1000 hours. Canal Residence of Ira Almasy, London.


The manor stood in a disillusioned corner of London city, overlooking one of the many canals that had been closed off from transport towards the dwindling years of the 20th century. An inherently peaceful locale with trees not yet bared by winter and favoured by the sun, or whatever of its light was left in this season.

"Good morning," Raine Almasy strode into the chief dining room with clicking heels and her red curls pinned back neatly. The space was flooded with a golden light. Sat at the table, an elegant figure in navy, was her aunt. The woman was leaning back in a chair with an arm across its back and a spindly hand against white linen.

At her entrance, she raised a cool gaze. "Reinka." Ira's smile was faint. "Your timing is apt."

"Oh? You look all ready to leave," the younger witch nodded at the coat next to her relation as she took a seat across the round table. "I slept in. Is this all for the Opera?"

The table -  typically littered with bone china and gleaming cutlery - was embellished with paperwork. Neat stacks of parchment, orderly lists, several inkwells. It was irregular; she generally expected Aunt Ira to handle such business in the city flat, closer to the center.

Of course it was the sort of event that could easily take over one's life. "Da. I desired your opinion, actually..." Ira flicked her wrist at the stacks and a single parchment took to the air, gliding gently in Raine's direction.

"Invitation?" she seized the sheet and brought it down to read, taking her tea as a hovering pot poured it precariously. "This looks... rather minimalist, I suppose. You aren't giving much away." Nothing at all really.

Her aunt hardly seemed distracted by the comment. "It is better if they know little," she regarded her niece, eyes discerning. "This is our alternative approach. None of that... neo-classical flair."

Raine didn't much care the arts or the array of labels the Society used to describe any of their exhibits but she met Aunt Ira's stare intelligently and raised an eyebrow.

"If you say so," she put down the mock invitation and began helping herself to breakfast rolls. A shadow was cast across the room as clouds rolled over the sky outside, indicating rain for later. "I doubt it matters. They won't attend for the invitation after all." In fact she doubted they would even attend for the Opera. It was the glamour they enjoyed.

Comprehending the implication, Ira smiled at her niece's unknowing countenance. "You know our audience," she remarked appreciatively and then began to stand. "I go now. We dine at the Opera House tonight, the curator has arranged for it. Take your father's automobile if it pleases you."

"Da." Raine smiled, vaguely affectionate. "Goodbye."


And with a dark sweep of her woollen cape, Ira Almasy turned to withdraw- leaving behind a girl with indifferent eyes.