August 1st, 1894 — Blackwood manor

It was a sizable entourage that had convened on a rainy Sunday afternoon to enter the magical carriage that stood ready at the grand old townhouse of the noble and ancient Rosier family.

There was Mr. Alastair Claudas Rosier, heir to the estate, his greying valet, two servants, and additionally a driver for the carriage. They would be joined by the chaperone and any and all aunts and maidservants that Lady Ginevra Blackwood would like to take with her.

The opulent dark-green carriage was set in motion to the address of the Blackwoods. No regular horses were pulling but two steeds fashioned of blackened silver, whose hooves made no sound when they hit the cobblestone. The carts and coaches and pedestrians on the streets of London seemed to mysteriously part to the sides without taking any notice of the imposing vehicle, whose doors were adorned with a coat of arms showing burning roses in faded colors.

When they arrived at their destination, the driver sprang down and opened the door. Mr. Alastair Rosier and his valet stepped out to wait for the Blackwoods to come and greet them. They were to visit a museum together today, Miss Ginevra and him, so they might get to know each other. He hoped to marry her, after all.

Alastair sighed and adjusted his silken cravat. He was thinking about the whore he bedded two nights ago.

Then he heard a servant call out:

“May I present Lady Ginevra Blackwood!”

Mr. Alastair Rosier looked towards the entrance. There she was.

---

Ginevra Blackwood

  

Vera stood at the top of the grand staircase of her family’s residence, her gloved hand resting delicately on the banister. The soft rustling of her emerald-green dress, perfectly tailored to accentuate her slender figure and complement her fiery red hair, was the only sound accompanying her descent. She could hear her mother’s hushed excitement, and she could see the opulent carriage through the window, waiting like a dark specter.

As the servant’s voice rang out, the door opened before her allowing her to exit into the street, her mother and the two lady's maids in tow. The footman announced her. Vera took a deep breath, pasted on a serene smile, and began to descend the front steps of their grand townhouse.

She knew exactly who awaited her. Mr. Alastair Rosier, heir to the Rosier estate, was the epitome of everything she found dull and uninspiring in the world. She had met him a handful of times, always finding his company stifling and his demeanor excessively formal - like almost every pureblood heir that graced the London social scene - so very full of their own importance.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, her eyes met his. He looked as impeccably groomed as ever, his silken cravat perfectly arranged, his dark hair slicked back. Vera had no doubt he viewed this outing as nothing more than a tedious duty and she wondered if his family steered the tiller of his actions as closely as her mother steered hers.

Vera stepped forward gracefully, her head held high. “Mr. Rosier,” she said with a polite nod, her voice steady and composed despite the churning in her stomach. “A pleasure to see you again.” she curtsied low, her swan pale neck bent, the two red curls cascading over her shoulder. Her mother didn't need to clear her throat, Vera could feel the action subconsciously, "Thank you for your kind invitation today, I'm sure it will be most interesting" she smiled her most flattering smile.

The valet and servants moved efficiently around them, ensuring everything was in place for their departure.

  

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^  Look what Lady did  ^

Miss Ginevra, who now descended the stairs, certainly looked to encompass all that the Rosier family desired her to be. Perfectly beautiful, to adorn them and look nice in the portrait gallery; young, but not too young, to be primed for immediate motherhood; educated, to withstand conversation at dinner parties; pureblooded, but not a Malfoy or Travers or Bulstrode, for these families had become too intermarried in the past 300 years with the Rosier line.

Mr. Alastair, however, looked towards the approaching jewel with a dour face. He thought to prefer women who were easy pickings, falling into his hands like fruit past the point of ripeness; Sweet and vulgar. This whole affair seemed to be anything but that. She would be difficult and affected, like all well-bred girls.
“Miss Blackwood, I am delighted,” he said without emotion.
“Shall we?”

He helped her into the carriage, his hands lacking the proper delicacy. That was not his forte.
Mr. Alastair Rosier took up a good amount of space in the carriage because he was a man both broad and tall, with arms and shoulders like the son of a common miller. Combined with jet-black hair atop a heavy skull and square face, he emanated an air of hostile masculinity.
His manner of speaking, however, was exactly like you would expect of a wizard aristocrat.

It had been impressed upon him that it was his responsibility to explain the world to the ladies, and this was what he set out to do.
“The rain is most pleasant today. It does us good that it shall cool down after the heat of late,” he said to her.

“This carriage is pulled by impressive steeds, is it not?” Alastair then asked. Without waiting for an answer:
“I bought them off a fellow on Doubt Street for a handsome sum. They may serve the family for centuries so I think it a good investment. Finer you cannot find anywhere, but the wizard who made them is a regretful case of muddied blood,” he meandered on, getting off track.

“His father married a dirty outright muggle, can you believe it? That is an old wizard line, gone and ruined. These folks were proper merchants and lawyers back in the day, but that is how it goes with pure families of the lower echelon, they lack the foresight. Now I would have taken my business elsewhere, but as I said, a service like that is hard to find. Forces your hand to associate with traitors of blood due to their sheer numbers, that is what things have come to.”

After this rant, he fell into brooding silence. Then:
“Now where we are going, you will see how it was and how it ought to be again, Miss. I do hope that will please you.”

  

As the carriage jolted forward, Vera found herself carefully composing her thoughts, her polite smile still in place as she listened to Mr. Rosier’s monologue. A few times she took a breath, anticipating contributing to the 'conversation' but it was quickly clear that he was everything she had suspected—arrogant, self-important, and utterly lacking in charm. She, a mere adornment for the family line, not a person with thoughts and feelings of her own. The very idea made her stomach turn, and she fought to hide her scowl behind her well practiced vibrancy and smile.

He droned on about the weather - “Yes, quite,” Vera replied, her voice smooth. She had long since mastered the art of masking her true feelings behind a veneer of perfect propriety. When he began to speak about the steeds, Vera forced herself to remain attentive, though her mind threatened to wander. His tale of the purchase was mundane enough, but the sudden vehemence with which he spoke of the wizard’s mixed blood caught her off guard - few, even when amoung those who agreed spoke so candidly, or maybe they did and debutantes were just ushered from the room at the time.

As he continued, Vera’s thoughts drifted to her father, a man who, despite his own traditional views, would never speak so crudely about others. And her brother, Bertram, who might not share all of her more progressive ideas she doubted he would recoil at the open prejudice Alastair displayed. It was clear that Alastair took a pride in his heritage, but Vera wondered how deep that pride truly ran. Did he ever question it? Or was he merely parroting what had been drilled into him from birth? His views were as archaic and narrow, she could almost hear her mother salivating, and the more he spoke, the more Vera felt an icy resolve forming within her. This was the man her mother thought suitable for her? A man who saw nothing beyond bloodlines and status?

When he finally lapsed into a brooding silence, Vera felt a small wave of relief, though it was short-lived. As they arrived at their destination.

She turned to him, her expression carefully neutral, but her eyes sharper than before. “It sounds… intriguing, Mr. Rosier. I look forward to seeing it for myself.” Her voice was light, almost airy. The carriage continued on, and Vera settled into her seat, her mind working furiously behind her composed exterior. 'I'm sure I will Mister Rosier, I hope you will act as my guide, I know something of your family history but I should be enthralled by the insights I'm sure you have." she flattered him, a perfectly demure smile on her face - everything that was expected for typical, perfect pureblood debutante.

  

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^  Look what Lady did  ^

Alastair looked out of the carriage window onto the street, where the rain cast dark mirrors of water onto the stone. The specter of the carriage's mirrored image was riding beside them.
She agreed with him and hoped he would guide her—of course she did. He sighed. That bored him even more.

It was, in fact, not the case that the particulars of bloodlines interested Alastair very much. He glanced over at the valet and the servants, who he well knew were observing him closely to report everything back to Mr. Rosier senior.
This whole outing was not Alastair's idea at all. Like all his life, in this moment he was little more than one of the damned silver horses that were pulling their vehicle. The reins were firmly in the hand of his father, who had instructed him to test the Blackwood girl on her stance on blood traitors.

Even now, he felt Bartholomew's presence. It was like he was looking at him, right through the eyes of his loyal spies.
Alastair was putting it on quite thickly with the story about the alchemist, who had in truth vexed him simply because Alastair was vexed by every man who seemed to have a talent that he himself could not compete in. But it served its purpose. Ginevra Blackwood appeared to fully agree with everything he was saying, which was all he required.

The carriage came to a halt. They had arrived at the museum.
“Well, here we are,” said Alastair and extended one of his rough hands to help her.
They were ushered inside the museum and headed into the genealogy exhibition. Portraits of notable wizards lined the walls. Massive tapestries with family trees stretched meters long.

Now to the part that he dreaded most: having to give a tour of the exhibition.
“As you can read here, Miss Ginevra, this is the eldest known ancestor of the Rosier family, Urizen the Cruel. He founded the wizard council of Albion and brought forth four sons, Thiriel, Utha, Grodna and Fuzon… —”

Alastair meandered on, recounting countless generations of great and terrible wizards, conveniently leaving out any mention of their wives and daughters.
He talked with a measured confidence that may or may not conceal the fact that at some point, he simply started to make up names and histories on the spot.
Ginevra Blackwood, he presumed, was not listening anyways.

  

As the carriage came to a halt in front of the museum, Vera let out a silent breath of relief. The ride was already feeling overlong and taxing, filled with Alastair’s pompous diatribe. This outing was not just a test of her patience, but a critical social examination—a dance of polite façades and carefully chosen words.

When Alastair extended his hand to help her out of the carriage, Vera accepted it with a gracious smile. His grip was firm, rougher than she had expected not the soft pampered hands of gentleman whose main labour was riding through the park. As they entered the museum and were ushered into the genealogy exhibition, she took in the grand tapestries and portraits with genuine curiosity. This, at least, was something she could appreciate, even if her company was less than ideal.

Alastair began to guide her through the exhibition, launching into a detailed—though, she assumed, embellished—history of his ancestors. He spoke with a measured confidence that Vera recognized as the hallmark of someone used to being listened to, regardless of whether they had anything worth saying. She nodded along, feigning interest, her expression a perfect blend of polite attentiveness and feminine admiration.

When he mentioned Urizen the Cruel and his progeny, Vera widened her eyes slightly, as if impressed. "What a formidable lineage, Mr. Rosier," she said, her voice smooth and warm. "It's no wonder the Rosier family has such a storied reputation. Your ancestors must have been remarkable wizards to achieve such feats." her mother nodded approvingly.

Vera could almost see the satisfaction flicker across his otherwise dour expression. She continued to walk beside him, glancing at the various portraits and tapestries, allowing him to believe she was fully engaged in his recitation. In truth, she was listening just enough to catch the occasional error or invented detail, though she would never dream of pointing them out.

"And to think," she added with a soft sigh, "that all of this history, this legacy, will continue on through you. Your family must be very proud to have someone so knowledgeable and capable to carry on their name." she flattered

  

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^  Look what Lady did  ^

"[…] And such it was, that Gorribert Rosier the third single-handedly ended the uprising by impaling the leaders and their progeny of elves—erm, goblins," said Alastair, who himself had lost track of which story he was telling.
A servant audibly cleared his throat. The pause threatened to turn awkward, but then Ginevra Blackwood chimed in with some well-chosen words about lineages and such, and he gave her the first thin smile of the day. Even though it was only because she had diverted attention from the fact that he did not know what he had been talking about and thus had spared him from looking simple, which he despised to be called or thought of as.
"Certainly. Although for the carrying on part, that cannot rest upon my shoulders alone," he answered.
You are meant to bear the fruit of the tree, he thought, staring at her.
If only time could contract and he could skip ahead to the part of bedding her, forgetting about all the rest, he might not find it so dreadful. But until this moment, much was to do and to arrange. Many more outings like this. If it came to pass at all.
What a wretched business.

Alastair, Miss Ginevra Blackwood, and the entourage now stood under a giant dark green tapestry. Hundreds of pureblooded wizards scowled down at them. Alastair looked up and almost startled when he he found himself stared at by Bartholomew Rosier's gaunt countenance. His father's likeness on the tapestry was expertly done. The piercing blue eyes, the bony nose that sprung from his face like it had been chiseled from stone. The picture moved, looked at them, smiled knowingly.
"Well…" he said uncomfortably, "Here is my father Bartholomew Rosier, whom you will be introduced to, I suppose. And here…"
He pointed to the black-haired man pictured below. He did not finish the sentence. It was clear that it was Alastair himself, who had his father's eyes but a fuller, less jarring face.

"My former wife," Alastair said, pointing at Dorcas, whose likeness looked pale and doll-like, with wispy hair that was so blonde it appeared white.
"She died," he announced unceremoniously.
Beneath, there were two girls, his daughters. He did not comment on them.

  

As Alastair droned on, Vera fought to maintain her polite smile. Her mind wandered as he rambled about some long-dead ancestor who had apparently impaled either goblins or elves—it hardly mattered at this point. The entire outing had become a test of her endurance, her interest waning with each passing moment.

When a servant’s subtle cough threatened to expose Alastair’s confusion, Vera smoothly stepped in with a few complimentary remarks about lineages. Her practiced words were as effortless as they were insincere, yet they seemed to placate him. She caught the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, a rare and almost reluctant gesture. It did little to endear him to her, though; instead, it only underscored how painfully dull this entire ordeal was.

As he spoke of “carrying on,” Vera noted the way his gaze lingered on her. The implication was clear, and it made her skin crawl. Alastair might be resigned to this courtship, as much as she was he supposed. The idea of her life being reduced to little more than bearing children for a man as uninspired as him filled her with a quiet dread.

She masked her distaste behind a veil of polite interest, even as he led her to a dark green tapestry that loomed over them. The faces of countless pureblooded wizards stared down, their expressions uniformly stern and unforgiving. The whole display felt oppressive, as if the weight of their expectations was pressing down on her.

When Alastair pointed out his father, Vera glanced at the tapestry with only mild interest. Bartholomew Rosier’s visage was harsh and unyielding, much like the man himself, she imagined. The tapestry’s enchantment made his likeness move, his eyes following them with a knowing smile that Vera found more unsettling than impressive.

Then Alastair pointed to the figure below, a black-haired man with a fuller face—himself, clearly. Vera examined his depiction with the same feigned curiosity she’d been employing all day, noting how the artist had captured his father’s eyes but softened them with a less severe countenance. She wondered idly how much time had been spent perfecting these images, how much care had been lavished on creating a legacy of stone and thread, and how little any of it truly mattered to her.

The mention of his former wife, Dorcas, caught her attention, but only briefly. He spoke of her with such detachment that it was almost chilling. "She died," he stated, as if it were a trivial fact, devoid of any emotion or significance. Beneath Dorcas’ pale, doll-like figure were two small girls, his daughters, whom he didn’t bother to acknowledge. The omission spoke volumes, and Vera found herself pitying them, growing up under such a cold and dispassionate father.

Vera turned her attention back to Alastair, her polite smile never faltering. "The tapestry is truly magnificent, Mr. Rosier. It’s clear that your family’s legacy is well-preserved here." The words were hollow, a mere formality, but she delivered them with the same grace she always did. "And assured in your stewardship" There was no polite way of affirming that was she prepared to be a brood sow for said legacy, but what was this 'outing' but her family's confirmation that she was prepared to take the position of 'dear' departed Dorcas.

Inwardly, however, she felt only boredom and a growing frustration. How could anyone be so utterly devoid of passion, so wrapped up in the trappings of bloodlines and tradition? Alastair was everything she had feared—boring, stuffy, and burdened by his own legacy. If this was what her future held, she knew she would wither away in such a life - but it was a life she supposed. Vera refused to believe that this was all life had to offer her.

  

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^  Look what Lady did  ^

Alastair nodded along, already thinking about something else. They kept walking along the gallery. He told some things about the exhibits here and there. Then the outing drew to an end.

The entourage of servants and relatives filtered out of the museum into the street. The rain had not let up. Quickly, his valet cast a spell above their heads that protected them from the droplets.
As they waited for the carriage to be drawn out for them, Alastair looked up to the dark sky. Then he looked to his side, where Miss Ginevra stood.
Her ivory skin and red hair stood out of the drab pastiche of grey and darker greys around him, like someone had cut her out of someplace else. That was the one thing he had noticed, Alastair supposed. She stood out in her environment. Unlike Dorcas, who had been so pale, willowy, and fragile that her surroundings seemed to overtake her. They had swallowed her up as soon as she entered House Rosier.

Alastair knew that the servants would bring a favorable report to his father. He also knew that Mr. Rosier senior had excellent rapport with Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood. At the age of 23, they must surely want to see her married rather soon.
So maybe this would not take terribly long. Yes, he was quite sure. He would marry Ginevra Blackwood. He wondered then if she stood a chance in the shark-infested waters that were to become her new home.
For an instant, he almost pitied her. Then he thought that he hoped she wouldn't be too clever. That would make it harder to hide from her the life that he really led. But maybe she was.

The carriage arrived, and he helped her inside. He was quiet on the way back to their respective homes, lost in his thoughts.
“Until we meet again, Miss Ginevra”, he bid his goodbyes by taking her hand and bowing, as he had been trained to do. Then he was off.

  

The rain continued to fall in a steady rhythm, a soft patter against the cobblestones that matched the monotony of the afternoon. When they stepped out onto the street, the valet’s charm created a protective shield against the rain, but it did nothing to lift the oppressive atmosphere that surrounded them. Vera glanced at Alastair from the corner of her eye. He was staring up at the sky, lost in his own world. For a moment, she wondered what he was thinking—if he even noticed the world around him, or if he was just going through the motions like a puppet on a string. His father’s string, no doubt. It was almost a look of human vulnerability...almost.

When the carriage arrived, Vera allowed Alastair to help her inside, her hand lightly touching his as she climbed into the plush interior. The ride back was marked by an uncomfortable silence, filled only by the sound of raindrops on the carriage roof - but she didn't fight it - allowing the perception of delicate feminine weariness after an 'exciting' day.

As they reached her home, Vera turned to Alastair, her smile as polished as ever. "Thank you for a most enlightening afternoon, Mr. Rosier. The museum was truly fascinating." When he took her hand to bid his goodbye, bowing in that stiff, practiced manner of his, Vera dipped her head slightly in return. "Until we meet again, Mr. Rosier," she replied, her tone cordial but distant - the perfect blushing debutante

As his carriage pulled away, disappearing into the gloom of the rainy evening, Vera stood for a moment in the doorway, watching him go. This was the path her mother wanted for her, the path society expected her to follow. But Vera couldn’t shake the feeling that if she continued down it, she would lose herself entirely.

With a quiet sigh, she turned and entered her home, the warmth and light of the foyer doing little to dispel the chill in her heart. The door closed softly behind her, sealing her back into a world she wasn’t sure she could escape. But one thing was certain: Vera was not a woman to be easily swallowed up by anyone or anything. And if the Rosiers thought otherwise, they were in for a surprise.

  

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^  Look what Lady did  ^