Ira Almasy sat at the writing desk in her drawing room - a new desk (and window), since that fine dinner in March - with an eagle feather quill in one hand and a small healing talisman in the other. She was not dressed formally this afternoon and her hair was worn up in a riot of red curls similar to those of her niece. There was a sense of weariness in the downward slope of her slender shoulders, the delicate way in which she tilted her chin while she continued to scratch away at a piece of parchment. Her casual bearing seemed to contradict the otherwise rococo appearance of the room: its damask wallpaper and carved Victorian furniture.
 
A glance at the grandfather clock in the corner. It only told the time. Soon, she was certain, her guest would arrive.
 
The near-sentience of Atreus’ elevator would see to that. Ira had always preferred for the world to come to her, than for her to go to the world. Not an easy task but one that she had accomplished in these last ten years; it had been different before, when she was younger and more reckless - when any respect she commanded had been out of fear of lunacy, not prowess. That era felt much further away from her than she liked. It felt like a millenia ago, etched into being alongside the holy tomes of ancient society. A distant and golden childhood.
 
She blinked, darkness looming in the corners of her eyes, spots of shadow and blight that had come to plague her natural eyesight in the past month. Ira lowered her quill. It was pointless.
 
Perhaps she ought to send Layton to speak to her niece. No letter she wrote would incite the appropriate response… and her assistant, well, he was growing restless, able to look in every direction but forward.
 
A door clicked open. Ira looked over her shoulder, turning around in her chair to watch the archway that led out into the corridor and the rest of the flat. The witch waited.

He had burned the note as instructed, but the faint perfume held. Forever tied to distinct memories he anticipated might be further numbered. It had been some time since a direct summons, enough to induce suspicion, alongside mild relief. Direct interactions with Ira Almasy this year had not ended fortuitously.
 
Please do come alone.
 
To the office, Almasy and Layton were employees of the Department of Mysteries. Others didn’t, and couldn’t ask, and directives from above encouraged secondment. Johann’s boss was gone, fit to burst, leaving him with seniority.
 
Balfour knew, of course. However much Johann wanted to keep things from him in an attempt to protect him, save him from worrying, he was entering the private lair of the arachnid upstairs.
 
The lift doors slid open effortlessly, as if they had been expecting his arrival that very moment. Ahead, Johann’s reflection was dressed just the same, mid-blue suit with visible thread which emphasised his eyes, a crisp white shirt with matching buttons, no tie. His dark hair had seen scissors, but still crowned his head with lazy curls to his nape.
 
But while his own expression was thoughtful, busy boxing off his worries for later, his reflections were a multitude, flitting between the confined emotions. To his left his long pale fingers pressed into the face of his reflection, raked his black curls back, bright blue eyes white with fear. To his right his fingers flexed into fists, eyes busy - murderously considering his knuckles.
 
Johann turned his back on them in the lift, facing the doors. His third reflection, looming behind him, adopted a darker, determined expression, which grew to reflect the wizard’s outlook more closely as the lift ascended.
 
No welcome party met him at the summit, beyond the lift doors all was silent and still. The spider’s web waited for prey to step out, for it had become ensnared months, if not a year or more before. His reflection laughed as he stepped forward, though there was no true mirth.
 
He knew his way, regrettably.
 
The drawing room was lit by daylight, a rather more welcoming room than he remembered it last he left it. At least he and Balfour had left it by the door, rather than the manner in which they had removed their friend and disruptive guest to save his untimely murder before company. The window had been replaced, the damaged furniture too. At a glance the piano seemed the same, though he wondered if it still sounded.
 
Amongst the grand elegance of the room was the spider, dressed so casually it took her visitor by surprise. He had seen her more than once in silk dressing gowns traversing the lift since taking up residence, but not quite like this. It made her look almost human. Perhaps the trap. He was sure she was expecting him, she had invited him.
 
“Madam,” Johann greeted, dropping head forward in respectful indication to her. This was business, not pleasure. “Good afternoon.”

She watched the wizard enter - acknowledging his usual courtesy with a vague gesture, which then turned into a delicate wave indicating he should take one of the armchairs closest to the desk. Ira turned in her chair and crossed one slender leg over the other. Her movements were sedate but precise, her expression watchful in the way of a cornered animal. Storm did not like these visits.
 
Fortunately for him this would be the last of them.
 
“I find myself in need of a will -” Ira did not have time nor energy to waste on holding a conversation that would lead up to her request, “- and I have, in my possession, a wizard who is more than capable of helping.”
 
She fixed her wan gaze on him, licking her dry lips and taking a moment to focus. That pale face, those dark curls. Useful, yes, but he was what Layton would call a spanner in her works; the German had changed what Ira had considered to be unchangeable. Her white knight had taken to this dark one, across the chessboard. This was inconvenient. It would have been wiser of her to convene with Storm at an earlier date when she wasn’t feeling so….so...
 
Faint. The word resounded in her mind, a low hiss.
 
“It will be a simple task.” Ira continued with great effort, her feather quill crushed in her grip. “I only have the one beneficiary.”

Johann crossed the floor towards her, gaze only glancing away to survey previously unobserved space for signs of Layton. For all he could see, they were alone. He took the indicated armchair, sitting on the front edge, and set down his bag beside him. Despite being seated her desk, Ira continued to tower over him. The perfume which had carried credence to her note yesterday reached Johann’s nose, and a cold drop slid down his spine through the rush of associated olfactory memory.
 
Up close, and on observing Ira’s mannerisms, the vigilant younger wizard was on guard. The possibility of the will being for someone else crossed his mind, though there was something distinctly off about Ira that day. She had not been glimpsed, nor mentioned much of late.
 
“Madam.” He did not hide the fact his blue gaze looked her up and down after answering. Without further hesitation, he dipped forward to assemble the necessary items from his bag, parchment, and the nearest suitable book to rest upon - coincidentally also the nearest he had to a written alibi, the sleeping log.
 
He paused for a moment, sliding it beneath parchment, and swallowed down the feeling of rising panic. It did not look like Ira could attack him today, she had something else on her mind. Someone else’s possible punctuation.
 
Smoothest-running quill selected from within his jacket, Johann etched a date and looked up at her thoughtfully. She was his client, and he would treat her as every other.

“I must draft, and ask questions of you,” he explained, wanting to set her expectations, “then I will formalise. I can do that away from here and return your will for you to sign, but you will need two witnesses.” He paused, watching her carefully. He had witnessed signatures the day she had stabbed him, and he had no intentions of it becoming tradition. “Or,” he continued, swallowing, “if time is short, I shall remain, witness it for you, with Layton perhaps.” He dropped his gaze, getting on with the matter, not keen to linger.
 
This will is made by me Ira Selivankova Almasy of The House of Atreus...
 
Johann’s quill continued across the page, etching out the details he already knew, simpler with Ira being unmarried, well, to the best of his knowledge and to all her paperwork he’d ever completed with her marital status.
 
The image of her changed face, throwing him against the bookcases invaded his concentration and he paused, lifting his quill to close his eyes and push aside the uninvited intrusion. He had not slept well the night before, knowing he would come to see her. Judging by Ira’s state of dress, his visit was trivial, despite the serious nature of the paperwork.
 
... I revoke all earlier Wills and codicils and declare this to be my last Will.
 
“You will need an executor,” Johann asked, glancing up again, “should I list Layton for this?”

It would have been wiser, she supposed, if she had done this sooner. Had not waited until now to etch the final instances of her legacy - more money and land than one person ever had the right to, but oh dear God, hadn’t she used it well? Hadn’t she? There was nobody who could answer and so she levelled her gaze at Storm instead.
 
His dark head bent over parchment. Tossing with thoughts, images, feelings. Ira could sense the stench of it on him although she refrained from a closer examination of that mind: its rolling movements nauseated her. A bewildering natural defence to a curious reader.
 
            “...should I list Layton for this?”
 
“No,” she murmured and then paused to stand - it took effort, which was begrudgingly visible. “No, you will list Feliks Almasy, my older brother. This isn’t to do with Jebediah.”
 
Layton had been given all that she was willing to give him; his vaults - under some clandestine name - fortified by discreet exchanges with her own.
 
Ira walked carefully to her guest, moving to his side where she sat on the arm of the chair like a bird curiously alighting. Her eyes were steady. “You mustn’t worry, Mister Storm. I will not hurt you today.”
 
Or any day after. That was behind her now. The witch slid a hand onto his shoulder and weakly squeezed.
 
“You will take care of him?” she whispered now and leaned in slightly, not quite looking at the parchment. “Our mutual acquaintance?”

I appoint my brother FELIKS ALMASY of …
 
Johann’s quill etched over the paper in an even hand, recalling details from memory. His recall he was fond of retaining should he ever have to act against her. His heart picked up as she moved, drew closer, and he paused, returning to replace a comma in the address.
 
to be the executor and trustee of my Will;
 
“... I will not hurt you today.”
 
“Today.” Johann replied, before he could hold his tongue. His resentment was clear. He would not forgive of of that night. He gave a start beneath her light hand upon his shoulders and lifted his quill to avoid a mark.
 
Her perfume was stronger still, though not recently applied, but enough to taste the iron tang of the blood which had poured down his throat from his broken nose. He bristled beneath her touch and inhaled, listening to her words closeby his ear, skin crawling.
 
How dare she speak of Balfour. Acquaintance.
 
He forced himself to look up at her and uttered coldly, “with my life, should it come to it.”
 
Johann waited a beat before returning his full attention to the task in his lap, completing the executor clauses. This was just a client, this was just a job. Nobody would die for writing Ira Almasy’s will. He would believe his own lie.
 
In my Will where the context so admits “my Estate” shall mean:
 
Ira Almasy’s will. You will take care of him? ...declare this to be my last Will.
 
His thoughts jumped from one to the next, three ahead, two back. Possibilities, sideward glances at her appearance, her mannerisms. His gut feeling that something was different today. The linguist looked up at her perched beside him, and really looked at her. His features returned to a rather more neutral, professional expression, with a pepper of regret for his defensive response.
 
When spiders died, they allowed their offspring to feed upon them, to give them the best chance of survival.
 
“One stipulates an estate,” Johann spoke eventually, “- your property and your money - shall be used to first pay any debts, funeral and testamentary expenses, then fulfil any financial gifts to individuals or organisations you wish to name, and the remainder, the residue, be split or passed on to a named individual, or individuals.” His explanation was devoid of emotion, the spite in his responses absent. “Would you like to leave financial gifts to any individual, Madam?”

Storm seemed to speak of nothing but work, yet Ira knew that he saw more than he was letting on - the attentive gleam in his eye was useful when turned to matters that did not personally concern her. This afternoon it took more than she was willing to give, not that the witch had much say in these things anymore. Her concentration was allotted to other matters; trying to keep her facade together, her strength intact, for what was to come in the days ahead.
 
Days. It all came down to a matter of days. Soon it would be a matter of hours.
 
“I would like to gift a third of my dissolved estate to the Royal Opera House, under the condition that my niece may replace me in my function as one of their patrons of the arts,” Ira answered after a pause and released Johann’s shoulder to look down at her pale hands, “And the remainder to be passed on to her. Raine Elizabeth Gizella Almasy.”
 
It was a tragedy indeed that she would not live to see what the young witch would do with such riches - whether she would shun it or bury it or give it away in the cause of her mongrel boyfriend.
 
The thought dug a furrow into Ira’s brow, and she relaxed it as soon as she felt the tension in her countenance. Why worry about matters beyond her control? Merlin knew she had given it her best try, to rehabilitate her wayward relative to a more sensible viewpoint. In a way she respected Reinka's loyalty to a set of arbitrary principles.
 
“Mister Storm,” she gestured at her desk and then weakly rose to return to it, “I have a gift for you as well. Not of a financial nature.” Ira slipped a scroll of parchment from one of many rolled up in a nook.
 
It looked as plain as any a document but the tingle in her fingers gave away its magical portents. “You recognise my copy of your contract, of course?” she extended it to him, watching the wizard carefully. His freedom lay in clasp.

Attentively and exactly, Johann’s quill moved across the parchment to ink in the conditions of the gift. He was about to draw breath to clarify that she did indeed wish to leave the full residue of her will to Raine when Ira alighted from the arm of the chair.
 
His gaze followed her slow approach of the desk, wondering in part if it was an act. She would not be beyond stooping so low, she had poisoned herself (once remedy found) and become a St Mungo’s patient in the days after he had already fallen victim to her plan he facilitated.
 
At the offer of the parchment, Johann’s stiff posture changed, dropping formality for natural curiosity.
 
What was this?
 
A will, a request to take care of Balfour, the informality of her appearance, his contract. It spelled out a possibility Johann might ordinarily wish with angry hand gestures. Only it spelled it out in six foot bold letters which made it all the more unlikely in its subtlety.
 
“I do.” Johann replied cautiously, forgoing her title in his response. His quill hovered just off the page, his left hand gripping the log and the parchment tightly. He wanted to reach out and snatch the coil but he suspected it was bait.
 
Gods he was weary of games.
 
“Are you afraid?” He asked directly, skipping the obvious. “Fate has given you time to plan.” He gestured to the document in his lap, and then the contract in her grasp “to consider loose ends.” He looked up to meet her gaze, not at all afraid, but genuinely intrigued.

The hesitation and suspicion seemed to slowly give way to something else, she could tell. Ira was being rather heavy handed - much like the nature of her crimes she did not like to leave room for doubt, be it pertaining to animosity or generosity. It would be better for Johann to recognise this for what it was if he intended not to leave anything for the authorities. A clean slate. What every near-criminal dreamed of with fervour.
 
Her wrist dipped slightly and she left the contract on the arm of his chair, withdrawing to her writing desk. A dragon slinking back to her hoard.
 
            “Are you afraid?”
 
Ira closed her eyes, soft. A coolness fell over her thoughts. Why was she having this conversation, with this man? What was he? A cog, a pawn, a name, a convenient means to an inconvenient end.
 
But that wasn’t what he was, no, not to him. After fashioning Ira, God must have gone on to cast the mould that would be used to create Johann Storm. And with a sense of humour. “I am not afraid,” she said at last and opened her eyes to fix Johann with a hard look, “I am going to meet my maker. I suspect we have much in common.”
 
The witch lifted her chin, a faint touch of pride in the motion.
 
“I do this for our mutual acquaintance. He has been good, never to betray my confidence, and I cannot… I cannot go, in his debt.” Ira could feel her expression soften and she didn’t care, God, she didn’t care anymore.
 
What Johann thought, what any of them thought, why did it matter.

Ira glanced at the contract. “Please. Take it. I ask you not to destroy it until the time has come,” she added in a sharper tone, “Layton will be aware if you do.”

Common. In that believing she had the power, the right to play God. Unless she meant a belief in something below, pure evil. She belonged in the ground, with it, if so. Somewhere the grass would not grow above for her poison. The two of them stared with jaws set, defiant. The relationship, the mock friendship had always been just that. Convenience, necessity, a business relationship, and even that was in tatters. Neither could keep up the act with any integrity.
 
Apart for Balfour’s sake it appeared, mutually sickened at the other’s ties to the Scotsman. Stomaching it just for him.
 
Someone foolish might call it love, but it wasn’t on her side.
 
Johann looked down at the contract, and licked his dry lips. He took a short breath, nodded curtly and lifted it without another glance at her, placing it down into his open satchel. He would look forward to its timely destruction.
 
“All of your residue to Raine, then. No other beneficiaries.” Johann asked, somewhat rhetorically. Who else was there she gave a scrap of love for, other than Balfour, and his debt was ‘repaid' in gesture of freeing Johann from employ as soon she perished. His quill had begun across the page again, neat but heavy strokes scratching at the parchment.
 
He inhaled impatiently, trying to hold his tongue but failing.
 
“Will you afford him a personal farewell, or am I messenger?” 

She could scarcely admit it to herself, that her heart was lighter by a burden when Storm accepted his contract and took it up. Layton accused Ira of selflessness, where the well-being of Balfour Spectre was concerned; perhaps he was right. Perhaps it was all smoke and mirrors when she spoke of debts to be repaid or histories to be honoured. It simply seemed rather unacceptable that her former lover should have to live in a world deprived of something essential to his person.

Besides. She liked having this mercy to bequeath. Was not God Himself merciful?

Ah, the dark haired wizard was not yet finished with her. He perpetuated work with his hand, anger with his tongue. Ira realised she had been staring at the rococo carpets, and looked up to contemplate the question.

"You may tell him if you wish," she answered in a thoughtful tone, "But I must make my own farewells. Pass on the dogs to him as well. Poor creatures."

Yes. They would be missed. Ira heaved a sigh, thoughts drifting. "In the beginning, God made heaven and earth..." the witch abruptly recited, "...the earth was invisible and unfinished...and darkness was over the deep."[1]

The words seemed to bring a kind of strength to her, and she sat up straighter with a lively gleam in her eye.

"A pity it must all end so soon, don't you think?"

1.	Orthodox Bible, Genesis 1:24

“Even Gods must rest.” Johann replied, his quill pausing a second to deliver the response. He glanced up at her for long enough to recognise the stance she took when drama and mischief were afoot. He forced his eyes back down to the ink and parchment, willing himself not to permit the spark of excitement in himself which could flare in the presence of his unsavoury clients.

He had no further questions for her, and his quill scratched quickly, pausing only occasionally to recall what he had to write next. He almost suggested that the dogs would be well looked after in their care...

He thought to ask her questions and then reconsidered. Would she leave? Would she stay in London? How long did she have? What happened to the building? Had she thought on how she might prefer her funeral conducted, or would she cackle merrily if he admitted he’d willingly dance on her grave?

Best not to think about that, and even for such an angry thought, it felt wrong still.

Would Layton…?

“I am nearly done,” Johann explained, lifting his quill to gesture with fingers together at the fresh ink, “this is just to ensure your estate is covered and permit your funeral expenses from it.” He wasn’t sure why he explained the boring fact to her, other than a false hope that she might believe him that he wasn’t writing subclauses to screw her over in the afterlife. Knowing Ira, she’d come back as a poltergeist.

Attestation

Signed by the above named IRA SELIVANKOVA ALMASY as and for her last Will in our presence and then by us in hers

Signature of IRA SELIVANKOVA ALMASY

Dated this day of Two Thousand and Eleven

Johann drew his wand over the black ink to dry it quickly, and extended the parchment to Ira for examination, trying to compose his features as neutrally as he could.
“You will require two witnesses at the signing,” he recapped, voice a little more weary of her now.

In another life, under different circumstances, perhaps she might have been friends with Johann Storm. Or would they always have a Spectre between them? In all iterations of existence? Ira watched the other man finish his task with the same diligence that had earned him her respect outside of his association with their mutual acquaintance. Typical, of course, that it would all come to end after so little time with an errand boy that Layton didn't constantly wish to murder.

She smiled to herself at the thought. Storm did not know much but he would be one of few who would understand the story behind her, when it came to head in the public eye.

            "I am nearly done," the German had briefly ceased in his work and began to explain the detail of it.

Pulling her attention together, Ira listened. Two witnesses. They could be easily found - perhaps she would bring in a pair of squibs who worked at the Opera House, or one of her more oblivious relations. It was a harmless looking bequeathment. She nodded once and extended a hand to receive the document from Storm.

"I see," her voice was sedate, "I believe that will be all I require from you Mr Storm. Your services have been of great use to me - and I have no intention of further involving your name in my affairs." Ira looked up from his fine handwriting and her smile thinned into something almost pleasant.

The witch drank in the sight of this man sat in her drawing room. It seemed important that she remembered these moments, before it all slipped away. "Thank you," she met his gaze earnestly.

“… I have no intention of further involving your name in my affairs.”

It had already been involved more than enough to incriminate, Johann felt, though his paranoia was probably greater than the reality owing to his meticulous efforts to keep it safe. He was still going to hell either way, but at least he’d more than enjoy life before that time with Balfour. Moreso if these were the shackles split from his wrists by his ghostly white master.

Will relinquished, Johann nodded formally, and slipped the log he had been resting the parchment on away into his bag. He slid his best quill back into his jacket. His tongue was tempted to trip through habit, express that working with Ira had been a pleasure, when it really hadn’t been apart from in the most manic moments.

He got to his feet, and as Ira sat, he towered over her for a rare moment.

“It has never been dull, Ira.” He settled for, his sharp blue gaze a little softer, thoughtful now. “But if this is your curtain call…” Johann extended a pale, long-fingered hand towards her, though his expression remained a little grim. “Safe journey,” he wished her, “and goodbye.”

Where he might have released her hand there, he gripped it a little firmer and met her eye.

“Just promise me one thing,” he asked her, the corner of his mouth betraying him with that dark humour her employment had fed, “no encores.”



fin