"Very good, very good indeed... marvellous work - I haven't seen such an eye for detail since Private Barnaby my batman in the war. He used to remark to me every morning that details make the gentleman and you know he was absolutely correct, he worked at the Savoy before enlisting...". Spencer looks at the flowers, obviously in thought whilst admiring the handywork "You know you certainly remind me of him, the Hewarts are certainly lucky to have a chap like you about, so hard to find such capable men these days"
Spencer turns to walk with the butler to the Hewarts...
"Just between us two old chap, does Jean have any fancies you'd care to nudge a fellow in the direction of? and how does mr Hewart take to potential suitors?
Lucian sits back, pleased with his creations. "Oh, this is great..." he says quietly to himself. He moves about, touching each painting lightly. He sips again from the cold cup of coffee - made hours ago, he'd barely touched it, instead driven by some internal force. "You made quite the play, Talbot... quite the inspiration..."
"Very good, very good indeed... marvellous work - I haven't seen such an eye for detail since Private Barnaby my batman in the war. He used to remark to me every morning that details make the gentleman and you know he was absolutely correct, he worked at the Savoy before enlisting...". Spencer looks at the flowers, obviously in thought whilst admiring the handywork "You know you certainly remind me of him, the Hewarts are certainly lucky to have a chap like you about, so hard to find such capable men these days"
Spencer turns to walk with the butler to the Hewarts...
"Just between us two old chap, does Jean have any fancies you'd care to nudge a fellow in the direction of? and how does mr Hewart take to potential suitors?
You have a difficult time getting past the man's professional demeanor to get his true measure, but he does answer your inquiries. The fact that he has taken the lead has given him no opportunity to notice your hastily hidden firearm.
"Ah, Ms. Hewart's greatest passion is performance," he begins as he leads you through the hall, over fine rugs and hardwood floors,"and she is a voracious reader; fiction, classical literature and plays being to her preference."
He adds, "Lord Hewart is naturally protective of his daughters, as befits any father. A proper gentleman like yourself surely has nothing to fear, Mr. Reeves."
You come to a pleasant study, with large windows facing a rear garden now wilted from the cold. Jean sits in a fine padded leather chair next to the fireplace. She is dressed fashionably in a short evening dress: nothing too daring, but quite fetching nonetheless. Seated behind a large desk is what must be the Honorable Lord Hewart himself- he is a shorter man in his sixties, handsome but with blocky features, his hair greying and receded around the crown of his head. He is going over some
paperwork as you enter, reading glasses perched on his nose.
"Mr. Spencer Reeves.", intones the Hewarts' man, stepping aside as you enter, before bringing the flowers to Jean,"The gentleman has provided these for you, Ms. Hewart."
Jean smiles, standing with her purse in hand. "Oh, thank you, Spencer, they're quite lovely!"
She sniffs the blooms appreciatively.
Lord Hewart stands, coming from around the desk a hand extended.
"Ah, Mr. Reeves. Jean has told me about you. Pleasure to meet you, sir. Gordon Hewart."
Spencer maintains a very formal demeanour in his introduction, his years as a military officer guiding his sense of propriety upon meeting a Lord...he stands almost at attention.
"Lord Hewart, a pleasure to meet you Sir".
The introduction out of the way he relaxes slightly, and looks to the flowers.
"It occured to me on the way home last evening that custom dictates leading ladies should normally be given a floral tribute on a gala night, yet with all the hectic pace of the events it appeared to be a custom entirely missed... well I thought it was a situation in dire need of immediate remedy, so please, forgive the tardiness and accept them as the show of appreciation to which you are due".
The ice being somewhat broken, Spencer is now much more 'at ease', should it be prudent, he will suggest that he should escort Ms Hewart to the restaurant shortly, to ensure she is deftly returned at a most seemly hour. Otherwise he is prepared for a, no doubt, interesting line of questioning.
Victor gives a curious look at the arrangement that he left his schematics in. "Disturbing. I thing I'll leave it be though." Victor mumbles to himself.
Realizing just how exhausted he is, Victor gives sleep another go.
In the morning, Victor decides to give Lucian a call and explains that he has a big project in the works that he may need some help with. If Lucian seems interested, Victor will explain the scope of the project and invite him to help go over plans, pick a venue, etc..
Martin sleeps fitfully when he finally gets to his bed and wakes the next morning feeling out of sorts. After breakfast he sits futilely at his writing desk for a time, unable to get a start. He keeps thinking of the King in Yellow and that strange symbol.
Finally he gives up all efforts at writing and dresses to go out. He decides to call upon some of his connections in the occult, in hopes of finding someone who might recognize the symbol or be able to recommend a place to search for it. He can't get over the idea that there must be some history attached to such a strange mark and wants to see if he can track it down.
Spencer maintains a very formal demeanour in his introduction, his years as a military officer guiding his sense of propriety upon meeting a Lord...he stands almost at attention.
"Lord Hewart, a pleasure to meet you Sir".
The introduction out of the way he relaxes slightly, and looks to the flowers.
"It occured to me on the way home last evening that custom dictates leading ladies should normally be given a floral tribute on a gala night, yet with all the hectic pace of the events it appeared to be a custom entirely missed... well I thought it was a situation in dire need of immediate remedy, so please, forgive the tardiness and accept them as the show of appreciation to which you are due".
The ice being somewhat broken, Spencer is now much more 'at ease', should it be prudent, he will suggest that he should escort Ms Hewart to the restaurant shortly, to ensure she is deftly returned at a most seemly hour. Otherwise he is prepared for a, no doubt, interesting line of questioning.
Jean smiles, laughing lightly.
"How very thoughtful of you, Spencer, thank you very much."Lord Hewart gestures to one of the armchairs.
"Please, sir, have a seat. I know you're both eager to leave, but it is after all my duty as a father to get to know my daughters' gentleman caller..."
Gordon Hewart asks you the usual battery of questions, Jean having mentioned that you were in the service. And the expected question: "What is your line of work, Mr. Reeves? I understand you don't go by 2nd Lieutenant Reeves any longer."
Psychology:
** spoiler omitted **
Victor gives a curious look at the arrangement that he left his schematics in. "Disturbing. I thing I'll leave it be though." Victor mumbles to himself.
Realizing just how exhausted he is, Victor gives sleep another go.In the morning, Victor decides to give Lucian a call and explains that he has a big project in the works that he may need some help with. If Lucian seems interested, Victor will explain the scope of the project and invite him to help go over plans, pick a venue, etc..
"Please, sir, have a seat. I know you're both eager to leave, but it is after all my duty as a father to get to know my daughters' gentleman caller..."..."What is your line of work, Mr. Reeves? I understand you don't go by 2nd Lieutenant Reeves any longer."
"Indeed Lord Hewart, a duty that all fathers should conduct with unfailing vigilance. It is true that I am no longer in the service, I discharged a few years ago not terribly long after being commissioned to Captain; I felt my glory days as a 'young lion' Lieutenant had pretty much passed into distant memory; after four years of heavy fighting, coming back to a peace time army was a bit of a strange place. It wasn't long after the end of the War when my dear mother became gravely ill, which put me in a bit of a conundrum... nothing worse than a chap of rank being indecisive and not completely in attendance, so with some regret I chose to return to civilian life to be her carer."
Spencer pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts...
"Things being a bit tough at the end of the War, but soldiers strive in the face of adversity, so I pushed on and took a few turns until I managed to swing a group of investors together and start a Benevolent Society, fortunately it has been rather fruitious and allows me to indulge in a little philanthropy and charity, helping those in unfortunate situations. It can get a little untidy at times, as we tend to deal with a lot of the disadvantaged and desparate, indeed I'd safely wager that some of the customers of mine are former customers of yours, though it's comforting to do our bit to help put where we can".
In the morning, Victor decides to give Lucian a call and explains that he has a big project in the works that he may need some help with. If Lucian seems interested, Victor will explain the scope of the project and invite him to help go over plans, pick a venue, etc..
Lucian is excited at Victor's proposition. "This is brilliant!" he says, mind racing with ideas. "The sort of thing that could make careers! It would be an honor and a pleasure, Victor! And all this from Talbot's play, hmm? I had a similar burst of creativity, must have spent most of the night painting, thanks to that play. Great stuff, great stuff! We should see if any of will fit into this gigantic play set."
"A fine idea, Lucian. Let's meet up and take a look at each others work. We can begin planning in my work shop if you would like to bring over some of your paintings."
"I'll be over as soon as I can!" Lucian practically throws the phone back to it's cradle and grabs as many of his paintings as he can carry across town. He rushes to Victor's studio, his heart and mind both racing with the thrill of creation.
"Please, sir, have a seat. I know you're both eager to leave, but it is after all my duty as a father to get to know my daughters' gentleman caller..."..."What is your line of work, Mr. Reeves? I understand you don't go by 2nd Lieutenant Reeves any longer.""Indeed Lord Hewart, a duty that all fathers should conduct with unfailing vigilance. It is true that I am no longer in the service, I discharged a few years ago not terribly long after being commissioned to Captain; I felt my glory days as a 'young lion' Lieutenant had pretty much passed into distant memory; after four years of heavy fighting, coming back to a peace time army was a bit of a strange place. It wasn't long after the end of the War when my dear mother became gravely ill, which put me in a bit of a conundrum... nothing worse than a chap of rank being indecisive and not completely in attendance, so with some regret I chose to return to civilian life to be her carer."
Spencer pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts...
"Things being a bit tough at the end of the War, but soldiers strive in the face of adversity, so I pushed on and took a few turns until I managed to swing a group of investors together and start a Benevolent Society, fortunately it has been rather fruitious and allows me to indulge in a little philanthropy and charity, helping those in unfortunate situations. It can get a little untidy at times, as we tend to deal with a lot of the disadvantaged and desparate, indeed I'd safely wager that some of the customers of mine are former customers of yours, though it's comforting to do our bit to help put where we can".
Lord Hewart listens appreciatively.
"Good on you, then, sir! I've long held that straightening out the East End will take more than courts and Bobbies. In a matter of years, I'm sure it'll be investors like you that we can thank for making London all the finer..."He looks at his pocket watch and the patiently waiting Jean.
"... but I do go on and I'm sure you're both eager to begin your evening. Please, let me walk you to the door."
Spencer, Jean and Lord Hewart walk back to the foyer where the butler waits with Ms. Hewart's coat. While Jean pulls on her coat, however, Lord Hewart happens to glance at Spencer's back... and the barely concealed bulge in his waistband.
"I say, Mr. Reeves, you seem to have something caught in your trousers.", he says, a hint of suspicion creeping into his voice. Jean turns, pulling her coat over her shoulders.
"What's that, father?"
"I appear to have assembled my dress in a bit of a rush this afternoon, coming straight from returning a large cash deposit to an investor, I believe I caught myself quite short by not returning to the office to return everything and thus appear as well attired and presented as I may have needed to be"
After giving some thought to who he should contact first, Martin decides to ring up Ms. Winthrop and see about making an appointment to meet with her.
After giving some thought to who he should contact first, Martin decides to ring up Ms. Winthrop and see about making an appointment to meet with her.
You ring Ms. Winthrop's parlor in Islington in the afternoon. Ms. Winthrop is blessed with a throaty, husky voice that is excellent for conveying the mysterious pagentry a proper medium requires. It is also alluring enough that you can easily see why she has had four husbands in her time.
"Martin, my dear, such a pleasure to hear from you.", she says,"How is the book coming? Would you like a consultation?"
"I assure you, Ms. Winthrop, the pleasure is mine. The book is presenting...difficulties. It is a slow process, I fear and a consultation was exactly what I had in mind. Would you have a bit of time for me today? I apologize for such short notice but I'm in dire need of your expertise. There are some questions I must ask."
Standing there with the receiver pressed to his ear, he could see the design in his mind's eye, blotting out almost everything else. Martin hoped that his distress wasn't too obvious in his voice.
Spencer appears to attempt his best disarming smile...
"I assure you, Ms. Winthrop, the pleasure is mine. The book is presenting...difficulties. It is a slow process, I fear and a consultation was exactly what I had in mind. Would you have a bit of time for me today? I apologize for such short notice but I'm in dire need of your expertise. There are some questions I must ask."
Standing there with the receiver pressed to his ear, he could see the design in his mind's eye, blotting out almost everything else. Martin hoped that his distress wasn't too obvious in his voice.
"Of course, Martin, you are always welcome. Shall I expect you soon?"
Assuring "Madame Mandragora" that he will arrive shortly, Martin leaves his apartment in Belsize Park and heads east (via the tube or auto, however Martin travels) the short distance to the residential neighborhood of Islington. One of London's frequent rainstorms greets the author as he leaves his home, proving once again that the smartest purchase he's made was a solid umbrella. It's a thoroughly miserable day to travel between the wetness and the unseasonable cold, but it is a perfect atmosphere for discussing matters of the occult.
Ms. Winthrop's home is a two story Victorian affair with a shingle next to her mailbox declaring her services as a physical medium and "mistress of the obscure". Martin rings her bell, shaking out his umbrella on the porch. The door opens to reveal a wizened colored man in black and white servant's dress. From a previous visit you remember his name is Raymond. Raymond takes Mr. Poole's wet umbrella and raincoat, hanging them up to dry while Martin pulls off his rain boots. Finally, he leads the author into the house and to Ms. Winthrop's parlor.
Pamela Winthrop's home is decorated with all manner of curios and objects of occult superstition- from shrunken heads to graven idols, jars of queer herbs and extracts and of course row after row of leather bound books. Above the fireplace's mantle are four portraits- the Madame's esteemed departed husbands, each above a candle. Raymond pulls aside a curtain in the adjoining room and Martin steps in to see Pamela herself.
Ms. Winthrop is a robust woman in her late 40s, perhaps early 50s, with auburn hair bound up and smooth, plump features to go with her Rubenesque physique. She wears an old fashioned grey dress (she's said before that she's worn black four times now and has lost the taste for it) with lace cuffs around her thick wrists, all manner of rings on her thick fingers. She thumbs a rosary in her left hand as she rises to greet Martin, extending her right to the gentleman.
"Ah! My dear Mr. Poole, what a pleasure that you have braved damp, haunted London to visit an old widow! Please, have a seat and warm up. Raymond, some tea please! There's a good man. Now, Martin... what queries will you pose the spirits today?"
Spencer appears to attempt his best disarming smile...
Lord Hewart smiles, clapping Spencer on the back.
"Ah, yes, I believe we've all been in that position, haven't we! You two enjoy yourselves now, but try not to be too late, Jean, we've got services in the morning and even if the Vicar doesn't notice you're there the good Lord will!"Jean barely disguises her exasperation.
"Yes, father, I won't let the bells catch me unaware."
Bidding the judge farewell, Spencer escorts the young Jean to his auto.
Jean neatly ensconced in his 'flash motor', Spencer takes up the drivers seat and conveys them back to somewhere more local to his 'manor'. A small out of the way French restaurant with a relaxed and subdued atmosphere, nothing too fancy, but still candlelit and with a comfortable ambience, serving fresh provincial French fare.
The soft illumination casts a warm glow, while the gentle French jazz plays on a gramophone in the corner, providing a soft lull to drown out any other guests, but allow couples to talk quietly without having to compete with the noise.
It is evident on his arrival that the proprieters know Spencer very well, on account of him coming here often for more civilised and polite business, and in the genteeler company he keeps whilst conducting the more above board matters.
Directed to their table, Spencer allows these trusted Frenchmen to hang his coat on a wall hanger just to his rear.
"I can attest to everything on this menu as being simply amazing, Francois is a most excellent chef, and Xavier makes the finest deserts this side of the Channel."
After ordering a bottle of good French table wine, Spencer turns back to Jean....
"Now Ms Hewart, I have been burning to hear all about your most amazing performance and all the exploits that went into bringing it about, please indulge me, I am simply fascinated..."
Background music...
Martin takes Pamela's hand and lifts it to his lips. "You are as lovely as ever, my dear Ms. Winthrop. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice." He releases her hand and takes the proffered seat.
"Just last evening I was at a most unusual performance. A play by the esteemed Talbot Estus, 'Carcosa.' Have you heard of it?"
After Pamela responds he continues. "In the play a symbol was revealed." He takes a moment to describe it as best as he can. "Since that first moment when my eyes fell on the symbol it's haunted me. I've had the very devil of a time thinking of anything else. I'm sure there must be some significance to it and I suspect that it must be related to the 'arts' that you and I share such an interest in. So my first question is in regards to this symbol. Do the spirits know of it? Have they any knowledge they might share? Furthermore, is there some significance to 'The King in Yellow?'" He shakes his head, his face troubled.
"I cannot help but think that if I can unlock these mysteries that have possessed me, the dam that blocks my pen will be loosed."
Jean neatly ensconced in his 'flash motor', Spencer takes up the drivers seat and conveys them back to somewhere more local to his 'manor'. A small out of the way French restaurant with a relaxed and subdued atmosphere, nothing too fancy, but still candlelit and with a comfortable ambience, serving fresh provincial French fare.
The soft illumination casts a warm glow, while the gentle French jazz plays on a gramophone in the corner, providing a soft lull to drown out any other guests, but allow couples to talk quietly without having to compete with the noise.
It is evident on his arrival that the proprieters know Spencer very well, on account of him coming here often for more civilised and polite business, and in the genteeler company he keeps whilst conducting the more above board matters.
Directed to their table, Spencer allows these trusted Frenchmen to hang his coat on a wall hanger just to his rear.
"I can attest to everything on this menu as being simply amazing, Francois is a most excellent chef, and Xavier makes the finest deserts this side of the Channel."
After ordering a bottle of good French table wine, Spencer turns back to Jean....
"Now Ms Hewart, I have been burning to hear all about your most amazing performance and all the exploits that went into bringing it about, please indulge me, I am simply fascinated..."
Background music...
"Oh, yes, it's simply lovely. So much more personal than the restaurants in Kensington. "
Jean looks over the menu, glancing between it and Spencer as the two speak.
"Thank you again, but I'm not sure I could call the time spent working on 'The Queen and the Stranger' as exploits per se. For the most part it was entirely typical- rehearsals, costuming, things like that. Mr. Estus is a bit demanding, since I understand the subject matter is an obsession for him and he isn't a professional director. But we're used to working with amateur directors in the Group and it's a director's duty to be demanding, after all. Mr. Gillen is a very nice man, too, and he's very good at smoothing things over since Mr. Estus is so intense. But... well, something of that macabre atmosphere he works into all of his books started creeping in after we did costumed rehearsals, especially around Michael's costume with that robe and mask."
She shudders for effect.
"Eugh! Poor Walter had a case of nerves after seeing it, I think: won't even go near it anymore. And after last night I can't blame him. That's when Hannah and I started to have dreams..."
Your waiter arrives with the wine, pouring you a bit to taste to be sure it's to the gentleman's liking. Jean pauses while you grant your approval.
"... and well, I told you about that last night. I just heard today from Hannah that the play's been cancelled at the Scala. Mr. Noble, the manager, and the owner don't want to risk any more fistfights like last night."
Jean sighs.
"I'm sorry to complain, Mr. Reeves, I understand some people were hurt and it's awful. But we worked hard to put that production together and Mr. Estus lived and breathed that play for so long. Even if it is cursed, there was a queer beauty to it. Most people in the theater world wouldn't like it, but I think something radical like "The Queen and The Stranger" can be such a breath of fresh air."
Ms. Hewart takes a sip of her wine and sets down her menu. She looks quite lovely in the candlelight.
"You said last night that you dabble in the study of psychology, didn't you Mr. Reeves? As a student of the mind, what do you think about the play? How could it provoke those people into attacking each other?"
Martin takes Pamela's hand and lifts it to his lips. "You are as lovely as ever, my dear Ms. Winthrop. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice." He releases her hand and takes the proffered seat.
"Just last evening I was at a most unusual performance. A play by the esteemed Talbot Estus, 'Carcosa.' Have you heard of it?"
After Pamela responds he continues. "In the play a symbol was revealed." He takes a moment to describe it as best as he can. "Since that first moment when my eyes fell on the symbol it's haunted me. I've had the very devil of a time thinking of anything else. I'm sure there must be some significance to it and I suspect that it must be related to the 'arts' that you and I share such an interest in. So my first question is in regards to this symbol. Do the spirits know of it? Have they any knowledge they might share? Furthermore, is there some significance to 'The King in Yellow?'" He shakes his head, his face troubled.
"I cannot help but think that if I can unlock these mysteries that have possessed me, the dam that blocks my pen will be loosed."
Pamela listens intently, shaking her head finally.
"My dear Martin, I have never seen or experienced this symbol. Though I have heard of "The King In Yellow" in passing; I have also heard numerous warnings to never read it or see it performed... especially not the second act."Raymond arrives with the tea, pouring each of you a cup and leaving the tray on a side table with some biscuits, sugar and milk. Ms. Winthrop dismisses him for the time being and he exits with a bow.
"Perhaps the spirits will have more guidance for you, Mr. Poole. Now, just let me get my veil and we can begin..."
Ms. Winthrop rises and goes to a chest of drawers nearby, pulling out a white veil.
"It is not pleasant to watch physical mediums work, you understand. While the spirits draw out my humors for their ectoplasmic form it may appear disturbing to the seeker. And my vanity demands I never look less than my best for you, Martin."
She drapes the veil over her head and shoulders, seating herself opposite you. Ms. Winthrop holds out her hands for you to grasp.
She begins to breathe heavily. In a larger seance, you recall that she would recite a mantra either in latin or another language- but today she simply breathes rhythmically, her head slouching down, causing the veil to dangle over her features toward the tabletop. It reminds you, unpleasantly, of the King in the play from last night.
From underneath the veil coalesces a white material, like fabric, twining through the air before your eyes. In the fluid mass, a stern female face with some small indication of a nun's habit form- just the head and shoulders. In Pamela's voice it whispers,"What do you seek of the spirits, Martin Poole?"
Ms. Hewart takes a sip of her wine and sets down her menu. She looks quite lovely in the candlelight.
"You said last night that you dabble in the study of psychology, didn't you Mr. Reeves? As a student of the mind, what do you think about the play? How could it provoke those people into attacking each other?"
"An excellent question, and one that I have been pondering since seeing the play last night. It could have been simply the exposure to such an exotic set of concepts, or themes, was quite too much for some people; it could have been a particular set of colours or combinations of colours and hues on the sets themselves eliciting a schism on the mind - much like epilepsy can be triggered by certain lighting. Indeed it could have been a combination of those factors, and then once the first person turns you always have the chance of mass hysteria breaking out, which further sets off a chain reaction. In the War we often had such strange phenomenon under ordinary stress in the trenches"
Spencer appears almost lost in thought, staring almost absently at his wine as he gentle swirls itin the glass before snapping back to alertness.
"Yes, yes I am quite sure thats what happened, although of an intensity I haven't before encountered...perhaps the unusual cold snap also contributed".
"Of course there always exists the distinct possibility that when faced with such lovely and talented actresses they all merely went green with envy and acted in outrage at the injustice of their lot in life." Spencer beams a scallywag grin, and then goes back to sipping his wine. "Still it's a shame the production finds itself without a home, perhaps i can find it a new venue, no promises of course, but I have friends in the East End and friends in the West End, surely there exists a place for something so vibrant and alive... I am not sure it would be anything fancy mind you, but perhaps there is a way, or perhaps I could ask Mr Noble at the Scala to reconsider?
Unable to suppress a shiver at the gathering of the spirit, Martin clears his throat, his hands holding Pamela's tight so as not to tremble. "I want to know more about the King in Yellow, and the symbol." He describes what he saw.
"It plagues my thoughts and I'm certain there's something significant about these things. Do you, spirit, know of what I speak? What can you tell me?"
Unable to suppress a shiver at the gathering of the spirit, Martin clears his throat, his hands holding Pamela's tight so as not to tremble. "I want to know more about the King in Yellow, and the symbol." He describes what he saw.
"It plagues my thoughts and I'm certain there's something significant about these things. Do you, spirit, know of what I speak? What can you tell me?"
The ectoplasmic projection shudders, growing formless for long moments before reforming- the constellation Taurus.
"Now is His season, seeker.", the spirits whisper,"And to know He Who Must Not Be Named is to separate oneself from the rest of humanity. The King is his avatar, one of His many names...""Aasatur, Kaiwan, The Feaster From Afar, Haita the Shepherd, The White Acolyte..."
Pamela's hands are shaking in Martin's grip.
The projection flattens, becoming blurry like an over exposed photograph- an alien city next to a lake.
"He aligns himself with no human endeavor. He is seduction, inspiration and corruption: uncompromising, a fierce and selfish beauty. Perfection of form and motive, He is drawn to human passions as a starving man to a banquet..."
Pamela's grip slips from Martin's hand, her chair tipping backwards. She hits the floor, but her ectoplasmic projection remains. A robed form, stirred by unseen winds.
"They are building Carcosa. They will bring it to Earth. Who can escape the change?"
It begins to dissolve.
"It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the Living God..."
And the projection dissipates, like smoke carried on the wind.
Martin jumps up and hurries over to Ms. Winthrop to help her up. "Are you okay, Pamela?" His heart is racing and it seems a little difficult to breathe but he tried to focus first on his friend.
1d100
Martin jumps up and hurries over to Ms. Winthrop to help her up. "Are you okay, Pamela?" His heart is racing and it seems a little difficult to breathe but he tried to focus first on his friend.
Ms. Winthrop is out, though her eyelids flutter with activity. Her man, Raymond, rushes into the room and checks her pulse.
"Sir, grab one of those pillows, please!", he says, while opening a nearby drawer.As you tuck a pillow beneath Pamela's head, Raymond unstoppers some smelling salts or something similar, passing it beneath her nose. Her eyelids flutter open and she convulses momentarily, as if reaching the end of a falling dream.
"What... Martin, Raymond, what happened?"
She looks haggard and pale after the experience.
Victor and Lucian
Having settled on your plans and deciding you will need a large workspace to accomplish the task, the two of you begin looking through the newspapers for warehouses to rent. There are a number of available spaces near the Thames and Regent Canal in London, though a barn could also be obtained as
far out as Croydon, but it wouldn't be convenient from home. After a few
calls, you venture out into the cold rain to look at a few closer to your neighborhood. [ooc]Where do you live? Still in Kingston, Lucian?[/spoiler]
It is on your way to third warehouse within your space requirements that the two of you notice some graffiti on the brick wall of a refuse-strewn alley; "THE KING WILL COME THIS WINTER" it says.
Ms. Hewart takes a sip of her wine and sets down her menu. She looks quite lovely in the candlelight.
"You said last night that you dabble in the study of psychology, didn't you Mr. Reeves? As a student of the mind, what do you think about the play? How could it provoke those people into attacking each other?""An excellent question, and one that I have been pondering since seeing the play last night. It could have been simply the exposure to such an exotic set of concepts, or themes, was quite too much for some people; it could have been a particular set of colours or combinations of colours and hues on the sets themselves eliciting a schism on the mind - much like epilepsy can be triggered by certain lighting. Indeed it could have been a combination of those factors, and then once the first person turns you always have the chance of mass hysteria breaking out, which further sets off a chain reaction. In the War we often had such strange phenomenon under ordinary stress in the trenches"
Spencer appears almost lost in thought, staring almost absently at his wine as he gentle swirls itin the glass before snapping back to alertness.
"Yes, yes I am quite sure thats what happened, although of an intensity I haven't before encountered...perhaps the unusual cold snap also contributed".
"Of course there always exists the distinct possibility that when faced with such lovely and talented actresses they all merely went green with envy and acted in outrage at the injustice of their lot in life." Spencer beams a scallywag grin, and then goes back to sipping his wine. "Still it's a shame the production finds itself without a home, perhaps i can find it a new venue, no promises of course, but I have friends in the East End and friends in the West End, surely there exists a place for something so vibrant and alive... I am not sure it would be anything fancy mind you, but perhaps there is a way, or perhaps I could ask Mr Noble at the Scala to...
Jean laughs lightly.
"Do you flatter your other dinner guests so shamelessly, Spencer? I should think I've found the secret to your success!"Your fois gras arrives, as does Jean's beets and goat cheese salad.
"Very interesting theories Mr. Reeves. Much as I appreciate the gesture, I think the troupe is ready for a different production. It's a lot to live down, starting a riot! I think it will remain an exclusive performance after last night."
The rest of the evening goes well. Jean is quite passionate about acting and hopes to make a career of it. You also learn, through questions here and there, that her father is Lord Chief Justice on the King's Bench Division. Likely one of the most important judges in Britain. After the desserts are finished, you bring the lady home in a timely fashion. She thanks you for a lovely evening.
Martin kneels beside Ms. Winthrop, holding her hand with one of his own and stroking the hair by her temple.
"Relax, my dear. How are you feeling? Can we get you some tea, or perhaps a nip of something stronger?"
Martin stays by her side until she is feeling stronger and then shares a little of what he's learned.
"It seems my questions disturbed the spirits every bit as much as they disturbed me. Unfortunately, the answers were far worse. I can't claim to fully understand but it may be that we are in grave danger. The spirits have given me quite a warning." He cannot stop the shiver that ripples through him. With a sad shake of his head, he continues, "I fear I may need to try and stop my dear friend's play from continuing."
Martin kneels beside Ms. Winthrop, holding her hand with one of his own and stroking the hair by her temple.
"Relax, my dear. How are you feeling? Can we get you some tea, or perhaps a nip of something stronger?"
Martin stays by her side until she is feeling stronger and then shares a little of what he's learned.
"It seems my questions disturbed the spirits every bit as much as they disturbed me. Unfortunately, the answers were far worse. I can't claim to fully understand but it may be that we are in grave danger. The spirits have given me quite a warning." He cannot stop the shiver that ripples through him. With a sad shake of his head, he continues, "I fear I may need to try and stop my dear friend's play from continuing."
Pamela sits up slowly, with some assistance from yourself and her manservant.
"Uh... yes, I believe tea would put me to rights... I should say you certainly disturbed the spirits, Martin! Never have I felt such agitation!"Shakily, she rises to her feet and sits once more, Raymond bringing her some tea.
"Whatever council they offered you, Martin, I would not disregard it lightly. Not that I believe you would, dear man."
A trickle of blood runs out of Ms. Winthrop's nose now that she is sitting upright. Reflexively, she puts a hand to her face and comes away with a crimson smear. She grabs a handkerchief and holds it to her nose.
"Oh, my. How is a woman supposed to maintain her allure with such constant misadventure?"
Lucian and Victor manage to find a few places to their liking, ultimately settling on a warehouse on the East End, just across the River Thames from the Tower of London. In the rain and the fog, the entire neighborhood seems an Impressionist smudge with none of the color. This being a weekend, they'll have to wait until Monday to sign the paperwork and get the keys but the rest of their day is filled with activity as they put together a list of supplies and necessary expenses.
After almost an entire day without sleep, the two artists retire to their separate apartments, the cloudy sky falling like a shroud over England. And they dream...
Lucian:
And you awaken once more in your own bed, the dream incomplete... but your inspiration refreshed. Please roll a sanity check.
Victor:
girl here in white lace and muslin. One by one men approach her but after a brief moment each quickly slips away and you notice they look panicked and lost. When the last has gone she raises her fan to her face and turns towards you. You walk over and then your fingers are against the small of her back guiding her in the dance. Her perfume fills the room, and
now the two of you are alone in a gallery with glass doors all along one wall. You realize you’ve not yet seen her face and suddenly you’re afraid. A chill comes off her, and you shut your eyes tight. You feel her hand on your face, cold and questing.
And awaken with the feeling of her fingers on your scarred flesh. It lingers for a moment as you lie in your bed. The gracious surroundings... the elegant glass doors... Carcosa needs a fine banquet hall like that, doesn't it? Where the masquerade was held. Hastily, you scrawl out some notes for yourself to the morning- something to add to the blueprints. Please roll a sanity check.
Sunday, October 19th 1928
London awakens to find a scattered, lethargic flurry of snow falling to the ground, only to melt on contact. The grey morning is certainly chill enough for snow, but the earth it seems is not yet receptive to it. Bells ring in belfries throughout the city, Anglican and Catholic alike, calling the faithful to service.
Martin Poole awakens to find some late mail awaiting him at the door. Shaking off the unpleasant business of the seance yesterday, the author finds correspondence from some of his stateside friends and colleagues as well as an unusual letter postmarked from a place called St. Agnes' Asylum. It certainly says Martin's name and address on the outside, so it isn't a mistake. But what business would an asylum want with him? With only one true way to find out, Martin opened the letter, which reads:
Saint Agnes' Asylum for the Deranged, Near Weobley,
Herefordshire
Friday, 18th October, 1929
Dear Sir,
I apologise for this unsolicited correspondence, but pray that you will do me the favour of reading it through and considering its request. This letter comes to you as the author of the
novel "Chemical Revelations" which, if I may say so, I much admired, particularly your sympathetic depiction of the instability suffered by so many left touched by the Great War. I am a consulting doctor at St. Agnes' Asylum in Herefordshire and am seeking an expert opinion on how to proceed in the matter of an inmate's case. Though I am well aware that you are not an alienist yourself, I believe your impartial perspective and understanding will offer a unique consultation. If I may prevail upon you, these are an outline of the facts.
Patient 'W' is a young man from a good line who, holding no employ, spent much of his time before his admission in private study. In the autumn of 1926 a terrible incident occurred and W's father and sister were left murdered. W, much troubled, was committed to this asylum shortly thereafter upon the application of his brother and the diagnosis of the family physician.
W is suffering from extended bouts of Scotophobia (night terrors, in laymen's terms) that give him temporary but intense anxiety. This has proved treatable with medication and I am of the happy opinion that I may recommend his release when his period of mandatory confinement comes to an end this November. Here the problem arises: W's brother has been urging me to recommend his continued residence. I am surprised at our playing opposite roles in this not uncommon disagreement, and I find the stance of the family unusually rigid. I am currently at a loss to understand a motive.
I am hopeful that you will consent to an interview with me on this matter. Again, I regret this communication without our previous introduction, but my closest colleagues have not the patience for Psycho-Analytics that I believe to be the way to examine such cases. There are some unusual aspects here and perhaps this might be an interesting study for you.
I shall be visiting London for a few days beginning the 28th October. I shall be staying at the Great Western Hotel. Please contact me there should you be willing to meet. You are of course very welcome to bring a colleague or assistant should you so wish.
Your obliged and obedient servant,
Charles Highsmith
Rising early, as is his custom, Spencer spends the morning carrying out his normal preparations; calisthenics, shower, ironing, cleaning and maintaining his pistol, followed by a decent breakfast; then dressing immaculately for the day ahead.
Being a Sunday morning, he isn't due at 'the office', he instead decides to go put a call in on Martin, after all, Martin seemed to know those two actor fellows, Sixsmith and Mc Alistair, who might be able to sort out a new venue for the King in Yellow... if not then perhaps Mr Noble at the Scala can be talked into seeing reason, or if not, then maybe he can be talked into...'seeing reason'
Lucian lies in bed for a long time, eyes open but seeing past the ceiling of his apartment. The rainy streets, the falconer, the real estate agent, the girl's face, the grafitti... Dreams and reality swirl, as he tries to pick out which is which. He smiles, not really caring whether he can distinguish between the two.
and Sanity... v. 60
Dammit, Lucian is going to be mad as a hatter by the end of this.
The McAllistair name goes far in convincing Mr. Davidson, your real estate agent, to make some calls to get a better deal on the warehouse.
Your strange, vivid dreams leave you anxious... something is certainly exerting an influence over the both of you.
After spending most of the morning adding rough drawings of a ballroom into his folder of blueprints, Victor decides to give Lucian a call.
I think that it is time for us to involve Talbot in our plans. I would like to setup an appointment with him. Are you free today?
Martin sits down in his writing chair with the letter still in his hands, removes a cigar from the humidor on a nearby table and lights it, puffing away thoughtfully. He was flattered that Dr. Highsmith had thought of him, but was confused about how exactly he might be able to help. Nonetheless his curiousity was aroused and he resolved to visit the man on the 28th while he was in London.
In the meantime, he had to make some decisions for the day. He was still a little unsettled by the events of the prior afternoon and regretted the trouble he'd caused Ms. Winthrop. He supposed he ought to speak with Mr. Talbot about his play, though that was not a conversation he was looking forward to...
After spending most of the morning adding rough drawings of a ballroom into his folder of blueprints, Victor decides to give Lucian a call.
I think that it is time for us to involve Talbot in our plans. I would like to setup an appointment with him. Are you free today?
"Of course, good man!" Lucian says enthusiastically. "Ring me with the time and place, I'll be by in no time."