" I'm flattered by your generous offer, Mr. Reeves: will your wife be joining us? Perhaps she has stories of her own.""Regrettably there is no Mrs Reeves, a chapter of my life still left unwritten I suppose; a soldiers life followed by the demands of business I'm afraid. Enough of all that drudgery, I don't wish to bore"
"As I say, the unusual nature and details of the play are of some interest to me, being a bit of a hobbyist into the extraordinary - I'd adore a more full account of your experiences and that of your fellow cast and thought perhaps a later date would have been advanatgeous as you'd have time to recollect after tonights taxing turn of events"
"Oh, I see.,"replies Jean,"I had simply imagined that a distinguished gentleman like yourself would have to be married. If you're looking for a test subject to study I may be convinced to fill the role. Are you a spiritualist, Mr. Reeves? Seances and such?"
Martin nods to the bruise developing on Victor's face. "Much of the audience was inspired to violence at the close of your play, Mr...I'm sorry, I don't believe I caught your full name."
"At any rate, sir, some of the members of the audience had to be physically restrained to prevent further violence to others. Quite shocking, really. One would think he were in the 'Wild West', rather than the decidedly more civilized environs of London."
"Oh, how rude of me.", says the young man,"I'm Walter Paige, I was Cassilda's elder son in the play. This is Mr. Gillen, he was the Stranger. He and Mr. Estus are quite close."
"And not just because we share an apartment."jokes Michael.
Both men shake hands with Martin. You recognize now that Michael Gillen speaks with an American accent, with some slight British inflections creeping in.
Art (Writing):
Individual conversation dissolves once Mr. Poole discloses the extent of the riot after the show. Everyone gathers in a group now, a little knot in the middle of the lobby.
"Oh, how awful!", exclaims Hannah.
"I could never imagine!", says her husband George in probably the most excited voice you've heard from him, even during the play.
"I should certainly hope no one was hurt!,"remarks Ms. Hewart.
"No wonder he's arguing with Mr. Noble.", says Walter.
Hearing of the strange symbol...
"Indeed, where is the chap from costuming? Curious about that symbol. Seemed a tad important, perhaps he could fill us in on what it was about?"
The young Mr. Paige says,"The Scala let us use some of the house costumes for the production; The Group is an amateur theater troupe, after all. But I believe Michael's costume was brought by Mr. Estus..."
Michael Gillen nods. "Yes, Talbot had a tailor put that together. He found the mask about a year ago in an antique shop here in the theater district, back when he first started adapting for the stage. I haven't any idea what the symbol means: I know it's important to the source material, but it's providence is unknown to me."
Martin nods. "I was quite fascinated by that symbol as well. I'd be intrigued to learn if there's some historical significance to it, though it's certainly possible that it's absolutely meaningless. At any rate, I am curious: your performance was quite moving in ways I could not satisfactorily put to words, a frustrating admission for a writer such as myself. Was performing it moving in a similar fashion, or simply the ordinary experience of an artist displaying his craft?"
The Bostonian inhales deeply on his cigar and peers interestedly at the performers through a haze of smoke.
"Very kind words, Mr. Poole.", says Jean, the rest of the cast nods to that.
"It was a... rather intense experience,"says Walter, glancing between Martin and his feet,"Perhaps because of the... surreal quality of it, it speaks to the subconscious in certain ways?"
He shrugs.
"It's out of my depth, really."
Psychology:
Hannah and George turn toward the doors and the rest of the cast follows their gaze. Mr. Estus, the tanned man with the mustache and dark hair is walking toward the gathering. The cast begins to applaud him as he comes forward and he nods graciously. He takes a glass of red wine from the refreshment table and holds it up in a gesture of toast. He speaks with an American accent, with a slight southern drawl here and there. As he speaks, he gestures grandly with his free hand.
"Thank you all so much. I'm sure all of you are aware of the disturbance tonight at the close of the performance. I can assure you that in adapting this play, the thought had crossed my mind that our labors would produce an extreme reaction. BUT! It is my ardent belief that all true art should inspire fervor! In a matter of time, and this I truly believe, plays such as our production will be seen as the pinnacle of achievement! Do not let the critics dissuade you, for we must be daring and continue our dedication to bringing the public more than mere entertainment! More than warmed-over Shakespeare, more than complacency! Tonight, we are all pioneers and I am certain that future performances shall vindicate all of your hard work! Please, an ovation for our marvelous cast!"
Beyond the cast, only the four of you remain of the audience. If there's to be any ovation it will be up to you to provide it...
Victor applauds the cast with an approving smile.
"Very well put Mr. Estus."
Victor turns to the cast.
"The performance and the show itself were invigorating and I am pleased to have been apart of it as both a contributor and an observer. Well done."
Victor looks back over to Talbot
"We were just discussing that intriguing yellow sign emblazoned on Mr. Gillen's costume. I found it to be very striking and we were wondering what the origins of it were."
"Oh, I see.,"replies Jean,"I had simply imagined that a distinguished gentleman like yourself would have to be married. If you're looking for a test subject to study I may be convinced to fill the role. Are you a spiritualist, Mr. Reeves? Seances and such?"
"Then the matter is settled, tomorrow we shall have a relaxed meal in a comfortable establishment, and you may fill me in on the minutiae of your experience. I'm not much of a spiritualist, I'm more into understanding how our minds work, and how their thoughts and desires shape our reality, though I always maintain an open mind as not everything has a valid explanation. Anyhow, enough of all that now, this is your evening to celebrate your stellar performances... indeed here comes the man of the hour now"
On Estus's approach.
"Bravo old chap, Bravo!. That audience reaction was startling, extraordinary - what genius to inspire such pandemonium!
Spencer applauds on cue.
Spencer is far too obviously wrapped in paying attention to the bright starlet to be paying much attention to the 'less scintilating' members of the troupe.
Martin applauds warmly as Mr. Estus approaches, and applauds the cast again at Estus' invitation.
"Well, my dear sir, it was an invigorating performance. I stand, as ever, an admirer of your skill." He extends his hand. "Martin Poole. Such a pleasure to meet you at last."
After Estus' speech, Lucian claps cautiously. He sips his cup of tea slowly, gathering his thoughts in the hubbub of chatter. He does chime in to Victor's question. "And if you think Victor here found it striking, you should have seen the looks on some of the less hardy audience members," Lucian quips. He extends his hand to Estus as well, a wide smile he doesn't quite feel on his face - he is yet uneasy over his recent episode. "Lucian McAllistair. Charmed."
He receives the accolades with a bow. Estus shakes Victor's hand in both of his. The author/playwright's gaze never leaves the set builder's eye. He speaks in short excitable bursts.
"Victor! We could not have accomplished this without you! When I stepped onto that stage, I felt myself transported entirely and I'm certain that I speak for all of us when I say that."
At Martin's introduction, he takes the author's hand in much the same manner.
"AH! Martin! I am so pleased you have come, we can finally meet! You must give me your honest opinion of the play later, spare me nothing!"
He shakes Lucian's hand and nods to Spencer.
"Thank you, Mr. McAllistair, for your candor. Perhaps you would like to spend a moment and I can tell you all about the play's genesis, eh?"
Mr. Gillen hovers close by as Talbot begins to speak.
Psychology (again):
"Ah, the Yellow Sign. A very important part of the story and a most illusive cypher. The Sign itself has no known analog among all the peoples of the world- it is not documented at all in any of the anthropological journals on view at the British Museum. Much like the play itself, its origin lies with the source material, The King In Yellow."
Estus is leaning close as he tells the story, his voice falling into ominous tones as he discusses the play, the Sign and the book. He scowls and gestures, enraptured in weaving the story.
"I adapted this play, you see, from The King In Yellow, which owes its origins to Thomas de Castaigne, a frenchman. The book was published during the Third Republic, amid great scandal. Castaigne was considered a bit mad, you see, and some say he had royal blood as well. He believed that his own cousin, Louis, was plotting against him shortly before he wrote The King In Yellow. When Louis announced that he was going to wed a young lady believed to also be of noble lineage, Thomas feared the his cousin was planning a coup against him. Deranged as he was, he set in motion his plans to murder his cousin with the assistance of a man he had blackmailed. Unfortunately for him, Louis was a gendarme and easily dispatched his assailant. Thomas was summarily taken away to a prison asylum, there to languish the rest of his days. But somehow, the manuscript of The King In Yellow got out. Perhaps he scrawled it during his lucid moments on purloined vellum he had squirreled away. Or a servant slipped him the materials through the window in his cell. Regardless, months later the volume was published in Paris."
"It caused an uproar- riots, insanity, mayhem in the streets, all because of this one book. The French government moved swiftly, banning the book and burning every copy they could find... but for a few that escaped. Two years ago, I found an English translation during my own search for inspiration. I'll tell you, Martin, not an infertile day has passed since I read that volume, emblazoned with the Yellow Sign. It's informed my work daily since I've read it- I truly believe that my life's work is to bring the mad genius of The King In Yellow to my readers. I've read it perhaps twenty times now and my work has never been more driven, more insightful!"
Estus rubs his hands together briskly. He glances toward the theater doors.
"Excuse me a moment.", he says.
Talbot walks briskly for the doors. You can observe him peaking his head out into the cold night, glancing toward the sky or perhaps the neighboring roofs. He then turns around, closing the door, and walks back toward the reception.
Spencer notes Mr Gillen hovering, and his demeanour...
"Sir I believe all the lunacy for the evening has passed, or does something else perturb you? Rest assured you are in solid company now, no one shall burst in to cause you harm"
"Well Mr Estus, I do admire your work and the strong emotions it provokes, and thank you for enlightening me on the origin of that sign, I hadn't seen its likeness before and was wondering if it was some icon from a distant colony... it seemed to stir much of the crowd. fascinating story too, about Mr Castaigne, its one I hadn't heard".
At a lull, Spencer collects his coat from the cloakroom, and while he is there (if not being observed by the actors) pokes his head outside to see what Estsus may have been looking for, then returns to jeans side.
Martin strokes his beard thoughtfully, both intrigued by the inspiration Talbot seems to have derived from the manuscript and a little concerned. "Madness and riots in the streets of Paris?" He shakes his head. "Not unlike what happened here. What is it about this story that infects the audience so?"
He takes a deep swallow from his brandy and shivers.
"Why, Estus," Lucian asks, "are you seeing whether you've incited riots? It's only opening night, you may have to wait as much as a week to match de Castaigne's notoriety."
Contradicting his light and joking tone, his face is a little pale after Estus' description of the riots and madness so similar to what he's heard of his own. He nudges Martin when he sees the brandy. "I wouldn't say no to a nip of that right now," he mutters quietly. "Take the edge off of the feeling of history repeating, hmm?"
Victor listens on intently at first. Drinking in the intriguing story of Thomas de Castaigne. Then, when Talbot begins to relay his own experiences with the book, Victor's stomach begins to turn. The similarities between his own dreams and Talbot's obsession with the book become a bit much to bear.
Is this where my own path is to lead? Victor thinks to himself, recalling Talbot's occasional break downs and odd bouts of rambling.
Is this the price that my mind will pay, if I continue to embrace these dreams?
Victor's train of thought is broken when he notices the playwright peak out the door, then notes Mr. Gillen's odd demeanor.
"Are we expecting anyone else Talbot?" Victor asks, casting a suspicious glance between Gillen and Estus.
Michael responds while Estus returns.
"Oh no, no. Not at all. Talbot's merely... preoccupied with the weather. This unseasonable chill and all, it wouldn't be surprising to see some flurries on the way home would it?"
"Indeed.", says Mr. Estus as pulls on a pair of glasses from his breast pocket. You can see there are two more contained within as well. "Expanding my audiences' horizons are my sole concern: I can assure you that only fictitious mayhem is on my agenda, Mr. McAllistair."
Mr. Estus scowls in thought before answering Martin's question.
"As to the unseemly affect it has upon certain audiences, I should think that perhaps some part of the play works to stimulate the subconscious mind through suggestion- perhaps out talented troupe is far too skilled for our own good, eh? I had thought that a more modern audience would be more... receptive to the play in it's own merits but I suppose I was mistaken."
Spot Hidden:
Psychoanalysis (if spot hidden is made):
Spencer:
George and Hannah Keith say their goodnights, Hannah planting a kiss on Jean's cheek in the continental fashion before gathering their coats.
"I'm sure Hannah's mother would like to go home: we really should go check on the children. Good night, thank you all for coming!", says George.
"Well, the fact that the French had riots and we just had a small outbreak of fisticuffs speaks wonders towards the greater constitution of the King's lands," Lucian jokes. "In America, they would probably have another full-blown revolution."
Halfway to offering Lucian a taste of his brandy, Martin frowns at Lucian and shakes his head. "Those are my countrymen you speak of, sir," he says in a low voice. "Do not speak so poorly of them. After all, as I am American myself, I did not momentarily take leave of my senses as some here had." He raises his eyebrow quite pointedly at the younger man.
He returns his attention to Talbot. "Perhaps you're right. I have often thought that you are a man ahead of one's time." He smiles.
"But tell us more of this 'King in Yellow.' Is it a reference to some classical figure? The term is not familiar to me."
Victor barley manages to restrain a chuckle at Lucian and Martin's exchange but then looks on to Talbot, eager to hear more about this King in Yellow.
Talbot stares into his claret as he speaks.
"The King In Yellow and the Yellow Sign are linked; beyond that, little else is certain. He is not an allegory; at least, not for any earthly sovereign."
He looks up, eyes bright and intense.
"You have all seen the play. What do you believe he represents?"
"Damnation," Lucian says simply. "The terrible corrupting touch of absolute power, on both the wielder and those caught underfoot. It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God, if I may quote briefly." He looks around to the others, to hear their analyses.
"Damnation," Lucian says simply. "The terrible corrupting touch of absolute power, on both the wielder and those caught underfoot.
[b]"Quite right, quite right indeed - I feel much inclined to agree with your observations, but would add that the damnation also came with a slight taint of corruption, something slightly less than...human"
"I believe that the King in Yellow represents madness." Victor speaks up.
"But not just any madness, the degradation of the mind, brought on by the mundane tedium of ordinary life."
"...or perhaps brought on by something else entirely and made manifest through the feeling of meaninglessness and hopelessness."
"I am inclined to agree with each of you gentlemen," Martin says, his eyes thoughtful. "But I also think that the King represented transformation in some sense. His coming, the price of ambition, the madness that overcomes those who seek beyond their ken, all leading to a transformation into something more. Or perhaps less. At any rate, a change to something...other."
His own words seems to trouble him and realizing that he'd finished his cigar, he hastily removed another and lit it, drawing the sweet smoke deeply into his lungs.
Talbot nods. His voice and actions become more forceful as he speaks.
"Yes, astute observations all. The King is fluid- he is madness, he is change, he is inspiration, he is tyranny and liberty all at once. Corruption, yes, but also the manic energy of creation. Not a man as we know men, confined to identity; he is the herald that represents himself, he is a place, he is an idea. That is how I have known the King."
Michael Gillen has placed a hand on Talbot's shoulder. He looks a bit concerned.
"Enthralling as ever, my friend, but it is getting rather late isn't it...?"
"The hour does quickly grow to the indecent, quite slipped by in all the excitement, and I am sure you must all be exhausted"
Spencer turns to Jean,
"I hope you do not consider my manner too forward, but from when and where should I collect you early tomorrow evening so that we may dine and you may regale me with the tales of your entertaining drama and I may live thus vicariously through them?"
After that, Spencer starts seeing what movements the others migth be making in the direction of home.
"True indeed, Michael, it's getting quite late. Would hate to see such 'manic energy of creation' stifled by something so trifling as a lack of sleep, hm?" Lucian gives a wry smile. "Though I wouldn't say no if anyone else were inclined to a nightcap, perhaps discussed some more themes while the memories were still fresh..." he adds, looking ruefully at Martin's denied flask.
Martin nods thoughtfully at Talbot's description of the King and is a little startled by the notion that it's late.
"It's still early enough for me. I would certainly be open to a drink or two in good company." He glances at Lucian. "So long as there are no further insults to one's countrymen, at least." He smiles to show that he is willing to let bygones be bygones.
"The hour does quickly grow to the indecent, quite slipped by in all the excitement, and I am sure you must all be exhausted"
Spencer turns to Jean,
"I hope you do not consider my manner too forward, but from when and where should I collect you early tomorrow evening so that we may dine and you may regale me with the tales of your entertaining drama and I may live thus vicariously through them?"
After that, Spencer starts seeing what movements the others migth be making in the direction of home.
Ms Hewart provides an address not terribly far from the theater in Kensington, West London. A rather upscale neighborhood.
"I shall look forward to it, Mr Reeves. Good night, everyone! Thank you for coming!", Jean says as she departs."I suppose you're right, Michael. It has been an eventful evening. Martin, please don't be a stranger. I would be thrilled if you wished to drop in and talk shop sometime.", says Estus, pulling on his coat and a (rather unfashionable) panama hat.
Everyone is saying their goodbyes, it's about 11:30. What are you gentlemen planning to do?
"I would certainly be up for a night cap if you gentlemen were inclined. It's been an interesting evening and I'm in no hurry to see it end. Does anyone have a local haunt that they would recommend?"
"Then the matter is settled, let us withdraw to the nearest establishment of repute and enjoy the rest of the evening, the weather be damned. I could use a slightly stiffer drink than all this tea."
Spencer pulls on his coat and collects up his cane.
With goodbyes concluded, everyone disperses into the frigid October night. It's only a short walk to The Red Lion around the corner- the hotel bar is still open, its furnishings tastefully antique. You may check your coats and hats once more (Spencer insisting again, it can only be assumed, to hang his own coat) and take seats at a wooden table bathed in warm gaslights and candles. A waiter takes your drink orders, lights your cigars and sees to any other needs you may have. The bar is perfumed with cigar smoke and its more acrid cousins as other gentlemen discuss politics on the continent; an inclusive sense of nationalism is gaining a foothold in Italy after their poor fortunes in the Great War. Younger gentlemen nearer the bar debate the merits of Lang's film from last year . The hellish weather, naturally, marks most of the initial conversation.
"Well that was a rather exciting show, and what a cracker of an ending! Rather excitable audience I do say. I do wager that old Estus might want to think about how he manages any future showings, could be rather hazardous to his good health".
"Or to the audience's good health," Lucian says wryly. He signals a waiter over and quietly orders a mulled wine, in tribute to the weather.
After a moment's pause, where he appears to be lost in thought, he looks around to the others. "As one gentlemen to his companions..." he begins nervously. "During the play, I lost not only my senses, but also apparently my memory. What exactly happened in there? If that is what is going to happen to any audience that attends that play, we might want to compare my curious case to anyone else that... reacts poorly."
"Did it almost seem to you that Talbot expected such a reaction?
Although it seems silly to think that he would know how to predict such a thing... let alone induce it." Victor looks over to Lucian
"Well the first that I noticed Lucian, was you careening into a pile of chairs. It looked as though you had hurt yourself, so I attempted to give you help to your feet. You began to yell something about the king in yellow. At first, I thought that you had struck your head in the fall, so I tried to snap you out of it. That.. was when you gifted me with this. Victor points to the bruise on his cheek. Luckily for me, you sir, are no Jack Dempsey! Victor adds with a smile as he sips his scotch.
"I almost feel slighted I missed the details people found so evocative, I did enjoy the play tremendously, and admired the artistry, though I wasn't that moved. Perhaps I need to catch the next sitting"
"This time I'll be ready for the stoush at the end though!spencer remarks with a grin.
If it's available, Martin orders an Irish whiskey rather than brandy and quaffs the first one rather quickly.
"I am unsure what to think of the play, myself." He admits as he raises his hand for another. "I've long been an admirer of Talbot's work and often found it to be quite brilliant. But this...well, it was considerably less than rational, the response of some of the audience members not withstanding. I confess that I did not quite understand a great deal of it. The message...perhaps...but not entirely how it relates to the principle characters."
The sky has cleared over London, though the air is even more frigid than before. As you say your goodbyes and head home, your eyes cannot help but be draw to the skies above where the stars are visible now that the city lights are low. Taurus fixes Orion with a baleful glare, its red-orange eye blazing. Chill winds tug at your coat tails on the walk to your autos, to the tube station or to your front doors. And as Victor and Lucian lay down in their beds, they cannot help but feel a sense of dislocation. It's as if something in their lives has come... loose.
Lucian:
You must assuage it. Hastily, you start to play to its rhythm building the sound yourself note by note.
And the dream ceases. You start awake in your bed, only a scant hour after falling asleep. It was so vivid and... incomplete. But you feel energized upon waking. Strange and disturbing as the dream was, you feel inspired to create. And out your bedroom window, Taurus' eye continues to blaze. Please roll a sanity check.
Victor:
down into the water past where your trailing hand disturbs the surface; it’s spirit-thick and gray. Is that movement? You pull up your hand and a mottled shape balloons past you not far below, then another— huge marine creatures. Up ahead the water slaps. The white and yellow back of one of the things clears the surface for a moment then dives. You see it still. It’s coming right at you — bigger and bigger— and it rears out of the water fully now, looming
above the boat like a cliff. You won’t wait for this. You stand and you step off into the water. Falling.
Falling. Eyes closed.
And the dream ends abruptly. You start awake in your bed. Very little time has passed since you've fallen asleep. You can't shake the impression that there was more to the dream, but it remains incomplete, the inky blackness in your bedroom and the night out your window calling to mind the dark waters of the lake. Taurus' blazing eye is the only light. You are gripped by panic for a moment... but you are also inspired. When you've gathered your wits, you feel you must create something. Please roll a sanity check.
Spencer spend the next day 'working'. That afternoon he purchased a tidy bunch of flowers on the way home.
Whilst grooming himself carefully (in order to ensure immaculate appearance for Jean) his mind is occupied by the strange events at the theatre, and the bizarre play.
These continue to mull over in his mind, as does the brawl at the end, which causes him a mild unease. As he collects up his pistol and carries out his basic maintainence of it, he feels a gentle calm wash back over him.
Tucking it away, he continues his preparations.
Uh-oh. What happens this time?
Lucian and Victor:
Spencer- As you look at Jean's address and that last name, Hewart, you can't help but think you've heard that name before. Please give me a Law roll.
Law:
Law 25 =
No idea - some days he's just THAT oblivious...!
Saturday October 18th, 1928
The hour of his rendezvous fast approaching, Spencer departs his manor and drives (or is driven) west through Brompton and Knightsbridge, Hyde Park on his right, until he reaches the commercial thoroughfare of Kensington High Street. It's an unseasonably chilly night, like the last, and you don't envy the late shoppers and diners walking the streets to one of the many stores, restaurants and hotels along High Street.
Jean's address is only a few blocks from that primary street- a stately old building, three stories tall fronted in white stone. The large oak doors feature antique knockers in the shape of lions, the rings in their mouths. There isn't a buzzer in evidence. Below the plaque bearing the address is inscribed: "The Right Honorable Lord Hewart and Family".
"The Right Honorable Lord Hewart and Family".
Spencer reads the plaque, then reads it again... almost mouthing the words.
"I'm glad I dressed for the occasion"
Straightening his attire, and ensuring his brilliantined hair is still in immaculate order, he continues onward to the front door and gives the knocker a short sharp couple of raps. The flower bunch he holds adds a dash of coulour to his otherwise reserved and crisp couture.
The set that he built for Talbot was good, but not good enough. Victor remembers how clearly he could taste the salt in the air as he stood on the boat, how he felt as though he could reach out and touch the.... thing that rose from the water. No.. that set wouldn't do. The audience should have felt as though they were in Carcosa..
"The Right Honorable Lord Hewart and Family".Spencer reads the plaque, then reads it again... almost mouthing the words.
"I'm glad I dressed for the occasion"
Straightening his attire, and ensuring his brilliantined hair is still in immaculate order, he continues onward to the front door and gives the knocker a short sharp couple of raps. The flower bunch he holds adds a dash of coulour to his otherwise reserved and crisp couture.
Your knock is shortly met by an older man in a well-tailored suit. From his white gloves, you safely assume he's a butler.
"Good evening, sir, how may I be of service?", he asks before you introduce yourself. But upon making your introduction, he nods and steps aside, conducting you indoors. The foyer has a mirror on the left opposite a tasteful vase. Opposite the front door, the building opens up to the main hall, a staircase leading to the second floor and several open and closed doors from the main artery of the house."May I take your coat, Mr. Reeves? Ms. Hewart is currently in the study with the Lord and Lady Hewart."
"May I take your coat, Mr. Reeves? Ms. Hewart is currently in the study with the Lord and Lady Hewart."
"Why yes, yes certainly, but first could you please attend these flowers? They don't appear to be in good order after wandering through the frozen winds outside... I'm a terrible touch with these things and would be much obliged, I'll wait here momentarily".
Spencer hands forward the bunch of flowers expectantly.
Once the butler takes them he removes his coat and, after re-checking the safety, tucks the pistol into the back of his pants wasitband and straightens his suit jacket.
When the butler returns Spencer will hand over his coat, and attend to the Hewarts in the company of the butler.
Both Lucian and Victor work feverishly through the night in their separate studios. By the time the dawn's light has slanted in through the windows, Lucian has a rather large volume of watercolor sketches prepared. Though the subject matter varies, it calls to mind the Symbolists; divorced as they are from reference material and the constraints of typical representation, the works call to mind the phantasms of Redon. Please give me a Spot Hidden, Lucian.
Spot Hidden:
At Victor's drawing desk emerges the first schematic for his new Carcosa set: it must be sprawling, labyrinthine. A place where performers could get lost, its terrible decadent beauty a source of both awe and terror, perched as it is beside Lake Hali. Victor tacks his latest sketch to the wall haphazardly among the others. Clearing his eyes of sleep, the set builder feels the burned side of his face again as if for the first time. It's enough that you have to take a moment to take stock of yourself, you had been so enthralled with the project. Looking back at your wall of schematics, the spaces left seem to resemble... eyes. Two enormous dark pits staring into you from beneath the sea of tacks and parchment.
"May I take your coat, Mr. Reeves? Ms. Hewart is currently in the study with the Lord and Lady Hewart.""Why yes, yes certainly, but first could you please attend these flowers? They don't appear to be in good order after wandering through the frozen winds outside... I'm a terrible touch with these things and would be much obliged, I'll wait here momentarily".
Spencer hands forward the bunch of flowers expectantly.
Once the butler takes them he removes his coat and, after re-checking the safety, tucks the pistol into the back of his pants wasitband and straightens his suit jacket.
When the butler returns Spencer will hand over his coat, and attend to the Hewarts in the company of the butler.
The Hewarts' man takes them gingerly from you.
"But of course, Mr. Reeves, I shall freshen them up for you."He marches briskly off to the right side of the house as you arrange your hardware, returning shortly, the flowers in a fine vase perfect for a young lady's armoire.