March 20th, 1892 — Dempsey Estate

'Is Prophyria correct? Christabel demanded, ever a fan of the dramatic entrance, 'You wrote to the Prophet in support of this ridiculous censorship of theirs? her nose was wrinkled as though the Prophet was suggesting that someone would come around daily and shit in the coffee cup of every woman in England.

Ozy's morning, however it had been going was about to be subject to as much annoyance as she could muster in a single conversation. A red mist had truely descended! How dare he! In a family such as theirs, the mother who had raised them - and he thought he had a right to determine what information they had access to! A family of intellectuals, scholars, and writers -women as strong the men and here was the eldest showing that he had learned nothing! He was lucky that there was nothing in easy distance that she was inclined to throw at him.

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Porphyria Dempsey - invite

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   Ozymandias Dempsey

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I am my mother's savage daughter, The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones

I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice
MJ made glory

Ozymandias was at the writing desk handling letters when Christabel arrived like a storm. He knew immediately what she was referring to this time, unlike many of her tirades where he had to do some mental work to catch up. He also knew where she'd come across this bit of information: he'd made a remark about it to Endymion, who had apparently said something to Porphyria who had passed it on to Chris — but for the sake of the moment pretended he didn't. He leaned back in the chair and glanced at her with an affected look of hurt and betrayal.

"Is someone in this house going through my outgoing mail?" he asked melodramatically. "And you all complain of censorship."

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MJ is the light of my life <3

The feigned innocence incensed her, and she bit the inside of her lip, an aggravated growl rumbling in the back of her throat - she was a vision of fury - all decorum and restraint absent from her visage. The insult to her perceived injury were the words that next escaped his mouth and her fists clenched and unclenched furiously.

'No!' and it was her turn to be outraged, 'but much like your letter you're far too quick to open your mouth about things which have absolutely nothing to do with you' she was fighting the urge to stamp her foot like a petulant child. Everything in her wanted to have a physical response to the outrage she felt bodily.

'Your wife deals with blood guts and gore on a daily basis, up to her elbows in the stuff - but you would forbid her to read about it! It was phrased like a question - but there was no answer that would placate her.

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I am my mother's savage daughter, The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones

I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice
MJ made glory

Ozymandias raised his eyebrows at Christabel. "No one had informed me that I held the monopoly shares of the Daily Prophet," he said dryly, in response to her comment implying that the decision had somehow stemmed from him. He'd been just as surprised as everyone else in the household when the first article had arrived on their doorstep. In fact, it was only because of their complaints that he'd realized there was anything different about it at all. Since he could read the entire thing, he'd gotten no small amount of amusement from trying to goad each of them into reading what it looked like to them in order to work out which bits had actually been redacted. Of course, he hadn't read anything for them, but he suspected Don Juan or Endymion would probably have caved with enough badgering long before he did.

"And anyway, it's either all my fault or it has nothing to do with me. You can't have it both ways," he argued, dismissively swishing his quill through the air in her direction.

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MJ is the light of my life <3

'Then all your fault.' Chris hissed her back straight, the river of fire and fury coursing down her spine keeping her stock straight, like a hose under pressure. 'You and men like you.. The urge to throw things at him was returning.


'Does the spell affect you, Manny? she retorted, a rather purposeful nickname given the circumstances. 'NO? Or are you making some pronouncement that we ought to know?' she snapped back at him, 'You ought to keep your opinions to matters that are for your consideration - or should Witch Weekly contact you next time they wish for opinions on the best products for monthlys to include in ones trousseau?'

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I am my mother's savage daughter, The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones

I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice
MJ made glory

Porphyria had had quite enough of Ozymandias for one day already, given his antics earlier about reading (or rather, not reading) the missing pieces of the Prophet for them. Instead, she had begun brainstorming her own response – perhaps she would have to make some performative protest of her next poem, have it published in a special ink? – as well as how best to make the newspaper take account of her ire in the meantime. But, as she wandered down the hallway a while later, she heard raised voices, too vexed to ignore.

Christabel had found a suitable outlet for her rage, then. Porphyria opened the door without warning, swinging it open wide and peering into the room. “Oh, you’re still alive,” she remarked, catching sight of Ozy still upright at the desk. Folding her arms, she leant back against the doorway in overt disappointment. (She had hoped this might be the day Christabel – usually her more restrained counterpart – finally snapped and murdered someone.) “What exactly did you write?” She probed instead.

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

Oz pulled at face at Christabel's little rant. It was hard to say which was more distasteful to him: the implication that he was secretly a woman or the fact that she was bringing monthlies into the conversation. Being spiteful was one thing; he could understand and even respect spite. There was no need to cross the line into vulgarity. He might have said as much, had Porphyria's entrance not interrupted his train of thought.

"Your spy didn't tell you?" he asked dryly. He crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair, as if debating whether or not to tell them. He'd never really intended to hide it, though (if he had, he wouldn't have told Endymion about it). Like many things Ozymandias did in his life it had been primarily performative, and he wasn't going to turn down an audience. "I commended them for creating a new line of work for the literate but otherwise unemployable men of the world, who can now make a living reading the paper for affronted women. Which was quite funny, actually, and you both might've realized it if you didn't take yourselves so seriously."

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MJ is the light of my life <3

Referring to her a as a spy caused her heckles to raise even further, and she stuck out her chin in defiant annoyance. She was well aware of her own artistic anxiety in relation to her older sister, what of her siblings knew this she wasn't sure but Ozy's comment wasn't sitting well.

She didn't believe for a second that his letter hadn't be something at the peak of shit stirring. 'If you had a modicum of sense or good breeding you would write again and tell them to stop this foolishness. Out of respect for your sisters, your wife, or even your mother.' she seethed.

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I am my mother's savage daughter, The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones

I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice
MJ made glory

Phyri couldn’t help but scoff at that explanation. Chris had already lambasted him for sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong and making everything about himself and his own opinions, but here – he really had made everything all about him. “Ozy, care about other people?” Porphyria directed at her sister, tone heavily laced with derision; she was not very interested in giving Ozymandias any more room to blow out any more of his staple hot air. And doing anything out of sense or respect? “That’s asking far too much of our dear ineffectual brother,” she drawled, trying to channel the thought to Christabel that lecturing won’t work on him, so you should probably try violence in only a silent look. “But I’m pleased he’s at last found a career he actually has the talent for.”

(Smugness must be getting the better of him – ‘literate but otherwise unemployable’? Ozy had practically handed them that opening on a silver platter. If that wasn’t their eldest brother all over.)

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   Ozymandias Dempsey

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

Porphyria's cool disdain did something to temper Chris's visceral rage, and her desire to throw things abated somewhat in the face of her sisters scathing witicism. They two lived in very different emotional places - sometimes Belle thought that her own closest natural match in nature was a stormy sea - or a raging river. It was clear when you looked at the surface that danger lay beyond because the rage and discontent was all at the surface, and if you got deep enough you wouldn't be affected by the swells on the surface. Porphyria on the other hand was like the same river but frozen. The surface was cool, almost implacable at times - at least to Chris, but if that surface cracked the speed of the river beneath - the wit and sharp tongue would cut anyone to the quick, pull you under and you'd be lost forever.

And the ice under Ozy's foot had already begun to creak and crack.

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   Porphyria Dempsey

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I am my mother's savage daughter, The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones

I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice
MJ made glory

Ozy rolled his eyes at Porphyria (and if her comment stung more than it should have, at least he wasn't going to show it). "I'd have thought an Irish poet would be able to identify satire." Honestly, the way Chris and Phyri were acting at the moment was more of an argument for the paper's latest decision than anything else. Oz hadn't actually been for it, but he had to admit that they were both being ridiculous in their reactions. Maybe the chief editor of the Prophet had a pair of sisters like this at home, and he was tired of them flying into a blind rage at every little thing they saw in the paper — or worse, a fit of activism. As though him writing to the paper and 'telling them to stop this foolishness' as Christabel had demanded would have any impact whatsoever. The Dempsey women were intelligent, as a rule, but Merlin — even they could be rather naive.

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MJ is the light of my life <3

The problem with having siblings was that they knew your weaknesses too well. Phyri scrunched up her face at Oz’s dig about satire, and (since her sister didn’t look like she was going to beat him over the head to make him shut up for a second), picked up the nearest book and lobbed it at their brother’s head.

And then, as she glanced over at the writing-desk and the inkpots, an idea struck her and her fury dissolved.

It might have been better had it struck her before she had struck Ozy, potentially, but Porphyria still clutched at Christabel’s arm with sudden urgency. “Bel, do you know of any inventors?” She asked, aware of the elephant in the room and hoping, faintly, that Ozymandias might be dazed enough to forgive them this quarrel and offer his services. “Because perhaps there’s a way to make a reverse of the ink, make one that men can’t read...” she suggested, her tone musing. She and Christabel were writers both, and could surely use that to their advantage in this war. For one thing Phyri knew – at least from her experience of men – was that they could not usually stand to be left out in the cold or out of the joke.

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

Oz supposed he should have been expecting violence at some point, but he'd been diverting too much of his energy towards trying to look unaffected and had subsequently let his guard down. The book hit him on the left side of his brow despite his belated attempt to duck. He swore and pressed a hand to his head. The book fell at his feet and he gave it a solid kick without looking to see which one it was. Hopefully one of Phyri's favorites — having the cover dented and a page or two torn would be fitting punishment for lobbing it at him in a fit of passion. (Honestly, did either of them think they were making a good argument for women being quite rational and well-composed, and therefore deserving of the full brunt of the news in the Prophet? They were lucky it was only him to bear witness).

His sister's question about inventors made him wince more than the impact of the book had. Now they were just trying to be hurtful, surely. Oh, but that's obvious! he thought in frustration. He might have said as much had his head not been throbbing from the book his sister had just thrown at his head. Ink that could only be read by one party was a well-established spell, and variants on it were child's play. Infusing it into the ink wouldn't have been much more of a leap... but no one had asked, and he was sure they were baiting him, anyway.

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MJ is the light of my life <3

Christabel's eyebrow arched, at Ozy's barb, and she had been about to throw back that for satire to be true satire it needed to be good and recognisable satire. The fact that his personality had drifted so far into capricious edgelord it was hard to say where his personality began and his mockery of the same ended. But alas she missed her repost and her siblings tittered onwards.

'I'm sure there are,', she acknowledged and a smirk painted her lips, 'Although finding an inventor clever enough to do it could be a much tougher job.' the last in a tone that stressed the magnitude of the search it might be. 'I know a few people in London that might know people clever enough to pull it off'

'Perhaps we might also commission them to find a potion that allows women to circumvent the effects of that blasted ink.' she added, her line of vision set to her sister and not their elder sibling.

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I am my mother's savage daughter, The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones

I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice
MJ made glory

She winced as he kicked the book away with the same depth of feeling as if he’d kicked her.

But Christabel was as good a co-conspirator as anyone could be – cleverness, Phyri thought, was a nice touch. And the next notion, a way to circumvent or nullify the discretionary ink itself would be eminently useful, too – “That’s an idea,” she echoed, and snuck Ozymandias a careful sidelong look, wondering whether the book-hurling had made too much of a dent in his pride. She wasn’t sure, but. “Oi, Oz,” she remarked, repeating none of what Bel had said, since he was near enough to have been listening to every word – and not asking him to help them, either, or at least not directly. (Although helping them, after making a mockery of the whole thing, was really the least he should do.) “You think that’s something that could be done?”

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

An inventor clever enough! If that wasn't salt on the wound, nothing was. They were certainly baiting him, but the trouble was they knew him too well, and it was working. He had half a mind to rush down to his workshop that minute and brew them up a workaround for the enchanted ink, just to prove that he could do it. He'd need runespore fang for it, though, and he didn't think he had any on hand. Was spite a powerful enough motivator to get him shopping?

Before he could determine the answer, Phyr had called him back into the conversation (how gracious of them to acknowledge him once again, he thought dryly). He rolled his eyes in return. "Why ask me? Chris knows 'a few people' who might be acquainted with someone clever." The implication that Christabel and all of her immediate circle were the opposite of clever had been right there after her comment; his reply felt a bit like low-hanging fruit, but it was better than giving Phyri an actual answer.

If they wanted his help, Oz determined, they could bloody well ask for it.

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MJ is the light of my life <3