14 October, 1893 — Pop-Up Bazaar, Padmore Park

Ford felt as though he'd emerged on the other side of something recently; the election was almost over (though not quite), the dragons and the fallout had been mostly cleaned up, the season was over. In many ways this was the first chance he'd had to actually relax; he wasn't worried that Clementine would get Aggressively Political now that the campaigns were winding down, and he didn't have to buy the girls any new dresses for months, and everyone was safe and healthy. Today was a good day, and Ford was in an accordingly good mood.

But most people weren't, he recognized; half of the people who'd made it out to the market were weighed down in heavy black. Ford had already expressed condolences to half a dozen people he was only passingly acquainted with, and then he'd spotted Cash.

He'd been meaning to talk to Cash since he'd read in the paper that some of his family members had been among the casualties. He was worried about Cash, of course he was worried about Cash, but they weren't — quite at the point yet where Ford could worry about him openly, so he was trying to walk that tightrope. He couldn't just ask Cash to pick up and go to a crossroad in Ireland to talk with him, like he once had. He didn't have a membership at Black's any more, and both the Ministry and either of their houses were far from ideal in terms of places to have conversations. The next best private place was in public, as it turned out, so Ford had written and asked if Cash was going to be at the market.

They'd wandered down towards the water and away from the crowd, such that it was. Ford had a smooth stone in his hand that he was thinking about trying to skip, and he tossed it lightly in the air. He would probably embarrass himself trying to do anything even mildly athletic around Cash, but maybe it would help diffuse some of the cloud that hung over everything. "We don't have to talk about it," he said. "But we should talk about something."

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Cassius Lestrange

  

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Cash was — not doing very well, frankly. He woke up with his ears ringing; he woke up trying to get to Ellory. He did not know how to talk to his wife about it, when she had herself been hurt — and when he knew it would be easy for him to fall back into bad habits. But it had only been a month. How did he know what was processing and what was — whatever had been so bad for him before?

The bazaar was an easy excursion; he was in half-mourning due to the distance-by-blood of his dead relatives, and he'd walked there from the house. It would be good to see Ford — he hoped. It hadn't brought him relief yet today, but it was still nice to see him.

He had a sense of déja vu at Ford's words. But perhaps it was hard to be inventive when they were so clearly dancing around the question — no wonder Ford had repeated himself. Cash knelt down and picked up another stone. "We could always talk about work," he joked, "But I don't have anything interesting to say about that." MG&S was only peripherally involved in the election — no one in the department was running — but that didn't stop him from hearing all the gossip. And he would only end up voting for one of Lucius' suggestions, anyways.

  

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Ford's work had been busier lately — mass death events tended to do that for the Spirit Division — but he did not expect that would be a particularly useful direction to turn the conversation, if they were looking for distractions. (Cash seemed to Ford like he was looking for distractions).

So what did they talk about, that wasn't just Ford coming right out and asking if Cash was having nightmares again? Ford tossed the stone in his hand while he considered; it skipped once and sank. "Do you think having a new Minister will change anything?" he tried, experimentally. He didn't think so, personally — he mostly thought voting was a waste of time.

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Cash shrugged his shoulders. "Probably for some people," he said, "But — not so much for us, I don't think." They were too insulated by certain privileges — the Greengrasses did not have money, but they could still pretend they had some; the Lestranges had a lot of money, and elections would not change much of it. He tossed the stone in his own hand.

It sank into the water. "Do you like any of the candidates?" he asked.

  

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Ford chuckled. "I like whoever Clementine likes least," he joked. His sister getting Political had convinced him of only one thing: her opinions on anything serious were not to be trusted. It didn't help that every conversation she tried to start on the subject was so antagonistic. She walked around like a lit match, constantly on the lookout for something to set on fire. "But I 'spose I'd have to actually ask her if I wanted to vote that way," he said, and pulled a face. He didn't know if Cash had ever actually met Clementine, now that he thought about it. She had still been in school when Ford and Cash had first started becoming good friends, and when Cash had come to dinner, so maybe not.

"I dunno. Maybe I'll ask my brother what he thinks," Ford said with a shrug, and scanned the beach for other suitable skipping rocks. Noble had his own business. Even if it wasn't a large business, he might still have some opinions on things like what different Ministers wanted to do about the economy. None of it was likely to impact Ford, though, unless the price of lace tripled — and even then, since it would be affecting everyone the same, they'd probably be able to get away with skimping on the lace for the girls' next season. "Who're you going to vote for?"

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"Crouch, Lupin, or Picardy," Cash answered; he sounded silly and dutiful to his own ears, as those were the candidates Lucius did not hate. "I haven't picked though. I suppose I'll decide day-of." It wasn't a particularly good way to vote, but — last time he'd voted, he'd just picked the one he was related to. So this was technically a better way to go about things.

"Clementine's got opinions now?" he asked, catching on belatedly. He'd never actually met Ford's youngest sister — but he'd heard of her, and it was funny to think about her talking politics. Cash wondered absently if Sen knew her. He bent to pick up another rock and threw it; the thing skipped over the water once this time before sinking.

  

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Ford offered Cash a look that implied Clementine not only had opinions, but that her opinions were his burden to bear and they were often a heavy load. "I 'spose she's always had opinions," he admitted with a diffident shrug. "But now she's graduated, which means I have to listen to them." He meant listen to only in the literal sense of being forced to hear Clementine talking at him more often than he had when she was in school; he did his best not to listen to Clementine on any issues whatsoever. Not least because if left to her own devices, Clementine would probably never marry. Not that Ford thought he was an expert in what made debutantes appealing to bachelors, or that he'd done such a spectacular job with either Verity or Grace, but he was certainly convinced that he could manage Clementine's prospects better than she could herself.

"Until I find someone to marry her," he added with a wry look. "You don't know any deaf bachelors, do you?"

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Cash counted himself lucky that he'd never had to parent his siblings; if he had to parent anyone soon, it would be his own children. (Well — hopefully soon.)

"None that I can think of," he said. With a smirk, Cash added — "I'll keep an eye out for you. Or an ear." Hopefully Ford would get lucky and find husbands for the other sisters soon — ideally without the kidnapping-related drama that had led to the marriage of Verity. Cash knew that his mind was more or less off of Ellory, and felt somewhat relieved — even as he was guilty about it.

  

Ford shot Cash a lopsided smile. "Thanks. Someday they'll all be married," he said wistfully. "And then I'll retire to Brazil."

He was pleased by how well he was able to sell that as a joke, despite the fact that he and Tycho had made serious plans (as serious as any of Tycho's plans ever were, anyway) to flee the country if needed.

Things were probably cheaper in Brazil, Ford imagined.

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   Cassius Lestrange

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Suddenly, Ford reminded him so much of Eli that Cash found himself brought up short. Making plans to flee, joking about other countries — it was very Eli, and Cash didn't know what to say. He laughed, but there wasn't anything substantial to it. Maybe he should go talk to someone else.

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Things had been going well-ish — fairly normal, considering people had died — but Ford caught the shift in the air. Lestrange had stared at him for half a beat and when he laughed it was hollow. It seemed like he'd accidentally struck a nerve. Did any of the recently decreased Lestranges have connections to Brazil?

"So anyway," he said briskly, changing the subject although he hadn't decided what to change it to yet. Why couldn't he ever believably hold a conversation on Quidditch? He ought to practice, sometime when the stakes were lower. "The, uh..." He still had no idea where he was going with this. "— Halloween masque is still happening." Right, as though either of them cared about upcoming balls. "But I imagine half the guest list will be in some degree of mourning." This was... an incredibly ineffective change of subject, if he'd wanted to get Cash's mind off dead relatives.

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   Cassius Lestrange

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Cash could tell that Ford was trying to change the topic on purpose, but he didn't mind — it gave him an excuse to stop thinking about things that were his fault. He wished he could have connected fleeing the country with Angie alone; but if it was as simple as transferring associations to Angie, he would have become less sad ages ago.

"It fits Halloween, I suppose," Cash said. He had decided to Commit to Ford's conversation topic. "Have you decided on a mask for it? I haven't." He would end up doing whatever Adrienne told him to, if she had strong opinions — this was a part of Having a Wife that Cash thought he was decent at.

  

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Ford shook his head. "Just something simple, probably, if we have to bring our own. I heard the host might be providing them," he said. He'd have to check the invitation again when he got home to be sure, because he hadn't budgeted a whole suite of elaborate masks into the October budget.

"We don't have to talk about it," he said, tossing a stone in his hand as he considered whether to skip it or not. "But we should talk about something."

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Okay, now Cash was sure that Ford was repeating himself. Either that, or he was being deliberately obtuse. Cash wrinkled his nose at the other man. He hadn't realized that Ford had another rock in his hand, either — but that didn't seem to matter very much. "I thought we were going to talk about the Halloween masquerade," he said, in a tone that was joking despite his mild exasperation. "I could be really interested in costumes, you know."

  

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Ford shot Cash a quizzical look. He had not expected Lestrange to be particularly interested in costumes or in society — not enough to bring it up without promoting, at any rate. And his tone was weird, too, in a way that Ford couldn't parse.

"Are you?" Ford challenged mildly. "Whatever happened to the Lestrange who was — what was it Witch Weekly said about you right after we started being friends? Macabre and anti-social?"

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Cash frowned at Ford; how was he the weird one here? "I can be macabre and interested in costumes at the same time," he said. He felt silly trying to talk about this event seriously — which he supposed proved Ford's point — but he'd committed now. "What's more macabre than a masquerade?"

Death, probably — but Cash was trying not to think about that. 

  

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