To be sure, overwhelmed with embarrassment and self-loathing was somewhat of a refreshing change from overwhelmed with hunger and cold. The hunger and cold were still there, but were hardly his most pressing concern. What kind of barbarian was he? He'd just barreled into that tiny gentlewoman without looking -- and then hadn't properly apologized until he realized she had rank. To cap it all off, he'd been rude again. It was as if he were combining the worst bumpkin behavior that people expected of a country boy with the gauche classism of London herself. Ebenezar would be ashamed of him.
Of course, Ebenezar was already ashamed of him. After two years of grooming Harry to make his debut in wizard society, off the apprentice had run to London to make his fortune, like a magical Dick Whittington with far less chance of success. At least, like Dick Whittington, Harry had a cat -- though it seemed unlikely that the folkloric Lord Mayor of London had ever been quite this cold or quite this hungry. At this very moment, Harry could happily eat a pork pie or five, after which he'd be just about ready for luncheon.
Hunger was no excuse for rudeness to anyone, commoner or lady. Nonetheless, he needed to earn some scratch, fast -- not only was hunger making him behave poorly, but any day now Mistress Spunkelcrief would evict him from the boarding house. He could starve with a roof over his head or without, but it would be far more comfortable to die of hunger without the added complaints of mud, cold, and fighting for space amongst the previous occupants of London's alleyways.
He'd never imagined how difficult it would be to convince the ton to engage his services. It wasn’t as if The London Gazette was overwhelmed with wizards advertising their services at reasonable rates. But Harry was a single young man, unprotected by an older sister or a blustering uncle. He wasn’t in the clergy or a veteran of the army. As far as the ton were concerened, Harry was no better than he should be. A wizard was only one step above "actor”, even among believers. For the rest, he was a disreputable mountebank.
Harry realized he was standing outside Poole’s tailor and draper shop. In his confusion, he'd come to Cork Street again, as he had every day for the last week. He sighed, looking up to gaze upon the object of his desire: the triple-caped leather greatcoat in the shop window. It didn't hurt to dream, he supposed, though he would never be able to purchase such a thing. Every scant penny Harry scraped up went into buying magical supplies: pawned copper jewelry, spent gunpowder, a battered copy of Venus in the Cloister or The Nun in her Smock to bribe his lab assistant. At least holy water was free, for all that it didn't help his reputation among the ton to be on such close terms with Father Forthill, the Catholic priest.
"La, Mr. Dresden," said a voice at his shoulder, and Harry spun around, supplies and sartorial woes both forgotten. A wealthy dandy stood behind him, handsome in a way Harry had never seen before. The young man wore his dark hair à la Brutus, highlighting his luminous features. His pure white waistcoat was covered in equally white seals and fobs. Harry cared not a whit for fashion, and he had a vague idea that a gentleman with unpowdered hair should be wearing a dark coat, not – Stars -- untouched white from cravat to boots. But instead of seeming a town clown, the gentleman was stunning, drawing dreamy sighs from no small number of the passersby. The young woman on the dandy’s arm would have been the highlight of gorgeousness among other company; here, she was merely accompaniment.
Vampire, Harry thought. Thank goodness Ebenezar had given him a basic introduction to the supernatural elements of London's upper crust.
"I beg your forbearance, but I must introduce myself," said the White Court vampire. He bowed from the waist. "Thomas Raith, at your service."
Harry was shocked. "Lord Raith is a vampire?"
The vampire laughed. "The stories do you justice, sir. Your blunt nature is refreshing."
"What do you want?" Harry had no desire for truck with vampires, though he had to admit a prurient curiosity about the methods used by the Whites in particular. He assumed he was strong enough to resist their blandishments.
"I want to be your friend," said the vampire. "If you'll allow me."
Harry pulled back. This temptation he had not been expecting. "I'm no friend of the White Court."
The vampire's face twisted as if he had bitten something sour; Harry noted that the expression in the way marred his beauty. "Neither am I, particularly." The young woman on Raith's arm leaned her cheek against the vampire's shoulder, a sad smile on her face.
"So what do you want?"
"Later, perhaps your assistance with a minor problem," said the vampire, and Harry breathed out, relieved. A job he could assess on its merits; inexplicable friendship from a White Court vampire was certainly a hostile overture. "But for now, would you care to join me for a beefsteak at MacAnally's Pub?" He held up his hand as Harry opened his mouth to protest. "A nuncheon as retainer for your willingness to listen, shall we call it?"
Harry hesitated. A business arrangement with this strange vampire who sought him out and claimed to be on the outs with the Court was arguably not business with which he should become involved. But his mouth had begun watering automatically at the mention of one of Mac's luscious beefsteaks, and, well, besides. If there was something political going on in the supernatural community, wouldn't it be best if he knew about it? You keep rationalizing, there, he told himself. Nothing to do with the uncomfortable feeling of your belly meeting your spine from emptiness. "All right," he said. "Just a conversation."
Wizard Cotillion, 2/?
To be sure, overwhelmed with embarrassment and self-loathing was somewhat of a refreshing change from overwhelmed with hunger and cold. The hunger and cold were still there, but were hardly his most pressing concern. What kind of barbarian was he? He'd just barreled into that tiny gentlewoman without looking -- and then hadn't properly apologized until he realized she had rank. To cap it all off, he'd been rude again. It was as if he were combining the worst bumpkin behavior that people expected of a country boy with the gauche classism of London herself. Ebenezar would be ashamed of him.
Of course, Ebenezar was already ashamed of him. After two years of grooming Harry to make his debut in wizard society, off the apprentice had run to London to make his fortune, like a magical Dick Whittington with far less chance of success. At least, like Dick Whittington, Harry had a cat -- though it seemed unlikely that the folkloric Lord Mayor of London had ever been quite this cold or quite this hungry. At this very moment, Harry could happily eat a pork pie or five, after which he'd be just about ready for luncheon.
Hunger was no excuse for rudeness to anyone, commoner or lady. Nonetheless, he needed to earn some scratch, fast -- not only was hunger making him behave poorly, but any day now Mistress Spunkelcrief would evict him from the boarding house. He could starve with a roof over his head or without, but it would be far more comfortable to die of hunger without the added complaints of mud, cold, and fighting for space amongst the previous occupants of London's alleyways.
He'd never imagined how difficult it would be to convince the ton to engage his services. It wasn’t as if The London Gazette was overwhelmed with wizards advertising their services at reasonable rates. But Harry was a single young man, unprotected by an older sister or a blustering uncle. He wasn’t in the clergy or a veteran of the army. As far as the ton were concerened, Harry was no better than he should be. A wizard was only one step above "actor”, even among believers. For the rest, he was a disreputable mountebank.
Harry realized he was standing outside Poole’s tailor and draper shop. In his confusion, he'd come to Cork Street again, as he had every day for the last week. He sighed, looking up to gaze upon the object of his desire: the triple-caped leather greatcoat in the shop window. It didn't hurt to dream, he supposed, though he would never be able to purchase such a thing. Every scant penny Harry scraped up went into buying magical supplies: pawned copper jewelry, spent gunpowder, a battered copy of Venus in the Cloister or The Nun in her Smock to bribe his lab assistant. At least holy water was free, for all that it didn't help his reputation among the ton to be on such close terms with Father Forthill, the Catholic priest.
"La, Mr. Dresden," said a voice at his shoulder, and Harry spun around, supplies and sartorial woes both forgotten. A wealthy dandy stood behind him, handsome in a way Harry had never seen before. The young man wore his dark hair à la Brutus, highlighting his luminous features. His pure white waistcoat was covered in equally white seals and fobs. Harry cared not a whit for fashion, and he had a vague idea that a gentleman with unpowdered hair should be wearing a dark coat, not – Stars -- untouched white from cravat to boots. But instead of seeming a town clown, the gentleman was stunning, drawing dreamy sighs from no small number of the passersby. The young woman on the dandy’s arm would have been the highlight of gorgeousness among other company; here, she was merely accompaniment.
Vampire, Harry thought. Thank goodness Ebenezar had given him a basic introduction to the supernatural elements of London's upper crust.
"I beg your forbearance, but I must introduce myself," said the White Court vampire. He bowed from the waist. "Thomas Raith, at your service."
Harry was shocked. "Lord Raith is a vampire?"
The vampire laughed. "The stories do you justice, sir. Your blunt nature is refreshing."
"What do you want?" Harry had no desire for truck with vampires, though he had to admit a prurient curiosity about the methods used by the Whites in particular. He assumed he was strong enough to resist their blandishments.
"I want to be your friend," said the vampire. "If you'll allow me."
Harry pulled back. This temptation he had not been expecting. "I'm no friend of the White Court."
The vampire's face twisted as if he had bitten something sour; Harry noted that the expression in the way marred his beauty. "Neither am I, particularly." The young woman on Raith's arm leaned her cheek against the vampire's shoulder, a sad smile on her face.
"So what do you want?"
"Later, perhaps your assistance with a minor problem," said the vampire, and Harry breathed out, relieved. A job he could assess on its merits; inexplicable friendship from a White Court vampire was certainly a hostile overture. "But for now, would you care to join me for a beefsteak at MacAnally's Pub?" He held up his hand as Harry opened his mouth to protest. "A nuncheon as retainer for your willingness to listen, shall we call it?"
Harry hesitated. A business arrangement with this strange vampire who sought him out and claimed to be on the outs with the Court was arguably not business with which he should become involved. But his mouth had begun watering automatically at the mention of one of Mac's luscious beefsteaks, and, well, besides. If there was something political going on in the supernatural community, wouldn't it be best if he knew about it? You keep rationalizing, there, he told himself. Nothing to do with the uncomfortable feeling of your belly meeting your spine from emptiness. "All right," he said. "Just a conversation."
The vampire smiled.