11 November, 1893 — The London Ballet
The unresolved issue between Oz and Sophia had been weighing on his mind ever since their last conversation, much as he'd tried not to let it. Of course, he'd spent plenty of time not thinking about it, too. Since his swearing in on the first, and in the few days beforehand in preparation for it, he'd been inundated with government business. There was work to be done just getting the lay of the land, and in getting up to speed with all the various departments, and a backlog of routine business that Ross hadn't been able to attend to while packing up and getting ready to clear out, and Oz's own pet project of putting together the committee on voting reform. He'd been spending most of his mental energy on being Minister and all of the things that went with it... but any time he had a moment to breathe, the argument they'd had bubbled back to the top of his mind like bile rising in his throat. Each time he tried to reassure himself that Endymion would handle it, and sometimes he was able to convince himself of that long enough for his mind to go back to other matters. But as the days stretched on with no word from Sophia that she was willing to negotiate, and no confirmation even from Endymion that he had tried to negotiate, it became harder and harder to believe his brother could be trusted to handle this on his own.
He'd drafted a few letters to Endymion asking for progress, but always ended up tossing them into the fire unsent. He wanted it done properly, not to be rushed, so he didn't want to needle — but Merlin, would it have been too much to ask for Endymion to have reported back periodically and said how it was going?
Eventually, left to his own devices on a Saturday, the anxiety had built up to unbearable levels. He decided suddenly that if he stayed in the Mayfair house a moment longer he would drive himself insane. He checked the clock on the wall, then checked his pocket watch as though he didn't think the clock was trustworthy. Then he made a decision — a snap judgment, one that he would almost certainly regret later — and went to fetch his overcoat. "I'm going to the ballet," he announced to Thomasina, and if she had any reservations about his leaving the house with no notice whatsoever, she at least didn't voice them strongly enough to cut through his haze as he dressed for the evening and left. It was a short walk and the air was cold, but not crisp and clean as he was used to from the Irish autumns he'd left behind.
(The Galway estate was where he had lived during his entire marriage to Thomasina, and the air there felt like her. London air was Sophia: hazy, abuzz, heady, intimate, claustrophobic, smothering).
Minister Dempsey! We weren't expecting you tonight, the manager tittered in excitement. Oz hadn't visited the ballet since swearing in; while the manager had always fawned over him (or more accurately, his money) his enthusiasm seemed to have swelled with the boost to Ozymandias' prestige. Oz's usual booth was engaged, he explained, but not to worry; the patrons there could be reseated; hardly even an inconvenience! they had only just arrived and hadn't even gone up to the booth yet; not to worry, plenty of space to move them to; yes, of course, he could go right up, everything here was well in hand. Oz did go right up, not in the mood for small talk with anyone he crossed paths with in the lobby. He asked the usher he passed on the stair to get him a bottle of wine delivered to the box — not a service the ballet typically offered its boxes, but one they were happy to accommodate for him.
He sat languidly in his usual seat, practically draped over one arm of the chair, while he waited for the performance to begin. He didn't know why he'd come here tonight, exactly, except that in the moment he couldn't think of anything else to do. It was a bad decision, being here — he ought to leave, and leave things to Endymion. Even if Endymion didn't come through, all he was doing here was incriminating himself further. He'd almost made up his mind to leave when the bottle of wine was delivered, and opened, and then he felt self conscious walking out. The house lights dimmed. Now it would have been conspicuous to leave.
He drank his glass of wine in three gulps. There was a purpose in being here, he decided. A reason the idea had sprung to mind, and why he'd held on to it through the streets of London all the way to the door of the ballet. She'd gotten the last word, in their argument — she had the power, to an extent, because the pregnancy was in her body and she would have to choose which path to follow. Being here tonight was taking back the last word, exerting what little power he still felt he had in the situation. Reminding her that he was not impotent.
She hadn't taken the stage yet. He poured himself another glass of wine and leaned back in his chair. When she did take the stage she was sure to see him. He'd chosen this box specifically because it put him in easy line of sight to the performers in center stage; he'd picked this box for her benefit. There was nothing to do now but sit back and wait to be seen.
He'd drafted a few letters to Endymion asking for progress, but always ended up tossing them into the fire unsent. He wanted it done properly, not to be rushed, so he didn't want to needle — but Merlin, would it have been too much to ask for Endymion to have reported back periodically and said how it was going?
Eventually, left to his own devices on a Saturday, the anxiety had built up to unbearable levels. He decided suddenly that if he stayed in the Mayfair house a moment longer he would drive himself insane. He checked the clock on the wall, then checked his pocket watch as though he didn't think the clock was trustworthy. Then he made a decision — a snap judgment, one that he would almost certainly regret later — and went to fetch his overcoat. "I'm going to the ballet," he announced to Thomasina, and if she had any reservations about his leaving the house with no notice whatsoever, she at least didn't voice them strongly enough to cut through his haze as he dressed for the evening and left. It was a short walk and the air was cold, but not crisp and clean as he was used to from the Irish autumns he'd left behind.
(The Galway estate was where he had lived during his entire marriage to Thomasina, and the air there felt like her. London air was Sophia: hazy, abuzz, heady, intimate, claustrophobic, smothering).
Minister Dempsey! We weren't expecting you tonight, the manager tittered in excitement. Oz hadn't visited the ballet since swearing in; while the manager had always fawned over him (or more accurately, his money) his enthusiasm seemed to have swelled with the boost to Ozymandias' prestige. Oz's usual booth was engaged, he explained, but not to worry; the patrons there could be reseated; hardly even an inconvenience! they had only just arrived and hadn't even gone up to the booth yet; not to worry, plenty of space to move them to; yes, of course, he could go right up, everything here was well in hand. Oz did go right up, not in the mood for small talk with anyone he crossed paths with in the lobby. He asked the usher he passed on the stair to get him a bottle of wine delivered to the box — not a service the ballet typically offered its boxes, but one they were happy to accommodate for him.
He sat languidly in his usual seat, practically draped over one arm of the chair, while he waited for the performance to begin. He didn't know why he'd come here tonight, exactly, except that in the moment he couldn't think of anything else to do. It was a bad decision, being here — he ought to leave, and leave things to Endymion. Even if Endymion didn't come through, all he was doing here was incriminating himself further. He'd almost made up his mind to leave when the bottle of wine was delivered, and opened, and then he felt self conscious walking out. The house lights dimmed. Now it would have been conspicuous to leave.
He drank his glass of wine in three gulps. There was a purpose in being here, he decided. A reason the idea had sprung to mind, and why he'd held on to it through the streets of London all the way to the door of the ballet. She'd gotten the last word, in their argument — she had the power, to an extent, because the pregnancy was in her body and she would have to choose which path to follow. Being here tonight was taking back the last word, exerting what little power he still felt he had in the situation. Reminding her that he was not impotent.
She hadn't taken the stage yet. He poured himself another glass of wine and leaned back in his chair. When she did take the stage she was sure to see him. He'd chosen this box specifically because it put him in easy line of sight to the performers in center stage; he'd picked this box for her benefit. There was nothing to do now but sit back and wait to be seen.
MJ is the light of my life <3