multiversallogs | all the broken chords and unnamed cries

The sunlight greeted her in the morning, dispelling the illusion of familiar surroundings. She dressed, not for breakfast - she discovered she had absolutely no appetite - but for herself. Because she wouldn't wallow about all morning in her pyjamas.

That and the threat of impending cousin really meant she should try and look presentable when Rosier arrives. She'd never live it down if he caught her properly sulking. She's found herself an armchair to curl up in, a blanket to wrap around herself, and a book to read through. For now, that's enough.

It's just as well that he waited until then to drop by; Bellatrix's gift required a bit of tailoring, and Narcisssa's gift is best purchased fresh. A severe vase of hollyhock and star-of-Bethlehem is not as expensive as he imagined it would be at the greenhouse in Dog Fenn; perhaps someone on the staff has a persuasive way with plants. Meanwhile, the long black jacket for Bellatrix gets its buttons replaced with nicer ones that quite incidentally have little tracking spells hidden inside.

Baedal and his previous post-death residence have had what probably looks to Bellatrix like a bizarre effect on his style. His suits retain an Edwardian feel with a three piece construction, but this waistcoat is very bold with its brocade, and the jacket, while a sober dark gray, seems to come with more buckles than strictly necessary (very arguably, none of them are necessary, except maybe the sleeve one where his wand goes).

"Hello Bellatrix," he says, sauntering in and draping her coat over the back of another armchair. The vase he already deposited on the kitchen table. He is now a grand total of 5'10" and somewhat more filled out, but he will always look boyish no matter how well or ridiculously he dresses.

"Cousin." Oh, she thought she'd adequately prepared herself for this. Bellatrix sets the book and blanket aside, getting to her feet. Gosh, but he's tall, isn't he? Certainly compared to when she last saw him. She takes him in for a fleeting moment, but rather than risk displaying too much amazement or affection, she veers for the coat.

"How lovely." She doesn't question that it's for her. Of course it is. She's dressed in clothes that are obviously Narcissa's, but fit properly thanks to the right charms and transfigurations. (Which she's promised to undo without a fuss.) The coat's fabric is rubbed between her thumb and forefinger briefly before Bellatrix resolves that she really must try it on.

It's her style. And once she's slipped her arms in and has fastened the buttons, she feels more herself. "Well?" She swishes once, because one must test such things.

He leans against the back of her chair as he watches, the idle gentleman fop he was born to be, and smiles with as much calculated charm as he thinks he can get away with (so of course, an unrealistic amount) and pretends to think.

"Somehow, lovelier than I remember." Evan declares with the least sincere solemnity. "It was not as long ago for me as it was for the others, I think, though of course Cissa would remember even better than I would. How are you settling?"

Bellatrix rolls her eyes even as the corners of her mouth tug upward into a grin. "You've truly outdone yourself. This is just what I needed." And as ridiculous as it is to go sweeping about the house in a jacket, she finds herself reluctant to take it off just yet. She'll enjoy its finery and how it makes her feel more like herself for just a minute or two longer.

And she does sweep, over to the fireplace where she plucks some knick-knack (though Narcissa would likely prefer to call it an accent) off the mantelpiece to study absently. As though their topic of conversation where no more heavy than a discussion of the weather. "I'm well enough, as you no doubt imagined." What else can she say? Certainly not that she would like to sit alone in a dark room and scream about it. Besides, that wouldn't be remotely productive. "Tell me, just how old are you now?"

Putting his chin in his hands would not be rakish and gentlemanly, so Evan does not, but the desire is there; clearly, he's observing her with every indication of enjoyment and interest. Her question prompts another smile, this one sardonic in its amusement, and perhaps more honest, though with him, it's always difficult to tell. But the others hadn't asked his age. They looked at him with memories, with a mingling of pity and nostalgia, perhaps even a trace of horror.

"Twenty-one." Evan says it gently, like a promise. For a moment, he wants to tell her that that is when he died, that in a way, he'll never be any older than he is now. But that's not really true, and furthermore, he's not showing her any vulnerability. "I went into law. And the traditional vocation, of course."

He unbuttons his sleeve for her, rolls it up just enough to show a swath of black. "Have they told you how it goes?"

Merlin. "You're older than I am." And that brings a small touch of horror to Bellatrix's features, but it's fleeting and largely for show. If she can't make Evan feel a little uncomfortable about the fact that she's gone from one of the eldest of their level of the family tree to the youngest, then really she ought to just give up on ever feeling right in her own skin in this place. She smiles in a way that's false, and forced, and intentionally displayed that way for his benefit - precious sarcasm he can appreciate. "I'm sure we're all very proud of you."

But then, he pulls back his sleeve, and her expression gives way to confusion. "What is that?" She strides purposefully to his side, reaching out to claim his arm in a firm grip. She doesn't recognise the Dark Mark for what it is. "Have they told me how what goes?"

For a moment, he's too shocked to move. The sheer misjudgment, right after feeling self-congratulatory and smug for picking out the right coat, is like being plunged into ice water. Evan almost tries to jerk his arm away from Bellatrix, but swiftly rethinks his reaction. Nothing will pique her interest more than clamming up and trying to escape.

"It's a tattoo, of course," he says, flippant and at ease. "Just a little something I picked up in my travels. One of many. Which of course I cannot be so improper as to allow you to see." Now Evan tries reclaiming his arm so he can push his sleeve back down, smoothing it like he's concerned about his clothing and not about concealing the mark. "But I meant how life is here, what with. Two of Lucius walking around. To be fair, I rather think one of them skulks, and the one who lives here walks."

Bellatrix takes the levity, and doesn't quite question it. Not yet. She relaxes, exhaling through her nose, a tiny huff. "I'm sure everyone was pleased when you came home with that. What did you do? Decide to give piracy a try for a summer?" It's such a flippant thing to suggest, but not entirely something she'd put past her dear cousin.

His arm is released and she laughs softly, concern done away with just for the moment. "I've heard about the... doubles, yes. Narcissa has done her best to prepare me, I think. But please," she absently traces her fingers along the lapels of her new jacket - she really should take it off - rather fondly, "do go over what you think they may have missed?"

"Anything to rile the family, you know that." Actually she wouldn't, but Evan sails breezily past that, and takes her seat like he isn't dying to get out of the room and hunt Narcissa down. The act is so important with Bellatrix, even if she isn't the fully grown predator she became with experience.

"Oh, your husband, primarily. I'm sure she mentioned that. But I'm also sure she didn't go into it."

There's no amount of practise in perfect poise and hiding what's going on inside of her head that could have prepared Bellatrix Black to mask her reaction to the bomb that's just been dropped in her lap. Her head doesn't snap up, but instead it's a slow lift of her chin and widening of her eyes. Her pale skin grows all the paler as the blood drains from it and her mouth goes dry.

"My what?"

Narcissa is going to have his balls, but he'd rather talk about Rodolphus than Voldemort. And if Narcissa has his balls, she might one day also give them back, unlike Bellatrix. Evan affects a look of surprise, leaning his chin into the support of one hand as he pretends to evaluate how serious she's being.

"She must have been waiting. Parceling out the shocks so they don't overwhelm you. Do forgive me, Bellatrix. It's just that you do get married eventually. I wouldn't even bother to bring it up if he weren't here. But clearly he's staying away out of consideration for you."

Bellatrix backs off from Evan so she can land inelegantly in one of those armchairs. Long fingers work free the buttons of her coat, because it is now entirely too warm in this room, isn't it?

"Who, Evan?" she snaps irritably. He's toying with her, and that's dangerous even at this age. She still has her wand, after all.

"Rodolphus Lestrange," Evan says with the promptness of one who knows Bellatrix. But he judges that conversational gambit has, for the moment, safely diverted the topic. "Don't worry, he's a sad sack, you do as you like, as you always have. And clearly he's not so mad as to bother you right now. Just keep the blinds down, I suppose."

There's a moment where she simply cannot summon words. Then, she buries her face in her hands and doubles over in her chair. Her shoulders begin to quake, and for a second or two, someone might think she's crying.

Until the first hints of laughter bubble to the surface. It's a solid ten seconds that she laughs into her palms. "Lestrange?" she gasps as she comes up for air, straightening up in her seat and throwing a half-cocked smile in Rosier's direction. "No!" Like she's just been let in on the juiciest bit of gossip, and it really should be quite a bit more horrifying that it's about her own life. But she's always been a little off. "Did rather well for myself there, I suppose."

The laughter decays and the shock settles in again. "Oh... How odd that my life has gone on without me."

That is just about the reaction Evan had, though it had come when Rodolphus started seriously pursuing Bellatrix and not when he proposed. Keeping up with gossip had been, at that point in his life, important to him. And he's ready to keep up the jokes, the little cutting remarks at Lestrange's expense — and he has so many automatically loaded into his quipping engine — but the more subdued remark Bellatrix finishes with stops him. His smile has a jaunty sort of twisted sympathy.

"So it does," he says, easy and entirely resisting the deeper parallels there. "But I believe we will be happy to have you here exactly as you are. Don't give it a second's thought. Would you like to come out with me, have a look around? Or shall I leave you to your book?"

Perhaps this is still largely as Evan remembers her, with tact and subtlety remaining, and a candidness with family. Bellatrix is visibly grateful for his offer and she smiles. "No, please." She moves to stand, rolling her gaze skyward briefly. "I'm not even sure what the bloody thing's about." Which is more to do with her lack of concentration than a lack of comprehension. "I would be honoured if you would escort me, dear cousin."

Lucius certainly hasn't come looking for Bellatrix; given his own preference, he'd avoid her, especially when mildly hungover (though it should be noted, a hangover is evidently no reason not to look impeccable, even in a dressing gown).

When he comes into the study with a mug of coffee, he pauses, and then continues on to the table. There's no reason he shouldn't go into a room in his own house, Bellatrix or not.

Bellatrix would really have been surprised if Lucius would truly allow her presence to disrupt whatever routine he's settled into in this place. She might judge him for it, too. Silently.

"Lucius." Her tone isn't quite cold, but it isn't warm either. "I must thank you," she begins, "for allowing me to stay here while I... acclimate. It's most generous of you."

And then she turns her attention back to the book she's, well, been trying to read. It's an attempt to keep him from thinking he doesn't need to do more than nod and accept her gratitude, but it's awkward at best.

"You're my wife's sister," he returns, in a 'what else were we going to do' sort of tone. Lucius goes to the desk where he's accustomed to working, though he'd taken to locking his notes away when the other Lucius was living with them. "I'm certain it won't take you long to acclimate," he added, adopting her word.

She tries to think of something to say, she does. Because she should, and because conversation should be easy. If she can just... talk to him - to anyone from back home - then she can move forward.

"I'm certain," is weak, even if she keeps her tone even and conversational. "I won't need to impose on your hospitality long." She trails off for a moment, biting the inside of her lip as she gathers her resolve properly. "How is Narcissa taking it?" Bellatrix being here. "Is there anything I can do to... help? Either of you?"

Lucius is really not sure how to take Bellatrix offering to be helpful (or how to take her younger than he is). She'd be expecting him as practically a child, though he wouldn't have thought he was one at the time, and he expects her...

...it's an adjustment for both of them. He's cautious, almost, as he says, "No, I don't think that's necessary. We're getting by without elves, for the time being. I think Narcissa's taking it well - for all it's strange, she's glad to have you, I'm certain."

Diplomatic, not untrue, but skirting a great deal.

If it were just about him, she wouldn't be so helpful, but it's about Narcissa and preserving Narcissa's pride by asking indirectly after her wellfare. Assurance that her sister is glad brings a small smile to her lips. "Very well. Do let me know if something springs to mind, won't you?"

When did he get to be like this? Not that Lucius Malfoy as she knows him ever had difficulty with the rules of etiquette, and she always believed he'd do well in politics, but there was familiarity before. This man is nearly a stranger to her. It's a bit like when she was younger, and acquaintances of her parents would come to visit, and talk about how they knew so much about her, when she had no recollection of them.

Somewhat abruptly she asks, "What do you make of this city?"

Lucius is unused to her speaking to him without open disdain, for his part.

"Still trying to make it out," he answered. Little as he'd ever cared for Bellatrix in the past, he won't be the one to start a quarrel. "It's a large system, if a closed one, and they seem to be politic about keeping the new arrivals speaking mostly to each other and very little to anyone else."

"Interesting." Because it is, if you want to read into the deeper meanings of such things. She can think of several reasons why that would be, so she doesn't bother asking Lucius' opinion on the subject. That and she's beginning to tire already of this attempt to reach out to her sister's husband.

Her brother-in-law. Dear Merlin.

"I'll be going out this evening," Bellatrix informs him then, without bothering to actually look in his direction. "I expect you will do your best to ensure Narcissa doesn't wait up for my return."

"I can at least make an attempt. Is there anything else you need from us?" He didn't mean to harp on himself and Narcissa being a unit, not exactly. But the evening he'd spent with Rodolphus had made an impressions, not to mention the alternate of himself and the now-departed alternate of Narcissa. Having his own wife with him was a touchstone he was loathe to get far from.

And if Bellatrix gives it much thought, she'll absolutely empathise with his sentiment. If she were to arrive with her Narcissa, as she remembers her, she'd feel much the same.

"No." Her smile is polite, if somewhat on the frosty side of it. "I believe I shall manage just fine."

"No doubt," he says, with the smallest of sighs. "It's as you like."

If there's one thing Bellatrix has been longing for since she'd begun to properly appreciate the situation she's found herself in, it's fire whiskey. As well as the company of people who aren't members of her family. The expectations of how she's meant to comport herself, if she's honest, are somewhat overwhelming at this time. It isn't as though she wants to escape it, or herself, entirely, but a reprieve would be blessed.

So she arrives at Lost Society at five minutes to seven, according to her CiD. She approves immediately of the venue and its atmosphere. It's comfortable, even if the look on her face does marginally resemble the look of a deer trapped in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

Lost Society pleases Anna too. Of all the places in Baedal, it feels the closest to home (home being Chicago circa 1931, before the True Fae came and everything went to hell), and it was with a combination of relief and delight that she'd discovered it in Flyside. Of course, it was in so many ways a kind of idealization of the world she'd left, but, honestly, she preferred looking back on things that way. And it was nice to wear a sleek beaded cocktail dress and put her hair in a chignon and feel perfectly at ease.

When Bellatrix arrives she's already waiting in the lounge, cradling a simple gin cocktail that she has no intention of tasting and debating whether or not she can afford to expend the blood it would take to look something besides deathly pale. (Given Baedal's politics, the answer was probably "no."

It takes a minute of studying faces and forms before Bellatrix decides that she has actually spotted Anna Demirovna. She approaches somewhat languidly and without any trace of anxiety in her expression, thanks to much practise at perfecting first impressions. Though this is technically a second impression.

"Anna, right? It's nice to meet you face to face." It feels a touch cliché, but it's fitting enough that Bellatrix refuses to be embarrassed by the greeting.

"I didn't know you were coming, Anna--" but Ilde sounds pleased, only a few steps behind Bellatrix, evidently knowing her way comfortably around the establishment. She slides her CiD back into her clutch as she joins them, one foot pressed to the back of her other leg for just a moment as she pauses, smiling.

It's easy to be fine when artifice is expected.

"Ilde! What a lovely surprise it is to find you here; it seems we've surprised each other." Her smile is easy and genuine. "And Bellatrix - I'm so glad you found the place without any problems."

For a first (in-person) impression, Bellatrix's efforts have the right effect: Anna always appreciates small talk for the nod to social niceties that it is. And Bellatrix's confidence marks her as a worthwhile sort of person.

In person, for all her exterior charm, there's something subtly unsettling about Anna Demirovna to a human eye. It's not quite anything specific (maybe in her gestures? or a certain look in her eyes?); more like an instinctive sense of something predatory about her.

"Please, sit down, both of you." She gestures with a pale hand.

There's an inward sense of disappointment when Anna and Ilde exchange greetings. There was a part of her that had been hoping she'd be introducing each of them to someone new, so she could feel a bit more on even footing. But, truly, it's no matter. This may be better anyway. "I apologise, I should have said. The more the merrier though, yes?"

Her seat is taken with an easy smile. She should be unnerved in some way, but where others have the instinct to flee, or at least be wary, Bellatrix interprets it as something magical, equating it with power. She's a bit off herself in that way. "I'm so pleased you both could make it. I appreciate your company this evening." She appreciates being out of her sister's home most of all. She feels as though she can breathe easier now.

In person, it's clearer that there's something about Ilde a step apart from human norms; that which is meant to unsettle humans registers entirely differently to someone who isn't at all, and at this point mostly just...doesn't, accustomed as she is to Anna's company. Sliding down into a seat, she crosses her legs (the gap between the lace edge of her stockings and the feathered hem of her dress gets wider as it rides up, and her ribbon tattoo is more visible, partially, before she rearranges) and tucks her clutch in beside her, an elbow on the arm of her chair. “I like to be welcoming-- well, not always. I think men here can fend for themselves.”

They assuredly made a lovely dark-haired collection, the three of them; Anna is herself too perpetually image-conscious (or, in her opinion, exactly as image-conscious as she should be) to not be aware of the fact, and she's more than a little privately pleased at the notion.

"I'm not certain I'd give the men that much credit, but it's certainly much more fun to watch them flounder regardless." She pauses to smirk at her own humor. "So, Miss Black -- I believe I was promised the opportunity to learn all sorts of interesting things about you."

"Men are infinitely more entertaining when they're flopping about like fish out of water." To continue the aquatic metaphor.

They do match rather nicely, the three of them. It's a bit like when she and her younger sister go out together. "Is that what I promised?" Bellatrix asks with faux surprise. "I suppose I had best deliver." She puts on a winning smile then, sitting up straighter in her seat and regarding Anna and Ilde in turn. "Very well. Ask your first question."

Ilde tips her hand, briefly - less that she thinks men are competent than she doesn't care, for the most part, if they can't fend for themselves it's their problem and not hers - and offers, for a question, “Where did you come from?” A moment later, amending it, “What sort of place?”

And then Ilde makes the sort of remark that reminds her why it is — apart from that whole strange fae thing that she's never quite sure how she feels about sharing — that she so enjoys her company.

It's as good a starting question as any, too. "Yes, what sort of place — and, since it seems to matter here, what sort of time?"

Bellatrix finds herself a little at a loss as to how to answer the question, having never had to explain her world before. It doesn't show on her face, however, save for a thoughtful expression.

"I come from England, and the year is 1970," is the short and simple answer. "Where I come from, we're meant to keep quiet about such things, though I've never agreed with the reasoning - I am a witch." A smile curls the corners of her mouth upward. "I trust that magic is nothing new to you having lived here." But then she leans in, suddenly sly. "I suspect you were no strangers to it even before then."

Which is a bit like asking what sort of place they come from.

It could be a trick of the light, the way Ilde seems to gleam for a moment, reflecting the room's warm lighting back against her skin. It could be, but it isn't; she smiles.

“I don't believe in secrecy, either,” she says, curling her fingers around something unseen; one of the blood vials Katherine had given her, attached to a chain and hidden by illusions. She'd promised to carry one always, but it just doesn't always go with her outfit. (It is an oddly comforting presence.) “I know some of your kind-- I can taste it.” Different kinds of magic, identifiable; Ilde doesn't need to be told what Bellatrix is or even what brand of magic she practises, she's encountered enough of them to know the way they feel by instinct now. Severus (the younger) is the exception, with his magic altered from the norm, something else again.

“Fae,” she says, by way of explanation, which accounts for the curious nature of her appearance.

Oh, they're revealing themselves, now? Well, that's...interesting, and also happens to go against everything she's ever been taught since her Embrace. And Baedal politics have only gone to show the wisdom of the Masquerade: really, it's sometimes like the worst of both worlds here -- no protection of secrecy, no acceptance.

But Bellatrix had called herself a witch, hadn't she; had said that she had her own brand of secrecy to contend with. Were witches anything like mages, then? It didn't make her an automatic ally, precisely, but...it was something. It was also something that Ilde seemed comfortable sharing her nature (and that was a neat trick, tasting magic) -- not that she necessarily trusted Ilde's judgment inherently, but she didn't like the feeling of being the odd one out. More to the point, it wasn't likely to be particularly believable.

To her, the pause feels far too long as she considers. She could slip her glamour, but lightning is too eye-catching in this dark room, and besides, she's not sure she's willing to begin explaining that (and even now, she's alternately viciously proud and painfully ashamed). Instead, she leans in and flicks her eyes up to meet Bellatrix's gaze, the smell of rain and ozone lingering about her. (It has always been the hardest part to hide.)

"Secrecy is valuable," she says, tone guarded. Then, she allows herself a thin smile, and lets her fangs extend, subtle but unmistakable when she next speaks. "But so is knowledge." She raises the clear cocktail, swirls it. "This is just for show; I'd never keep it down for even a moment if I tried a sip... Vampire is the popular term," she offers.

Well, well, well. The other women's particular flavours of magical are actually a little unexpected, which truly only elates Bellatrix, and it shows in a glimmer in her eyes and a quirk in the corner of her mouth. "I don't believe I've ever seen a vampire quite as beautiful as you," she's quick to compliment. "Or one that so easily blends in." And that's kudos.

For Ilde, she leans a little bit closer, gaze slightly narrowed, darkly challenging in a way. "And what does my magic taste like? It's delectable, I hope."

all the broken chords and unnamed cries

malfoy townhouse ;

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lost society ;

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