Late Afternoon. Rated [M] for mature language.


Balfour Spectre was on the threshold of the elevator, about to disembark on to the penthouse floor. He didn't want to. The damned machine had brought him up here instead of his own flat - where he and Johann were in the process of packing up the place - so there was little choice left but to face the bitch. He had known ever since yesterday's news[1] that this meeting was inevitable. Had even suspected it when he returned from the Ministry and ascended the building.

The elevator gave a shake and rattle.

"Alright, alright!" the Scotsman growled before finally making his way down the long corridor towards the door at the end. The last time he had been here was for the dinner party in March, when Mihai and Ira had made a spectacularly violent scene. Although he doubted this visit would end in the same way, it was wiser never to underestimate Ira.

Of course, the door was unlocked. He entered and everything was as he remembered. The marble mantle above elegant fireplaces, plush rugs, damask wallpapers, rococo gilt mirrors. A dark fairytale atop Knightsbridge. Balfour knew where she was waiting for him and so found himself approaching her bedroom.

The air here was thick with her perfume. "Balfour Spectre..." came a voice from amongst the piled up pillows and duvets in the centre - creamy silk ruffles and drawn up curtains of bridled gold thread draped on the four poster.  His eyes found the witch, propped up and almost hidden by all her luxury. Her huskies, Ivoire and Sangre, added to this bed arrangement.

She was wearing a plain white chemise and her visage was as sweet, as pure as the day they first met[2]. He went to her and sat at the edge of the bed.

"Ira Almasy," Balfour's smile was wary and false - he watched her countenance carefully, noting a slight strain. "You don't have to pretend for me." His old friend blinked, then nodded.  Fine, pained lines creased into her papery skin. Flesh was lost, cheekbones more prominent. A dullness in her eye. That was better, yes. Her blonde hair darkened into a fiery sunlit red. This was the Ira he knew best.... but gods, she looked tired.

They stared at one another for a long while. He extended a hand, finally, and she took it.

            "You are leaving," Ira sighed softly.
"I left a long time ago," he replied, even though he knew she meant Atreus.
            "I thought a warning was in keeping with our friendship. I have always warned you."

This was true. She had warned him, the first night they met. Had warned him of broadcasting on Guy Fawkes night. Warned him of trusting too easily, too quickly. Balfour squeezed her soft hand and released it.

"We really were friends-" he held her gaze, serious, "- or would have been, maybe? If you were not you and I were not me." A weak laugh from the Russian aristocrat; it sounded like a dying candle. She gave him a look, as if to say: what kind of world would that be? No doubt an uninteresting one.

The dogs made a sad, whining sound and Balfour reached to pat their heads soothingly. He glanced at Ira. "What was it you said, when we first met? Before I left Tyumen?"

              "It is not safe here for spirits and spectres," she intoned, eyes lifting to meet his. The wizard nodded slowly.
"Goodbye then, old friend. I'll light a candle for you. Once, I would have lit a forest."
             "You would, still, for him."

It wasn't necessary to say who she meant. Balfour would set alight more than a forest for Johann, he would burn down half the country. Something in his countenance must have said as much, because Ira turned her own face away and the nostalgic smile faded. There was too much blood in the present for them to take pleasure in the past.

He stayed until she fell into a light slumber. When she woke, he would be gone. Somehow Balfour knew that would be the beginning of her end.

1.	In the Naked Light - 26th April
2.	Burt the Fire of Thine Eyes - 1996