1886 — A Bookstore

One excellent thing about Dru's position in life was that she never wanted for money. Her father liked to give her a healthy allowance; he could flaunt it as an indulgence to a daughter he loved dearly. A less excellent thing about Dru's position in life was that she sometimes had trouble spending it, since she was usually at home. Things she could order by mail were a godsend, but some of the things she needed weren't the sorts that advertised in the newspaper. Sometimes she sent money to friends so that they could buy for her and send it back — signing Mor's name on the package no matter who sent it, because accepting any parcels from a gentleman was too large a risk even if it wasn't like that. Today, though, she was out for herself. Her stepmother was chaperoning — laughable, since they were of an age, but if it got her out of the house without her father Dru was hardly in a position to complain. Fortunately she had never been close to the new Mrs. Rowle, so the moment they reached the bookstore doors they parted ways, not to be reunited until they departed again. It would have been unbearable if the woman had been the hovering sort — being around her was unbearable enough even in the smallest doses.

Despite the similarities of their positions, Dru was not ready to consider the other woman an ally. Whoever had written the enemy of my enemy is my friend probably had never had real enemies, she suspected. When you were living with a monster you did what you needed to in order to stay out of reach of its claws; she wouldn't have trusted her stepmother not to report back her purchases today if her father asked, no matter how she felt about it personally. So she had first flitted about the bookstore selecting her decoy books, the ones she could layer on the top and bottom of the stack so that her real purchase could disappear in the middle, dismissed as another cheap fantasy novel. She was ready to charm the cover to look alike, too, once she bought it.

She scanned a few aisles, on the lookout for Evangeline Rowle. When she felt confident she was not going to be observed, she ducked into the row she needed: advanced esoteric magics. She had already done the research, already knew exactly which title she needed, knew where it was — except it wasn't on the shelf where it was supposed to be, it was in someone's hands instead.

"Are you planning to buy that?" Dru asked, unable to conceal her annoyance at this interruption. She was meant to be in and out before anyone could notice; the delay was unwelcome.

---

Prometheus rarely took days off. If he was not holed up in the Department of Mysteries, he tended to find himself closed up in his study. Even in his sleep he was working, dreaming of death and its manufacturing, of stitching and bones. This little outing was his first in weeks. He intended to visit the grocer, and then perhaps the potioneer. Where he ended up, however, was a cozy old bookshop. He'd never frequented this one in particular, but he'd an old fondness for such places.

Over the last couple of hours he had wandered down a long trail of books, grazing through them without much interest. He slowed down when he reached advanced esoterics. It took more time to work through the books, then, parsing the familiar from the drivel from any actual innovation. He was leaned against a shelf with one book in-hand, paging through with only idle interest, when an unfamiliar voice interrupted him.

"Pardon?" Prometheus looked up with a startled blink and partially closed the book. He met a pair of eyes dark as flint and just as sharp. The way she glared at him he thought he must know her, must have somehow offended her... but her face brought no memory to the surface. "This? Probably not, no." Slipping the book shut he turned it over, inspected the cover. It didn't seem all that special a volume... a little dark, perhaps, but nothing wholly scandalous.

Then again, perhaps his perception of scandal was skewed.

---

Probably not. He was stood there paging through these books idly, apparently not even remembering which one it was that he had picked up. Dru was unexpectedly furious, not with this man specifically but with this man as an archetype of all the people in the world who could just drift casually, aimlessly through life and not much care whether they found what they wanted or not. People who did not need this magic in the same way she did; people who had no real demons to face down.

"Then if you don't mind," she said, words clipped and her voice rising a pitch in aggravation. She held out her hand for the book expectantly, after having just barely resisted the urge to snap it straight out of his hands. She had remembered somewhat belatedly that one of her goals today was to be entirely unmemorable, so that there was no chance of anyone mentioning which aisle she had been in — she was not off to an auspicious start, but grabbing books out of a stranger's hands would have been even worse.

---

Surprise tightened around Prometheus' eyes, and a reflexive offense about his lips. He'd spoken the truth. He likely would not purchase this book today, but that did not mean he'd not intended to page through it a little longer. She held her hand out to him with clear expectation. The same way one might ask a dog to relinquish a sock. Prometheus had never been quick to take offense, but that... well, that was rather rude, in truth.

"I had intended to continue," Prometheus answered, passing the book almost absentmindedly to his opposite hand, "and determine whether I wish to purchase it myself." Curious, he thought to himself, that a woman like her would have any need at all of so niche a volume. For one momentary pause Prometheus tried once more to parse her face. Surely, a woman of such interests he'd have remembered... but nothing came to mind.

He would, at least, remember her now.

"But if it is that important to you," with a sigh, he placed the book carefully into her palm.

---

Yes, yes, fine. He had intended to stand around all day flipping idly through pages of books he apparently hadn't even cared about enough to read the title first. It seemed a massive bit of ego that he expected this activity took precedence over someone who actually wanted the book, who needed the book, but wasn't that just like men. Their whims over her very life. If she had done as she was expected to do, what she had always been trained and prompted to do, what she was supposed to do, she would have demurred so as not to cause him any stress or disturbance and she would have left without the book. But if Drusilla Rowle did what she was supposed to do she would die the same way her mother had, and she might never have lived in the meantime.

"Thank you," she said, brusque. "I'm sure you'll find something else to — peruse."

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