Ira Almasy laughed as she lowered her fork to the plate, and the two androgynous squibs she had hired as servers began to clear the table of its penultimate dish that evening. The grape leaf parcel had been delightful - if not unusual in its stringy texture - and their palates were cleansed for the final course.

"I haven't the least what you mean," she was replying in good humour to Balfour's airy assertion that the Opera House suffered more from her theatrical interest than it benefitted on account of having never had so exacting a critique. "Art only benefits from opinion, even a negative one."

A smirk from the Scotsman as he looked away in an amiable manner. "I'll give you that," he conceded.

Wine glasses were refilled, several of the guests declining another drink to save themselves for entertainment in the study later. The long room, with its white marble floors and velvety red curtain walls, was occupied by those persons with whom Ira Almasy had some professional connection. A picturesque collection of people dining on clean linen and by the light of cream flowers that glowed in elaborate centrepieces.

Dessert was being brought in on small plates, the only of their eight course meal that the hostess had made. "A Russian delicacy," she announced in a charmed voice to the table at large. "And a recipe of my own making."

The guests had been civil all throughout the night - they made small talk as witches and wizards of their caliber did, mild observations of political climate and the odd acerbic remark. Balfour and his Little Wolfgang[1], sat on either side of her, kept a social ambience that she herself lacked.

Zamperia had been unsurprisingly quiet. Not for long, she knew, considering he had unwittingly consumed his late brother's flesh. Ira hoped the grey in his beard would suffer from the shock.

That would come in time. They would enjoy until then.

"Oh, I bore us with talk of theatre." Ira continued in feigned distress, lifting her glass to her guests. "But one might claim that little delights are all the more important in these dark times."

1.	(seating order - GoH is empty Guest of Honour)

Oh Merlin he hated her, but simultaneously could not shake the draw.  Two months ago, he’d believed Ira Almasy about to split his head in two over her desk in the office on this very floor of Atreus.  Tonight he sat beside her left hand, trying not to consider how those elegant long fingernails had turned to claws and left their mark on his pale back.  Tonight they were playing happy families once again, as if he hadn’t done something beastly for her only the other night, as per the contract he didn’t dare risk to break, for fear she would in turn break Balfour’s or his own in retaliation.  At least she was wearing her own face tonight.

The menu had been original, different.  Johann hadn’t always felt entirely sure he’d memorised the menu correctly when tasting.  The wine was going down far too easily, and when he’d been the lucky one to find a whole eye of boar[1] in his second course he’d been able to crack a joke - “Eye, eye!” raising his spoon to allow the eyeball to be, well, eyeballed by his dining companions. “Is this like finding the sickle in the Christmas pudding?” he’d asked with a smirk, “who’s got the other?”

Cousin Ignan had stared at it a little longer, stirred his soup and raised his eyebrows to his wife across the table.  Johann knew he was only there out of politeness for inviting Miranda.  Ira had chosen for influence there, though given Miranda’s jokes about hospitality when he and Balfour had gone for dinner in Godric’s Hollow, he did not imagine either Miranda or husband were there out of sheer wish to socialise.  Either way, he was glad of their company - Ira wouldn’t be able to do something very easily with everyone there, and Ignan’s mere presence made him feel braver.  That, and Balfour and Mihai, two out of three Musketeers (the third, Dietrich, another neighbour living floors below where they dined.)

All in all, they were doing well at keeping up the appearances.  Balfour and Ira were to all extents, fine friends once more.  Witch Weekly could have a field day if they were a fly on the wall.  (Johann had carefully assessed Lil Snigger’s diary and arranged a fictitious meeting for her to attend on this very evening to be sure she was otherwise engaged in a wine bar in Oxford.)  He couldn’t help but wonder if the empty chair at the opposite end to Ira was a guest who had managed to find a suitable reason to pass up on the invitation.  Or, perhaps someone who had declined, and now found them unable to attend any function as a result of snubbing the invitation.

His gaze down the table to the empty chair, wine glass clasped between his fingers was interrupted by Ira’s wider declaration to the table.
”Oh, I bore us with talk of theatre. But one might claim that little delights are all the more important in these dark times.”
“Not at all,” Johann replied smoothly, even managing what would pass as a genuine alcohol-fuelled smile, “this evening has been more than a little delight, Ira.” He raised his glass slightly in toast, “and it wouldn’t be you without a little theatre, madam.” He made eye contact and gave Ira a sincere, but knowing nod.

“One must keep good humour in such times,” he continued, tongue loosened, “Cousin Ignan explained it is ‘Apparition week’ at Hogwarts this week - you’d think they’d had enough of students disappearing. Hah, Ignan, all those years of wishing are paying off.” He chuckled to himself.

1.	… Eye of wizard

Mihai had barely touched his wine tonight, he wanted to keep his mind clear and unfogged. And, much like the wine-- beyond a few bites of each dish, he hadn't eaten. Even then, he had waited until he was relatively certain that the food wasn't poisoned. In the pocket of his robes was a bezoar or two for such an occasion. When one dabbled in poisons, it was best to be careful. Although Mihai hadn't poisoned anybody in quite some time, old, lifesaving habits remained.

Although he kept a calm and quiet appearance, Balfour and Johann's camaraderie with Ira, quite frankly, disturbed and disgusted him. Most concerning, however, was the appearance of a favored acquaintance at the table-- Riordan. Mihai hadn't exchanged a single word other than a greeting with him all evening, though through cool observance he noticed that the DMLE deputy head looked like he was seething with anger. Clearly, he wanted to be here about as much as Mihai did.

“Cousin Ignan explained it is ‘Apparition week’ at Hogwarts this week - you’d think they’d had enough of students disappearing. Hah, Ignan, all those years of wishing are paying off.”

Clearly, Johann had drank too much wine.

"There's a difference between good humor and distasteful humor. And you're too inebriated to know the difference." He said coolly. On the one hand, Mihai didn't want to blame Johann for his drunken rambling mouth, but on the other-- getting drunk in Ira's presence  wasn't a wise decision in the first place. No matter what your state of consciousness was, it didn't excuse jokes at the expense of his daughter and the other abducted students.

[m for language]

In the minimal association with Ira Almasy, Gilchrist Riordan had, mercifully, never had the undecided pleasure of a face-to-face meeting.  Any updates that Riordan begrudgingly had given on mundane Level Two proceedings had been, at spaced-out intervals, conducted through in-person meetings with her man Layton. In all, nothing had really been asked of him. Which was how he had liked it.

So he was naturally surprised and appalled when the beautifully caligraphied invite had arrived for him. It was a tonal shift. Riordan wanted little to do with her associates, and what was more, he wanted even less for others to make a connection between them.  He would have thought she’d have been sensible enough to feel likewise.

He’d done all he could to try to get out of it.  Playing to their own interests: he was busy tying up loose ends and running Level 2. He couldn’t be spared for dinner parties.  And when that didn’t work, he couldn’t: he was sick, he said. 

Layton’s response had been unmistakably clear: “Come anyway.”

At the very least, Riordan didn’t need to put on theatrics for a convincing performance.  He was green—positively sick at the events of the past few days.  Very little sleep, and no stomach at all for any sort of food in front of him.

Besides. Riordan had very strong suspicions it was poisoned.  The drink was tempting—as it always was in a time of trouble—but seeing the effect it had on the guests, he decided he did not want his tongue being loosed.  (Johann Storm was there making fucking jokes about those kidnapped students. In front of his uncle. In front of Mihai.  Little shit.)  The muscles in his jaw twitched.  He bit his tongue, but eyes rested heavily on the younger Storm.  At least Mihai had had the sense to put in a word.  If he hadn’t been so mortified at being seen in the company of this witch, he’d have shot his friend (the only one here) an appreciative glance.  Instead, he shook his head in disgust, instinctively reaching for his glass before remembering that, no, he was not drinking tonight.

Truth be told, Riordan had not spoken even less than he’d eaten.  With the empty seat across from him (reserved for a plus one he’d had the sense to never extend an invitation towards) and the guest of honor, also absent, it seemed very little was required of him, conversationally.  His eyes lingered a moment on Lumpkin.  If she was in Ira’s pocket, that was a curious thing.  Ira certainly had given no indication or instruction to reign his Aurors in on the kidnappings.  Gamp had been dragged in.  Riordan had, sensibly—and now in retrospect, foolishly—thought that meant she was uninvolved.   Seeing Lumpkin here, however… His eyes darted apprehensively to Mihai, for the first time.  If she was Ira’s, she might very well have wanted Riordan to get Gamp out of the way.

There was no doubt she was behind the poisonings—and the Trumble abduction. He’d had instructions on that.  But communication had been decidedly one-sided: Riordan offering his information. She, providing little to him. Only orders.  Bloody hell, what else was she entangled in, and was everyone at this fucking table complicit?

He refused to believe that of Zamperia.  He hated Almasy. Then again, so did Riordan, and here they were.  One thing was certain in all this: it was a mercy this meal was drawing to a close.

Jacqueline knew well why she’d been invited to Ira Almasy’s charming little dinner – what she failed to realize was that there would be so many other influential powers attending the affair. It was quite a bit unsettling to know how corrupt their government had become if so many of their ranking officials were seated around Almasy’s beautifully arranged table together. It was unsettling, yet it brought a smirk to the French witch’s features. The meal had been exquisite, with quite exotic flavorings and cooked to perfection. The unspeakable had enjoyed it immensely, though true to her name, hadn’t spoken much.

It was suspicious, to say the least. The crew around her seemed to be assembled randomly, and with no particular thought process in mind beforehand. That in itself was enough to keep Jacqueline on alert through most of the meal. If any dark deeds were to happen, during the meal would be the most opportune time to enact them. A solid gold ring tapped her wine glass absently, as it had done on every previous refill. The ring had been enchanted to detect most poisons, and with just three taps Jacqueline could verify that she wasn’t about to face impending doom.

If the ring had started to glow, however, Jacqueline wasn’t exactly sure what she would have done. She couldn’t remember making enemies with any of her companions, though with the insanity Gamp had left on her department, there could very well have been a ploy to take her out of the picture. The Department of Mysteries was a delicate asset, and the one in the position of power over it could be very influential indeed.

At Johann’s joke, and the other’s outrage, Jacqueline let out a peal of laughter. It had been amusing, after all. “Though Gamp was stupid conducting his little experiments within the Ministry, I can’t fault him for his ambition. Nor can I say I’m very happy about the mess he’s left for me, but I suppose there’s no use crying over spilled potion,” The wine had started to make Jacqueline’s sharp tongue a bit more tempered, and though speaking without thinking would be disastrous, keeping completely silent might be equally so.

Ignan wouldn’t have been impressed, Miranda thought after she nearly choked on her wine at Johann’s remark. Her laugh was nearly smothered by the glass and her taking another sip and she avoided Ignan’s gaze as she recovered. Vanishing students was as sensitive a topic to Ignan was poisoned patients were to his wife. But Johann’s comment was amusing…

Now Miranda had expected the evening to be awkward and dull, the drudgery of forced socialising and pleasantries between near strangers over food too posh to pronounce correctly with a Devonshire accent and a glass too many of wine. Up until recently, the evening had been as predicted. But the steadily more inebriated Ignan’s younger cousin became, the more amused Miranda was. She was a great lover of watching sparks fly and the innaproriate remarks and jokes were not disappointing.

The wizard beside her husband bit and Miranda’s dark eyes glistened as the witch to her left spoke. Another sip of wine later and the healer sat forward, arms resting on her table as she glanced towards Johann.

“Bets are being taken on the amount of limbs that go walkabout this time.” The witch smirked, not too displeased with her pun.

Balfour Spectre, as he was often advised to do so by his grandfather at formal dinner parties when he was a child, kept a mental list of subjects safe to discuss at the dinner table.

Throughout the first seven courses of the night he had been able to exhaust this list by resorting to it every time Ira came close to touching on a subject he had rather not approach - but his attempt to divert conversation towards the arts had failed rather spectacularly, and the Scotsman cradled his wine glass with the pretence of genial manner. It was too easy to act a polite fool but his smile showed its strain as Johann's exchange revealed approximately how many glasses of wine the other man had so far consumed.

Well. It only took them to dessert for something inappropriate to happen.

Next to him, Mihai had effectively diagnosed Joh's condition - he was calm, although more cutting than either Lumpkin or Miranda. Witches! thought Balfour as he lowered his glass and picked up a silver dessert fork.

"Johann, darling..." he managed to say, adopting a tone that was not grimly unamused; even if it did carry a hint of soft danger. A bedroom voice that at least two other people at the table would recognise.

Ira had laughed as openly as Jacqueline, and tactfully ignored the reprimands directed towards Johann. "Da, and we all have the utmost faith in you Jacqueline." The Russian witch took a first bite of the cake - its honeyed gold stained her lips distractingly. "If any one person could clean up such a mess..." A gesture of respect across the long table.

"Here here!" Balfour exclaimed politely with a raise of his glass: he was much too eager to move on from the actual kidnappings for both Mihai and Johann's sake.

Not to mention Riordan. The Deputy Head's presence deeply unsettled him, a blatant reminder of the influence Ira held in the Ministry of Magic and possibly one of the many reasons she still operated independent of a criminal identity. Surely Gilchrist had no interest in being reminded of what must either be his crime or ignorance.

"I remember a couple of Ravenclaws whose arms went missing in my time," Bal remarked on the subject of Apparition week and wondered if he might approach a neighbouring topic of discussion. "I think that was the year Potter came to Hogwarts as well. How is morale at the castle, Ignan?"

As his partner's cousin sat one seat away alongside, he couldn't quite meet the older gentleman's eye and addressed the table while indulging in dessert. "Keeping chipper, I hope?"

Strange evening this was turning out to be. As yet another course arrived, Ignan tried to keep his expression neutral, a difficult task for someone who perpetually looked grumpy. He’d kept what little dinner conversation he’d partaken in polite, careful. Not so long ago, Raine Almasy had imparted some very worrying observations about Ira Almasy. Despite being married to Miranda, he wasn’t at liberty to share the information, which was instead, rather better shared with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

It was to Ignan’s surprise then, to find himself seated next to Solomon Carstair’s Deputy. Riordan did not look at all comfortable to be there, which made Ignan wonder. Solomon Carstairs not the most happily mentioned name in their household at the moment, and surely his Department also had their suspicions. The more he thought on it, the more he wondered if Riordan’s appearance was precisely for that. Enemies closer and all.

To his left, the conversation wasn’t entirely better. Mihai Zamperia was the parent of one of his fifth year students. One who had featured regularly on Ignan’s meticulously kept Hogwarts records and whom had vanished earlier in February, returning, unlike her Prewett dorm-mate. He did not appear entirely at ease, and Ignan was not vain enough to consider that his own proximity might contribute.

Across, he knew very little of Jacqueline Lumpkin, other than she had assumed control of Mysteries since Gamp was quite clearly unhinged and a danger to the public. He wasn’t entirely sure why either of these two were at Ira Almasy’s table, and only hoped it was for positive reasons. Apart from himself in Miranda, everyone attending worked for the British Ministry, and that was yet another reason why not to trust the government.

The only guests who appeared to be having visible fun were his younger cousin and partner, Almasy’s tenants. Balfour Spectre always came across as a smooth talker in social situations, well liked, confident enough to carry a conversation in awkward moments without it seeming too stilted. Johann was rarely able to keep his mouth shut when there were people to talk to, and only followed up Spectre’s conversation lines. Occasionally it felt as if the conversation stopped just past them. Whether Almasy had placed them there to reinforce her social attempts, or as a pair to massage her ego, Ignan wouldn’t judge. He just hoped to Merlin that Almasy was just their landlady - considering Spectre’s public confrontation with Almasy in January.

Miranda was keeping afloat, and he was proud of her. She had a sharp, sometimes nearly offensive bed-manner, but she was more than smart enough to know when to play it the other way. Ira Almasy’s bank vaults were seemingly bottomless. She was a regular supporter of the hospital, and Miranda needed her to remain that way. Still, there was no sign of Maya’s owl they’d previously planned to interrupt the evening and give them an opportunity to escape.



“...Cousin Ignan explained it is ‘Apparition week’ at Hogwarts this week - you’d think they’d had enough of students disappearing. Hah, Ignan, all those years of wishing are paying off.” One might suggest that Johann took after his mother far more than he ever did his father, until moments exactly like this. Ignan might have smirked immediately had it been about someone else rather than himself. Had it not been a real and definite danger, a loss of life, a family still grieving without a body recovered.

“There's a difference between good humor and distasteful humor. And you're too inebriated to know the difference.” Mihai commented sharply from Ignan’s left, but across from him, Lumpkin was laughing.
“Though Gamp was stupid conducting his little experiments within the Ministry, I can’t fault him for his ambition. Nor can I say I’m very happy about the mess he’s left for me, but I suppose there’s no use crying over spilled potion.”

Ignan’s stare from Johann to Lumpkin was hostile until he saw Miranda incline opposite him, amusement on her lips
“Bets are being taken on the amount of limbs that go walkabout this time.” His expression softened a little, realising Miranda was twisting the joke into something a little less barbed for Zamperia, and more at Ignan which had presumably been Johann’s intent. She was offering him a get out of jail card. Cooperating, Ignan gave a visible huff in response, catching Johann’s titter about ‘matching pair’ to Miranda, referring to splinching off his other hand to give matching scars.

“Johann, darling…”
“Da, and we all have the utmost faith in you Jacqueline. If any one person could clean up such a mess…”
"Here here!”



The conversation slipped along with a bit of a push and Ignan glanced to Mihai out of the corner of his eye, trying to measure whether there would be another outburst from the wizard. Spectre easily moved along the conversation, though, Ignan noted, still directly at him.

"I remember a couple of Ravenclaws whose arms went missing in my time, I think that was the year Potter came to Hogwarts as well. How is morale at the castle, Ignan? Keeping chipper, I hope?”

“Hogwarts has weathered worse.” Ignan eventually replied, the common phrase uttered by those who had fought Voldemort. “Not to lessen the impact of recent events, by any means. But we will carry on. And as for missing limbs, that is for your Department of Magical Transport to be concerned about, as well as Miranda and her impeccable team.” He looked across the table with the hint of a proud smile. “She has turned the hospital around.”

At every sharp turn of the conversation, it seemed that her guests were determined to either exacerbate or soften their tone. To her left, Johann Storm was a devil, and across from him an auburn haired fallen angel trying to deter the inevitable violence from coming to head.

   "...as well as Miranda and her impeccable team.” The Deputy Head of Hogwarts took up the gauntlet that Balfour had thrown down in his curbing of darker subjects. “She has turned the hospital around.”

Ira smiled, almost warmly, at Ignan and then at Miranda. "Another toast for the Head Healer..." she commended the other witch humbly as they rose their glasses at the table again. Crystal rims glinted in soft light, almost pink in the reflection of the red wine being served for their last course.

***

Rather than comply to the English habit of witches retreating to leave the gentlemen at the dinner table after dessert, Ira entreated for the party to retire all at once to the drawing room for more drink and conversation. It would have hardly been appropriate to obey tradition anyway, as their hostess was a woman. She would not suffer a half-audience, and required Mihai Zamperia in the vicinity. There would be no leaving that man unattended.

"I wish I could take credit!" Ira exclaimed softly as they drew into the large space, in response to something Balfour had said about their dinner. "My cook deserves your praise entirely."

The drawing room was lined with tall, redwood bookshelves on two sides. Antique love seats, gilded and of burgundy damask, lay by wide windows overlooking night time London. A chaise lounge was occupied by two white Siberian huskies who abandoned it to affectionally greet Johann.

A chandelier of rough crystal cast a golden light on the company of witches and wizards.

      "But surely your good taste merits a compliment?"" quipped Balfour as he took a seat close to the window, arm laying comfortably across the back of the cabriole.

Smiling, Ira lowered herself on to the long stool of an elegant little pianoforte in the corner. "Perhaps," she admitted before lifting her gaze searchingly towards the wizards of their party. "But our Monsieur Zamperia must share it with me - he and his brother recommended my butcher. Or else the meat this night would not have been so sweet."

It had been good of him, Alberic had decided, to deign to visit the House Atreus.  His invitation had lapsed beyond 'overdue' to 'glaringly remiss.'  Alberic was a man of initiative, or else he'd have never made it here on his own.  First, Gamp, now Lumpkin herself was in Ira's pocket.  Why, if he were a man prone to jealousy, he might even feel excluded.  Fortunately, Alberic was above all such base impulses.  They had the effect of weakening the mind, reducing you to simpering fools like his nephews.  To make Alberic's efforts and condescension all the more remarkable on his part, he'd practically had to muddle through Muggles to get here, situated as it was.  All for a mere social call.

Ira's Man had met him at the door with equal parts reserve and stiffness which, obligingly, Alberic was able to meet measure for measure.  If he had not been anticipated, the Man made no mention of it.  Alberic had been left to wait in some alcove just before the dining room. He sniffed, willing to take advantage of the opportunity--one he felt was (perhaps) kindly bestowed upon him by the Man--to eavesdrop as he awaited an audience with Almasy.  Apparently, Ira Almasy's present business was selective enough to land him on the other side of the door of the dining room, awaiting, but not quite secretive enough to warrant any muffling spells.  Through the cracks, Alberic could make out snippets of what seemed an inanely celebratory mood.

"Da, and we... utmost ... Jacqueline.  If any one person... clean up... mess..." German.
"Here, here!" Drunk.
"She has turned the hospital around." Several Germans, then.  The Storms, Ignan and Johann--Sturm and Drang, respectively--no doubt.
Another toast.

My, my. Wasn't this a productive bunch?  Alberic Grimm's lips curled thinly at the celebratory tone sweeping over the room.  Mysteries resolved, hospitals purged of bad blood, culinary wonders lauded.  They'd be forging world peace, holding hands with  grindylows, and sitting down to dinner with the Muggles before too long.

A subdued voice, the Man's, informed him he could go through to the drawing room.  He would see her now.  Alberic looked at the man blandly for several moments, trying to get a read.  It was a vacant sort of face and not likely to yield anything of interest, though Alberic was not sure if this was willful or merely woeful. 

It seemed the joviality had carried room to room: "My cook deserves the praise entirely," the clear sotto voce cut through the space.  Alberic settled himself beside a bookshelf, reading the gilded titles pressed into aging spines.  Ah, The Black Pullet, first edition.  Alberic pulled the book from the shelf, delicately flipping a page.  He could spend a day here and not have it be a total waste of his time.

This was why he'd deigned to appear in the first place.  Ira Almasy, from all accounts, seemed a shrewd woman of business, collector of interesting things.  He really could not say himself; poor form in picking Gamp; she clearly had better taste in books. Part of the reason for the visit.  The only other person worth some respect in the room was probably the elder Storm, though Alberic wondered how much of the appealing severity in his nature was simply attributable to age--or perhaps origin.  At the very least, it was certainly not Lumpkin who would be capable sorting out the Department of Mysteries, a place Alberic was starting to feel more and more entrenched in.  Lumpkin.  There was never a name so apt.  The others--well, it was always best not to underestimate the Spares, but...

He looked back to the book, finger scanning over an interesting inscription. Sometimes it could not be helped.

It was a minor miracle that what remained of dinner passed with no further incident. Johann, under the gaze of Balfour, left his wine glass upon the table without another lift. What he had drunk had well and truly set in, both loosening his tongue and also his limbs. His knees felt a little soft as they wandered into the drawing room, and they bent into an unsteady crouch at the appearance of Ivoire and Sangre. Where once Ivoire had wrapped his legs in a lead[1] when learning to walk them, he was now much more proficient at walking the dogs, even without Balfour. Well... maybe they took him for a walk on those occasions still, but Balfour wasn't around to notice.

"Helloooo, yes we'll have to go for w-words soon. Have a nice scratch..." Johann muttered affectionately to his canine greeters, ruffling their white fur with both hands and a gleeful smile. He entirely forgot the company around him as he did it.

When he became self-aware a moment later, only peripherally listening to Balfour and Ira converse about dinner, he spied another figure in the room who had not been there before. Not Layton, but that Grimm chap who creeped Theta Pepper out. She'd told Johann about his dead fish eyes over lunch once and in his pissed state, his mind transformed Grimm into a floppy fish for enough time to snigger. He covered it with a final rumple of the furry heads before him and got to his feet.

"Moonlighting as a drinks waiter?" Johann addressed Alberic, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets, the lopsided smirk on his face clearly indicating he wasn't serious.

1.	October 29th, 2010 Sing Quietly Along

Although drawing rooms were a place for people to wind down after dinner. Mihai was anything but relaxed. He leaned against a wall, just a few feet away from the hostess.

Ira's words struck against him with uncomfortable familiarity. His expression hardened as realization dawned upon him. Emilian had been missing his heart, his liver, flesh from his side and a bright blue eye. An eye that had made an appearance in Johann's dish. He opened his mouth to respond, but then snapped it shut.

The woman was a practicing psychopath.

Mihai didn't think; he lost his grasp on any restraint he had left. This situation was completely abominable in every way. Ira had fed him his god-damned brother.

In a quick and effortlessly smooth motion, he pulled his wand out of his pocket. The tip glowed an ominous crimson. The space between the two of them was clear. The slashing motions he made with his wand were quick and precise. Nastier spells felt like second nature to him-- Mihai never liked to think about what it implied about his character.

His aim was true.[1] A good man wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy; Mihai was not always a good man.  His face of stone began to crack as lifted his wand once more to deliver another curse.

1.	Carnem Dehisco

Balfour hadn't the least why Mihai Zamperia or his late brother would go around recommending, of all things, butchers. That wasn't the sort of relationship the man had with Ira anyway - so her comment fell a bit flat on him as he glanced away from the pianoforte to watch Johann approach someone who hadn't been at the dinner table. Odd.

Nothing was ever too odd in this building of sentient mirrors, though.

He was struggling to find some other innocuous subject for the party of wizards and witches to discuss when he noticed Mihai drawing his wand. Bal knew what was about to happen a half-second before it did; he was off the love seat in a flash and reaching for his own wand at the first slash of the curse.

Ira must have known as well because she had gotten to her feet before Balfour - a wretched scream cut through the warm, cosy atmosphere of the drawing room. Piano keys splintered and sang out a discordant tune, blood splattering across ivory as their hostess switched wand hand.

Her right arm, pale as cloud, sported a deep gash of red. The pianoforte was smashed through.

For a moment Balfour was frozen to the spot. The silk of Ira's dress rippled lightly as she flicked a curse in Mihai's direction - they were both at the same end of the room, and the streak of violet fire[1] scorched past those unlucky guests too close to the scene.

Balfour unstuck himself, turning his head to the closest window and brandishing his wand dramatically. The glass shattered.

There was no way Mihai could apparate out of the building because of the wards. And the best way to get him out, well, was going to involve a little defenestration.

1.	Inflictum Mactabilis

"Moonlighting as a drinks waiter?"

Ah, there he was, in the flesh: Drang the Drunk.  Addressing him--jovially.  Wunderbar.

Alberic raised a brow, barely looking up from his line of reading to regard the man acerbically. "Don't you wish," he said.  Not that the man needed any more drinks.

The German had that air of haphazard cockiness that often hung over the drunken fool.  Well, Merwyn[1] help the Spare, calling Alberic Grimm the help.  If he kept on like that, and he wouldn't make it through the night unscathed.  Alberic was not in a particularly charitable mood, being made to wait as long as he was without so much as an acknowledgement from their august hostess.

... Wait-er indeed.  Drang'd stumbled more upon the truth than he'd maybe even realized.  Maybe that was why he was so cocky.  Damn. 

Dourly, Alberic snapped the cover of The Black Pullet closed, the crisp crack sounding in the air during a momentary silence.  The air felt heavy, but nothing owing to him.  Blast--had he missed something interesting?

His eyes raked over the scene.  Zamperia, taught as a bowstring, Almasy still self-assured, poised for the fight.  The air began to crackle with magic.  Alberic even took the effort to shelf the tome, arms folding across his chest in delighted surprise.

This was perfect. Ample diversion, without the least expectation of engaging any of the Spares in conversation.

1.	Merwyn the Malicious

Ignan and Miranda lingered briefly behind the others as they moved from the dining table.
“What happened to the owl?” Ignan muttered to his wife, offering her his arm automatically. Their plans had been to cut their time short here and escape owing to a family emergency, sent by Maya. “Still, the backup plan may have to work. Is your badge to hand?” Mira wasn’t the most skilled liar, but Ignan would cover if she made out her badge was burning.

As they made their way in, Ignan took in the scene. There was an extra figure, who was not introduced. Perhaps another of Almasy’s men? He looked aloof and the way he held himself made Ignan’s gaze linger. Johann, despite not drinking anything more since he was snapped at by Zamperia, was still merry enough and happy to greet two dogs who appeared to recognise him in return. Given what Ignan knew from Raine of Ira Almasy, he felt decidedly uneasy, not only for the stranger, but for how familiar his young cousin and partner were with their host. Johann had inherited his paternal moral compass, which like Ignan’s was never calibrated to true north but drifted to suit the bearer. He knew the stranger too.

“The sooner the better.” Ignan uttered to his better half, eyes resting on Zamperia, whose expression had darkened.

The attack was the tension in the room coming to a head. Wands were out in an instant, including Ignan’s. He placed himself between the trouble and Miranda, the air before them shimmering slightly like a heat haze with a wordlessly casted shield. Had he been alone, he might have thrown something between the parties at odds to push them apart.

They should have left before now. This strange confluence of figures were here for a reason, and Ignan and Miranda were as good as two strangers brought from the street to witness a wedding.
“Stay close,” he told Miranda in a clearer voice, backing them slowly and steadily towards a possible escape route.