@paternall
Months, this had gone on, months!! Over a year of agonized hiding away, of staying indoors on the finest day for fear that someone might have the plague, over a year of cutting people off the moment a whisper reached them (old friends, they didn’t matter when lives were at stake), over a year of watching the city crumble, and it still dragged on. Would it indeed go on forever?
Lea could wait no longer. Her father feared what her Uncle Eustace might do, were he to get wind that his son was no longer under the watchful eye of Arius and Irene, and instead under the decidedly less watchful eye of Elenore. (He did not count for Maximilian or Lea, of course he did not, he did not know them.) But Lea feared for her cousin, who she loved truly despite the quarrel between his father and hers, and so, after much persuasion, Arius had, at last, agreed: Lucky must leave the city.
Thus fell the problem of finding a way out of the city for him. Stride was missing, Dundermore had refused (she suspected his inability fueled his goading method), and her own family’s agents were just as trapped in the city as she was. She had tried every route she could think of, and nothing, nothing!!!, had worked
And the plague was still getting worse.
A rumor had passed her ears (none escaped her, or so she thought) that Miss Wiltern’s old protector still haunted the city, watching over her and her sister despite being driven from her side (the circumstances surrounding that were murky to her, a rarity in this city). He, so the rumors went, was one of them who moved in shadow, and could leave the city at will on errands for his wards.
The railcar hissed to a halt, sparks flying from its wheels, and Lea peered out the window of the car. Clarke craned his neck to see past her. “That is the house?” Lea asked, speaking to the driver of the railcar.
He told her the address, confirming that it did indeed belong to Miss Rebecca Wiltern, his voice gruff and quiet. Lea nodded, and Clarke hopped out of the car, to circle around and open the door for her.
A white, heeled boot struck the ground, and Lea graciously accepted Clarke’s offered hand to rise. He retired back into the car to wait, and she made her way, alone, up the path and the steps to the house.
A maid met her at the door, and Lea drew one of her personal calling cards from the purse dangling from her wrist and offered it out. “Good day. I am here to speak with Mister Antonio, please, on matters of business.” Her voice stayed soft, and she hoped this Antonio was smart enough to employ a doormaid who did not chatter.
The maid bowed and withdrew, allowing Lea to step into the foyer and out of the mild chill of Dunwall’s winter, and there to wait, white-gloved hands clasped, to be called or met by whoever would see her.
