December 7th, 1891 - The Sanditon Ballroom

This was where the trouble had all began, if one didn't count the ocean itself. Prosper still didn't really understand what had happened. It seemed that no one did. Still, he was not entirely sure how the Sanditon's finances were going to make it through this.

The most self-centered hobby he had was showing up to buildings he'd constructed to think. Prosper had been sketching here — working on something for one of his projects outside the Sanditon — when he had a new idea for the building. With a flick of his wand and a few muttered incantations, the embellishments on the ballroom doorways rearranged themselves to include the letter representing the direction the door faced - in this case, East.

"There we are," Prosper said, as if that solved the problem.

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Frank had entered the ballroom from one of the servants’ corridors, a discreet side entrance, rather than the main doors. (The Sanditon resort was his only option for exploration grounds, at the moment. He was making do.)

And this was the ballroom: this had to be the place Edmund Rosewood had had his heart attack. He eyed the room – the repaired windows, the grand empty space – in careful thought, before noting that there was another observer already in here. Ah. Prosper Cresswell. Edmund’s friend. The architect. Of course.

For a moment, Frank admittedly did consider slipping away back through the servants’ entrance; but Cresswell had spoken aloud, so he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t already been seen. Instead, he shook his head briefly to himself, and then wandered over to the man and the altered doorway.

“A nice touch,” Frank remarked, glancing up at it.

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Prosper had thought he was alone, although he would have dabble in spellwork on the building regardless. He turned toward the voice and smiled at Rosewood's brother. (As the man was also named Rosewood, Prosper ought to transition into calling him that, at least in his head. Still, he had not managed it.)

Although Prosper wasn't sure he knew it, the explorer held the fate of this ballroom in his hands. Things would have been easier for Prosper and Herbert if Rosewood's brother was dead — Prosper wasn't holding this against the man, it was just a fact. So he supposed he ought to be pointing out the benefits of the ballroom, the opportunities it offered, except Rosewood — actual Rosewood, Edmund — died here.

So what should he do instead?

"I would normally take the opportunity to point out some of the nuances in the building's design, offer a tour," Prosper said, "But I feel that would be in poor taste."

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He merely waved a hand to brush off the suggestion of poor taste – he had probably been closer to Edmund in the last few years than Frank had, and he was not so delicate in sensibility to find offence in it – but indeed he waved off the idea of a tour, too, for he had seen plenty of the Sanditon already, and was not particularly interested in hearing about nuances of the building’s design.

It probably didn’t hurt to be polite, though, as long as he was here, so Frank held himself carefully, considered. Staying at the Rosewoods’ as a guest was a little strange: he felt almost disoriented here at the Sanditon – new cardinal directions on the doors notwithstanding, ha – as if there could well be booby traps around any next corner, as if the walls would close in on him and he could get fatally caught here at any moment. (But it would be fine. Maybe he just wasn’t used to living like this.)

“How bad was the damage to the building?” He knew – some of – the human cost. Besides, buildings were probably safer to talk about than anything else. “When the storm hit?”

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   Prosper Cresswell

Prosper was prepared to say something about the ballroom's Greek Revival influences, which would hopefully allow him to ask about Rosewood's travels — not that he was particularly interested in them, but flattery was maybe ideal, here — but he supposed that he should not have been surprised by Rosewood's actual question. After all, Prosper was the one who brought up the proverbial elephant in the room.

And Prosper could itemize the damage to the ballroom — and, in fact, to much of the Sanditon — quite easily.

"Nothing to the foundations," Prosper said, "But all of the glass features facing the ocean had to be replaced, and the ceiling in the main ballroom was damaged when the chandelier fell. We had flood damage throughout much of the building as well."

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   Frank Rosewood

Frank took advantage of Cresswell’s answer, eyes turned towards the oceanfront windows, to fish out a hip flask from his inner pocket and take a hearty swig. “God,” he said, with a grimace and a distinct wince. “I can hardly imagine.” He glanced up at the ceiling, and then shook his head in something like horror, or disbelief, or awe.

“And in the middle of a party, too.” He presumed Cresswell had been there; he assumed Edmund had been there when it had happened; this was what he had heard. It was probably too morbid to probe for more details; it felt too cheerful to remark on the restored windows, pale winter sunlight shot through the windows to gild them. Frank screwed the lid back on his flask, furrowed his brow. “Do you know how it happened?” The storm, he meant. Or his brother, for that matter.

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Was Rosewood the sort of person who walked around with a flask? This was sort of disastrously roguish of him, and Prosper hated himself a little for being attracted to the behavior.

He grimaced at the mention of the party. "We have weather charms in place," Prosper said, "The Ministry found a malfunction in them, but seems to suspect that some magic — accidental or purposeful, I don't quite know — caused them to malfunction."

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Weather charms that had malfunctioned. There was something ironic in the Sanditon being such a safe little British paradise – an imported resort with its exotic creatures and merpeople-adorned waters and weather meant to be nice, without any of the supposed dangers of foreign travel – and then doing such great damage as this.

“I suppose that’s one way to put off the guests,” Frank said aloud, and to his horror it sounded far more flippant than he had meant. And yes, maybe in truth he wasn’t sure why they were bothering to fix up this ballroom at all – it seemed to him like closing down for good would make more sense, a deserved ignominious end for this trite place – but this was the architect he was speaking to, and Frank’s brother had just died here, and those words were the wrong ones. His finger tapped nervously against the metal flask.

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Distress crossed Prosper's face in the form of a frown; this was not the opinion they wanted Rosewood to have of anything at the resort, because their fate was very much in his hands. What could he do to salvage this? "The Ministry has assured us it will not be happening again," he settled for. It wasn't enough, but it may repair some of the damage.

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It took all he had to hold in his snort. But he had already said the wrong thing once, so he had no intention of doing it again – although, by the frown on Cresswell’s face, maybe Frank wasn’t the only one floundering here.

He kept his tongue in his cheek, and agreed, a performative solemn look plastered to his brow,  “No, I’m sure it won’t.” It probably wouldn’t matter, in the end: they would never get as many guests coming back as they once had – out of fear, or from the trauma and bad memories attached to the place – and the Sanditon would die a slow death; or the damage was too severe to even fix up the place enough to entice anyone back. (Frank did not care either way.)

Gently, he tucked the hip-flask back into his pocket. “Well, I’ll let you get on, anyway,” Frank said, fiddling with the building features; he gave Cresswell a brief pat on the arm – that could have been taken for sympathetic or dismissive or brotherly, one of the three – as he passed him, and sauntered to the ballroom door.

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