#artimas

Follows the last part. Hints at M/N and R/J if you squint. More later. 

**

The building that houses the offices of Sylvane and Vale is typical Manhattan urban jungle-- glass and steel and concrete, harsh winter sunlight reflecting off the window panes like cold fire. And yet, as Linden steps into the reception area, she’s taken aback. Soft instrumental music, something soothing with harp and woodwinds, comes piped through some unseen speakers. The walls are painted a pale sage green and there is a delicately carved stone tranquility fountain in the center of the coffee table. The carpet is plush, the colour of golden beach sand under her shoes, and the chairs are almost the same dark green as the tendrils of English ivy trailing down from a mantel adorned with fat white pillar candles in crystal holders and intricately crafted metal and stonework figurines of fairylike beings, birds with jeweled feathers, and dragonflies with stained glass wings. The windows-- atypically so for an office building-- are festooned with artfully draped dark blue gauze shot through with silver threads, rather like a starlit sky. The effect is both natural and fantastical all at once, and it almost gives her pause before the chirpy, polite greeting of the blonde seated behind the reception desk reminds me precisely why she had taken the afternoon off to come here. 

“Good afternoon. Can I help you?” The receptionist is blonde and well-dressed, eyeing her curiously over the top of a graceful desk adorned with a bright purple orchid plant and a placard bearing the name of “Arianna Timmons” in scrolled letters. 

“I need to speak to someone about a demolition project.” Linden rattles off the address. “Who’s in charge?”

“That would be a joint project between Mr. Sylvane and Mr. Vale. Would you like to make an appointment?” Fingers clack away on the keyboard of her computer. “I have an opening next week Thursday around 11am.”

“Absolutely not.” Linden has no intention of either waiting that long or making any type of appointment on what would be the start of lunch rush. “It will have to be sometime today.”

The mortal, Arianna, bites her lower lip, fiddles with a pretty silver necklace with a blue crystal pendant. “W-well...” She types something else into her computer. “I don’t really know when I’d have an earlier time-slot. Unless they cancel a meeting or something. And they’re not the sort to do so, you know? But I’ll be happy to take down your name-- Ms...?”

“Thorne. Linden Thorne.”

Abruptly, the fingers freeze over the keys, and then the receptionist stares at her, owl-eyed, before emitting a sound that’s a cross between a squeak and a yelp. “No way! SHUT UP! The Linden Thorne?! I am like your biggest fan, ever! I have every single one of your cookbooks, and my husband took me to Juniper for my last birthday! I had the Coquilles St. Jacques and a plum Tarte Tatin that was out of this world!”

Truly, Linden did not have time for this. Not when she’d come here on a mission of utmost importance. Not when everything that mattered was so much at stake here. But not to respond would be the height of rudeness, and then again, a part of her realizes that this Arianna Timmons would be the only one who could grant her an audience with the ones who could spare Nathalán from his dire fate. She forces herself to smile politely. “Tarte Tatin is usually made with apple, so I can’t say that my version is traditional, exactly.”

In the space of about five minutes, somehow, Linden found herself deep in conversation about the technique behind making homemade macarons, and perhaps the interaction would have continued on that vein but for the shadow of a slim figure appearing from one of the inner offices. It’s a woman, with long hair sleek and dark as a sable’s pelt flowing over a neat linen skirt-suit the silvery colour of birch bark. “Arianna. Have you seen the November invoices from the--- oh.” She pauses, and Linden can all but see her taking stock, recognition lighting upon her lovely face.  “Well met, lady. I would not have expected to see one such as you, here.”

“Likewise.” Linden doesn’t know the name of the Ælf-kine lady, but certainly she would have looked more at home wielding a longbow in the mountains or forests than in this city skyscraper. Her kind and the Iele have a long history of kinship and accord, though-- shelter for protection. “What should I call you?”

“My name is Aelene, of the house of Clarellos, and perhaps we should talk in my office.” A gracefully wry smile crosses her fine features. “I have a meeting in about ten minutes, but those never start on time, anyway.”

It’s another five minutes later that Linden has the basic history of Aelene of the house of Clarellos, who had come from the wild-woods of England a few hundred years ago with her life-mate and a few of their friends, eventually ending up here in the city. It’s another five minutes to share her own story-- much alike, though perhaps without the fellowship of kin following. Linden quickly explains that the church where Nathalán resides is slated for demolition, and a furrow crosses Aelene’s brow. 

“That is a project managed by my husband and our friend, Jareth. The building has not been structurally sound for the last twenty years, and the neighbourhood had petitioned for its demolition for a long time. I’m sure we can reach some type of accord...” At that exact moment, a knock sounds on her door, followed by a smooth masculine voice. 

“Meeting, Aelene.”

“Speak of the Devil,” Aelene says wryly as she walks over, pulls the door open. “Jareth Sylvane, meet Linden Thorne of the Iele.”

Jareth Sylvane has the self-same look of the Ælf-kine with its symmetrical features and its tall, graceful form, though his golden hair is clipped short in deference to the fashion of the times. He, much like his kinswoman, raises an eyebrow at Linden’s presence, though he saves his comment for Aelene. “I am hardly the Devil.”

“You do consort with a witch, though,” Aelene gives Jareth a smile which can only be described as teasing. “And... hmm. Perhaps that would be our best solution. And since we must have a meeting...” She turns towards Linden again, all reassurance. “We will find a way to save your friend, lady. But would you mind, terribly, if we were to make his acquaintance later, perhaps, to see about the best way to do this?”

“Of course not.” Heartened by this unexpected turn of events, Linden shakes the hand of Aelene, then Jareth. It feels almost oddly familiar, that brush of fingers, and she pulls back. “I’ll be there around midnight. And... thank you. Thank you very much.”