STAINED BY LIGHT

there is scarcely anything of interest to the journalist in ravensmoor manor that would have justified coming here and postponing her work at the office. but some decisions aren’t hers to make, only to bear the consequences in silence and that’s why she’s standing here, surrounded by servants whisking away her coat and gloves, as she takes in the magnificence of the interior.

nasira has never been here before, but what she sees is familiar and for that reason, it also stings. giving one of the servants a salute of thanks, she turns to go, but is stopped by the sight of the east end’s latest sensation. winifred littledale.

she can almost read her thoughts from across the room; displeased, judgmental thoughts, but also challenging. she is beautiful, and that beauty is apparent even from afar, even through the veil of melancholy that encases her, a world-weary weight behind the glint in her eyes which might be amusement, or perhaps dread. the flickering candlelight makes it so hard to tell, the constantly shifting flames cast shadows here and there, dancing glimmers of golden light.

nasira looks to her with one of her dark-eyed stares; her gaze is pure observation, but she’s sure that the other woman can feel the gravity of the weight of her regard. there is something inexplicably personal about someone gazing at you and nasira is aware of this as much as she knows that winifred littledale’s reputation is in tatters thanks to her.

she isn’t a welcome companion, but she’s going to be one regardless. as her steps take her to the widow, nasira thinks she had better get used to it.

Here is a simple fact: the detective needed the journalist and the journalist needed the detective. Their relationship is built on transactions. On clues and insight, on articles printed on the front page of the newspaper. Ayda could appreciate what Nasira does – writing to provide the public with information, spinning it into stories.

But stories, she learned, are malleable. They can be molded as one pleases.

It was logical, on Nasira’s part, to write what the public wants to read, dragging the investigation through the mud in the process. It was profitable. It wasn’t unjustified. And yet the detective has grown tired of it, the constant reminders of how far they are from catching the Ripper, of her failures. She’s severe enough with herself as it is ( if only your mind was sharper, if only you were capable enough ).

It’s nothing personal, she knows. Still, she scowls when she spots the woman near the maze when all she wanted was a moment of reprieve. Nasira, observant as ever, spots her.

“Likewise,” Ayda nods. She offers a polite smile at her words, teasing as they very well may be, casting a glance at the intricate embroidery adorning the journalist’s costume.

“Tell me, what will your columns say about this evening?” she tilts her head, “will it be a thing of envy or a waste of everyone’s time?”

“why? you don’t mind what it will have to say, do you?” she counters with a question of her own, tone pleasant. she gives a light laugh, feeling no shame at having her intentions spoken out loud like this.

nasira’s smile sharpens slightly until it has transformed into a smirk of sorts, eyes attentively scanning the detective’s features for the first sign of an emotion, ready to catch whatever the older woman will throw her way. the shadow that crossed her face when nasira first spoke hasn’t escaped the journalist, a crack in the other’s usual mask. there’s admiration to be had for someone who has clawed her way to the top in a world that does not want women there; were it not for their different stations in life, perhaps they could have been friends.

a hunger for more isn’t a good look on most women; and to hell if it has endeared her to anyone outside her usual circle of friends and acquaintances. those who have suffered through her needling and inquisitions are left with a tale or two to tell about the journalist’s noisy nature, but isn’t that what is expected of her?

a flower’s sole purpose is to bloom, a warrior’s sole destiny to protect. so what would be hers, if it isn’t telling stories?

“the ball does have a certain sense of je ne sais quoi, does it not? one imagines this mister ashton must have invested entirely too much money—money that would have been better spent distributing to the poor.”

or to help cover the funeral costs of these unlucky girls. the thought remains unspoken, but something in her face grows a little harder at that.

He is slipping. Since his return from London, his foresight has been remarkably dull. Gilly should have figured that his entrance had been more menacing than he intended, though he doubts that any other person’s reaction would be as heightened as Nasira’s. He doesn’t know where he finds the capacity to land a quip even in face of the barrel of a gun, but the line slips out of his lips, regardless. “Well, do you want to?” Gilly chuckles. “I suppose I should take that as a signal that you aren’t too happy to see me.”

“Er… Can I…” Gilly tilts his head, pointing to the chair just on the opposite side of her desk. He takes tentative, deliberate steps from the entryway to the opposite end of the room, where the journalist’s desk lay. In a similar fashion he takes the pen in question from his pockets, using two hands to raise up the writing instrument. “I come bearing a gift—actually, no, gifts.” He doesn’t think the simple return of her pen would be a fair recompense, so he rummages through his pockets again, only to feel a damp, dark spot where the pen had been—

Ink blots. Ruined trousers seems to be a fair enough trade for freaking her out. “Oh sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph…” he mumbles under his breath, before daring to finally face her. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to make up for it some other time.” He pats down his hand helplessly against the fabric, as if it were just simple dust that had needed to be brushed off.  

“That’s decided, then. Maybe I’ll have better luck in the afterlife,” he says, his chuckle almost displaced against the heavy air, “Hey, perhaps the wooden horse’s leg can be my rabbit’s foot.” Why of all things is he reminded of the Trojan mythologies now? “Very, er, Greek.”

she is a brave woman; she has proven that countless times, on and off the metaphorical battlefield. but she’s a simple woman, too, and honest enough to admit that the prospect of facing gilly after this terrifying entrance is taxing in a way that no competition or slandered article could ever prove to be.

she turns away so that he will not see her humorless smile, her fingers flexing against her side while the other hand grips the gun tight enough for her knuckles to go white. “no,” she murmurs, “of course not.”

nasira inhales the smell of musty paper, the stale scent of a place which doesn’t get enough air while her gaze follows the professor. rows and rows of books greet guests in her office; gilly, she realizes, doesn’t stick out in these surroundings right now, but perhaps that is thanks to the late hour. she tries to imagine him here when pure sunlight casts the open space in a golden hue, leather coverings near unreadable in the blazing sun.

the image doesn’t fit the perception she has of him, so she lets go of the thought. feet mindlessly shuffle back to her desk, to watch what the professor has come here to do. as she watches gilly make his way to her desk, the space messy and covered with letters and fragments of old newspaper articles, she finds herself rather insecure about what he might discover so the journalist hastens to tidy up the place, the gun immediately slipping back into the drawer with a conspiratorial glance thrown at the older man. “if i hear anything about this incident mentioned to the newspaper, i might reconsider my benevolence and decide to shoot you still.”

not that she thinks he’s taking her seriously. considering the fact he continues to joke, nasira genuinely can’t help but wonder whether his recent trip away from london has cost him his sanity.

“i—,” she begins, only for her jaw to clamp shut when she lowers her gaze to catch the spots of ink marring his trousers. with the previous pent-up energy slowly leaving her body, nasira doesn’t have quite enough fight left in her to ward off the treacherous grin that tugs at her expression now. “your jokes are terrible. now sit down, i can’t let you leave like that. if anyone saw you from a distance, they are bound to think that someone attacked you in my office. such rumors, i can very well do without.”

“MM. MY CONDOLENCES, Miss Attali,” Rahat responds to her particularly dry opening remark. The two of them know each other on a professional capacity, with Rahat being undertaker tasked to handle most Whitechapel deaths, and Nasira being journalist, working to find sources and material for stories like the Ripper’s. They’re not surprised to find her here when a good deal of their acquaintances already are. They take a sip from their own glass before entertaining her query about their costume.

“Here’s a clue, I suppose.” They lift one side of their cloak open to reveal the intricate gold and silver designs Polly had stitched meticulously upon the black fabric: patterns and symbols copied off old Greek pottery, vases and human silhouettes, and, rather prominently, a skeletal figure on a boat, rowing across a geometric River Styx. Rahat smiles slightly, before letting the cloth fall over the outfit once again, much preferring the subdued appearance that having the cape on affords them. “I could have brought an oar,” they continue casually, “but it would’ve been too much trouble to carry around.” Not that they even have one lying around.

she studies rahat’s face, closely enough for her to wonder whether they would be uncomfortable with her undivided attention, until her own erupts into a smile at the intricate design that is being unveiled before her very own eyes.

there’s a moment in which the journalist is, for lack of a better word, breathlessly staring at the craftsmanship; she’s been subjected to lessons of greek and latin while she was still under the patronage of her grandfather, and while she hasn’t retained most of what she’s studied back then, she at least recognizes it to be vaguely familiar. it should dredge up old memories that are best left forgotten but all nasira can do is reach out, almost if wanting to touch, before snapping her hand back in hushed embarrassment when rahat lets the cloak fall back into place.

still fascinated by what she’s just seen, the woman entwines her fingers behind her back to fight off the urge to feel the material of the cloak with her own hands. nasira feels very much like a child being placed before a beautiful statue and asked not to touch it—it rankles her to admit as much, but she’s terribly curious and she wants to see more.

Here are a few things Nathaniel hates: The way dogs assume you want to pet them with a complete disregard for personal space, tea steeped for too long and bitter to taste, and unsolicited criticism.

Upon his submission of poetic works to the newspaper, he was met with a series of suggested edits, signed by Nasira Attali. And perhaps Nathan replying by explaining how he was not asking for someone to edit his work wasn’t the most humble thing he could have done, but it filled the petty urge he held around unwanted advice.

He was not new to fancy soirees, but he did rely on friendly faces at least occasionally at such gatherings, and those tonight had surprisingly been few and far between. And so as Nasira unexpectedly approached him, he put on his most polite smile as he grabbed another flute of champagne and downed it a bit too quickly.

“Just splendid, if you don’t count that excruciatingly long carriage ride.” He took another flute and passed one to Nasira. “Surprised to see you here, if I’m being honest. Can’t imagine you’re much fun at parties.” A mischievous grin on display, usually only reserved when provoked.

“Lovely costume,” he added giving her a glance over. “Who are you supposed to be?”

she grins wolfishly, her steady gaze sizing up the other in a way that she’s sure would have anyone else narrowing their eyes into thin slits at her unabashed frankness, but not nathaniel bonetto. as a matter of fact, the man has been nothing if not frightfully honest in his own right, and despite the fact that it persists to be a source of annoyance to her, he has rapidly risen in her regard for his sheer insistence on refusing any and all advice she might have to offer.

anyone should be respected for their dedication to their craft, this, she knows. she might not see the beauty in poetry—hard facts are what she earns her money with, after all—but nasira can appreciate a master protecting his art.

still, that doesn’t mean she has to stop trying to get under his skin. it’s all fun and games, isn’t it? and she’s been having entirely too much fun to see his defenses get up whenever she aims criticism his way.

“thank you,” she says before accepting the offered drink, a pleasant smile erasing the more pointed approach she would be normally taking under these circumstances. maybe it’s the buzz of the alcohol or the setting of the evening or the simple fact that she feels strangely overwhelmed by the situation at hand that has her acting more tame than usual. how strange it is that nathaniel bonetto, of all people, is given a chance to glimpse this side of her.

“now, don’t jibe at my costume,” she breathes, nose scrunched. “you’ll ruin my good mood and that would be terribly mean of you.”

which is true enough. she has spent a lot of time on this costume and, with some help from ellie, managed to near perfect it until it matched her original vision. but since pride isn’t a good look on most women, she has to navigate her way around these feelings that are lodged so firmly in her throat. “but i’ll let you guess. come on, give it your worst.”

The outskirts of the crowd feel a lot safer; ever since arriving, Jacob’s been slowly but surely drifting out of the ballroom, away from people to be where he thinks he fits best—on his own. Truth is that he regrets showing up. It’s not worth the discomfort he’s feeling right now and were it possible, he’d be on his way home right now. 

The next best thing is finding an empty room he can wait the whole thing out in but the possibility of doing that is taken away from him when someone calls out his name. “Miss Attali,” he nods at her, attempts a polite smile even though it’s somewhat difficult in his current state of mind. So much has happened this past week and it’s taken a toll on him—another reason why he shouldn’t be here in the first place. “Oh—um, Odin. Wasn’t my idea, really. I needed help with, well, everything about it. I don’t really get invited to things like this. Not ever,” he says even though he reckons it’s rather obvious. He feels so lost and uncomfortable it ought to show on the outside. “What about you? I apologize but I don’t really recognize the figure.”

the britannia is a place that is always packed with all sorts of figures; rival merchants and sailors alongside patrons who simply enjoy one too many glasses of beer. it tends to get busy quickly, a fact that has led nasira to frequent it more as of late. there is always, inevitably, some kind of fight, some kind of long, drawn out complication and while she’d like to do more with her day than just sit around and wait for them to work out their personal grievances, it usually leaves her with the opportunity of keeping her finger on the pulse of the city.

a grandfather clock chimes nearby, making her acutely aware of the hour, as she plasters on a smile once more. jacob posner is a fixture in the east end in much the same manner that the moss on the cobblestones is. there’s beauty in predictability and for a journalist like herself, there’s nothing more exhilarating than to come across someone of substantial interest to her.

“well, whoever helped you pick has a good eye for details,” she says with an appraising look at his costume, a nod of her head confirming her words soon after. there’s a vague suspicion it could have been ellie—she’s altogether too trusting, that woman—and while jacob’s shyer nature is hardly unknown around town, it’s simply another source of curiosity for nasira.

it piqued her interest since she first came to this town; although perhaps for more nefarious reasons than she’s letting on. she has eyes in her head, after all.

“there’s a first time for everything, mister posner. would you believe me if i told you that this is my first time attending a ball as well?”

she’s lying through her teeth whilst wearing a smile, but her expression is open and honest—courtesy of hours of training before a mirror—while she peers at him, features softening. “just imagine that this is the britannia and you’re chatting to your patrons. it’s the easiest way to familiarize yourself with an unfamiliar situation.”

From hell.

Mr Lusk, Sor I send you half the Kidne I took from one women prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif[e] that took it out if you only wate a whil[e] longer signed

It’s almost painful, the way Arthur has to hold back his laughter—he can tell how frustrated she is and that there’s probably a lot she would like to say to him in this moment except they are bound by some rules of decency and proper conduct. She is, at least, Arthur couldn’t care less, truly. “Oh. Yes. Absolutely. I am in great demand. Very much so. Yes,” he nods a few times, with a tone of fake gravity and a feigned face. He stopped taking this encounter seriously about five minutes before it even began.

“Oh, anything I put my hand to is always mutually beneficial, you can be sure of that,” he serves the line with a suggestive smile and swiftly moves on to the rest of his answer. “Worry not, harmless fun they want and harmless fun they shall get. I’ll give them some light reading. And should the ball disappoint, I’ll just exaggerate here and there, make it interesting. Although, with this notoriety that Mr Ashton seems to be gaining, I don’t think I’ll have to. Fingers crossed.”

He consciously ignores the mention of the dead girls. He has been ignoring the whole thing for weeks now. Proof of that lies locked in his desk—the folder with the cursed manuscript and all the newspaper clippings he used as research weighs heavy on his heart, even when he tries very hard to forget of its existence. He had a dream last night too. Arthur was unable to get warm again until sunrise.

“She’s not listening, are you Emma?” he says, his head half-turned towards his sister, a mischievous smile on his face. His sister laughs, replies with not listening before focusing on her art again. Besides, she’s thirteen—almost fourteen—so he’s convinced that his social scandals are no secret to her. Emma knows her brother and there’s probably very little that could shock her. And perhaps that’s why they get along so well. “My past misdeeds or yours?”

arthur’s obstinacy leaves nasira only all too aware of the fact that the other’s evasion can mean one of two things only: either he has forgotten to give his reply (which she assumes is the case) or he hadn’t known how to let them down gently and instead chose to say nothing in the hopes that no further explanation would be necessary. needless to say, she does realize, with lips thinning into a flat smile, that someone who comes from opulence would be used to wasting their days away in the comfort of a lovely home rather than choosing to help prevent a misunderstanding.

or, even worse: waste time. hers, in particular.

it really is quite unforgivable. between that and his demeanor, she doesn’t know what grates on her nerves the most.

“i will be looking forward to reading your account of the evening, then.” someone save her—maybe she can convince tabitha to switch out assignments for the next couple of weeks. anything to save her from a future encounter with this man. “please do try to have the article done by next monday. i’d hate to have to disturb you again in the comfort of your—” she gestures around the living room, the words, alongside a particularly scathing jab, dying on the tip of her tongue.

were it not for the gentleman’s younger sister within earshot, would she have bothered reining herself in? the thought has her deflating just the littlest bit, only to dissipate completely when the younger girl gives a reply of her own, echoing very much her brother’s sentiment. even nasira cracks a lopsided smile at that, though she soon schools her features into something more neutral.

“that’s a rather loaded question.” especially for someone she’s known for less than an hour if she were to add up all their very limited interactions. the corners of her lips lift into a impish smile. “besides, how will i know that your account of these supposed misdeeds are true? perhaps i would prefer to hear about them from your sister.”

the detective and the journalist typically entertain a mutually beneficial arrangement. it consists of nasira gaining insight into an active case in order to write about it on the department’s behalf whenever the detective needs to splatter little clues and hints here and there in her articles. it works, and it works well for them, so by all accounts, it’s an arrangement that she ought to keep cultivating.

however, things have gone sideways recently.

that is to say, nasira writes stories that the public wants to eat up and with the trail of the ripper growing colder with each day that passes, she’s now writing about the incompetence of the police department. rather than singing their praises, she has resorted to painting them in an unfavorable light which, she assumes, has done nothing to aid in their investigation. it apparently also doesn’t sit well with the detective, if the look on her face is anything to go by.

her expression straightens into a welcoming, if empty smile, when she spots the woman glancing at her. “so you’ve received an invitation as well! what a pleasure to run into you here.”

her lips lift into a roguish smile. “and what a very clever choice of costume.”

as the days grow longer, it is easier to feel a little less afraid. fear isn’t an emotion she lets overtake her regularly - something she can’t afford, with the life she must look after - but it becomes less a battle of forcing it away, covering it in front of the tear-stricken face of her son, and more that it doesn’t play on her mind quite as much. it is difficult, near impossible, to let herself be scared in front of john. he’s scared so often, and has every right to be, and to be anything other than the strength a six year old needs his mum to be feels wrong.

so, today, even with the chill, the matter of knowing that the sun will be here for several hours more is warming enough. it catches through the window, highlighting the fabrics and threads and all of their intricacies. it makes her work better, the sun. not just for the easiness of having clear light, but for the feel of it alone. it replenishes. 

john’s outside, with a girl his own age and a boy a few years older. eleanore doesn’t know their parents well, but she knows that they’re good kids, and that anytime john gets to play with children his own age, as long as they’re nice to him, he always sleeps better that night. his best friend is pearl by a country mile, but it’s good to see him laughing with anybody at all. she resists the urge to go out and give him a second pair of gloves as she watches him roll a snowball along the ground.

hearing the bell ring, her smile for john widens at seeing nasira, though her head ducks into a blush at her words, “i think, perhaps, you are wildly overestimating the amount of men who come here for anything other than a suit fitted.” 

at the mention of honey, one hand outstretches on instinct. it’s always been a favourite of hers - a preferred sweetener for her tea. with anyone else, she’d be more polite - retract the hand, apologise for the impatience. but nasira is nasira, the closest thing she has to family other than her son, and so she bounds over, excitement obvious and shown. “oh, you’re fantastic. now, let me put it to good use, hm?” 

the shop is empty except for them, and so without another word, she slips into the back, grabbing the teapot from the table as she goes, ducking behind the little curtain that separates the back of the shop from the counter, and filling her kettle with water. “how are you, love?” she calls, head popping back through, and then back to where she’s letting the kettle boil on the stove, “there are clean blankets on the armchair to warm yourself up with. please use them.” 

it takes a few minutes, but soon enough, she returns, a tray seemingly have appeared from the depths of behind the curtain, holding two teacups, the teapot, a small pot of milk, and a now opened jar of honey. “i’ve put yours in, but it won’t be ready just yet.”

nasira has known ellie for a long time.

first, as a woman with a tender heart that was messily stitched together in the wake of a life-changing catastrophe. then, as a woman of transformation; one who rose to face the challenges of life each day with a renewed determination that had seemed so strange when she’d spotted it clinging to ellie’s features for the first time that eventful evening some years ago. how much and yet how little has changed over the years.

her gaze drifts out of the window where they linger on the laughing faces of the children, the place where john has made friends that nasira only vaguely recognizes. and despite herself, her lips quirk up into a fond smile at the image before she averts her gaze. she remembers, then, that she’s still in her coat and makes to shrug out of it before hanging it up before taking a lungful of the sweet, warm air of ellie’s shop.

it’s supposed to be spring but nothing about this day is hinting at it.

“i am always wildly overestimating,” she echoes with a grin catching around her lips. it’s easy for her to slip past those tall walls she has built for herself at work, to keep from sinking in a sea of sharks; here, with ellie, it’s safe to breathe and simply be and she’s allowed to rest and perhaps for the first time in a long while, nasira realizes how exhausted she has been all this time and how much she’s been longing for a simple break like this. her expression morphs from grin to a smile, tinged with fondness, when she moves to sit on a nearby chair, legs feeling slightly wobbly.

“i’m glad you’ve noticed at long last. it’s always been my plan to impress you with my exaggerated tales of bravery.” which is an exaggeration in and of itself but it’s nothing that ellie can’t handle. nasira laughs to herself while she glances at the blanket ellie has mentioned before pulling it over her legs with a quiet exhale.

warmth rushes through her body and she feels herself coming back to life.

“i wish i could say i’m perfectly fine but everything’s been so tedious lately. and the snow,” she shoots a pointed glance at the windows, the accusation in her eyes clear, “has been dampening my mood. seems rather cruel for snow to fall now that we’re technically approaching spring. don’t you think so?”

her eyes linger on ellie’s frame when she walks back into the room, balancing a perfectly tidy tray. from the scent of it, nasira can tell it’s tea and her expression immediately softens into an appreciative smile. “i shouldn’t be so flattered that you still remember how i take my tea but as a matter of fact, i am.”

something in her expression shifts when she watches ellie. “what about you? i know your brother left recently… i was sorry to hear that.”

Magdalena was equally patient as she was passionate, and it was for that reason that her temper was rather difficult to rouse. However, like with everything in life, there were exceptions to that; a few jagged shards speckled beneath the long, iron-wrought thread of her composure that ceaselessly frayed it and wore it out. Mostly, it was certain individuals who somehow always found a way of twisting themselves into thorns in her side, such as Barker and Bonnie – yet if any of them hollowed her out the most and sent her composure definitively snapping in two, it would be no one other than Nasira Attali.

Not only had she made it a habit to capture the most essential aspect of Magdalena’s existence in such skewed, misleading light, but she also didn’t even seem to do it out of any journalistic integrity or pursuit of truth. Her articles were designed to defile Magdalena’s spiritual ventures and nothing more; otherwise, she certainly wouldn’t have left them plagued with so many artful lies and warped reports of Magdalena’s work.

Most of the time, she could manage to turn her gaze away from Nasira’s taunting columns and disregard what the woman spewed. Upon hearing of her latest article, however, Magdalena had utterly failed at wrestling her scorn into submission. The article was centered on Magdalena’s recent incident when she had been publicly overwhelmed by the spirit realm – which Magdalena had no idea how Nasira had found out about, considering how little time she had spent out in the open before Barker intervened. Yet she didn’t even have room to linger on that peculiarity, furious as she was at the focus Nasira put on Barker’s involvement and how she had employed it to frame the encounter as an indication of familiarity between the two of them, and thus as evidence of Magdalena’s hypocrisy in relation to her open opposition of some of Barker’s ventures.

That took it too fucking far. So she had gone searching for Nasira the moment an opportunity presented itself – and thankfully, she didn’t have to search for long. Spotting her, Magdalena instantly approached her in long strides, shoulders stiff and posture brimming with hostility. “Wipe that fucking smile off your face, Attali, before I do it for you.” She gritted by way of greeting, stopping in front of Nasira with her fists blanched at her sides.

As Nasira spoke, Magdalena cocked her head back, appalled at the woman’s audacity yet not surprised by it in the slightest. Her expression froze, as it often did when she was too angry or caught off guard, then it splintered around a jagged smile. “Oh, I have plenty of moments.” She finally said, crossing her arms against her chest with feigned leisure. “It’s funny that you mention fate and the secrets of the universe. I’d almost believe the bullshit you just spewed if I didn’t know that your only regard for things is how well they suit your narrative. But it’s also funny because I think I might just have an idea on what your call must have been about.” Her forced smile widened fleetingly before flattening altogether. “Your latest article, perhaps?” A long pause, where Magdalena simply glared at the other woman while shaking her head minutely to herself. “How fucking dare you.”

she keeps the pleasant smile on her face when something in magda visibly erupts. there’s a sense of immediate doom at the way the other’s face scrunches up in sheer rage, a look nasira has never seen on the other. but then, most people don’t bother actively seeking her out whenever she drags their name through the mud in her columns. her favorite people are those that are out of town the moment she releases her information to the world for they are neither here nor there and any written threat would be hidden away to be used for future purposes should the need to do so arise. but with magda, it’s different. she’s been a long fixture, a steady face in the crowd who seems to pull her weight. nasira hasn’t quite managed to gauge her level of popularity, whether there are those standing behind the spiritualist that could do nasira any harm but if such were the case, she’s rather certain she’d be facing someone else right now.

“such colorful words you employ. perhaps you might wish to reconsider your approach to the truth, if it comes hand in hand with the threat of physical harm?” her response is curt, her tone assertive but not unfriendly, when she inclines her head to the side in feigned childish curiosity. this is not meant to set magda off even further but to disperse, to paint the picture in a different light. those that watch on only see one woman harassing another; magda blowing up in the face of a well-known journalist, someone who writes to keep the public informed, and who does it well. people like her are called public servants for a reason, and there’s a certain trust that’s being placed in established newspapers such as the times, enough to keep nasira shielded from potential harm. “my office is always willing to hear you out in case you have a complaint to file with us.” the emphasis is placed to deliver her unspoken implications with as little effort as possible.

she knows how these words will come across in the other’s eyes, being spoken by a woman who appears to have done her best to harm magda through the leverage she holds through her position as a writer; and to seemingly have the nerve to do it for no apparent reason at that. people, nasira shudders to think with lips that stretch into a thin smile, will always jump to conclusions as they please.

they don’t need her to do that for them.

“you do like to jump to conclusions, don’t you?”

there are three things nasira loathes. number one is a disrespect for anything not traditionally british—because the british do so love their traditions. the second is milk because it spoils far too easily and the scent of it rotting upsets her stomach far too easily.

the third is being invited to events she has never planned on attending. which, to be fair, she could have easily declined coming here, too, but her editor would have thrown a fit if they had found out about her lack of attendance on account of her desire not to mingle with practically everyone who’s someone. but quite frankly, she’s had enough of these events to last her for a lifetime.

the presence of the trio collectively known as the bane of her existence doesn’t exactly do much to lift her spirits either. and of course, nathaniel bonetto is the first familiar face to cross her path that evening. simply marvelous. she exhales through her nose before putting on her most winning smile, waving at him as she approaches. yeah, that won’t do.