Late Afternoon, Balthair's Study


Balfour Spectre wandered through the high doors of his grandfather's small and narrow study, hands in pockets and a cigarette burning sweetly between his lips. It was empty but the golden light of an old stained glass lamp gave it an air of being often inhabited.

Bookshelves lined almost every wall and a wide desk took up most of the space, the rest of it occupied by an armchair and an old dresser littered with brass photo frames. A neat and somewhat cluttered room. Old wood and whiskey and traces of lavender.

He paused at the dresser to observe the photographs, drawing in a breath of tobacco. Johann was keeping Knox company in her parlour - presumably discussing her unborn child, possibilities of sign languages. Balfour did not want to think too hard on it although he was grateful that his niece would likely be born otherwise healthy.

The wizard exhaled a stream of smoke as he picked up one of the photos.

A young Balthair in his 20s, pulling his wife Artis down on to the couch in the estate drawing room - she was a trim little figure with hair as red as Aisling's, old fashioned 1950s skirt billowing about... he was almost the very image of Balfour, but for a crookedness in that nose.

Balfour put down the frame but still watched his grandmother's face, sparkling with laughter at the camera. Seanair did not once look away from her, hardly seemed aware the picture was being taken.

Was that how he looked at Johann? Like the world began and ended with his lover's smile?


"We had been fighting." Balthair's voice came from behind and he looked around, surprised to find the older man so close and with a thoughtful expression. "The morning that photograph was taken."

His grandfather looked away, strolled behind the desk to sit and procure a cigarette from his silver case.

"What about?" Balfour asked and sat in the armchair, relaxing a little - to be caught here when they were children had been a much worser crime.

A subtle furrow appeared between Balthair's greying eyebrows while he lit his cigarette and stared into space, into the past. The manor was quiet and the two wizards both felt its sleeping, tired ways in their pureblood bones. Century old stone reverberated peacefully in them.

"Cats. Allergic, her cousin was, so I'd brought home six of them the night before."
            "She seemed to forgive you quickly enough."
"We always forgave one another," a dry smile. "It hurt not to."

Yes. That was understandable. Balfour tapped a bit of ash unconsciously, staring with a serious expression. He would normally have laughed about the cats but his head still lay in a sombre state from news of Knox's child.

"I thought she might name her after grandmither," he meant Nathaira, and Balthair caught on without much trouble. They both puffed away at their cigarettes and the study was engulfed in a veil of white haze; not quite real. "But I suppose there's time for that."

Seanair grunted noncommittally. It didn't matter to him if anyone took Artis' name, regardless. Balfour continued. "I mean, I might some day if Johann doesn't mind..." he stubbed out his fag and looked at Balthair. Their eyes met, the elder looking as if though his heart were heavy as bricks.

"Is that a matter of fact?" he remarked softly and Balfour swallowed, losing nerve and letting his gaze drop.
            "Not that I've... or that we've even.... talked about mar--"
"I don't care."

Balfour glanced up, the slight astonishment on his face resembling that of his youth instead. "Beg your pardon?" his heart stammered erratically.

An unreadable expression crossed Balthair's face and he scratched his chin, sighing. "I don't care, lad. What do you think I'm going to tell you? Not to?" he considered his grandson. "They didn't want her, you know, Artis. There was no money it. Dirty word that."

They looked at each other, one smiling cynically now and the other somewhat dumbstruck. Balfour parted his lips to speak but found that he wasn't certain what to say. He'd been expecting a disagreement at least. Balthair made a satisfied sound, happy to have shut up his stubborn-minded heir for once in his life.

"Shut the door on your way out, won't you?" he nursed his cigarette and picked up a copy of the Prophet from the desk. "Bit of a draught in here."