last dance they’d had earlier in the evening has left their mind, it’s likely they’re just... overthinking. They don’t answer that question. “Now come along. Can’t have you standing there all night without a partner, can we?”
MAGDALENA.
OPPOSITE — @theundertakcr the main hall, spring equinox ball
Even though it had only been an hour or two since her arrival, Magdalena was diligently waiting for the other shoe to drop; for the bubble of revelry to burst and for the haze of indulgence to catch flame, ushering Mr. Ashton’s artful illusion into decisive implosion and laying its hidden core bare. Yet when it finally happened, it wasn’t in the way Magdalena expected, nor in a way that exposed the true purpose of ball like she had been anticipating.
She sensed an emerging presence from beyond the veil, distinct from all the ones that she had already grasped. It brushed past her senses in a cold, ill-boding trickle, drifting and circling in a free roam that set it apart from the other spirits who, stagnant as they were, seemed to be anchored to objects or individuals within the hall. It unnerved Magdalena to sense it swiftly drifting out of reach, certain as she was of its malignant intent and instinctively suspicious that its abrupt arrival might be linked to the ball somehow.
Aware that many of her friends and acquaintances were present, Magdalena scouted for a familiar face around her; sighing with relief when she laid eyes upon Rahat. She approached them, announcing her presence by gently gripping their elbow. “Rahat… ” She called as she stepped before them so they would face each other, lips parting around a request for their aid that momentarily got derailed once she noted their attire. “Look at you. You clean up nicely. I can’t tell if I’m surprised or not.” She teased with a smile as she trailed her gaze down their form. But then that frigid presence brushed past her again, and her expression sobered, head turning briefly in the spirit’s direction. “I’ve sensed a presence,” She declared as she looked back at them. “I feel that it’s up to no good and I can’t help but wonder if it’s linked to Mr. Ashton somehow.”
TO SAY THEY’VE been waiting this entire time for a more concrete excuse to go exploring at last is by no means an exaggeration. Since arriving, they’ve spoken to a good number of people, danced with a few more ( with one in particular still imprinted in the back of their mind for reasons they’d rather not entertain ), judged ball fashions, sampled the food and finery, and mingled with strangers and friends alike. They had meant to leave the ballroom much earlier in the evening, wanting to explore the manor inside and out like Mr Ashton had proposed they all do, but it’s been difficult moving past the throngs of people in this large ballroom without pushing, especially when there are plenty of friends eager for a chat too.
It’s just as they’re about to step out of the ballroom and into the main hall when they feel a hand softly brushing their elbow, along with a familiar voice calling for their attention. Rahat is unable to turn before the calming, gentle face of their friend, Magdalena, comes into view. They smile, ready to respond, but are stopped as soon as she takes note of their attire, her eyes trailing down to take in their appearance. They note her surprise, stow it away as one of many tonight, as she certainly isn’t the first. They’re most often dressed in black, covered in coats and scarves, practical but always plain, so they’re well aware how much of a change of pace it is for others to see them in gold and silver patterns. They would say without hesitation that Magdalena strikes quite the image herself, in ways that aren’t entirely dissimilar to their own.
“Seems we both had the right idea, coming in black and riddling it with silvers and golds,” Rahat says with a gracious nod. “You’re looking rather stunning yourself as well, Magda.” But it isn’t long, of course, before the mood shifts, and a pall is thrown over their little chat. Rahat isn’t against it, though; much of their recent openness to the supernatural, one they’ve had to search for to better help their friends, has been brought about by time spent with Magdalena, and they would only be more than happy to assist her in anything that needs investigating. “But of course. Please, lead the way. I’ve been itching to get to the bottom of this mysterious ball myself.”
ANDY.
20TH MARCH 1889, WEDNESDAY, EVENING. THE LIBRARY, RAVENSMOOR MANOR. IN COLORFUL 18TH CENTURY GULLIVER™ COUTURE. FT. @theundertakcr.
It wasn’t entirely well-mannered to look a gift horse in the mouth, but there were times when it seemed to be necessary. Case in point: Andy Sharma’s surprising invitation to the Spring Equinox Ball. It had seemed like an adventure when the ostentatious black carriage appeared at his doorstep earlier that afternoon, but the two-hour ride, his fruitless questioning of the masked footman, and his maddeningly opaque conversations with the mysterious strangers had left him with more questions than answers—so he’d taken it upon himself to do a little exploring of his own. which was what led him up multiple staircases to the library, which was… something else.
As Andy stood in the middle of the grand library, he gazed up in awe at the endless rows of leather-bound books and other equipment, from a large globe dotted with scrawled inscriptions to an antique revolving reader. He couldn’t help being reminded of university—though it baffled him now, as it sometimes did, that some people’s earnings outstripped that of an educational institution—and he had just stopped in front of a bookcase with particularly colorful spines, a hand on his chin as he pondered their titles, when he saw the shadow at the corner of his eye move.
“Whoa!” Andy’s heart leapt out of his chest, and he took a step backward, eyes wide, before he recognized the figure— “Oh! Rahat! Didn’t see you there!” Breath escaped him in a nervous laugh, and he held his hand to his chest, heart pounding wildly from the surprise. “You look nice.” Not that he could see beyond the batlike darkness of their cape from this distance, but they had an interesting look to them, and truth be told, he was relieved to see a familiar face. He approached, curiosity and relief getting the better of him. “Who might you be tonight?” he asked, eyes traveling from the undertaker to the books in front of them. “And what are you doing up here all by yourself?”
THOUGH THE IDEA of a hedge maze and a poison garden intrigued Rahat to no end, they couldn’t let themself explore the grounds outside without first looking to see what was in store within the manor itself. Though seeing the library in all its grandness had initially rendered them immobile, it wasn’t long before they began to walk about, poring over the books within the nigh endless row of shelves, looking to see what sort of material the illustrious Mr Ashton would have in his collection. It wasn’t long either before the presence of another came to disrupt the silence of their aimless skimming, and had it not been for the familiar voice that followed, Rahat might have simply nodded and returned immediately to their reading. But this is Anand Sharma, and they can never, never pass up an opportunity to spend some time with Anand Sharma.
“Andy,” Rahat says as they glance over at the photographer, vaguely amused by the way he clutches at his chest, their presence obviously having had quite the effect on him, as it is wont to do. They are also rather surprised to see a cleanshaven face. “You look... younger.” They blink, tilting their head. “Like you’ve aged backwards,” Rahat adds, with a vague gesture towards their mouth, indirectly referring to his marked lack of facial hair. They have to wonder if Andy had done that specifically for the costume.
Rahat gives him a quick onceover at that, top to bottom, and the silhouettes on Andy’s trousers tell them he’s got Lilliputians climbing up his legs. Gulliver, then. In turn, they wordlessly and, at this point, almost mechanically, raise one side of their cloak to reveal Polly’s gold and silver stitching standing out against the black: the shapes and patterns, the ancient vases, the Grecian silhouettes, the skeletal figure with the boat, all of it — they’ve had to do it a few times tonight, for lack of an oar. They don’t really mind not being recognized right away, though; had it been an option not to come tonight in costume, they’d certainly have taken that.
And to his other query, speaking now as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, they respond with a casual, nonchalant, and very straight-faced, “I was searching for the book that would lead me to the library’s secret entrance.”
THE DANCER.
Feeling foolish was an emotion that Prudence was, upsettingly, well acquainted with. her mother had often tell her that the only thing between her ears was an empty space, and she had tried her best to combat that over the years. While the space was now flooded with instructions on how to produce the perfect plié, there was little use for that in day-to-day life. Clearly the other had actual, useful, knowledge. Actual information in their brain that would be of assistance during the humdrum of daily life. All that Prudence was proving to be good for was dancing to a pretty song, in a pretty dress, with her pretty hair.
❛❛How do you know that?❜❜ It did not mean to be an accusation as much as a genuine question of curiosity. Was this what parents were supposed to teach you? Did people really learn that in finishing school? Had she truly gone all these years without the knowledge that the people of London all secretly held? ❛❛Mingle?❜❜ Of course, she knew the meaning of the word, it was not foreign to her, but fruits did not mingle. They sat, until it was time for them to be consumed. That was all. They were inanimate, free of emotion and free of the ability to mingle. ❛❛Oh no, I could not possibly take that from you. You picked that one. I’m sure that I can find one just as suitable.❜❜
❛❛I think the apples are an even bigger risk, no? Unless, of course, you have a trick for picking those too.❜❜ She mused, with a hope that they understood that she was merely teasing, and in fact any help that they could divulge to her ailment of starvation would be greatly appreciated. ❛❛Do you have tips for picking out other produce? Or, better yet, are you available to hire every time I need to restock the larder?❜❜ Though partly in jest, Prudence secretly hoped that they would say yes; they were in fact able to help with the task that she loathed the most about adulthood. That and, of course, bills. But asking them to pay for those, or deal with those, seemed like a step too far, even for her.
THE QUESTIONS COME almost one after the other, and Rahat, used to it thanks to certain characters in their life, waits and patiently continues the task of helping the young woman stave off her hunger. She’s curious to discover how they know about whether or not the pears have gone bad, confused as to why they would use the term mingle to refer to fruits in a bowl — what can Rahat say; they do like to play with their words — and insistent that they ought to take the pear they had chosen for themself. They blink and look down at it, before gently placing it back in the display pile. Suffice it to say, they hadn’t intended to acquire any pears today to begin with, not for anything they plan to partake of in the following days. “I suppose it would be more satisfying if you found one for yourself, yes,” they say quietly.
She asks about the apples next, which makes Rahat snort, because they certainly do think it’s much easier to tell with apples. Her tone would also have them believe she’s joking, which must mean she’s loosened up a bit more now than she’d been previously. They think it appropriate, then, to jest back when she asks about hiring them every time the need for her to restock the larder arises. “You learn many things when you live alone,” they answer, a small laugh punctuating their sentence. “Most every day knowledge such as this is gained in the moment, as you experience it. As a much younger person, I’ve had to ask others when I was uncertain as well.”
Rahat is sure they’ve been in situations somewhat similar to this in the past, having had to ask for assistance when there was nobody around to guide them through things. As much of a joke her offered had seemed to them, they’d be happy to help should they chance upon her here again. But the thought of being hired for it is... a little funny. “I assure you, I don’t need the extra work — but I do live nearby and come here every few weeks to restock. I don’t doubt we’ll see each other here again.”
GILLY.
starter for: @theundertakcr location: poison garden time: early evening
Gilly can’t say he’s surprised to chance upon a poison garden in his self-guided tour of the grounds. The peculiarities of their host, after all, is certain to extend to the manor itself. A poison garden is a rather curious amenity, but he figures it’s no less strange than the ornate carriages Mr. Ashton had used to pick them up, the masked footmen and servants waiting to receive them, and the mysterious patrons in attendance. That night, he is receptive to any and all surprises that may come, even if it means suspending some of his own need for explanations—a rare, and perhaps unrepeatable, feat.
Save for the idle chatter of some patrons to his side, this part of the grounds is markedly quiet, in stark contrast to the hubbub of the ballroom. He’s walking aimlessly around the garden when he finally spots a familiar face amid the sea of strangers. Gilly has not seen them in months—and fortunately, their costume does not take him too long to figure out, the gold accessory around their shoulders fitted to resemble what he assumes should be Charon’s obol. A role fitting for the undertaker. “Charon?” He says, in lieu of Rahat’s own name. “You’ve finally come to pick me up, I suppose. I shall be careful not to prick my fingers in any of these plants, then.”
•
HOW INTERESTING, THEY think, that this Mr Ashton — still quite the enigma, and no amount of sleuthing about in the house has changed this — would have an entire garden dedicated solely to poisonous plants. Seems a little too on the nose, as though the man were purposely making himself appear particularly suspicious, but that’s a mystery they’ve no facts enough to solve. They suppose it only makes sense that not very many would choose to linger here when the party goes on in full swing within the manor itself, so Rahat takes the opportunity for some peace and quiet. They don’t want to assume Professor Gilly de Leon had come here for much of the same reasons, but Rahat is glad for their serendipitous meeting. They’re glad, too, for how easily he recognizes his costume; in the absence of an oar, they’ve had to show the patterns beneath their cloak before the answer could click.
“Smart,” Rahat comments as they approach him, quietly realizing in the moment that this has to be first they’ve seen of one another since the Frost Fair last December — the first, too, since his sudden disappearance, on a trip far away from London, something he hadn’t exactly cared to warn people about, as they’d later on discovered. They don’t mind so much, though. Gilly had been thoughtful enough to send them a postcard while he was away; even had they known he’d be out of town, they wouldn’t have expected one. Pleasant surprise, that. “Correct on all accounts, Guillermo. Keep yourself safe from what could possibly bring you to me.” The slightest of winks is given to him, a sort of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it response in the dark. Their expression immediately changes to one of regret, however. “I’m afraid yours escapes me, but something about it is ringing a very faint bell.”
NASIRA.
closed: @theundertakcr location: the refreshment table, early evening.
nasira arrived at the lemonade table, and reached out and take one glass of lemonade. she’d already had three glasses of lemonade that evening, but it was hot in the ballroom— it was always hot in ballrooms—and she was thirsty again. she downed the glass in one go, thinking that this mister ashton deserved no less than her emptying all of his lemonade for having the nerve to invite her to this ball. especially after the trouble she’d gone through to secure arthur’s account of the evening only for her to end up here as well.
“don’t you just love when things don’t go your way?” she queries, a touch of irony in her voice when she graces rahat with a small smile. “it’s good to come across a familiar face at least. and your costume…” she frowns, confusion flashing across her features. “pray tell, who are you supposed to be?”
"MM. MY CONDOLENCES, Miss Attali,” Rahat responds to her particularly dry opening remark. The two of them know each other on a professional capacity, with Rahat being undertaker tasked to handle most Whitechapel deaths, and Nasira being journalist, working to find sources and material for stories like the Ripper’s. They’re not surprised to find her here when a good deal of their acquaintances already are. They take a sip from their own glass before entertaining her query about their costume.
“Here’s a clue, I suppose.” They lift one side of their cloak open to reveal the intricate gold and silver designs Polly had stitched meticulously upon the black fabric: patterns and symbols copied off old Greek pottery, vases and human silhouettes, and, rather prominently, a skeletal figure on a boat, rowing across a geometric River Styx. Rahat smiles slightly, before letting the cloth fall over the outfit once again, much preferring the subdued appearance that having the cape on affords them. “I could have brought an oar,” they continue casually, “but it would’ve been too much trouble to carry around.” Not that they even have one lying around.
TOSHIRO.
closed: @theundertakcr location: ballroom timeline: early evening
As he listens to Mr. Ashton, Toshiro rubs his thumb and forefinger against each other, a tell of nervous energy he has not held since he began as a vigilante.
Most of his two hour ride was spent tracking which trails were taken, peeking at the landscapes and feeling the sway of the carriage. The mental map wouldn’t be of much help, but it was better than nothing should something happen. And he’s certain something will. Yours in good faith means little when he’s witnessed the worst in people.
But as Mr. Ashton opens his home to the festivities, Toshiro casts his gaze across the crowd again, trying to connect names to faces. He doesn’t stop until he sees a familiar figure. And he should keep alert, remain vigilant, but his focus narrows and his feet carry him toward one of the few he deems a friend.
“Rahat,” he calls once he draws closer, gently removing his mask for the other to recognize him. “I didn’t realize you were invited, but what a relief you were.”
•
IT’S HARD TO tell what, out of everything that’s come to pass, is most uncanny about tonight — the fact that every single one of the invitees have all been sent carriages to carry them here ( Rahat cannot and does not want to imagine the expenses paid for such a grand arrangement ), the extremely quiet ride, the unfamiliarity of the terrain and the manor, the mysterious masked host himself speaking to them now from a balcony above the ballroom. There’s clearly no shortage of strangeness in the circumstances surrounding this ball, and while many people seem excited by the prospect of a little vagueness, Rahat finds themself feeling wary. Casually wary, of course, and more than a bit curious too, but... wary. Careful.
They’re not the only one, it appears. As soon as the buzz breaks out from after Mr Ashton’s speech, the crowd begins to disperse, familiar faces finding one another in the darkly decorated ballroom — and one familiar face in particular, so often twisted in doubt and cautiousness, approaches them first.
Rahat smiles even before Toshiro speaks, delighted to see him but ultimately unsurprised to, just as they’d postulated, find a close associate in this overall bizarre and puzzling party. The costume he has on is certainly quite striking too. “Admittedly, I did think it either a misprint or a practical joke when I first saw the invitation. Who would want an undertaker in their celebration?” they jest dryly, falling into the usual pattern of relaxed self-deprecation. “It’s good to see you here too, Toshiro.” They give him a quick once over. “Marvelous costume, by the way. You’ll have to tell me all about it.”
ANTHONY.
open to everyone
After growing significantly bored by watching people dance in the ballroom, Anthony takes Mr. Ashton’s words about exploring the manor to heart—he slips out on his own and heads for the staircase, climbs up until he’s satisfied and sets off to investigate every single unlocked room on his way. There are many of those—bedrooms, studies, he even finds a nursery, even though it does not look very enticing. Were he a child, he’d probably find it terrifying.
A bright smile stretches across his face as he enters another room and finds a piano there. The lights are on, there’s wine and glasses on the table right next to the instrument, as if this room has been waiting for someone—for him—to make use of it. Anthony wastes now time. He leaves the door open; not that he’s looking for an audience but if someone should want to listen, he wouldn’t mind. He takes a seat at the bench and presses a few keys to see how they will respond. It sounds like home.
Anthony finishes a song and then finally notices that some audience has actually come around. He gives them a warm smile, turns towards them on the bench in an invitation to a conversation. “Does that sound any better than what is being played in the ballroom?”
•
BEING A SILENT yet staunch supporter of the theatrical and performing arts, Rahat only knows of the man, and not the man personally. They are aware that his musical talents lie beyond that of ordinary renown, have heard whispers that his career could have been much bigger, much grander than what it is now, but they are far from being in a position to say anything conclusive about it. They don’t exactly want or feel like they need to either, when they’re simply happy to hear music of this caliber in whatever capacity.
They count themself lucky that they’re even here now to see this. Rahat has lost track of how far they’ve wandered and where they’ve gone and who they’ve bumped into, but they’re glad to have chanced upon this performance, relaxed and simple as it is compared to anything a full orchestra could do in the Theatre Royal. They stand by the doorway, leaning against the frame with their arms crossed, silently watching and listening, and when the piece ends, the virtuoso turns in his seat on the piano bench to face them. With a smile on his face, he asks Rahat a question, to which the undertaker only nods and responds easily, quietly.
“It does. Your arrangements have a certain charm to them that most other renditions don’t.” They nod to emphasize their point, still in their place by the door. “I consider myself fortunate to have witnessed it. Thank you.”
A letter addressed to the office of
A letter to the esteemed
A letter to
Dear
A letter for one Rahat Zaman,
Hello, I am Dorothy Wei Zhou, the author. I don’t know if you’ve heard of me but I wrote those detective novels that were quite popular recently. I highly recommend reading them myself but I may be a bit biased in saying that. Hoping to write my next series soon, perhaps it should be a collection of some sorts instead? Though I suppose it would work better as a book of vignettes. Do you know what vignettes are? I’m not assuming that you don’t. It’s just that, not too long ago, I wasn’t quite sure of what they were either. So there’s no shame in it if you don’t…Oh! I should really mind my manners better. I completely forgot to inform you of why I’m sending you this letter in the first place. Silly me.
Well, I, Dorothy Zhou- Am sending you this letter in nothing but good faith. I have just had one of the-if not the most, amazing ideas known to man. They’ll talk about this in the history books, I can assure you of that. Though I am being purely optimistic here. Can’t expect anything good if you don’t hope for the best, is what my mother always tells me. Anyways, I formally invite you to embark on this journey with me, one of discovery and also exploration. Not to make it sound so dramatic but I would like to put emphasis on what I wish to do here. So I really do hope you read this letter earnestly.
I am not interested solely in the secrets of Whitechapel. I do not wish to formulate gossip columns for the judgmental eyes of the more privileged. But I wish to give a voice, and some semblance of enjoyment, to those who are carrying a weight larger than they can manage. I am selfish still, because I crave to hear these stories for my own benefits. I feel hunger in a way that is not normal and should I continue to starve, I do not find myself ever wanting to pick up a pen ever again. I am not pleading with you, though my tone is one of desperation, but I am asking if you would be interested in joining me. Because I believe you may have a lot to say, a lot to give me, in a sense.
If I am correct, you’ve had close relations with the tragic case concerning the Ripper that’s been terrorizing Whitechapel. Maybe that’s not the right way to word that, though I do know you’ve been commissioned to do work for the victims and while I thank you for this work. I would also like to discuss a few things with you concerning it. I will not give any more in terms of specifics, but I do hope this is enough to hold your intrigue. And perhaps, answer me back.
Best regards,
Dorothy Zhou.
#relatable
FT. ZOYA FOX ( @mvsquerade ) | PART 1. ballroom, very early in the party
THEY’VE SEEN A good number of familiar faces by now, have even spoken to some of them, to guess costumes and trade theories on Mr Ashton and the manor, to discuss the bizarre carriages and the ride here, but for the most part, Rahat hasn’t found their footing in this party. There are several people they’re expecting to be here, in part because they know they’ve been invited, but also because it seems the string of mysterious events that have plagued London of late appear to be targeting more or less the same set of individuals every time. They’ve a list in their head of friends and associates to search for, some at the forefront of their mind more than others — so they won’t deny how quickly their ears perk up when they hear someone make mention of a very particular name.
It starts when one person whispers about her to another, urging their companion to look at her outfit, come see what she’d dressed herself as, and it isn’t long before a few more heads turn, necks craning to see the actress. Zoya Fox’s reputation has always preceded her, and Rahat hadn’t doubted she’d make waves in the party with her outfit plans, but they can’t help but scoff a bit anyway, even as they turn to try and spot her within the crowd of people milling about inside the ballroom. It’s a large space, though they hadn’t strayed too far from the entrance, likely hoping to run into someone they knew well enough to stick with in the meantime, and it seems they’ve finally found just the person.
After their picnic together at the park, Rahat's expecting to see Aphrodite or the Queen of Sheba, however she means to interpret them, because that’s precisely what she’d said before, and they remember. That’s not quite what they see, though. Thinking about it, they’re not so sure who they’re seeing, not exactly, but it doesn’t matter so much anyway when she appears to have attracted the attention of plenty nearby, regardless of how recognizable she is. Rahat has ideas, but they don’t know, their mind doesn’t seem to be working at the moment no matter how hard they’re trying to make it function, so inexplicably addled now by how striking Zoya Fox looks a few paces away from them. They don’t say a word, don’t move an inch, and simply look, unsure if they’re waiting for her to notice them, unsure if they should be calling her name or approaching.
FT. LIONEL MORRIS ( @orionshunt ) | a table in the ballroom, early in the evening
TABLE MATES CAME and went, but Rahat stays for the most part, not necessarily in the mood for much active socialization. Their mind is distracted still, playing over certain events that had happened earlier on in the night, and while they do partake in conversation with those who happen to come by and sit with them, they don’t stand and search for more new companions. They’re certain they’ll want to leave and wander the manor at some point, curious to see what lies behind Mr Ashton’s open invitation to explore the grounds, but for now, they’d rather sit and watch a while longer. One more random conversation, then, and they’ll go.
It isn’t long when another one comes by, occupying a chair on the other end of the table; they won’t be surprised if he hadn’t noticed them sitting there, blending in with the dark, gothic decorative structures within the ballroom. Rahat takes the time to greet. “Good evening,” they start, looking over at the gentleman, tilting their head at his rather unique appearance, though for the most part trying to place their outfit. They’ve a vague idea, but they’ve been wrong in their guesses twice or thrice a few times earlier in the night. Better to ask and be sure. “May I know who it is I’m having the pleasure of sharing a table with?”
FT. DAYANITA DAVALBHAKTA ( @dayanitas ) | a table in the ballroom, early in the evening
RAHAT HAS ALWAYS considered themself the sort to mind their own business, never having been the type to talk about other people behind their back unless absolutely necessary ( and only for valid reasons ), but it’s hard to hold their tongue at an event like this, and with the company that they're keeping. While the “costume” aspect had been a tad bothersome for them personally, it seems most folk don’t feel the same, and they’ve far underestimated how seriously other people would take it. They’ve never seen a more colorful-looking bunch in their life. So colorful, in fact, that some of tonight’s attendees may have gone on to look nothing short of silly.
They don’t deign to say any of this aloud, of course, but Dayanita, dear sweet Dayanita whose tongue can sometimes cut as sharp as a knife, doesn’t mince words. The two of them sit beside one another, some time after the festivities first commenced, on a table by the dancefloor, watching people in costume as they pass by. They would say perhaps watching isn’t the right word, considering what was just uttered about a passing gentleman in a rather gaudy-looking outfit a moment ago.
“Don’t be harsh, Dayanita,” Rahat says, grinning slightly. “It takes a sizable amount of temerity to show up in public dressed like that. We should be honoring him.”
secret meetings with my lover