Around 2200 hours. Chelsea, London. Residence of Oswalrd Prewett.


Solomon allowed Oz Prewett to pour out another finger of whisky for them both, and cradled the crystal tumbler pensively. It was looking to be a long night.

They were in Oz's study, a space that was as comfortable to him as his own. It smelled of wood polish and leather. The walls were lined with bookshelves and a great, heavy desk took up one end of the room. At present both wizards were sat at the other end of the study - by the liquor cabinet and Wireless set. Their side tables were busy with papers.

A knock came at the door before they had a chance to continue the conversation, and Sol glanced up in surprise.

       "That's a rather long face, cousin." Angela Carstairs made her entrance casually, eyebrows raised. "Katherine let me in, Oz. Be a dear and fix me something strong."

Compared to the men in their rumpled work robes, she was a breath of fresh air - all creamy knits and light wool. Oz got up with a smile and offered her his chair as he fetched another glass, but Angie waved it off to perch on a less occupied side table.

"We were just starting on properties." Solomon smiled dryly and handed her his notes. "The house is going to Irene, of course."
       "Mm, it was never in the family anyway..." she scanned the sheet. "You're not parting with the place in Greece, are you?"

Oswald returned with her drink. "Of course not."

Angela nodded distractedly and handed the notes back. It was hard to tell how she was taking all this - she and Edgar were close with Irene. But she was a Carstairs. That had to come first, it always came first.

"What do you think about the flat in Brighton?" Sol asked - nobody had a better head for what was or wasn't precious to the bloodline.
       "Neither here nor there." Angie shrugged. "Are you changing your will?"

He glanced at his lawyer, who huffed a laugh.

"Yes, though it won't be much altered. Oz had me write one last year, as a precaution."

Most of his wealth and property would end up with the children, and the odd favoured cousin. Sol was far from the most affluent Carstairs but his holdings were significant enough for the entire family to be interested in such things.

A divorce was always so much more than just a separation of two individuals.

Angela Carstairs

"Well isn't that just like you, Oz?" Angela drawled, toasting her glass in his direction. "Who needs memento mori when they can just have you on retainer."

This was all so terribly depressing. Even when they had found out about Solomon's infidelity all those years ago, she didn't really think the couple would be getting divorced - especially with Irene being so Irene and Solomon being Minister.

Naturally, one had to be pragmatic about the whole affair, regardless.

       "We can't be too careful, Angie." Prewett shook his head, eyes gleaming. "We have to keep things in the family. Merlin forbid a place like Rowantree ends up in the hands of a Carter or a Sellaphix."

She narrowed her gaze at him, unimpressed. Rowantree Hill sat on a nice bit of unplottable land in Hampstead Heath and she rarely visited since marrying Edgar. An old, hateful thing.

Her sister took possession of it some time ago.

"You've heard, then?" she tapped her foot once.
       "That Josephine is selling? Oh yes."

Small world, theirs. Angela finished her drink and set it aside. Talking about Rowantree was always unpleasant.

"She wants me to buy it off her. For all the bloody good it will do us."

And at a pretty price, as well.

       "Why on earth is she selling?" Solomon, clearly out of the loop, appeared perplexed. "I thought she loved the house."
"Apparently it's haunted," she replied archly and smiled. "Something's taken up residence and won't leave, despite her best efforts."

Oswald made a thoughtful noise as he opened his cigar box. "Far too big a place for just her and her boy anyway," he offered a smoke to either of them. "It will do quite nicely in your portfolio, Angie."

It would, and she was sorely tempted. She and Edgar lived a fairly modest lifestyle on the surface but she had gained a reputation for consolidating family properties. The Oxfordshire manor had been Solomon's, once. That wasn't why she was here, however.

Angela accepted a cigar and lit it with her wand.

"I'll think on it," she informed Oz before glanced back at her cousin. "Are you all moved out of the cottage then? Poor Irene. I imagine there will be more to remind her of you than you of her."

Oswald snorted. Solomon's smile was a pained one. "We'll hardly be strangers, after."

"Hardly." Angela spoke through a haze of smoke, sharp eyes on his face. "Still, things won't be the same, will they?"

The Minister of Magic studied his own unlit cigar, rolling it between his fingers. He looked sad. People found it hard to believe of him - of them - but she could always tell. Like a fire was dying behind his eyes.

       "No," he agreed and looked back up, voice heavy with an unexpressed emotion. "No they won't."