SEASON 1 - Birdsong House

[whitechapel]

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[B][COLOR=rgb(143, 174, 112)]Character:
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Character: Ephraim Ryan
Scene Status: Closed
Tagging: Gideon Huxley (@p r i s m), Elizabeth Pratt (@Praxis)

---

As the gates of Birdsong House swung open wide and the black motorcar began its slow approach down the long, narrow dirt driveway, Ephraim Ryan sat in his favorite chair in his second floor study and watched from the window, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

He sipped from a cup of coffee pu’er, one of the only pure joys left in life as far as he was concerned. You get to be a certain age and you learn to appreciate the simpler things. The comfort of home, the peace that solitude can bring, the way that life ebbs and flows when in its twilight… It wasn’t often that he took visitors and it was even rarer that those visitors doubled as solicitors, but when he received word that a British expat wished to meet with him concerning the purchasing of land, Ephraim couldn’t help but find his interest piqued. In truth, Ephraim had very little interest in the buying and selling of land. He had inherited Birdsong House through attrition and, as far as he was concerned, it was only his to sell through technicality. What Ephraim did possess, however, was an interest in people. More specifically, the things he could get people to do for him, knowingly or otherwise. While Ephraim would never sully his doorstep with the scum that leaked out from that godforsaken town his forebears had decided to settle near, an outsider from a higher class of people was an altogether different story.

And so, he agreed. An impromptu business meeting.

There would be no handshakes or signatures on dotted lines, but it would be worth knowing what made this newcomer tick, what they might be capable of, how they could be bent and molded and made anew. He finished his pu’er with one final sip just as his butler opened the door to announce Mr. Huxley and his assistant’s arrival.

“Very good. Thank you, Palmer,” Ephraim said. “Please show our guests to the parlor room and let them know I’ll be with them momentarily.”

Ephraim left his study humming a little song beneath his breath; some ancient melody he had heard somewhere long ago. He walked the same path he had walked a million times before, down the hallway and to the left where his bedroom sat overlooking the back garden. Inside his room, he combed back his grayed hair and dressed himself in his finest suit. He took his time, making sure everything was just so. Business dealings, in Ephraim’s experience, was mostly an exercise in patience. It was a war of wits. It was a game of seeing who would crack first. Ephraim wondered just how long Mr. Huxley would wait for him, but knew better than to cross the line into rude or uncouth territory. After twenty minutes had passed, Ephraim straightened his tie and left his room, making his way down the foyer’s imperial staircase and towards the parlor room in Birdsong’s eastern wing.

He stopped outside of the door and readied himself. He had a part to play, after all. He wasn’t about to give himself away so easily. With one deep breath, Ephraim opened the door and rushed in with faux urgency. “Mr. Huxley! Oh thank heavens, you’re still here!” he said. “I’m so very sorry to have kept you waiting! I swear, I’m just so scatterbrained these days, I lost track of time! You’ll have to forgive me.”

All smiles and apologies. Ephraim approached Gideon and Elizabeth with nervous, wide eyes as he offered a frail, shaky handshake. “It’s been a helter-skelter sort of day, hasn’t it? A bit of a naff day as I believe you and your fellow countrymen would say. Isn’t that right, Mr. Huxley? Naff? Haha! Oh, how I love the English vernacular!”

Ephraim wore the guise of a doddering old fool, exaggerating even the most basic movement as something that took every ounce of energy to perform. His eyes wandered over to Elizabeth and he offered her a genuine smile, as wide as the Nile is long. “And you must be Mrs. Pratt!” he exclaimed “May I say that you are positively radiant, my dear? The very vision of beauty.”

“Oh, listen to me blathering on. Please take a seat! I’ve kept you waiting long enough!” he said. “I trust that you’ve found Dawn Chorus to your liking, yes? Despite that grisly scene that occurred last night, I promise that it’s a wonderful, beautiful, spectacular place full of enchantment.”

Sometimes, it feels good to lie through your teeth.

 

[Praxis]

Character: Elizabeth Pratt
Scene Status: Closed
Tagging: Ephraim Ryan (@whitechapel), Gideon Huxley (@p r i s m)

---

Charm.

That's what these people cared about, yes?

Charming. Quaint. Rustic. Those were the kinds of words that usually got thrown about when it came time to paint a pretty picture. Nevermind the swarms of mosquitoes in the summer; it's a real orgy out on that lake come July, don't you know. Forget about the blizzards that sneak up on you in the winter. Yes, even here, where mountain roads and black ice turn any morning jaunt into a double black diamond run toward an insurance claim or the morgue. Forget about the poverty, and the foreclosures that were as inevitable as the tide (and the mosquitoes); who needs a family-owned hardware store anyway? How often do you buy nails? Really, ask yourself that.

Put all those pesky, harsh realities of shrinking, any-town America aside and pay attention to the charm. To how quaint it all is. To how wonderful, and grand, and lovely and worthy of postcard the tiny city streets are. To the streamers and cleverly named bakeries. To the avenues and monuments commemorating the biggest fish to ever swim in some small pond you've never heard of.

Or, the view, as Gideon had put it.

"Mm," she replied, attention still affixed to a tablet. There was a nasty belt of weather lingering to their east that had caused a brief bout of turbulence shortly before their descent. She zoomed in, squinting at the ugly little names for ugly little towns that existed just beyond what passed for civilization here: Pigeon Forge, Cosby, Wartburg. She could practically smell the petrol fumes and hear the screeching children, packed into the back of a minivan while Papa Mike and his fat wife Kelly fueled up before their final stop in whereverthefucksville. It sent a chill down her spine to know she'd be spending at least two nights in the discomfort of a rented room, probably on rough linen atop a bedbug infested mattress, but... "them's the breaks", as her soon-to-be-late husband might've said. Back when he could talk.

He was well full of those sorts of serrated appraisals, the belligerent old coot.

Charm. Charming. To be charmed. The brits had it easy. Every word out of their mouths carried with it the cloak of something mighty; something more keen. Gideon Huxley, not quite short on charm in any conceivable facet, might've been able to make it work with a slow, southern twang – but it would never be as fun. Client's eyes wouldn't light up the way they did when he started speaking and all that precious reason, and doubt and reservation would stay put, right where she didn't need it: ruining their deal. People were funny. Dangle something flashy; something pretty, in front of them, talk sweet and coddle their defenses down, and you can almost see – with pinpoint accuracy – the moment they give up whatever it was they were holding on to so dearly.

Money. It's always money.

And, from the looks of things, this Ephraim Ryan was sitting on a fair amount. Now, a small sidebar – both to illustrate the oft unspoken but fundamental key difference between having money and having wealth, and, to conveniently segue between these awkward moments betwixt Elizabeth not taking Gideon's hand upon exiting the vehicle and her present rapid firing across the surface of her phone. You see, there's this misconception regarding wealth: that simply having money equates to such. That a substantial dollar amount is sufficient insulation from the world and it's many, many infernos. That a sprawling, named manor on the outer cusp of the flyover states and a smattering of land rights is all one needs to consider themselves wealthy. That a name means much of anything beyond the limits of its wallet. Wealth – true wealth, the sort you don't hear or read about – is a fleet of private jets, suited with decoys, attending business meetings that never existed. It's a fallout bunker in Wyoming, for when the tide breaks and the whole country is ankles deep in their own shit. It's a lodge in St. Moritz only used for travelling dignitaries and another having broken ground in Carcassonne, just for you.

It's the ability to exist on your terms, entirely undetectable by the world at large.

Her job was to ferret out these sorts of holdings. If this sort of potential existed, in any capacity, it could be found. Even a supposed recluse like this Ephraim Ryan left a trail. If it wasn't his, it'd be his closest confidantes. If not theirs, one of their own and so down the list she'd go. Piecing together what fit. Tucking away what didn't, yet. Building a profile of a being who, until now, had only been a name, a photograph some thirty years old, and an opportunity. While Gideon sat, lion-like in his pride, Elizabeth had hunted. Tapping out phrases while occasionally frowning at what she found, one stockinged leg over the other, toe-tip keeping a metronome like regularity to it all. Her feelers would keep at it while she couldn't. She hated having to pay out the man-hours, but expedition out of this strange, dreary, desperate place seemed worth it. Better them to be the ones shouldering around the catching stories of bloodshed in the streets, trying to find something preferred left unsaid.

Her toe stopped and her attention lifted to the doorway a breath before Ephraim was blustering in with his apologies and bad vernacular. Well, that explained the odour about the place at least: Old man and new weatherproofing.

Elizabeth took his hand, cupping it with her own, "Mr. Ryan – truly, you're too kind." She sat, smoothed her skirt and continued, "and, may I just say that I am in love with your home and this," for posterity, she glanced to the foliage beyond a half-curtained window, "wonderful little town. You know, I'd heard that this mountain air can do wonders for one's spirit, and I have to say, I agree. I was telling Mr. Huxley on the way up that I may just come back here again sometime, in the spring perhaps. I can only imagine how enchanting that lake must be at dawn."

Indeed. Sometimes it felt marvelous to lie through one's teeth.

"Though, we were so saddened to learn of the events last evening. You'll pass along our condolences, I trust." Her eyes brightened. A visual cue to politely sidestep all ...that. "Now, on to more immediate matters: endurance, Mr. Ryan. If there is one word that you take away from this, I hope that it will be that. Endurance," she repeated, not smiling where she probably should have, "this town, your home, and its ability to endure now, tomorrow, next year and on. Your family, and their family and this beautiful part of the world can and should endure, Mr. Ryan. The legacies and promises we make along the way require a hearty foundation, and it is of our belief that, together, we can all make sure to not only endure, but to thrive." Her hand lifted from where it had briefly fallen beside Gideon at her first usage of the word "we" to gesture, vaguely, toward Ephraim.

"Tell me," she interjected, "how do you see Dawn Chorus in ten years? Five even."

 

[whitechapel]

Character: Ephraim Ryan
Scene Status: Closed
Tagging: Gideon Huxley (@p r i s m), Elizabeth Pratt (@Praxis)

---

Legs crossed, lips locked, the faintest smile, and wide, staring eyes.

Ephraim kept his fingers woven together on his lap as he listened to Elizabeth's spiel. That's what it was; a spiel. It was in the way she spoke, every passing word clinging to the vowels and consonants that came before it. It was in those heart-spoken promises, in the way she implied the town couldn't possibly survive without their intervention, in the way she picked the perfect phrases like they were the ripest apples from the tree. Family. Legacy. Thriving. Enduring. The patois of the business class. Inherently meaningless sophism, doublespeak, fuzzwords, lies. Ephraim had been here before. He knew her kind all too well.

A dissembling harlot; false in all.

Still and yet, he listened to each and every word she had to say, paying no more mind to Gideon than he absolutely had to; the occasional glance or the half veiled smirk. In moments like these, the mind wanders and wonders. How much of this had been rehearsed? Did she practice it in the car on their way down the driveway? Did Gideon hold up flash cards and couple them with enthusiastic coaching? How many times had those exact words been arranged in those exact sentences to say the exact same things? Despite the air of professionalism she carried with her, did Elizabeth Pratt stare into her bathroom mirror every night, reciting her sermon, practicing her articulation, fretting over her vocabulary before racing to the nearest thesaurus? Talk about endurance. It must have been an exhausting process. Somewhere, far away and further still, were there offices of salarymen crunching algorithmic numbers? Did they have an endless array of consumer studies, peer reviews, and test audiences? Was Elizabeth Pratt a self-made woman or was she simply a doll with a pull string, repeating the same tired palaver? The mind reels. Back to the question at hand.

"Oh, heavens," Ephraim exclaimed. "Ten years, I… I haven't the foggiest notion of what our little piece of the world may look like. When you get to be my age, you barely think of what tomorrow might bring, let alone years from now. Oh, heavens."

Tapping a wrinkled index finger on his chin. Eyes floating up towards the coffered ceiling as he feigned consideration. Voice snagging on diverging branches of thought when he tried to speak. "I… suppose that the future fills me full of fear," he said, the light glinting off the slightest hint of crocodile tears congregating on his lids. "Fear for my family and fear for this town. Every year, more people move away. Off to big cities, I imagine, and the siren's song of opportunity. Time's war of attrition, I suppose. Where do I see Dawn Chorus in ten years…?"

There was a well-placed pause for dramatic effect. His eyes fell to look at her once more; to really look at her as he laid it on as thick as butter. The levees broke. Tears overflowed, rushing down his withered cheeks. Hands trembled. Lower lip quivered. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, looking for reprieve against the cushions at his back as he swallowed all of those delicate, counterfeit emotions.

"I love this town, but it is a potter's field," he finally said, voice cracking just so. "This land. These people. I love them all. They are as much my family as my actual kin… but I… I fear the worst, Mrs. Pratt. In a decade's time, I fear that Dawn Chorus will be nothing more than a testament to all that could have been and all that never was."

Feeble. Quaking. Nostalgia and regret are powerful intoxicants, but they make for wonderful holes in a man's defenses; a fence for which the fox can fit. Ephraim punctuated his monologue by pulling a monogrammed handkerchief from his breast pocket and lifting it to blot at his eyes. "I beg that you'll forgive me, Mrs. Pratt. Senescence breeds sentimentality, I'll have you know." Ephraim cleared his throat and let out a long, beleaguered sigh, head nodding as if affirming something unspoken to himself.

Admittedly, he was enjoying his performance far more than he had any right to. Each exquisite lie left the taste of honey on his lips. All warfare is based on deception and, regardless of whether Gideon and his second fiddle knew it, they were already amid a grand, blood-soaked skirmish. Ephraim took a moment to collect himself before directing his gaze towards Gideon, tear-stained cheeks gone flushed.

"But what, pray tell, can we do?"

 

[Praxis]

Character: Elizabeth Pratt
Scene Status: Closed
Tagging: Gideon (@p r i s m), Ephraim (@whitechapel)

---

"It sounds grand, all spelled out that way, I know," Elizabeth continued, her voice slipping effortlessly into the seams of Gideon's, "but it really can be as simple as a decision. There are elements of power at play, Mr. Ryan. Always. There are those who can harness it: shape it – into whichever form they please," she paused, head tilting just so even if Ephraim wouldn't return the gesture. "And there are those who watch: those who witness the world becoming around them." Her eyes went to the high, dark ceilings, to the herringbone parquet, to the monogrammed handkerchief that he'd kept folded between boney fingers and decided it best to furrow her brow and fold her hands.

It could taste like bile in her throat so long as it looked and felt enough like compassion to tighten the snare. She wholly loathed these interactions. These forays into nicety and the sublimation of a frigid heart. Dollars and cents aside, there was something debased in having to dress up and parade about in front of these ...people. Clients. Walking, talking, wanting, whining bags of cash with one thumb stuffed cozily in their mouth while the other palm gaped, hungrily, like an infant bird waiting to be greased. This one, this bag of cash with its finery and obsequious acumen for tears, certainly seemed to be blundering the choreography in ways she wasn't quite expecting.

Actual tears. My god.

What was the world coming to?

"I hope it is not with any misconception when I say that you, Mr. Ryan, strike me as the former. A man of action, if you'll forgive the tired expressions of our time. Not a witness, but an architect of the world. Of this world: Birdsong, Dawn Chorus and beyond. For it is without these foundations that even the mightiest kings may crumble, yes?" There it was. A question of his worth as a man and its strength against some hypothetical storm on the horizon, veiled in the gossamer of rhetoric. A personal favourite of hers when it came to dealing with the more brutish sex, not a one of them seemed to take these slights with much grace. Even the very old and very infirmed still had some silly, reptilian part of their brain that worried over eyes that peer through dark while they slept.

Or, as her nearly, dearly departed husband might've said: "In the end, they're all naked, screaming apes, clutching their genitals and running for shelter."

Elizabeth couldn't be sure the heritage of that analogy but was confident she'd go to her grave without too much wondering on the matter. Something about it rang true, even if she couldn't quite put a pin in the exact mechanism of it. Ephraim – a miserable old fool, sure, but that of a completely different ilk – had his defenses as sure as Gideon and she. Issue being: his flounced about the room with the weight of something more difficult to manage than anger, or uncertainty. Pity, really, to see perhaps the most ill-equipped being east of the Mississippi as the nearest and most obvious source of comfort for this man and his sniveling.

She didn't buy it. Not entirely.

Nevertheless, she eased her posture a shade and continued as though some great tragedy had been uttered: delicately but with appropriate precision. "Of course, it is your decision, Mr. Ryan. We – Mr. Huxley, myself and our many associates -- are only tools. We offer the, mm, footwork that is so often necessary in these aggressive procurements, and with the expected tact and dignity that I believe will lend itself well to the Ryan family name." Her eyes flashed wide. Green and teeming. "And, naturally, you needn't make a decision now." Just like that, there was an inch of slack on the snare. A breath, but only that, as Elizabeth pulled an embossed, maroon folder from her bag and placed it on a table between them. "Our initial offer: the in's and out's, some of our larger procurements, a district map of some of our more," she paused to measure her wording, "involved clients. I think you will see that we are in the business of empires, Mr. Ryan. Legacies." She nodded, letting another of those laden respites pass before focus snapped back into place.

"Now. Mr. Huxley tells me there is a piece of your very own property that he has taken a ...personal liking to." Her gaze wandered, almost playfully toward his, "and I wouldn't be worth much at all if I didn't ask to see for myself. So, what do you say? Up for a stroll?"

 

[whitechapel]

Character: Ephraim Ryan
Scene Status: Closed
Tagging: Gideon Huxley (@p r i s m), Elizabeth Pratt (@Praxis)

---

Once upon a time in the wilderness of his youth, Ephraim met a handsome young Frenchman while spending a year abroad in Northern Italy and took him as a lover for a spell. It was a wild and passionate affair, full of sound and fury, tongue-tied lightning, bells and whistles, honey sweet lips and hands all a-ramble. They walked the canals of Venice by day as two young men in their prime. By night, they retired to one of the city's many albergos to explore matters of the flesh. Ephraim could still smell the Adriatic Sea and feel the sea salt breeze run Figure 8s across his skin. Memories leave their mark, so they say.

It was also the first time Ephraim had experienced anything that could be construed as love.

In his mind, he saw it as an unwavering thing, eternal in every sense of the word. Despite all that he knew of life and love, he lowered his guard and opened the gates. He let love in. With their heads on pillows and each eye affixed to others, they spoke of the future and the life to come, of mansions in the meadows and summers in the Aix-en-Provence. They built dreams around each other, each new brick acting as a testament to the purity, the sanctity, the absolution of what they both knew in their heart of hearts to be true. They were bound by fate, tangled in the webs of destiny, and nothing in this world could tear them apart. It was a wonderful dream while it lasted.

Four months in and for three weeks after, Ephraim began noticing his belongings going missing. It began simply enough; a misplaced heirloom, a few lire lacking from his wallet, a set of missing cufflinks that a maid could have easily pocketed. The Frenchman began to pry and yearn to learn more about his family and affluency, fingers already sticky as they reached towards the Ryan Family coffers. It was only after a set of ornate paint brushes that had more sentimental meaning than monetary value went missing that Ephraim gave into the urge to follow the Frenchman on one of his many morning jaunts. The Frenchman traced a trail through Venice's Cannaregio sestiere, ducking through alleyways and market squares alike, and Ephraim gave clandestine chase. Eventually, Ephraim watched from a distance as his lover entered a pawnshop and sold the brushes for a paltry sum.

It was a knife through the heart, a grim dagger's wanton twist. In that moment, his father's voice rang in his ears, crass and weary in its wisdom: "Wealth draws swindlers like flies to shit. Do you know what we do with flies, Ephraim? We squash them like the annoyances they are."

And so, that night, after a shared bottle of the finest wine and a round of the most ardent sex, Ephraim waited for the Frenchman to fall asleep. He bound the man's wrists and ankles to the bedposts, gagged his mouth with a wadded cloth, and took to carving into his chest with a paring knife. The man emitted muffled screams, eyes wide with horror and awe.. All the while, Ephraim whispered sweet nothings and reminders of the saccharine futures they had promised one another. The knife swayed through skin and flesh, muscle and sinew. Ephraim would never forget the sound of the Frenchman's ribs and breastbone cracking, splintering, breaking. Lord knows how long it took, but eventually Ephraim had his prize. He reached through the tattered cavity in the dying man's chest, gripping his heart in one hand before tearing it out. The blood ran down his wrists in such a pretty trickle. He dumped the Frenchman's body in a canal, packed away the extracted heart in a sealed jar, paid the necessary people to not ask questions, and took the first flight back to the United States the very next day. Decades later, the jar with its contents intact was still tucked away somewhere within the recesses of Birdsong's labyrinthine halls.

Funny how he couldn't even recall the Frenchman's name.

Ephraim hadn't been listening while Gideon and Elizabeth each took their turn circling the proverbial shit like the flies they were. More to do about legacies and the future and this and that and so on. A well placed 'hm' or an interjecting 'yes' was more than enough to make it seem like he was still paying attention to what they had to say. At most, a furrowed brow when Elizabeth spoke of architects and kings and the crumbling ruins thereof. In truth, Ephraim had heard quite enough. He had made up his mind. Even though neither of them knew what was brewing just on the periphery, they had their purpose and part to play. Ephraim had plans and the two of them with their pig-and-pug show and their cock-and-bull promises would do just fine.

It was only when Elizabeth placed the maroon folder on the table that Ephraim deemed it necessary to reply. "Mm, yes, of course, of course," he said, wiping one last crocodile tear from his eye before reaching with feeble fingers to pull the folder closer to his edge. "You've both given this old codger quite a lot to ponder, I'd say. My head feels like a warehouse without a single square foot to spare!" He punctuated the comparison with a big, toothy grin and an expectant little snicker, eyes passing back and forth between Gideon and Elizabeth in rapid succession.

And then Elizabeth mentioned the piece of property Gideon was interested in. Hook, line, sinker.

"Ah yes," Ephraim said, nodding. "I believe your original contact who set up this meeting of our minds mentioned as much. I'd be happy to take you to see it with your own two eyes. It's only a short hike, I assure you. Please, right this way, right this way."

Ephraim led the pair out of the parlor through a different door than they came in through and then down a long, narrow hallway flanked on either wall by ancient pictures of the entire Ryan clan even though they hadn't seen another living soul save for Ephraim and his apparent butler. They must have passed dozens of closed doors as they made their way further and further into the belly of Birdsong House before Ephraim eventually stopped, opened an unassuming door, and revealed a spacious, thoroughly modern kitchen that stood in stark contrast with the rest of what had been seen of the house. It was so clean that it almost looked like it had never been cooked in. Ephraim paid no mind to the kitchen and instead made his way across the mosaic flooring towards a set of French doors that led into the expansive back garden. Ephraim reached for a cane that hung on a hook by the door before leading the pair outside.

A November morning like any other. The sun was shining and made all the dew still clinging to the grass look like a trillion diamonds spread across the lawn. Ephraim walked at a slow, leisurely pace, planting his cane into the dirt with each and every forward advancement. "I must warn you, this piece of land you're about to see has not been used in a number of years," he said as they passed between a pair of statues carved to look like two large birds of prey, their wings spread wide. "It is, unfortunately, in a state of considerable disarray. It borders a large swath of trees, and I fear Mother Nature has done her due diligence to reclaim it."

They exited the garden and stepped foot on the perfectly manicured lawn proper. It was hard to tell where the Ryan Family Estate ended and the natural world began, blending all together at one as they approached a forested area tucked away at Birdsong's southern reach. Ephraim came to a stop at the treeline. Through the leaves and overgrowth, broken limbs and bramble, a derelict cottage stood cast in shadow.

"Here we are. If you'd humor me, I'd love to give you a brief history," Ephraim said, but he didn't wait for their consent. "When my grandfather, Felix Ryan, first came to this land, he built this homestead amongst the trees to live in while Birdsong House was being constructed. It was just enough room for himself, my grandmother, and their children, including my father. After Birdsong was finished, of course, they moved into the main house, but I've read my grandfather's diary thoroughly and he spoke nothing but wonderful memories of his time here. He was a fanciful man and claims throughout his writings that this specific plot of land is a sacred place, full of magic and mischief alike. Fairy circles, fey folk, and so forth. Lovely, wouldn't you agree?"

Ephraim smiled wistfully, shaking his head. "We've kept it in the family ever since, untouched and undisturbed… but your words have truly touched me, I'll have you know. What of my legacy? What of my grandfather's legacy? And so…"

He paused, turning to face Gideon directly, a stern look on his face as he planted his cane in the ground and extended one hand forward to shake. "Consider this a gift, Mr. Huxley. The start of a wonderful working relationship and, with any luck, a beautiful friendship."

Behind those eyes, one real and one made of glass, the devil and death of man lurked and loomed and lingered, but you could never tell from the smile on Ephraim's face.

There was only an old man's hope and generosity, born and baptized in the milk of human kindness.

 

[Lydia]

Character: Grace Letts
Time/Location: November 9th (day after blizzard) | Around Birdsong House
Scene Status: Closed
Tagging: @whitechapel (Ephraim)

---

So it's time to begin again.

Maybe we - you, me, us, Grace - should treat our new beginnings like a glorious affair. A personal revolution, or an abstract triumph, or an overplayed commercial for ambiguous prescription medications. Maybe we're driving fast down an open road in a remarkably scenic location. Maybe we're charging up a mountain with an easy ascent in perfect weather. Maybe we're resolutely, meaningfully pointing into the distance, to the far horizon or beyond, to something unseen but nevertheless known and obtainable.

More likely though, we're just in bed. That's how most things begin. That's how it began last time, that's how it begins now.

Grace wakes up.

She doesn't know that it's beautiful outside, that the previous day's snowfall is already melting beneath a sky of unblemished blue. She doesn't know that Quentin Severin is dead. She doesn't know that Frank - that notorious fuck-up - saved his sister's life last night. She doesn't even know where she is, not at first.

The room is large and wallpapered, crowded by ancient mahogany furniture and the opulent gloom of old money. Without moving her head much (she senses, before she gathers the will to test it, its looming unpleasantness), it's hard to tell more. The bed, her bed, is tall and wide, carved posts clawing upwards, linens stiff and woven strangely, soft enough against her, around her. She wouldn't mind staying here, right here, suspended in the moment, because she won't enjoy what comes next: haltingly stringing memories together, having to eventually stand upright. The glaring winter light, though diffused by heavy curtains, is unwelcome.

Birdsong House. The name emerges like a phantom in her consciousness, and it sounds right, recalled in Ephraim Ryan's refined drawl. Grace squints and blinks and turns her head away from the sliver of azure sky peeking through the drapes. A pounding sensation rolls from the base of her neck and engulfs her skull, her own body's retaliation to the previous night's abuse. She whines quietly to herself, a feeble and abstract protest, cursing the Grace of yesterday. This moment isn't one for genuine care, just misery, and the mystery of anchoring herself in an unfamiliar place among blurred, strange images.

The panic hits before she's felt the true shape of those memories, and the ensuing jumble of impressions sits her up in a sudden jerk. Dizziness, pain - and worse still: strange, impossible, dangerous things. Grace realizes that she's naked, bare skin winter-pale and cooling quickly without the covers. Being alone and likely in her uncle's home, the realization isn't as terrifying as it could be, but still she's vulnerable, disoriented, her distress compounding with each passing moment.

But there, pooled haphazardly on the floor, are her clothes: favorite jeans, old sweater. Relief enough. She climbs from the bed, her limbs endless and heavy and not quite behaving themselves. She's still dizzy, uncertain on her feet, her mascara-smudged eyes thin slits. As she pulls on last night's sweater (it smells like The Mothlight, beer and other people, it smells like earth and deep ground), her stomach protests and tightens, a wave of nausea filling her throat. What the fuck happened?

But you know, Grace. You know what happened.

Impossible things. A blizzard swallowed Dawn Chorus and you lost your mind again. You know what it means when impossible things seem impossibly real. What's more likely to shatter: the long-established rules of reality or your troubled human brain? You know the answer, Grace. Your heart pounds, your head aches, and you remember your own fragility.

You know what happened.

You know.

You know.

You know it was real.

---

The halls of Birdsong House were silent and still, meticulously kept. More like a museum than a home, Grace thought, though she knew it had been her mother's when she was young. Which hall, which room? Where had her mother slept, and what had driven her away from this place, from her family and town and everything familiar? She wandered on instinct, on dream-inclinations, past portraits with familiar features and past stormy-skied landscapes. Old rugs, worn but well-preserved, muffled her hesitant steps. Nothing acknowledged her presence except an ornate, gilded-frame mirror.

Grace paused in front of the mirror, peering into her own bloodshot eyes. Cheeks too hollow, hair pulled haphazardly back. Pale flesh, darker beneath her eyes, rumpled clothing. She looked like shit. Abashed hands smoothed her clothes, her hair, but it didn't help much. There was dirt beneath her fingernails, where did it come from?

She knew.

She kept walking. She had nothing with her, no phone and no wallet - that had all been left behind at the bar. She should've been more concerned about this, but what did it matter, really? The tide of the world had shifted, the rules were broken, people were dying. Who cared if her credit card was stolen? A problem for later, or never; she couldn't presently find the energy to care.

The hallway was long, as was the next. She tried not to think of other hallways, their fathomless descents. Here she passed door after door, all closed, portals to other generations of mysteries, or just rooms, or nothing at all. Grace felt disoriented, out of her proper time; she thought if she listened closely she could hear the laughter of children. Her mother had fourteen brothers and sisters - certainly there were young cousins lurking somewhere. But the closer she listened for voices, the more ephemeral they became, dissolving into the strange, empty silence of a very large house. She couldn't follow it, and she wasn't sure she wanted to.

Eventually she sensed wider spaces, a hollowness to the air like the threshold of a cliff. A foyer of sorts, grander than any private home she'd seen. Lines of solemn portraits, many nearly life-sized, crowded the wall behind an imposing bifurcated staircase of polished wood and pretension and generational wealth. Foreignness and exclusion weighed on her shoulders, it gripped her throat, it watched her descend the stairs.

Maybe she could understand why her mother ran away.

But here there were real sounds at least, other footsteps - a butler? A dark-suited man emerged from a door and vanished down a hallway, a small creature scurrying from one shelter to the next, ignoring her or ignorant of her, his face unreadable from across the room. Then it was quiet again. Grace let her boots fall hard on the floor, announcing her presence because her voice wasn't brave enough, cautiously approaching the half-open double set of doors from which the butler emerged. With a searching tilt of her head, Grace peered into a parlor, lavish as the rest of the house, filled with golden light and the smell of coffee. The figure she saw was familiar, dignified in his age. Ephraim Ryan. Politely, Grace knocked on the door, the hollow sound lifting his gray head. He had known she was there. He knew. She knew. He smiled.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," he said. "I thought you'd never wake up."

 

[whitechapel]

Character: Ephraim Ryan
Time/Location: Birdsong House
Scene Status: Closed
Tagging: @Lydia (Grace)

---

Cunt.

That was the first word that sprang to mind when Ephraim heard the pitter patter of Grace's stray footsteps approaching down Birdsong House's hallowed halls. It was a word he most commonly associated with her mother, one dipped in poisonous intent and only ever disparaging in its meaning. It relieved him of his slinking nobility and replaced all that forward facing poise with nothing more than gnashing teeth and snarling lips, growling hostility and pointed fangs. By the time she knocked on the door and peered into the parlor, her wide eyes still addled by sleep, it was too late to catch him in the act. The wolf had already put on its sheep's clothing.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," he said. "I thought you'd never wake up."

Of course, even then, it wasn't actually Ephraim who spoke those words. Not really, and not entirely. Felix Ryan smiled out from behind those eyes, unseen and intangible and as endless as the ever-expanding universe. Ephraim rose to his feet to meet her as Grace took her first cautious steps into the room. He folded his hands one over the other when he moved to approach her, letting his fingers quake and tremble as if all this excitement had caused his arthritis to flare. Kind eyes and a quivering smile hid secret intentions, the means and machinations of a man who saw very little value in her life or her wellbeing. Outstretched arms widened themselves in an exaggerated sprawl to wrap themselves around her shoulders, the heavy sighs of contentment and happiness and relief barrelling out from his chest as he pulled her in close.

"I've wanted to meet you for oh so long, my darling," he said, and it sounded as if he really meant it. "When my dear Stanley told me the news that you had decided to settle into town, I almost leapt with indecipherable glee. I meant to seek you out sooner than this, but these old bones and this old mind… Well, they conspire against my most hopeful wants in favor of their own selfish needs. I'm sure you understand. Enough about my plight, though; please, please, Grace. Come and sit with me for a while, won't you? We have so much lost time to account for."

The room was lavish in that old world style that reminded one of Rockefellers and Fords and other men who made their mark upon America's brow. Upholstered furniture and varnished wood, lacquered floors and golden light. The sun played with the shadows through arched windows as those last rugs of snow melted in the still verdant garden outside. Newly burnt wood and ember sparked in the fireplace, the smell of burning oak and alder wafting out past the lintel only to add to that sense of ease, comfort, and safety. There was a built-in bookcase that spanned the far wall that was filled so full of poets, philosophers, and other deep thinkers that it could turn even the most virtuous man's soul to rust. It was all so immaculately clean, not a speck of dust nor crumb nor cobweb visible to the naked eye. This was his set and this was his setting. A place to bury strangers.

Between two Victorian chairs that looked as if they had been pulled from a fairytale of princes and princesses, a pedestal table stood with an untouched French press and two twin porcelain cups placed upon it alongside a bronze creamer pitcher and a matching sugar caster. Feeble hands tilted jet black coffee into either cup, Ephraim's eyes glancing back and forth between Grace and his pour, the smile never quite leaving his face.

He'd never liked Tabitha, whether she wore the title of Grace's mother or the badge of his sister. He'd seen her as a tarnish on the family name and legacy, less a Ryan and more of a mongrel; untameable and aloof, more concerned with her own lofty aspirations than what was best for the greater good. See her now wandering the streets just as Grace had the night before, feral and longing like a stray bitch hunting for a stud. Pitiful. Disgusting. Even if she had stayed, there was no room for her in those halls. Grace now carried her mother's torch in Ephraim's eyes and with it she'd earned that same disdain, passed down like an heirloom or a birthright or an inherited disease.

But then again, even the least desired pawn has its purpose upon the chessboard.

"I do so hope you slept well, darling," Ephraim said. "A much needed rest, yes? When my chauffeur and I saw you wandering the streets last night with the cold nipping at your heels, I must admit that it filled my heart with ache and my mind with worry. To think: my own niece out in all that mess when she should have been here all along, safe and sound and, most importantly, warm."

There was no safety or warmth in that house, only smoke and mirrors and languor and ersatz kindness. Ephraim reached for his coffee. Ephraim didn't take cream or sugar. He drank it in slow, infinitesimal sips with lidded eyes as the curls of steam rose up to wrap around his features, cutting his face into two lopsided halves. He made a noise similar to pleasure, a joy taken in the little things.

"It scared me so to see you out there on your lonesome. This town and its people are almost as beautiful as you are, my dear. I'm sure you'll agree with me when I say that we've managed to etch out some small inkling of heaven on earth in the here and now, but listen," he paused and he looked at her well and truly, his one glass eye reflecting her face in his gaze. "This is also a place where the most wretched among us can find shade from God's watchful eye. There is darkness here as there is darkness everywhere, make no mistake, but here it is merciless and it is spiteful and it wants nothing more than to drain you of your life for no other reason than that it can. Believe that, Grace."

Another pause. Another sip. He cleared his throat before he let out a long, beleaguered sigh, shivering at the shoulders as he shook his head and finally looked away.

"Believe that and never forget it."