#curseconsumed

"Yes, I'm beginning to notice your father cares more for reputation than sense," Ian says this in an absentminded tone, focused more on stuffing tobacco into his pipe than giving Miss Boyd his full attention.

Thumb jammed into the tobacco chamber, he smirks, "I wrote an article about him, you know... before the w.ar, of course. I don't think he remembers. Lord, I hardly remember. Had to do with a court settlement. Odd business. Though, I suppose that sort of oddity is quite normal around here."

He pauses long enough to light his pipe, tossing the scrap kindling into the flames of the hearth.

Caleb had barely been at the party for an hour before he had to sneak off to scratch under that damned wig. It was just about the most uncomfortable thing he'd ever worn, he didn't know how the Brits could handle it every day. Not to mention his face felt weird without his beard, and the uniform wasn't quite his size so it pinched in some places and pulled in others, all on top of the fact that he decidedly did not belong here.

Unfortunately, a fancy Redcoat party just wasn't something he could pass up when he was already in New York with the uniform. The information he could get just by existing here could bring the war to a swift end. And wasn't that everyone's goal?

After a few minutes spent adjusting his clothes to make them bearable, Caleb decided he'd better rejoin the party, perhaps actually do the job he came here to do. With a bracing breath, Caleb left the closet he'd hidden himself away in, quickly turning the corner back towards the foyer.

... And he promptly ran directly into a young woman standing off to the side. Shite. So much for keeping a low profile.

Instinctively, he reached out his hands to grab her shoulders, hoping to steady her, before belatedly realizing that perhaps that wasn't appropriate. He took only a second to make certain she was standing straight before dropping his arms and crossing them behind him, hoping to keep them out of any further trouble. Now, it was time to lay on the charm and not make any more of a scene.

He had a look about him that she did not see from the others who lived in her sleepy town. She was intrigued by whatever it was that brimmed in his eyes, wanting to gauge the look in them to know just what sort of man that he was. She was used to male attention from the others who lived here but this seemed to be the only conversation that she could get from the man before her. She didn't think that he disliked her, that wasn't what concerned her.

At his words regarding Mr. Greenwood, she glanced in the direction of the man who was sitting in the back talking with a banker and a tiller. Softly she laughed behind her hand before she looked back to him. "That is wicked of you, sir, although I must admit the one time I did dance with him I suffered bruises for weeks."

A seriousness marked her features and Katrina nodded her head. "Yes, I've heard, poor boy. But, to be quite honest, I am most...intrigued to hear of things that perhaps you would assume I would rather not hear about." She had lowered her voice then, almost conspiratorially. "I hear so much of the same things and dance the same dances that maybe something different might be worth a bit of shock."

      Oliver's movement was rather uncalculated in the grand scheme of things. In a time that required it most, his feet moved faster than his mind could catch on, and when he spotted the orange-red combination of light emulating from the side of the home, he knew the observation of people speaking and standing far too close to the large estate was not just a case of unreasonable paranoia on his part. It was in the nature of the rebels to set aflame an innocent estate to prove a point, to prove their point. The articles describing their recent exploits of murder and mayhem were never enough. They were going to tear the colonies to pieces before the war was over, literally or among its people. Oliver felt certain of this.

      His anger was useless now. Concern was a greater ambition as he stared upon the two women in the parlor, their screams and cries piercing his ears. It only made his heart beat quicker in his chest as he attempted to empty the smoke from his lungs. It was a pain to breathe, no less think coherently. It was as if the smoke clouded his mind as well.

      It was until the younger woman ran into the next room that he comprehended the word “Sister”. God, why did the rebels have to be so heartless and vile? The smoke that kept filling the room stung his eyes, blurring his vision so that he could hardly look at the older woman without coughing and pinching his eyes close.

       ❝ Madam, it’s alright just… ❞ Help us! Oliver jumped at the sound of the piercing wail, losing all thought on what he was about to say. Everything in his body screamed at him to run, but he was determined not to make it out without making sure the three women were ahead of him. He could hear glass shattering in the background and he could hear the flames eating at the walls now. He rubbed at his eyes in one last attempt to clear his vision and ran to the other room.

      He stopped at the door, nearly losing his breath when he spotted the sister she called out for earlier laying on the floor. If she was dead, he was going to make the rebels pay and he knew his anger would not spare him as well. Oliver had enough reason to intervene as a member of the King’s Army, even if he was just a lowly Ensign. It was his right--his duty--to investigate any suspicious activity and the pack of men sneaking around the home, speaking in hushed whispers to one another was enough justification he needed to investigate.

      The younger woman tugged and pulled as hard as she could to lift her from the ground, but with each struggle, the woman still laid limply on the floor. Through the smoke-covered room, Oliver couldn’t make out if she was breathing or not and that was the determination that made him move across the room.

      ❝ Madam, please-- allow me, ❞ he ordered with as much politeness as he mustered in his strained, breathless tone. Each moment they stayed in here, each moment they were closer to ending up in the same predicament her sister was in. With a grunt, he lifted her up under her arms, finally grabbing her by her waist when her upper body was ungrounded to the floor to lift her up, moving her to lay across his arms in his hold. He heard another voice then and he looked over his shoulder first to notice the older woman in the doorway, tightly writing her hands together. Even as she appeared to be the most put together, the smoke sent him into a slight daze, but he managed to keep a strong hold on the woman in his arms.

       ❝ Please hurry, ❞ he pleaded. He didn’t think he could hold onto the sister any longer.

       ❝ The note is important, that’s all you need to know. ❞ The fact Abe kept getting pushed and pulled back into the spy ring no matter how many times he attempted to cut the cord was infuriating. Why couldn’t anyone listen to him and allow him to make his own choices? No, he always had to be at the hands of someone else making his choices for him. Ben knew this frustration of his, but with how long the two were apart, he doubted Ben remembered (or cared). This spy ring was all too important to him.

      He was about to head in the other direction when her next words made him pause. When she couldn’t finish her sentence about Ben, his hand balled into a first, regret over his previous words sinking into his chest. No, Ben couldn’t be dead. There was no way. Ben was too smart to get himself killed.

      He took a breather when she told him he was indisposed, not dead, thankfully. His balled fist slowly unwinded itself and his previous annoyance was swiped under the rug. He had to see Ben himself and make sure he was okay. This intelligence held more meaning to him than ever if Ben was out of commission for the time being.

      He nodded, drawing in his lower lip as the circumstances changed. The name Lufton was unfamiliar to him as he arched a brow. ❝ Where is Lufton? ❞ Was it close to Oyster Bay? York City? Philadelphia? He had no clue, but even if the trip was long, he’d go to see his childhood best friend no matter their rift in recent years.

“you think i’d let that happen?” he asks, and when he asks it he believes he has the power in his hands to not allow it. people often responded in fear to him. there was no reason for him to doubt himself. her reasoning sounds ridiculous to him. if he had that sort of power there was no stopping the things that he would do. 

"Much obliged, ma'am," Bonnet only dares to speak in hushed tones, eyes flickering from the tavern door to the furthest-most table where he can make out the edge of Newgrave's tricorn. It'd been a simple accord at the cards table in sight of everyone, though he couldn't understand why it was so outrageous, his stealing the ring from the pot in the middle and none the wiser until he was half down the main road.

He'd been dealt a shit hand, and he believed it to be as much the dealer's fault rather than fate's.

Tapping a finger impatiently on the mug he's stolen from his faux company, he tilts his head, taking in his unwitting accomplice's appearance, and that's when he sees the earring, the necklace, each new flash of gold what catches his eyes rather than the woman's appearance.

He nearly laughs, wondering if this was fate's plan all along.