of Paradise ~ Private OnexOne

[Arsenic-S]

• ѡ h e ɴ . ι . α м . s τ α ɴ ם ι n g . ι n . τ н e . ғ ι ʀ e , . ι . ѡ i ℓ ℓ . ℓ σ σ к . н ι м . ι ɴ . τ н e . e ʏ e •
• α ɴ ם . ι . ѡ ι ℓ ℓ . ℓ e τ . τ н e . ם e ѵ ι ℓ . к n σ ѡ . τ н α τ , . ι . ѡ a s . в ʀ α ѵ e . e ɴ σ υ ɢ h . τ σ . ם ι e •

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“Are you a genie now, then?”

No matter how quick she was to explain away the jesting remark on the note of a humored warmth, the comment no less earned a wry, checking sort of look from the man who did not seem offended nor rightfully ruffled for it either. Nonetheless, he was certainly undeterred by the statement all the same, in such a way in fact that the un-moving quality of his regard alone would speak volumes of such confidence in its own right. No, for someone who'd little exposure to his ways, even Erik could not truly mark against her skepticism for his offers. The 'no doubt' she supplied immediately thereafter was hardly founded in anything beyond second thoughts and fickle propriety of course, and so earned nothing more than an unveiled mirroring of skepticism turned her way. He would not bother attempting to convince her of otherwise however, for in the end; action would always speak louder than words.

And so he breathed a muted 'tut' of a sound, like a man dismissing the opinion of someone so clearly unaware to the truth and turned a pointed attention to what concepts she could so far put forth instead. He was in no particular rush for the time being at least, and he met her request with an allowing sort of tip of his expression and a languid ear turned toward talk of books and fashion and gardens as possible balms with which to first begin. None of it was truly what he sought, of course-- as none of it would ensure or make her future any more sound beyond passing fancies here or there. Still, if temporary comfort would assist in better aligning her thoughts-- if it could offer solace for the predicament in which she and her mother found themselves within thanks, in large part, to his own involvement in their careers-- then it was certainly somewhere to first initiate his efforts... And it would be the least he could do, simple and easy enough to accomplish without much more than a blink of his eye.

"Well then... I will keep those things close to mind." Erik eventually allowed somewhere between the occasional pause here or there. evidently taking her ideals to heart in place of dismissing even an ounce of them as superfluous or out of place. After all, perhaps starting small was truly the best answer. For it would allow her to test the boundaries of such possibilities, the limits to which he could very well go should he feel so inclined to realize any particular request put forth... Or, in some cases, the sheer absence of those invisible walls so often limiting to others and yet incapable of detaining the self-made 'ghost' himself. Really, if her wants only extended so far as domestic luxuries, then it would prove rather simple to arrange a particularly content environment for her. That being said, however-- Erik was not so foolish as to think that was the extent of the capricious young lady's dreams or overarching desires. In fact, he was quite certain that, given the room to run, she would have much, much more for him in short order. "It is certainly important enough to maintain a certain level of morale, in the mean time..." And still, it was but a passing remark, promptly dropped and left to the wayside for favor of hearing her thanks without much variety of obligation, only to follow the line of her gaze briefly toward the door at the mention of her mother and such conspiring exchanges. "Perhaps." He would not deny that much-- To even inquire to the girl herself was something of an undermining to Antoinette's own goals, but... Still. Even he was quite certain she would be able to see the worth in it, given her daughter's "happiness" was but her soul motivation. "But then, given the way you have been so quick to bite your tongue in her presence, I am not convinced you would feel so free to communicate your own preferences if I had asked in her company. If I am to manage uniting two separate... agendas into one, however, then I would prefer to hear them both unadulterated by fear or a want to evade argument."

It was a conceding enough remark, however, and soon it was followed by a dismissing "But we've no true timeline as of now... So you are free to take your time. I suppose a 'genie' or djinn is an apt enough role to fill, if the idea somehow... puts your mind to ease." The sarcasm was clear in his tone, yet it spoke little of bitterness so much as it was a dwindling observation of something novel. "After all-- you will find that I am quite capable of being near anything I choose to be, given the right motivation." Near anything outside of 'normal', that is. But the jaded afterthought was little more than a sour pluck of a flat note, and soon he had offered her a sort of conclusive nod. "Should anything come to mind, then I am content to listen with or without your mother's immediate accompaniment... But, for now, I believe it is late and there is little more to be said on the subject tonight."

Erik • Nadir
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❖ || The Leaf :: Gold
❖ || -ermagerd, garbled and tired and barely sentient, but post-

[Without Knowledge]

The lenient allowance of the man’s replies floated passed Marguerite’s notice with little direct mind, the actual concurrence of want and concern of little consequence beyond the fact that he seemed set to actually try and fulfill the little and yet in some ways troubled requests she had posed, largely in jest. She had certainly not meant to imply any expectation with the musing list, simply that her wants were much more simple than her mother’s grandiose desires… At least, what she currently sought was overly simple. Having to throw herself into dance, day in and day out, the world surrounding it and the fantastical ideas all very tied to the there and then rather than some wanted elsewhere had a way of keeping the mind from wandering… If not far away, than at least not too far ahead. Not when the biggest concerns remained keeping employment, a roof over their heads. Or at least… That was how the girl excused it to herself. But before she could decide whether or not to address the point, make it clear that she certainly did not expect anything to come of the mentions, the man went on, counter coming to her last remark where there had only been vague agreement before.

“But then, given the way you have been so quick to bite your tongue in her presence, I am not convinced you would feel so free to communicate your own preferences if I had asked in her company.”

The observance, far from the most astute or insightful, nonetheless made the girl bulk back a touch, looking ready to actually come out and say ‘I beg your pardon?’ before comprehension started to invade her eyes and they dropped off of his face, sliding back towards the door in a stiff silence that reluctantly bowed to the assessment. It was a tense subject at best, given the dual facts that she was not keen to admit to certain, troubles that went far deeper than a difference of temperament that kept the women from speaking too freely before or of one another, and that the idea of explaining to the man how she held her tongue at least partially out of a want to not hurt her mother with her honest protests with what the woman sought for her girl, felt… Exposing. Even if her silence did nothing to help their recovering acquaintance bridge the gap that between what Madame Giry sought for Marguerite and what the girl thought of that fate seemed, impossible. Still, she gave a quiet “I suppose that is how to go about it…” for his logic in asking, seeing nothing truly wrong with his efforts, considered on their own… And there was something to be said about the allure of being asked, offered, what she wanted…

The reference to her earlier jest, though, struck the issue firmly from her mind, drawing her attention right back to the man with a clearly baffled twist to her brow, wondering why he would think she labeled his behavior in an effort to ‘ease’ herself. As if she could somehow pigeonhole the so-called ghost into any simple view, after actually seeing, meeting, speaking to him… Really, her very trouble was that she couldn’t simply pin him down to such a front, forget he was just like everyone else, ask him for whatever she wanted and stick out her hand and expect to find it there in her palm. He was, after all, not omnipotent, and even if he was, his sense of duty to repay ‘them’ would, should only go so far… Who would ever agree to hand a pair of women the world on a silver platter for a little goodwill and generosity and for having caused them a little trouble? And she had enough sense to remember that, even in conjecture. When she did finally come to decide what to do, in this new arrangement where the tentative peace in the Giry house seemed doom to die but the sky was the limit as to what it might pay for, she would do so aware she shared her wishes with a person, not a generous ghost. And a man seeking to please her mother, at that.

“Should anything come to mind, then I am content to listen with or without your mother's immediate accompaniment... But, for now, I believe it is late and there is little more to be said on the subject tonight.”

“Then I suppose that is that,” she observed, not a word of all that had slowly but certainly solidified behind her eyes. “I will think on it… But you are right— And perhaps the best thing to do, besides, is sleep on it.” With that personal dismissal of the discussion, her very tones and turning attention mimicking the closing of a book, she moved for the door, hovering only long enough to glance back and suddenly new, checking eyes, for the dismissal of the subject had reminded her that the man had been alluding not even minutes ago about his own plight, much more personal than the loss of a job or the gain of a new security. He had been talking of things that, for a breath, and left her sincerely concerned for his safety… But the sheer focus and determination he had carried with his discussion of what he would do for her and her mother had all but washed it away, his approach far too intent, far too hung in goals that would tie him to life to keep considering the distance of death. And, even if it was but an illusion… Marguerite felt at least some of the discomfort she felt in the whole arrangement slide away with the idea that, even if he was not enthusiastic, her little family’s well-being was a well-timed occupation.

The idea washed some of the benign, skeptical front from the girl’s countenance as she moved on, stepped into the front room to quietly speak to her mother, urge her up by the arm and guide her back to the bedroom while striving not to jolt her too much, prompt more than a tired, confused stare from the woman clearly moving only by the most basic of impulses. Marguerite had feared that catching sight of the man within would catch her attention enough to surprise her into full awareness, and disrupt her efforts, but no such thing occurred. For when she had gotten her mother to the bed without more than a handful of words, she found the light had gone out, and even after she felt safe enough to look up from her still watch over her mother’s regaining doze, she saw no one there, even in the shadows. If she didn’t hear the faintest scratch of a chair in the next room a moment later, she would have had to fight the urge to feel around about the corners… And the belated answer that he had somehow slipped by her without her knowing, there in that tiny house, only struck her with a surreal wonder and pleasant memory that tasted like sweet wine, and she simply stood there in the silence for a moment to appreciate before finally moving, hovering at the door for only a breath on the idea of opening it, looking out, before she closed it fully.


A loud, thunderous thumping shook the very floorboards of the house, and with it both women spasmed in their bed like they had been electrocuted. Marguerite jolted upright with a crack of the neck that made her groan as blood pour painfully behind her ears, allowing Antoinette the time she needed to rise herself and blink quickly from panicked shock to ruffled irritation. A quick glance to the window told her it was barely passed dawn before the aching cut of her corset made her look down and realize her dress from the night before was still upon her… And only then did she come to question why she had woken in the familiar bed. She turned a hard, suspicious eye on her daughter, but Meg didn’t even notice as she rubbed her neck with a breathless, if irritated “Who is that?” in answer to a second round of banging.

“I did not tell anyone to call” was her flat answer, cutting with the frustration with which she would have rather liked to ask how they had ended up in their bed, where Erik had gone, or how Meg expected her to know who was at their door. But they clearly needed to find out, and reaching out, she strove to rise from the bed and make for the door. It was slow work, and she could already hear that the girl had belatedly woken to the necessity for speed and was moving about behind her, striving to dress in the inconceivable breath of time it was take to check herself. No, the girl couldn’t show up at the door as is, and all things considered, Antoinette was the only one who could reasonably check who it was. Even if it took her so long to move, so suddenly awoken and without her missing cane, that the impatient visitor was yelling through the door in an all too familiar voice by the time she could even exit the bedroom.

“Giry, I know you're in there! I could have used the key— Don’t make it necessary!”

Murray Gold :: The Leaf || ❖
|| ❖
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Antoinette · Marguerite

[Arsenic-S]

• ѡ h e ɴ . ι . α м . s τ α ɴ ם ι n g . ι n . τ н e . ғ ι ʀ e , . ι . ѡ i ℓ ℓ . ℓ σ σ к . н ι м . ι ɴ . τ н e . e ʏ e •
• α ɴ ם . ι . ѡ ι ℓ ℓ . ℓ e τ . τ н e . ם e ѵ ι ℓ . к n σ ѡ . τ н α τ , . ι . ѡ a s . в ʀ α ѵ e . e ɴ σ υ ɢ h . τ σ . ם ι e •

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“Giry, I know you're in there! I could have used the key— Don’t make it necessary!”

To think such an assault on the senses could be found so early in the waking hours was absurd at best-- even for a man who only very rarely spent that time actually sleeping. It could only be assumed that this individual, whoever they were, truly held little in regard for the neighbors, either, as the ruckus he insisted on raising there on the Giry's front step was near enough to wake the dead... Perhaps in both the literal as much as the proverbial sense. Yet while the man's efforts were not in vain for as far as getting himself some much desired attention, he had managed to spur the recognition of much more than merely Antoinette or even her young daughter. It was easy enough to spout such callous threats at a few, equitably courteous women who so surely "knew their place", but it would be a matter of time to see if the demanding posture would hold up just as strongly against something less than so sweetly benign. For who truly held themselves in such high stature as to as strike out with idle threats and such demanding tones so early in the morning? Much less to a pair of harmless women who could only but barely get by as it was? Perhaps if it had not been for the sheer vulgarity of it, the barbarism that it suggested, Erik would have been more inclined to lend an ear to logic and common sense, to remain hidden from others' perception if only to spare the women even further turmoil with suspicious glances and prodding questions for those in their surrounding...

But, in the moment which followed the first quake of that thunderous knock, all he could truly think of was the fact that this must be one of many problems present in their lives. A problem which he could, and most certainly would, resolve from their path with the utmost of haste if it continued to persist even a moment longer. Of course, Erik's humor was already badly soured in more way that one-- as he himself had been jolted awake from a deadened repose, a numb sort of dozing there, leaning back on the worn little sofa of the house, that was rare and yet so very needed in the lingering effects of illness and exhausting trepidation. Why, it had been practically death itself for all intents and purposes, void of the nightmares that would so often plague him... Perhaps he should be thinking to thank the fellow at the door. For all he had known, after all, it would have been mere moments before all that would have changed. But the notion did not occur to him.

And so, when that door suddenly gave way beneath the weight of the man's latest blows, it did not make way for the diminutive stature of a feminine form, hurrying about her way to pay heed to her impatient guest, but instead... A dim interior whose darkness was interrupted only by the sparing light of a distant lamp, flickering away just above the threshold of fully burnt oils and melding into a blackness beyond that. "I would hope you come with the purpose of emergency, monsieur. Otherwise, you may consider returning at a more appropriate hour." The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at first, the latter portion of those terse, near-hissing syllables focusing and concentrating finally onto their source as if the sound itself had coalesced into the form of a man there in the door frame. The silhouette was too-tall, looming, black and narrow, yet so very still that it was difficult to say whether or not it had been there a second before, or if it had only just then appeared. Perhaps the yellow pin-points suddenly leering down upon the man had been mistaken as flickering candles-- or perhaps the specter had, actually, all but appeared before his eyes, brimming with a wirily vehement anger.

"Should you like to leave a message, I suppose I may be willing to deliver it." Oh, such an offer-- for however genial as it may have otherwise been for its core message-- was nonetheless delivered on a venomous timbre that may as well have invited the fellow to slit his own throat-- all the while the associated form made no movement beyond the vicious narrowing of eerie, candle light eyes. "Though I should like to request you check your tone, first." A quiet, testing sort of warning wrapped in the delicacies of proper expectation before, soon, that rolling tone with all its bridled power went on to include a sterile inquiry. "To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking, precisely?"

Erik • Nadir
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❖ || Ah, Putrefaction :: Zimmer
❖ ||

[Without Knowledge]

“Dear… Ginette Brodeur is staring.”

The interruption to Marc Ory’s efforts to get some answer at the door stalled for a breath at this quiet warning at his back, prompting him to look around a level a black glare under dull, thick eyebrows across the street when he caught sight of the woman there, off in the distance, eying them without a speck of shame. At least not until she was open ogled right back, prompting a sudden twist of the distant old lady’s form as she swiftly retreated back into her own shop, yet unopened given the early hour. But it wasn’t much longer yet until all of them were expected to open their doors, so there was no time to waste on properly squishing down busybodies or even reassuring his wife that this was the one and only avenue open to them, given what they had just had confirmed to them. “And I will eat my boot if she didn’t tell us about this just so she could get an eyeful herself of what happens. You wait, Laure, by lunchtime—”

The cut off had been intentional, the man not being capable of bothering any longer on idle chatter when he should be slamming on the door again, and he needed to save his attention for yelling through the thin, rickety frame. But the timing proved to be eerily impeccable, for even as he gathered breath to immediately follow up his claim with another cry the last name matched to the household, the door slid inwards, creaking on its hinge as it opened into darkness within. The sight was not an odd one on its own, given Ory had called on the tenants more than enough to know they were conservative with lights and did not rise for themselves until later in the day, the so-called work the daughter did not calling her down to that music hall until halfway through the morning. But, the chilled silence that followed, the lack of open appearance and the creep of nerves that struck both on the stairs, the husband who went tense and ground his teeth and the wife who clutched her hand to her chest as she craned to look around the man before her without getting any closer… It would all have been testament enough for the pair to be paranoid of something off, if what had drawn them there had not already disconcerted them both into such a state.

“I would hope you come with the purpose of emergency, monsieur…”

The actual words all but blurred into nothing beneath the pure shock of its appearance— Not for the unfamiliar tones or the gender of the speaker, but for the sheer nature of it, a voice that invaded the senses and felt like it must have attacked the nerves within their heads, directly, with the venom within. And within its poison the meaning resonated, injected straight into the brain despite the initial incomprehension of the words, the sight before them. For a sight had manifested itself out of seemingly thin air, and the poor Madame Ory quailed in behind her husband at what showed there, instantly wishing she had ignored her better judgment about trying to smooth over any knee jerk presumptions or threats of her husband on the Girys, should it turn out they were wrong about what was going on. Never mind how it instantly looked like what they heard was the case, but… That man! Her husband, though, was not so easily put off from his intent. Oh, he balked, stared as clearly shaken as his wife by the surprise and the hostility coming out of the dark doorway like heat out of an opened oven, but that same apparent confirmation his wife noted steeled his own bones, prompted him to clench thick fists and stiffen his jaw against the urge to back off, to keep quiet where he was so clearly in the right.

“As the lady of the house would tell you, should you ask, I cannot call at another hour. My business occupies me in the day,” he threw in, words gruff yet harnessed, like a dog come to heel but still growling below its breath at an unwelcome visitor. For that was most certainly what he was looking at, as far as he was concerned, though he strove ever more to actually get a look at the man within the shadows. But it was too dark, and at that angle he did not even see when the said ‘lady’ actually entered the room beyond the door and the dark sentinel, how she grimaced into a resigned, but unsurprised countenance at recognizing the voice at the door, the predictably likely idea of where the visit was going to go slowing her efforts to cross the room, to stare at Erik’s dark profile with a weariness too heavy to even be called exasperation. No, the attention remained namely set outside the house, still, as the man at the door all but blew up with the rightness of his actions to be found in his very introduction. “I am Marc Ory, the man who owns this property. And who are—””

“I suggest you let him in,” cut in the woman within the house, even as she slowly layered her severity and composure over her rattled countenance, the doomed resignation that came with making the request to the man who looked so ready to push her landlord down the steps of their house and break his neck. And the fact that history said that, was more than just any exaggeration of temper, prompted her as she heard her daughter stumble into the room behind her, to explain the visitor’s behavior… Even if she could not excuse that behavior. “Monsieur Ory has a right to check in when he likes— It is in our lease.”

Hans Zimmer :: Ah, Putrefaction || ❖
Bah, too tired to add much more. xP But, I could edit in a bit more dialogue as needed, but I didn't want to assume Erik would just step aside. || ❖
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Antoinette · Marguerite

[Arsenic-S]

• ѡ h e ɴ . ι . α м . s τ α ɴ ם ι n g . ι n . τ н e . ғ ι ʀ e , . ι . ѡ i ℓ ℓ . ℓ σ σ к . н ι м . ι ɴ . τ н e . e ʏ e •
• α ɴ ם . ι . ѡ ι ℓ ℓ . ℓ e τ . τ н e . ם e ѵ ι ℓ . к n σ ѡ . τ н α τ , . ι . ѡ a s . в ʀ α ѵ e . e ɴ σ υ ɢ h . τ σ . ם ι e •

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“As the lady of the house would tell you, should you ask, I cannot call at another hour. My business occupies me in the day,”

The answer did little to muss the otherwise grim composure of that odd, dimly lit sentinel-- And, in fact, none of it seemed to overly concern the man save for a subtle flash of considering ire in yellow eyes. In the end, the excuse was petty at best, as that hardly explained any measure of the man's barbaric delivery for said 'call'. Erik had half a mind to point that out to him, for a moment, if only to gouge a hole in the the pompous self-righteousness which colored his expression despite an underlying disquiet that was far more suitable, natural, for coming face to face with the masked man. But while the curt reasoning may explain the hour-- something that, in and of itself, was of little consequence to the Giry's uncouth house guest-- it did nothing to clarify upon the methodology behind that same visit. But to do so would be... Oh so rude. As it was clear the man at least had the mind to label himself in one way or another with a name-- A name that the ghost took to heart and filed away in his memories for future reference, should this "Marc Ory' further prove himself to be an issue. And where Erik was well aware of the quivering little madame who had taken to hiding behind her burly companion's frame-- he did not make much of a point to acknowledge her, for she posed little threat or interest to him. No, it was the Ory man himself who went on into a rightly anticipated, reciprocated, inquiry upon the peculiar greeter's own identity. Yet, the demanding quality of the budding question did nothing but lure a virulent gaze upon him once more, evident if only by the way the distant street lamps caught an unusual glint of that piercing glance. But the man's investigation was cut short-- for it was Antoinette's voice that seemed to finally stir that leering specter into something if only faintly reminiscent of a 'natural' motion. For as soon as he'd heard her approach, her request, Erik was obliged to acknowledge it with a tilt of his head-- as if turning a begrudgingly respectful yet no less willing ear on her words and subsequently casting a mild sheen of light across his "face" in the process.

Yet, as she introduced Monsieur Ory as the landlord of this rickety little hovel they called a 'house', Erik-- since made to seem only concerned for the Madame herself, the two at the door suddenly little more than common beggars-- could only arch a shadowy, concealed expression, even as he heard the younger Marguerite come stumbling in shortly thereafter. Yet he made no effort to acknowledge her, something about his gaze no less disposing itself to ever-scrutinizing the couple on the front stoop despite the fact that keen attention was divided between they and his old confidant. Yet what should have been a proper bid to have him move, perhaps even scramble to apologize and rectify his ill manner as any other man would to the property's rightful owner, Erik remained taut in his position-- fiercely mirroring that same, vigilant steadfastness back at their resident landlord, if not marginally undermined by a languid sort of fickle nonchalance-- until, finally, he shifted the entirety of that attention once more upon the man, an acknowledging sort of grudge flickering in his disposition that colored his next words with a healthy dose of derision. "Ah, so this is the man responsible for the deplorable condition of the house, then? Or so it is my understanding that the proprietor should assume the responsibility of such maintenance." A wry observation which prompted the first true faltering in that unflinching regard, if only for those yellow eyes to twitch toward a warped door-frame threatening to curl in on itself to a nearby loose railing of the porch to a decaying patch of the wooden planks beneath their feet, a structure complaining of the mid stages of a deep water damage.... If only to name a few glaring examples of disrepair simply within sight at that very moment.

And with that one scathing point made, Erik no less chose to acknowledge Antoinette's unspoken request for his compliance, finally slipping from the door-frame to move a few steps further into the room and idly pace his way to the nearby table. But it was no question that his attention remained constant and wary of the visitors, for despite his motion, a near-constant air of attention followed him. "I suppose I should apologize for my impertinence then." The words-- no matter how empty, how callous their weight proved-- were clearly directed toward Madame Giry herself, rather than the man who he would have so clearly offended for his remarks. "One could only assume a landlord may have a bit more tact in his calls, 'lest there actually be an emergency of sorts... No less, I am certain he must have a perfectly sound reason to test 'his' door's already so dilapidated framework." ... Or was the man always so reprehensible?

Erik • Nadir
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❖ || Ah, Putrefaction :: Zimmer
❖ || Oh it's fine. Honestly, brevity on posts works best for me right now, thanks to this whole move situation. XP (Don't really have much time to work on stuff atm. Though that ought to hopefully change after Thursday. So long as the cable company doesn't cop out on our new apartment's internet.)

[Without Knowledge]

The recognition from a familiar, allowing voice from somewhere within the house, out of sight, was as fine a compensation for being interrupted as Ory could ask for, and beyond a brief, unfocused glare that sparked with the initial cutoff, his countenance took a turn for the better, softening around a steady, even puffed up sort of calm at hearing his position being defended, even by the woman he sought to speak to and confront. Alas, that return to even mindedness was doomed from the start, for the… man the comment was clearly aimed at heard it just as well, and any enjoyment Ory might have gotten out of the begrudging air he swore he spotted on the lean gargoyle’s face beneath, something that shone in a flick of light among the dark, was dashed by the cool, belittling reply that followed.

“Ah, so this is the man responsible for the deplorable condition of the house, then? Or so it is my understanding that the proprietor should assume the responsibility of such maintenance.”

Ory’s breath stuttered audibly at the audacity, at the split second disbelief that it had even happened. The figure before him was difficult enough to believe in its mere existence, but that he would be corrected, even by his own company, about how out of place his defensiveness was, and still say— It was unbelievable! But his denial did not last long, and the rage was slowly, visibly boiling over beneath his thin front of decorum well before his wife could found her own voice, to catch the landlord’s attention and whisper to him that the stranger was not behaving how they should expect, should he be who they thought he was… That no one there for clandestine reasons would so casually linger after being caught, much less antagonize someone who could call the authorities on him! At least, no one sane… But as a doubt began to grow on that point from nothing more than the senseless sight and behavior on display there before them, the figure retreated, opened the way for the couple to pass into the house. Laure was not particularly keen any longer to do so, preferring that decrepit, water damaged landing to that small room so long as that man was within, but her husband moved without a glance her way… Even if he did not step more than a pace or two through the door, far enough to see the full of the space without truly settling within it.

And there was Madame Giry, her daughter stumbling out into the room herself with a shawl over her shoulders, a yellow dress that hung oddly on her form, and her arms awkwardly tense around herself, one hand holding the shawl closed while the other’s hand was hidden behind her back. The old mother, however, was still and somber, her graying gold hair in a bedraggled braid and her dark clothes wrinkled, but standing as stiff and unexpressive as ever as she leveled a stare on the entering landlord, her attention flickering only shortly, when the retreating, unbelievable man that had answered the door addressed her from the table. There was little in her face that acknowledged the pungent insanity of the speaker’s address and insults, making the comments sting all the more in the ear of Marc Ory and prompt him to finally move beyond noticing, with shock, that the figure was as ghoulish as the shadows had implied, that he wore a mask, to finally find his voice again, refusing to acknowledge the fact that the words were not aimed at him by addressing the stranger directly.

“I save my tact for people who keep their word, and don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes.” His aggressive answer earned a clear tension from his own wife, standing with her heart in her throat in the open door of the house, and she would have surely intervened, had Marc not made her hesitate by the fact that, beyond refusing to bend to polite tones, her husband was defending himself with the truth… “I can only assume you haven’t been here long, or else the good lady has simply failed to tell you anything… I can understand how responsibility of handling repairs was covered in our rental agreement—” Such as it was, less formal than even the norm of their status usually called for, but with that said he turned his attention back on the unbending, unmoving madam before him, focused the rest of his comments on her… An accusation that was, admittedly, calmer and less attacking than might have been expected given his demanding entrance, but no less as hard as steel, if anything seeming more grim than raging. “But I would think you would have told, whoever this is, that you agreed not to have anyone else living here but you and your… Girl.” At the mention of her, Ory slid his attention passed the steady, if resigned, introspective gaze of Madame Giry to the young woman beyond, the girl who somehow seemed far more engaged in what was being said than even her mother, her gaze flicking from one face from the other with her jaw twitching, as if she were chewing through something. No, it was her involvement, for all that he avoided much direct attention to her, that had truly earned Marc’s ire, as assumed as it was. He did not really care what his tenants did, beyond not causing them trouble… But the Brodeur woman had hit the nail on the head by implying her own thoughts on what must be going on, the most likely cause for stealth… If the girl wasn’t already in a position that practically begged for gossip—!

“But Laure thought she saw some foreign man coming back and forth from the house last week. It wasn’t certain enough for much concern, and we tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, but then someone swore they saw another man at your window last night.” And at that he gave a side, passing glance at the man at the table, from the corner of his eye as if striving to look into the sun and squinting in distaste on the effect. No, even if there was a chill of self-preservation climbing up his back, warning him to tread carefully, that he might pay for simply pinning the household with the simple truth, he had to do it. He had feared something like this from the moment he realized his new tenant’s daughter was a dancer in the opera house. Everyone knew what that meant, his friends had warned him he was looking for trouble, and even Laure was hesitant about the situation, or letting the girl work in the bakery from time to time. But they had gone a good two years without any incident worth the mention, no scandal, and he had come to truly believe that the Girys were not the norm to be expected from the lot who would lower themselves to such work… More the fool he. “I don’t know what is going on here, and frankly, it is none of my concern. But the neighbors are already talking, I cannot let whatever you are up to here affect my own family, so—”

“I know we should have told you about him coming to stay,” a voice suddenly cut in, drawing the Ory couple to both look up, blink in a near-daze at the younger Giry who had suddenly broken out of her tense silence to pipe up, earning a flash of startled dread from her mother, even if she dared not look back at her girl. No, and Marguerite was counting on her mother’s instincts to not make a scene to help her through this, to not contradict her or give her away as she threw out what she had managed to grapple together from the vague-self question of ‘when would it be appropriate for women to live with an unmarried man.’ Her mother might be bound to see it as a lost cause, that there was nothing to be done… But she was not near as, liberal, in her ideas as Marguerite. “But, we’ve been so set on helping my cousin settle back into Paris, that we just, we were a little wary to ask…” She trailed off, bolstering her show of uncertainty and contrition with the very real anxiety of how some might react… Straining to get a look at the, person, she apparently meant from the edge of her down-turned gaze, head bent in apparent remorse.

The display was all but lost, though, on the man it was directly meant for, as the landlord just kept staring at the girl who had clearly thrown him for a loop, only slowly managing to even think to verify the idea with the others in the room by glance and weak, dumb echo. “Your… Cousin.”

“Yes, Erik—” She piped in before he had a chance to properly focus on the other. She didn’t even need to look at her mother to know she was staring back at her a stony, baffled stare of her own, and she didn’t dare meet the look when she had to focus a grand grin towards the landlord, and pray that he didn’t notice her stumble for a name. “Morgane, Ma’s nephew. Just back in France— After all of these years, but with my uncle long passed – bless him – it is only right that we welcomed family under our roof. And his friend, the Persian man you saw? They met back in Crimea? He brought him all of the way back here to us, after all of this time.” She said it all like it was some holiday miracle out of a storybook, come to life, as it very well was in a sense… But she just as she began to catch up to herself and wonder just how much of a hole she was digging, even in the moment, a peripheral view of Laure Ory catching her breath and looking aghast at what was clearly implied by the mention of Crimea, as anyone not living under a rock would recognize, bolstered Marguerite’s confidence to paste on a show of a strange mix of pride and, awkwardness, as she trailed into a quiet add on of “And, well, you can’t blame them for taking so long to get here, what with… Well…” And finally she slid her gaze indicatively towards Erik, taking the opportunity to understandably look at him to meet his eye. For all appearances to the couple who numbly followed her gaze, her point was, whatever vague thing she was referring to would be written right on the man’s face… Literally… But for the girl, the real point was getting a chance to see what her play had done to her own company… If her excuse to herself that she could do no damage by trying if they were getting evicted anyways, was true… Or not…

Hans Zimmer :: Ah, Putrefaction || ❖
iiii am about to be busy likely until maybe 8, so I wanted to get something up. xD; But I can edit as needed or called for. || ❖
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Antoinette · Marguerite

[Arsenic-S]

• ѡ h e ɴ . ι . α м . s τ α ɴ ם ι n g . ι n . τ н e . ғ ι ʀ e , . ι . ѡ i ℓ ℓ . ℓ σ σ к . н ι м . ι ɴ . τ н e . e ʏ e •
• α ɴ ם . ι . ѡ ι ℓ ℓ . ℓ e τ . τ н e . ם e ѵ ι ℓ . к n σ ѡ . τ н α τ , . ι . ѡ a s . в ʀ α ѵ e . e ɴ σ υ ɢ h . τ σ . ם ι e •

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Erik needn't harbor any true 'expertise', so to speak, in the way of identifying and interpreting a man's emotional turmoil-- be it impending fury or otherwise-- to see that his words were taking their toll upon Ory... Testing the limits of the fellow's patience and understanding with each audacious strike thrust forth as callously as the last. Yet, that awareness did little to further discourage the uncouth ghost of a man from further indignation, despite his eventual retreat into the house to linger in the dimmer region of that front room near the table-- far enough that he could maintain a deciding eye upon each of the little house's occupants yet still close enough to act should any necessity to do so arise... However unlikely as that was. The truth of the matter simply remained that he had stepped aside solely upon the Madame's request to offer even that respect... For he certainly owed her as much, no matter how needless or ill placed her deference may be, or at least as far as Erik cared to observe.

But he himself did not identify this man or his timid little wife as anything relevant to a threat or honest obstacle-- for in the grand scheme of things, this sad excuse for a property was no where near habitable or appropriate for the two women, or at least for as far as he was concerned, and their lingering there much longer would be unnecessary, at best, should he have any say in the matter. And if this Ory made the knee-jerk reaction to focus solely upon the indiscretions of his unwanted 'guest' and thus catapult the little family from their ramshackle 'home'? It would be but a minor inconvenience, easily evaded, postponed or utterly prevented for the time being, if only with a little effort. But still-- the act of it all would not prove painless, either, should he continue to so carelessly take jabs at the man he had since identified as a potential factor behind the place's disarray and thus the women's hardships... Particularly if the way he felt it necessary to approach this audience was to be taken into consideration... It was not above most men to act on their pride alone, after all, and though Erik would be capable of improving the womens' quality of living in short order even if the literal and proverbial rug of 'homestead' was yanked out beneath their feet, the stress and panic of it all could prove damaging enough to hold reason in stilling his tongue for the time being... Rendering the man quiet but vigilant as he drifted to the very edge of the encounter, allowing the two women to take front and center to the visitors.

Yes, in the end, the man's subsequent defenses earned themselves little more than a bored, passing glance from the ghoulishly yellow eyes beyond their clandestine mask, like a man looking out on the argument of a child with a measure of novel impatience. For despite his best efforts, the barbs of that attempted defense was insufficient at best to fully rectify the barbaric entrance the man had so insisted upon to start. If he were to react in such a way to every potential down falling, after all, then it was quite clear why his tenants may very well feel compelled to conceal certain things from him. But this Marc Ory was damned in more way than one-- for as soon as he had acquired himself the label of 'landlord' for this little hovel, and sufficiently colored himself as a man of hot tempers, ill placed and further condemned for the scornful lilt of a pausing tone when it came time to refer to Giry's daughter... It hardly mattered if he had immediately buckled beneath the weight of such heated regard, if he had fallen into honest apologies or backpedaling for all his self-righteous contempt. But that did not change the fact that, with each passing word, the man went on to dig himself a deeper grave within the yellow reflection of a silent gaze.

And so, when clear mention of the Daroga was brought to light, Erik was already perfectly comfortable in his disdain for the man, so much so that the haughty opinion of such rumors did little to phase or deter him. It was a given that neighbors would notice the odd man's comings and goings, so sudden and out of the blue, no matter how much the little group may have attempted to downplay or hide the visits. With that alone it was easy to assume all eyes would begin to fall upon that little house, searching for signs of what may have been going on or what secrets it may conceal... But to think someone had seen him... Well, that was unacceptable. He could only assume that in his recovery, in all his restlessness, he may have become too brazen, too confident-- and thus careless. If there was any shift in his regard by then however, it was one of a cold self-deprecation, a reconsideration on his own actions, only interrupted then by the sudden interjection of a girl--

"But, we’ve been so set on helping my cousin settle back into Paris, that we just, we were a little wary to ask…"

The surprise did not manifest itself outside of a blink, a sudden shift of that aurulent gaze to settle itself in tandem with the others' upon the now speaking daughter. But such shock, as literally masked as it was in his case, could be read as many things-- Including a sudden reprimand for the young lady's cut-in on the conversation, be it for propriety or impatience or the nature of her soon 'truthful' words. For as out of the blue as her explanation truly was, it took only but a fleeting second before Erik was quite certain in the reasoning behind it... The fail safe that would provide a dose of sanity for such onlookers from beyond the realm of their little world that would be both proper and more or less acceptable for its essence. For... It would explain this indiscretion in such a way that would be more... palatable for the average person to consider. And so his mind had swerved into motion, allowing what little shock which had taken to his veiled features to gradually, naturally dissolve into a somber dejection, as if somehow saddened for the story she had to unveil, perhaps only agitated for her narrative in the same way any man may be for traumatically sensitive recollections such as those of war and... Injury... Especially when shared with such blatant, resentful strangers.

And as those foreign eyes turned upon him, it took but a few breaths of focused consideration to drown a spike of clutching enmity, so natural for any such attention to be paid so pointedly to the mask, and thus allowed himself to dissolve into a gloomier resignation, his own gaze turned numb and brief away, as if-- perhaps-- the answer to Marguerite's trailing thought could be provided in that alone. At the very least, however, it certainly painted the picture of a wounded man, pride addled for the demeaning loss of something so basic as a normal constitution-- evidently scarred in ways much deeper than the flesh, as many soldiers returning home from abroad would often express. Perhaps it was the fact that the disposition in and of itself was not terribly off the mark of his own self, but Erik seemed to pose little difficulty in falling comfortably into the role so suddenly presented to him by the girl, and gracefully proceeded forward with little hesitation. "I fear, it is true... It has been some time since last I frequented, Paris. And the recovery..." A bleak, passing pause broke the sentence, one spindly hand adjusting tensely along the surface of the table, a motion that alluded to a pained avoidance of the subject-- one far more legitimate despite its skewed reasoning, its genuine nature feeding into the illusion's credibility-- and an evident difficulty in speaking of it. "... It has not been terribly kind, as I am sure you can imagine. Even after all this time. But--" Soon, that yellow gaze had risen again, offering a checking glance upon each face there before him before settling in a precarious side-glance of a regard upon Ory himself, "I refuse to be an imposition for long, Monsieur. Should I have any ability to see to the contrary. As soon as I've regained my bearings in the city and established work, then I will be glad to vacate the premises." And, should he have any say in the matter, he would do so with the knowledge that the women, too, would be relocated elsewhere.

Erik • Nadir
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❖ || Ah, Putrefaction :: Zimmer
❖ || Omg! Postage resumed! (Yay finally getting the office somewhat set up.)

[Without Knowledge]

A well-formed but aged hand clenched about the top of Antoinette’s cane, thin wrinkles ebbing as thick veins came into focus beneath the pressure of her grip. That was the only real giveaway of the lady’s inner thoughts, the true impression of the shift that had so wildly taken over her home by the power of her daughter’s interference… Her lies. Her own face offered nothing, no additional cover… But a hard silence that did not draw attention or suspicion within the confusion whenever either Ory even bothered to glance her way between the shock that drew their eyes to Marguerite, or the claims that left them focusing on the strange gentlemen at the center of the revelations. More than likely, they saw what they expected in her inscrutable discomfort, the eyes that had turned into the cool gulf of her inactive fireplace, as if displeased to have been unjustly attacked by her landlord… Or, perhaps, to have had her nephew’s personal business so invaded… Or, perhaps, that he might yet be denied a place under her roof. That she might not even have a roof to offer him any longer.

Such were implications that Madame Giry did not intend to suggest, but her silence left her an acting puppet within the charade unfolding around her, and such was a distant relief to her daughter… At least, when she even had half a mind to pay to her mother’s current displays. However crucial her mother’s assent and silence was for Marguerite’s ploy, her attention was namely caught upon Erik, her initial, breath-catching uncertainty of what he would do, how he would react, slowly giving way to a relief she allowed no more expression than a rolling relaxation through her tense shoulders and chest before she clenched, steeled ¬herself against showing her real thoughts. However she might have missed what he thought of her familial fairy tale, his initial reactions amid her unfolding spiel and far too furtive glances that offered her no more insight than the proof of a frozen countenance? What she found when she did finally have an excuse to glance his way, first directly beneath the guise of indication and then subtly through her lashes and apparent deference, was not a figure stiff with shock or anything else from disbelief to outrage, but a man, cornered into acknowledging the truth about his own troubled state, both physical and situational.

Because for all visible purposes that was what he was, what he himself convincingly proclaimed himself to be with each gesture and word— A man to be both pitied and respected, in that unique way that only an injured, troubled ‘hero of the nation’ could deserve or earn. A special regard and allowance that Marguerite had quite purposely noted… And saw confirmed beneath the awkwardness choking both man and wife when she flicked her gaze to the edge of her eye, saw their faces as Erik spoke his last, turned the tables back on them in the most obliging address of an assurance, placing the demands of the conversation squarely back on Marc Ory, if he still wished to remove him or the ladies from the house. And he wouldn’t. The young dancer read that in his face with satisfied certainty. He would not dare, would he? It was one thing to toss out a solitary widow and her girl, half-ostracized and near anonymous, the pair of them… As bitterly ironic as the idea could be, should she linger upon it too long. But a former soldier? And after Ory acknowledged that gossip had already begun to circulate around the house, what was happening within, the neighbors bound to notice and talk about any ‘truth’ that was bound to come out in short time?

The girl could practically see the questions flashing through the baker’s worn face, battling against his clear longing to find some reasonable way to defend, if not his intent, then at least his behavior despite the troubling hindsight. He did not bluster, per se, but his torn instincts to be prudent, to have his way, were more than obvious enough to force the girl to consciously strive to keep her brow furrowed, pale lips pinched to pink, eyes crinkled and turned downcast with a grim, sympathetic concern for forcing her ‘cousin’ to report his predicament… That her landlord might cause him further trouble. A chance the younger madam herself was apparently aware of, for she came up beside her husband, a hand upon his arm in a staying bid even as it aided her in whispering to her so quietly Marguerite could make not nothing more than the pleading undertone of her voice, quickly corroborated by the hissing breath that leaked out of the landlord like pressure, a grimace shaping on his face before his expression cracked into pure discomfort. “There is, no need to rush. I wish, I had known about this sooner—” Ory apparently couldn’t help complaining, benign as his tones were. No, he was simply struggling to smooth down feathers that had apparently ruffled unduly, gruff and grumping but unaggressive as he nodded to ‘Erik Morgane’ without ever directly looking on him as he spoke. “Still, if there is nothing, untoward going on here, and you are a relative, an exception is… Only right. Until you find a situation,” he tacked on almost in a rush, as if jolted by even the idea of suggesting something permanent, even chagrined as he was. The open hint of continued discomfort with his presence, be it for the look of the man of many masks or simply his behavior before, would have certainly earned a glower from the youngest lady in the room and a second cut in, had Ory not shocked both Girys by nodding shortly to the matron of the household. “My apologies for any assumptions made, Madame. Or disturbance… I am sure you can see what brought it on, of course, but— It was uncalled for.”

“No forgiveness is necessary, Monsieur Ory” was the clipped, stiff reply, Antoinette finding little more in the concession than discomfort, and she frankly wanted nothing more than to stay as disengaged from the charade as possible. But in truth, her tense, half-attention to the couple only made it the worse, coming off as an imperious, veiled distaste for the man’s behavior too indirect and polite to even think of calling out. In the wake of it… The inscrutable madam, the girl who kept meekly back yet burned the side of her head with her close watch, that man… Laure Ory could not stand it any longer, and quietly mumbled her own apology that just as quickly tripped into an excuse of having left her baby with their shop hand, needing to get back to the bakery, all but demanding her husband come with her in transparent question form that, if he were honest, Marc did not mind. No, it gave him the out to leave himself, bending to his wife’s appeals, with little more than a short nod and “I’ll leave you to your rest, then…” before retreating out the door as quickly as he could conspicuously rush it.

In his wake he left a gaping hole, the tension not truly exiting with the couple but scrambling about the small room with no proper focus on which to fixate. And when Marguerite purposely strove to breathe easy, blink her gaze off of the shut front door, her efforts were nipped in the bud by the steady, even question quickly thrown into the silence, no rage or anger in the tones yet the delivery scratching up the girl’s neck in a way familiar enough to make her fight a shudder. “…I assume that was solely your own concoction?” Turning to look, to confirm that indeed, her mother’s eyes were pinned on her while she sought to confirm responsibility for the turn of events – that is, who was in need of admonition – Marguerite stumbled with an instant “Well” to fill the silence, cut off her mother before she might simply prove the question rhetorical, only to come up short with something to say… Beyond the truth. “Yes— But it worked, didn’t it?” But it was clear that would do nothing but carve her mother’s frown deeper before she even finished the question, so the little dancer dove on, smacking a pleased smile over her own lips as she pressed on, and let her words wander in target as they unfolded. “And splendidly, at that! And I certainly cannot take all of the credit.”

Hans Zimmer :: Ah, Putrefaction || ❖
----- || ❖
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Antoinette · Marguerite

[Arsenic-S]

• ѡ h e ɴ . ι . α м . s τ α ɴ ם ι n g . ι n . τ н e . ғ ι ʀ e , . ι . ѡ i ℓ ℓ . ℓ σ σ к . н ι м . ι ɴ . τ н e . e ʏ e •
• α ɴ ם . ι . ѡ ι ℓ ℓ . ℓ e τ . τ н e . ם e ѵ ι ℓ . к n σ ѡ . τ н α τ , . ι . ѡ a s . в ʀ α ѵ e . e ɴ σ υ ɢ h . τ σ . ם ι e •

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The futile apologies fell on deaf, albeit numbly intrigued, words. For while it was certainly a grand arsenal to wield against the landlord's earlier indignation, Erik was unsure as to whether he would fully expect the man to not only buy the story, but to also change his tone based solely upon the alleged history of this outrageous stranger. Such skepticism proved negligible, however, as the very notion began to sink into that irked facade, that this man was not only an alarming 'intruder' upon his property, but also a soldier welcomed to the closest remaining semblance of 'home' available to such distant family... It became screamingly clear that Monsieur Ory had only just begun to take notice of the unnecessary brashness of his ways, only to begin to reconsider them, revoke them, on the tones of a dismissive allowance for time, exceptions, and even an apology eventually thrown the way of the madame... A gesture that was more damning than it was relieving, as it provided clearer insight on what other assumptions had been earlier concocted previous to his arrival. It was of little surprise, in and of itself, given the sort of reputation Marguerite's given career often purported for itself among the general public-- But such an awareness did little to dull the sting of that idea or all of its associated 'potentials' in Erik's mind, nor soften his regard for the man even after he had acquired what was, in essence, a blessing to remain even by the property's rightful owner.

Still-- He said nothing more as he simply watched, listened, observed as Antoinette all but denied the man's amends in the the most civil of ways only for both husband and wife to excuse themselves from that space altogether. Their swift absence was a balm, at the very least, if only in allowing that sense of terrible threat to dwindle away from Erik's bones, giving him a clearer picture of the two women who routinely called this place home without the volume of a dangerous temper so blatantly screaming in his ears. In fact, in the short beats of silence following the vacating of the two 'visitors'-- He could not help but come to fully comprehend the implications of all that had transpired... The fact that his presence there was now not only known but understood, even accepted, by someone other than those so directly involved in all that he was and had been. And to punctuate the debacle in its entirety? They believed that he was of blood relation to the Girys-- A visiting cousin! His mask but the admirable cover of an injured veteran...! It was asinine, in more ways than one, but all that truly mattered was that... It had worked. And worked in such a way that he was, to some degree, free to roam without a constant worry of being seen.

For all its inanity, for no matter how much it spurred a sort of sickened disquiet within him, the entire scene was actually bordering on the absurd. The comical, even. And so, when Antoinette found it fit to speak once more-- to turn her much anticipated inquiry upon her daughter, searching for the source of this fiasco, Erik could do little more than bid the two an arched expression... His yellow gaze still reeling with a simmering, gradually calming agitation that was by then largely overshadowed by a dry humor. A mirth that did little to touch ever stern, straight lips nor truly waver as Marguerite began to defend herself, though it did draw his attention to settle thoughtfully upon the young dancer with a piqued interest.

"Yes— But it worked, didn’t it? And splendidly, at that! And I certainly cannot take all of the credit."

The acknowledgment was clear-- But Erik was hardly keen on looking to claim any of that suggested 'credit' for himself. After all, the only assistance he had supplied himself was that of not contradicting her claims once they had been made. Still, it warranted a dull sniff of wry amusement from the man and a tick of a nod toward the side as he went on with a cool, reflective sort of observation. "... The man did not strike me as much of a patriot.." To think he would have so easily allowed it all to slide by so easily, simply because of a claimed tenure upon the battlefield... At any rate-- The solution had been a better alternative to the other directions in which that encounter could have gone... And it had been a clever one at that. "Whatever the case, your daughter deserves all the credit for that accomplishment, Madame. All I did was play along." In fact, Erik had been prepared to acquire such cooperation via far more... Aggressive means. Marguerite had done just that with a few choice words and a little story to go along with it. Yet where Antoinette may have looked upon the act with a sort of bridled disapproval-- The self-made ghost was impressed. "I am certain the Daroga will be pleased to learn his military career will not go unrecognized... Somewhat. Well done, mademoiselle. This will, at the very least, buy us time."

Erik • Nadir
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❖ || Ah, Putrefaction :: Zimmer
❖ || ---

[Without Knowledge]

The cover that had Marguerite tossed out a spare minute before had been drummed up on the spot, brought on by the pressure of collapsing order and the need to maintain, to deter, with a calculated, confident, but nonetheless real risk. Still, however just as impulsive her lies had been, there was something inherently more flailing about the girl’s defense of her actions, the calls for acceptance and relief tossed about to her mother and their new ‘relation’ grappling for a give beneath her stubborn smile. It was one thing, after all, to pull the wool over the Giry landlord’s eyes, or any of their other neighbors, but those two? Far more in the know about her slippery wit and, quite frankly, more intelligent than likely anyone within a stone’s throw from the house? It was not going to come so easily, particularly in the case of her actions there, and if neither saw fit to see the good in what she had done…

But it was a needless concern. For when her gaze actually had a breath to even focus upon the figure, newly blessed with a whole new persona, she found no open ridicule to match her mother’s, but a stead consideration that caught her as much by virtue of the unexpected regard as his unique features. Where nothing of his usually grim, heavy countenance was… Out of place… The undertones of his gaze, his air, the response given struck as shockingly light, never mind unscornful. The shift was enough on its own to wash the false cheer from the girl’s face, leaving her blinking with a thrown, unsteady sort of air that she strove, all the same, to ease through with a flatly honeyed “No, but Heaven forbid he chance letting any of the neighbors say so by tossing us out or calling us liars” far too quiet and unfocused to carry much weight, her attention namely on considering who spoke to her rather than the words themselves. Her regard was so set that she took little more than a passing note of how her mother’s eyes slide slowly back on her with the confirmation of ‘credit’ offered, seeing little more in the comment than the proof Madame Giry needed to turn her mind solely on her girl, and how to address this admittedly practical breach of ethics. A breach that was proving more and more difficult to cross with each second as the willing accomplice went on to praise the girl for her layers of falsehood, splashing Marguerite’s expression with an honest, clear pleasure that lit her up and cracked a real smile across her face— Nothing of undeserving concern, given how weak she knew her daughter could be when it came to flattery, but the encouragement was simply another concern piled onto the older lady that morning, an issue she marked yet set aside, like a novel bookmarked and put away for the time being, in favor of breaking in with far more practical focus before Marguerite could, presumably, find her tongue again.

“Yes, from what little I have heard, the authorities have not yet given up their investigation at the opera house, and miraculous as your recovery is, some more time is certainly needed…” Yet even as she spoke, drawing her girl’s blinking attention back to her with uncertainty for the cut-in and the pause, Antoinette stilled, crinkled her eyes and brow into a furrow as the very mention turned her attention back to what she had realized in the instant before Marc Ory had come through the door… Where she had been sleeping when he woke them, prompting a slow, pointed tilt of her pale gaze towards the masked man across the room. “Even if you are not spending it, as I had imagined you would…” As merely observant as the claims seemed to be, the stare that she kept consideringly on Erik, as though she were striving to be certain whether or not she had caught him in a bit of mischief, rung more than one familiar bell in Marguerite’s head. And so, after a brief flight of her gaze from one to the other and back, she took her own turn to jump in, focusing on Erik in an effort to grant him something to answer to, if not dissuade or distract her mother, then at least detain. “And what are we buying time until?”

Hans Zimmer :: Ah, Putrefaction || ❖
Madame Giry, you innocent fool. || ❖
-
Antoinette · Marguerite

[Arsenic-S]

• ѡ h e ɴ . ι . α м . s τ α ɴ ם ι n g . ι n . τ н e . ғ ι ʀ e , . ι . ѡ i ℓ ℓ . ℓ σ σ к . н ι м . ι ɴ . τ н e . e ʏ e •
• α ɴ ם . ι . ѡ ι ℓ ℓ . ℓ e τ . τ н e . ם e ѵ ι ℓ . к n σ ѡ . τ н α τ , . ι . ѡ a s . в ʀ α ѵ e . e ɴ σ υ ɢ h . τ σ . ם ι e •

❧════════════════════════════════════════════════════════❧

"No, but Heaven forbid he chance letting any of the neighbors say so by tossing us out or calling us liars"

A fair enough point-- something Erik himself may have neglected to consider, given how little he often gave society as a whole a thought. Of course, just like they so often felt themselves obligated in so many ways, they would also often consider it necessary to pay their given governments a grand amount of "respect"-- particularly in time of war, impending or otherwise recent. Even if Ory himself did not care whether or not their claims were true-- he knew better than to test the possibility of such information getting out to neighbors and potential customers to his little establishment. Yes, regardless of his own patriotic whims, it was something to hold over his head now and otherwise dissuade him from heated decisions fueled only toward two helpless yet no less ill-labeled women. If anything, a "man's" presence, strange or otherwise-- but particularly one of allegedly admirable pursuits-- would only better support their continued existence there.

Perhaps there was something to be said for the advantages of working, even marginally, with another more well-versed in the ways of the current social "norm." Erik would be hard pressed to claim himself as any sort of expert in the field-- not because he was incapable of it so much as he just never found himself compelled to pursue the subject. Still, it would seem the fleeting sentiment would be shared for the way his remarks seemed to inspire a bright pleasure in her eye, a truly genuine smile to tug at her pink lips, the reaction so pure it quite frankly caught him off guard. His own regard had been something wiry, sharp, if still vaguely amused for it all, despite a sincere word of praise for her work-- but he was not terribly accustomed to such an unfettered reception to his compliments... Free of fear or wary caution... And for a moment, he was caught blinking once, observing her glow with a subtle interest, before Antoinette's commentary turned itself about to place its target upon him in her daughter's place.

As he became aware of the attention, Erik turned his gaze toward the woman, blinking wonder having dissolved from his glance to be replaced by a pointed scrutinizing of her unspoken criticism... Yet just as he was beginning to consider a response, swaying between a direct addressing of the subject and a dismissing negligence of it, since she felt it so right as to not precisely acknowledge her thoughts herself, Marguerite stepped in once more... Both saving and preventing him from trudging that road just yet. On cue, the growing tension in his behavior began to dwindle again, relenting vaguely for a sterile consideration of the girl's inquiry. "Until I am fully recovered and capable. Until I've managed to better understand your current situation and determine what is the best course of action from this point on. What would be the most desired of outcomes for the both of you." He paused once, shrugging one narrow, cloth-laden shoulder before gesturing to nothing. "And, of course, until I've been able to arrange for those, changes, to occur... Once that is all in place, I will go about re-securing my Opera, ensuring you are both in a comfortable place, and the need for this facade will be no more."

Erik paused then, turning an inquisitive eye between the two of them before breathing a wry sound that could almost be mistaken for a grim chuckle, a cadaverous hand rising to idly smooth back a few wisps of black hair from his mask. "I suppose... If I am to play the part of blood... Then that will better support any needs that may arise which could require outside work. Should there be anything that may be pertinent to know in order to best portray that role, however, then I would appreciate the enlightenment. Otherwise, your landlord and neighbors will simply learn that "Morgane" will not allow the resident ladies to be unnecessarily badgered."

Erik • Nadir
❧════════════════════════════════════════════════════════❧

❖ || Ah, Putrefaction :: Zimmer
❖ || ---

[Without Knowledge]

“Until I am fully recovered and capable. Until I've managed to better understand your current situation and determine what is the best course of action from this point on. What would be the most desired of outcomes for the both of you.”

The easy pickup of the questioning was its own proxy relief for the young lady, especially as the answer easily caught her mother’s eye and, knowing and reluctant or not, Madame Giry was tugged into a focus on the critical response. And yet, what Erik actually had to say… Some of it flashed across the women’s faces in strange ways, the satisfaction of the acknowledged need to recover giving way to a crinkle at the implication of their current predicament, let alone anything of the chain of events that had brought the pair there, to that half-decrepit loft as a bare, awkward two-person family unit with no seeming connections dating back farther than five years. From there their heavy introspection split off, the idea of a desired outcome painted Antoinette introspective, considering, where her daughter merely turned her own gaze on her mother, silence and uncertain.

Yet in the wake of the less established, laid out suggestions were more concrete givens that pulled Marguerite’s attention, a brief intermediary glance questioning at the mention of the Opera and the idea of him, going back, where her mother had only been pressed further into considering details she had already known, but had not acknowledged so directly, so purposely. He meant to… ‘Relocate’ the pair of them. Not just to a new home, as was becoming painfully clear, and was, she would admit, only wise when their landlord would certainly only resent them for the awkwardness that had come from the confrontation… But no, Erik meant to establish them, not just continue to acknowledge his pledge to Madame Giry but actually follow through before he returned to retake the mantle of The Ghost within his own walls… A role that was beyond surreal in the old boxkeeper’s eye, when she thought to look back on passed days with the awareness that it was that flesh and bone man right there, and not a divine being behind every word, every action, every claim of control over whatever came to pass through his house. And, what did she wish for from that man, with his intent presented so directly to her? What could she even expect? Was he meaning to simply do well by them, or… Did he actually mean to meet the boasts he had made, so long ago?

Whatever her wonder, though, the vague, but no less catching sounds uttered by the man drew the girl’s attention, at least, fully off of her mother and her own efforts to read her thoughts in favor of the newly adopted relative, striving to read his words in his covered face before he even spoke them, never mind the foolishness of it or how any movement in the usually stilled, controlled form was oddly distracting. But not so much she did miss his meaning in the end, prompting a flick of her attention towards her mother, as if expecting some protest to even the implication of sharing personal information on the little family, before simply rolling her shoulders in answer… And then flailing with the shawl she continued to grip over her shoulders, other hand twisted oddly around her back, her bedraggled hair given free reign over her face without any effort made to push it back. “Well, Ma does not have a brother, so there isn’t much to know there, even if you needed it.” A point she would have been concerned for, had her mother actually come from Paris. As it was, with no one to contradict them, she had little to do besides use the fact, consider the potential. “I suppose we could piece together something there, if you want, just to be safe.”

“I doubt that is necessary,” the madam cut in, indirectly approving her at least half-attention to the discussion by jolting her head up with the words to interrupt any suggestion of further fabrications, prompting a pursing of lips from Marguerite as she looked off in the opposite direction, clearly fighting the urge to protest and interrupt her mother’s firm, steady argument. “Few would dare ask directly, and we can simply ignore insinuations for details.” She knew well, after all, how to dodge any questions that touched too close to home… A topic that might well have been to blame for her excessive displeasure with the ploy her daughter had started, even if she gave the idea little more than a cursory glance on her way to pinning together a string of nod-to facts. “It should be enough to know that I have a living older sister, Celine, in Le Havre, where I spent my childhood, and your… ‘Grandparents’’ names were Daniel Morgane and Maura. Both long gone from this world.” Antoinette clearly shared reluctantly, and only so far for the dead and buried losses and relations she named, but the more curious expression was to be found on Marguerite’s face when she suddenly looked back, as a strange sort of taken aback intrigue, as if the details were fresh to her as well! Or, at least not near the remembered givens that should have been… A strange reaction only there until her mother glanced her way in passing before catching Erik’s eye, her stiff distaste replaced slowly by an obliging allowance. “That should be more than enough truth to corroborate anything, and no lies needed… We would be better off considering the future before the past. And if you have any questions about that, monsieur, or anything that will help you understand our ‘situation’ as you see it, I will be happy to oblige.”

“You know…” Marguerite trailed in, keeping her attention on the shelf by the fireplace, inspecting one of the stone-filled mason jars by all appearances, while in truth keeping a steady excuse to look away as she asked something that earned a looked from her mother half-exasperated, half-aghast. “You really shouldn’t be addressing each other so formally. If anyone catches us calling each other ‘madame’ or ‘monsieur’ our ruse will fall apart in a blink.”

Hans Zimmer :: Ah, Putrefaction || ❖
'Sorry Mama Giry, Meg's on a roll || ❖
-
Antoinette · Marguerite

[Arsenic-S]

• ѡ h e ɴ . ι . α м . s τ α ɴ ם ι n g . ι n . τ н e . ғ ι ʀ e , . ι . ѡ i ℓ ℓ . ℓ σ σ к . н ι м . ι ɴ . τ н e . e ʏ e •
• α ɴ ם . ι . ѡ ι ℓ ℓ . ℓ e τ . τ н e . ם e ѵ ι ℓ . к n σ ѡ . τ н α τ , . ι . ѡ a s . в ʀ α ѵ e . e ɴ σ υ ɢ h . τ σ . ם ι e •

❧════════════════════════════════════════════════════════❧

Such necessity for the Giry's family legacy could be easily negated if only with a little ingenuity and thought-- but still, the task posed by the masked man to ensure himself 'educated' to the little homestead he found himself unceremoniously a 'part' of was as much out of a desire to be prepared as it was a bid to further derail the Madame's pointed suspicions as to what their unconventional house guest had been up to that evening. Why, he'd little to truly hide-- but Erik had never been one to humor any amount of prying into his own, personal business, and the little endeavor had, at the very least, afforded him a few hours of time he could at least marginally call his own... The former box keeper may not yet fully understand the uncouth ways of her newfound 'nephew', but time would tell whether or not she would ever find it within her grasp to comprehend the fact that he lived, breathed, nor rested like any 'normal' man.

And though he met the descriptions of those carefully tossed details with but a mild interest, an occasional nod or considering glance, he never pressed any further or required more than what the two women were willing to share of their own accord. Where it may have behooved them to be as elaborate as possible in their regards, Erik found himself far too busy with the simple act of keeping a numb, practical mind to the entire fiasco-- to avoid the way this silly, inanely comical turn of events could so easily warp itself into something ugly and resentful in but the blink of an eye, if left unchecked. For attempting to picture himself some integral part to the women's family, to any family-- Well, it could not be warranted any grand thought, not when it could turn poisonous in his veins at the drop of a hat. At any rate, it would only work to better guard his own such history... As to allow them a dose or two of clandestine right would only rightly deter from sparking any such similar curiosity in their own, unusual fellow. And the fact of the matter remained true-- He didn't need much in the way of elaborate details, for it was clear enough from the way the Orys had reacted that this was the last thing the two had suspected. It could only mean Antoinette was not often host to visiting family and that, this, was likely the first time she had done so. It left plenty of room for improvisation-- and it was not as if Erik actually intended on entertaining long conversations with any such souls beyond the walls of that little house... No one who would need more than a name, a brief explanation, or would be capable enough of detaining him and thus perpetrating so improper an offense as blatantly prying for more, personal, information.

Still, just as it seemed that was that and the would-be ghost was prepared to move on-- either toward different subjects or toward ushering the morning along so that he could find some dark place of privacy again, the youngest among them found it relevant to interject yet another, albeit relevant, point: “You really shouldn’t be addressing each other so formally. If anyone catches us calling each other ‘madame’ or ‘monsieur’ our ruse will fall apart in a blink.”

Sharp brows arched, the man somewhat taken aback for such a simple observation... One more relevant than the details for long-lost relatives or the corners of a distant genealogy that no one would truly care for. Yet the plain gesture of the way they spoke-- It could certainly lend itself to a greater suspicion from the occasional onlooker. That didn't make the notion any less uncomfortable for what it was though, something so bizarre as considering the change... Having only ever referred to the old box keeper as 'madame' or some other level of respect. Still, it sparked a cold layer of indignation within him, a twisting of something sharp in his gut that left him clenching his jaw and shifting a precarious look from mother to daughter as if searching for some form of continuation as he frowned and adjusted his position only slightly. "Yes, well..." Well, what? Erik could not quite argue the point-- but he was as much at a loss for the 'correct' way in which they may be able to perpetuate this stated ruse as anyone else... If not more so. He'd little in the way of personal experience, after all-- having not spent much if any time taking note of what familial terms would be necessary yet still appropriate, given how resented the entire affair would always prove. He wasn't about to refer to his old, respected confidante as something so asinine and impudent as 'auntie.' But-- 'Aunt' felt no better... And even the woman's first name was an oddity to be uttered alone, without the accompanying surname... None of which would likely be convincing when spoken by him, a barbaric intruder in a realm even vaguely reserved for 'family' affection... "I take it you would have a better suggestion then, mademoiselle?"

Erik • Nadir
❧════════════════════════════════════════════════════════❧

❖ || Ah, Putrefaction :: Zimmer
❖ || So... Like... Uh...

[Without Knowledge]

Marguerite had kept her gaze pointedly away, lest whatever expressions met her comment managed to catch her eye and threaten discomfort with refusing to let the issue slide. It was too important an issue to let go, even if what they called each other in complete privacy really had no bearing on the outside view of the house or not… Even if she might have, honestly, brought it up when and how she had out of a stubborn enjoyment of picking up what had just been dropped… And a distaste for the potential on-the-nose discussion about what the ghoulish benefactor meant to do for them, when she knew her mother would likely have an answer all ready for him as soon as she understand the exact circumstances, while she was still struggling to comprehend what to ask for… What she even could seek out for her own satisfaction, that wouldn’t leave her mother’s own desires in the dust— A result she did not want to pass, much less expected Erik to knowingly condone.

No, even all but taunting the pair of them – the mother who reigned quite supreme over her life, and the man who should admittedly draw more dread than intrigue, whatever the truth of the matter was – seemed far more appetizing than jumping into that chat just yet. Better to eventually give into the heavy silence she had brought on to finally glance back their way, ignore the expectation in her mother’s face to take back such a comment and meet the tense, awkward question in the eyes beyond the mask with a twitch of her own dark brow, steadily questioning right back until he found something to say, a full comment that in the end earned a narrowed, sighing stare from the girl for his chosen nomenclature of ‘mademoiselle’ for her, keeping the look pinned for a breath as if trying to figure out if he was perhaps mocking her, or simply truly ignorant of what to do. Either deciding on the latter or else realizing how unwise it would be to actually complain or scorn, she gave a singing, humming sound of consideration before sliding apathetically into an answer. “Oh, there are options— No one is so formal as to call their aunt ‘Madame’ if they’re actually close enough for an arrangement like this, but…” And her own given of an answer would… Well, actually it would be exceedingly appropriate. But if he called her mother ‘My Lady Aunt’ as she had called her own, not only would that bring up questions about an entirely different ruse, but Marguerite would be having to fight the urge to choke on her own bile at every mention. So, with a quick grimace at the idea and a consideration, she settled on a simple “’My aunt’ and ‘my nephew’ should work well enough, when talking to others, but, together… I believe most of my friends refer to their relations as ‘Aunt’ or ‘Uncle so-and-so’, whatever their first name is, or just their name alone… Actually, usually a nickname, if they have one. Ma, you used to have one, didn’t you?”

The question had swerved towards the lady, but the tight-jawed stare down the girl found in answer was enough to catch her in a sudden derailing of words, stilling and tensing with the uncertainty of whether her mother would even answer. But there was nothing in Antoinette’s stare to give away how her displeasure was as much for the fact that her own daughter did not remember what her nickname was – what her sister and then her husband, Marguerite’s own father, had called her throughout their whole marriage – as for the reluctance to actually share it, enabling the suggestion. With nothing in hand the older woman gathered and clenched the fabric of her skirt within her fingers, an unconscious gesture among a weighing of what to say before begrudgingly supplying “Toni… But no one here would know that.”

“No…” Marguerite agreed, awkwardly wary in the face of the counter, given how weak it was. There was no one about to use it, until then. Not when they had no relations on hand and her mother was as unapproachable with neighbors and acquaintances as she was with her own blood. But considering it, the discomfort of her new ‘cousin’ and reluctance of her mother, perhaps it was more trouble than it was worth to push it, if they couldn’t even be half-natural with using the terms, making things potentially worse. No, with a shrug and fidget of her covering, the girl backed up with a would-be apathetic “If you’re so uncomfortable with it, you could just drop the addresses altogether.”

Dustin O'Halloran :: Opus 36 || ❖
---- || ❖
-
Antoinette · Marguerite

[Arsenic-S]

• ѡ h e ɴ . ι . α м . s τ α ɴ ם ι n g . ι n . τ н e . ғ ι ʀ e , . ι . ѡ i ℓ ℓ . ℓ σ σ к . н ι м . ι ɴ . τ н e . e ʏ e •
• α ɴ ם . ι . ѡ ι ℓ ℓ . ℓ e τ . τ н e . ם e ѵ ι ℓ . к n σ ѡ . τ н α τ , . ι . ѡ a s . в ʀ α ѵ e . e ɴ σ υ ɢ h . τ σ . ם ι e •

❧════════════════════════════════════════════════════════❧

Erik made no ploy to hide a certain amount of dry scorn that came to light as the girl took on such exasperated airs, no matter how subtle they were or how she made an effort to keep them vague beneath a patient allowance for herself to continue. No, of course, 'madame' would be too formal... That much was for certain... But could he really bring himself to break the mold of such ingrained tendencies? It was not necessarily the act of undermining the true propriety at hand that sparked any amount of hesitation within the man, however, so much as it was the proverbial shattering of a well known and liked wall that had kept him at arm's length to others for as long as he cared to recall. He did not use the terms to show any outright respect, after all, so much as they were part of a constant barrier that kept others at a comfortable distance... The same sort of policy that often had him referring to Nadir as 'the daroga' even after years of his retirement from such a role-- often to the foreign man's chagrin.

Still-- If they were to be convincing in this fiasco, he could not hint at yet even more peculiar intrigue beyond the veil of their immediate attachment, nothing that would paint the two's relationship as strained, distant, and yet still somehow sufficient enough to warrant his place there under her roof. That would only inspire even more meddling, more questions. It was that which kept his tongue stayed, his gaze only mildly disconcerted, agitated not for the girl herself but for the matter at hand before he smoothed it back beneath a layer of sighing resignation. Of course, that did not keep him from flickering a slow, considerate glance toward Antoinette herself as inquiries arose of long-lost nicknames, partly in order to see how it was she was receiving this information or what it was the old box-keeper would make of it all, and partly on reaction to the subject itself. Yet, all he found was a startled unwillingness to part with that information, a hesitation that eventually led to the reveal of an unexpected name of 'Toni.'

"I suppose 'Aunt Antoinette' is somewhat redundant.." The man eventually sighed, something about his tone lingering between the realm of a bitter mirth and a sort of tense acquiesce to the unavoidable. "At any rate, however, that should only be necessary in rare occasions. Worst comes to worst, we may simply keep in mind the way those 'interactions' may come off from an outsider's view. I doubt it should be too much of a concern, as I doubt much socialization will be required." And in those few words, that yellow gaze had shifted to leave the Madame to her own evident but dredging sort of reflection to pin itself more pointedly upon her daughter instead... Effectively waving off the subject to instead fix a scrupulous look on the girl-- as if to ask what, precisely, had been the point of these most recent efforts? It would hardly seem that they had been spawned purely for a desire to better solidify their new-found alibi... And though he did not seem to carry any ill will for what he suspected to be an attempt to glean simple amusement from the pair, he was not prepared to let it slide unnoticed, either.

"For now, however... It is still rather early. Though I am uncertain what, precisely, qualifies as your regular 'hours'," -- a pause interrupted his words as Erik had begun to glance once more toward Antoinette, as if he may have caught himself just before utilizing the accustomed 'madame' and instead faded it into a careful silence before continuing. "I imagine you should be free to rest for some time more, if you would like. Otherwise, feel free to go about your day... Or inform me of any assistance I may offer for the time being." That is, of course, while he himself sought some form of 'rest' for the interim in a bid to further recover... Something that would go unsaid, if only for a stubborn pride against admitting any variety of the very real fatigue that was growing in his bones, now that the adrenaline of the landlord's visit was beginning to pass.

Erik • Nadir
❧════════════════════════════════════════════════════════❧

❖ || Opus 36 :: O'Halloran
❖ || Iiiii.... Figure it's about time for a scene shift, but I wanted to leave this open. Feel free to either jump somewhere if you have something in mind, continue this scene (if you had something you'd like to do), or we can talk about it to figure out where to next.