[Sodium_noir] Hell is Other People

[Josh]

Jeremiah Buford and Ettienne St Clair
  Mostly Harmless Nosferatu and Toreador Master of Elysium
  Sinclair Mansion
   
  "Actually I think the current Vogue among the other Ivory Tower types is to call them 'intelligence ministers'. A new fashion from London I think. I just tend to be nosey about how well everyone is doing so I can pretend to care about all that shop talk at the conclaves." he grins.
   
  It seemed that St Clair was playing a game of Indian Poker.  Buford played it often with the other officers, after the last big pot was won and the brandy nearly empty.  Everyone took the top card from the deck without looking, licked it, and stuck it to their forehead.  It was a silly game that depended as much on luck as bluffs and trust when you could see everyone’s hand except your own.
   
  St Clair’s card was on his head.  But how much of what he was saying was a bluff?
   
  "Allen is most likely being paraded before the current crop of eligible widows even as we speak, poor thing. Dear Margeurite and her obsessions. I think it’s this house you know?  It’s huge and I'd be surprised if she saw another soul half the time.”
   
  St Clair began to walk about the room, gesturing and glancing at the artwork and statues, but never letting his gaze linger for more than a few seconds.  Buford walked beside him, one hand on the steel ball head of his cane, the other held behind him and against the small of his back.
   
  “I think she likes to dabble in peoples lives to fill her own. Perhaps I should hire a companion for her, or do something to have her husband home more often."
   
  Buford and St Clair stopped before a Polynesian mask, looking at the fierce lines carved in its ancient wood.  Buford spent the time walking planning his next verbal feint to draw out St Clair’s guard.  He carefully kept his head facing the mask, but slid his eyes to St Clair when he next spoke.  “I don’t think that Dr. Madston would enjoy giving up the position he worked so hard to obtain, however noble the intentions behind it.  Perhaps Lady Sinclair is just trying to fill her nest again, now that her chicks have taken flight?  As you said, it’s just her and her husband rattling around in this huge place.”
   
  They stood in silence while Buford weighed his next phrase.  He decided to test the waters with an observation from an age forgotten by today’s children but still remembered by things like Buford and St Clair.  “My youngest niece was like her.  Headstrong, but she always seemed to know what was best for people.  A woman like her needs something or someone to take care of, otherwise she’ll occupy her time trying to take care of the world.”  He paused, letting hundred year old memories of a woman’s place sink into both their minds before continuing.  “Perhaps you can put her natural inclinations to better use?”
   
  St Clair laughs now, shaking his head.  "You see, it’s a family trait, meddling. Right now my endeavors are all focused on a mortal woman named Sugar Kane. A singer of the most delightful talent. A pity you don't get out to Club Harlequin very often, I'd love to show her off to you sometime!"
   
  A conversational flick of the wrist and Buford was almost back where he started.  But St Clair’s laughter told Buford his verbal entendre wasn’t for naught.  St Clair may have dismissed it as a family trait, but Buford was willing to bet that St Clair would be thinking of this conversation the next time he saw Lady Sinclair spending her time playing matchmaker.  He knew that St Clair would be thinking about pretty little trees, how far their roots spread, and just how much pruning he could do to place her in perfect harmony with his world.  And somewhere in the back of his mind, he would associate Buford with his tree.
   
  Buford smiled inwardly.  It wasn’t a forest, but the seed was planted.  “I would be honored to listen to Miss Kane, though public performances can be rather difficult for me to attend.”  Buford took another puff of his pipe and turned to St Clair.  “But the Lady does have a music room with a piano somewhere around here, doesn’t she?  Would it be too much trouble to ask you to have her sing something there, out of earshot from the other guests?  I would hate to cause a commotion just to satisfy my curiosity about this songbird whom you’ve spoken so highly of.”
   
  (Tag, and not the body spray)

 		
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