A Taste of Something

by Maiden of the Moon

"Did you know that Alice's Wonderland was not meant to represent some fantasy realm? Rather, it is what a certain Reverend assumed our world would devolve into should unreal mathematics be accepted. Yet, those abstract formulas have become facts, and life has not gone topsy-turvy. Which means...?" "It means we've been in Wonderland all along." [Sequel to "Butterfly Weed"]

1. I

Disclaimer: I own nada.

Author's Note: Oh dear God, what am I doing. What am I doing. I don't write chapter fics anymore. What is this. Oh, no. Oh, crap. Dammit, Dangersocks! Damn you and your being ridiculously inspiring—!

Warnings: Part of the "Resurrection Lily" series; takes place immediately after "Butterfly Weed." That makes this a Victorian era monster-hunting AU. Woo. Earl pining for Cecil pining for Carlos (pining for reason). Tarot cards and flowers and gems and religious stuff. Technically a mystery…? But a bad one. Focuses way more on character development. Alludes to other RL fics, specifically "Butterfly Weed" and the "Fortune Favours" stories, which can be read on AO3. Capitalization abuse. Dangersocks was kind enough to beta this piece for me; any errors that remain are the results of my own nonexistent editing abilities.

XXX

A Taste of Something

X

I

"On that day I swore to them that I would bring them out of the land of Egypt and into a land that I had searched out for them, a land flowing with milk and honey, the most glorious of all lands."

-Ezekiel 20:6

XXX

Carlos believes firmly in black and white.

He believes in the quantifiable. He believes in truth. He believes in science, which has laws and rules and theories that rigorous experimentation can either prove or refute. He enjoys arithmetic, respects its discipline; even inebriated, he would never be so foolish as to claim that one and one made anything other than two. That's what makes mathematics so elegant. There is structure to it. There is a structure to everything— a hierarchy to the natural world, just as in polite society— and Carlos sees it all as it is meant to be seen: with brightness, clarity. There is black and white. There is day and night. There is right and wrong and he knows the difference, knows how to test for it, even when others falter and attribute variables to bogymen and ghosts.

And that is where the difference lies, ultimately, between Carlos and others of his ilk: when bogymen and ghosts crop up on the data spreads of his peers, they recalibrate, assuming a mistake had been made along the way. Carlos, on the other hand, continues testing the bogymen and ghosts.

For while Carlos is a firm believer in black and white, he realizes humanity lives in grayscale. Day is never breached without the haze of sunrise, and night can only come after phasing through twilight. Nature is perfect, but those living within it are not; there are illogicalities, mutations, bizarre genetic throwbacks. One and one make two, of course, but in a few choice circumstances, also eleven. And because he acknowledges this, the flexibility of the three-dimensional world when taken off of a two-dimensional sheet of paper, he's seen his work systematically rebuked by the majority of the scientific community. Tramping home from yet another failed debate at a local university, Carlos feels keenly the thorns of his peers' contempt, lingering beneath his skin and steadily bleeding his spirit from him. Derision has begun to weigh heavily upon him.

"Are you all right?"

It is not alone in doing so. Either that, or an emotional concept has suddenly gained physical mass. But even in the foggy fugue of a pulsing migraine, Carlos shoves that thought aside, branding it ridiculous. Something had sent him crashing to the concrete, winded and wheezing, but as whatever-it-was had manifested nowhere near his heart, it seemed a bit of a stretch to be blaming personified distress. As if that wouldn't have been a stretch, regardless.

But then, any situation that ended with Carlos sprawled on his back, gawping up at the sky and a baby-faced stranger would've been seen as a stretch a mere minute ago.

"Oh dear, oh dear," his assailant is saying, wringing gloved hands and swallowing hard. Comically hard. The serpentine surge of the stranger's esophagus continues down his spine in a sinuous wave; warmth washes through Carlos, and not exclusively from additional body heat. The pink tinge of surprise and unanticipated closeness becomes ruddy as the other's body rolls against his own. It's absolutely obscene. "I am ever so sorry, my Good Man! I had no idea there was anyone below! Truly, I didn't!"

Truly, he hadn't. The young man seems on the brink of hyperventilating due to guilt alone; he is panting, and heaving, and flushed, his nerves shuddering down his limbs in a fashion that only exacerbates the situation. Or, at least, does the opposite of help. The fussing stranger isn't sure how to help, though he clearly wants to: he flinches, then reaches out, then winces back again in a series of gestures that have him unintentionally grinding down against the crest of Carlos' hips. Settling, lifting, settling, shifting. Carlos groans, head throbbing as he throws it back in pain. Definitely pain. Mostly pain. In his head. Only there.

"Goodness—is your brain swelling? Is the ache intensifying?" the young man demands, breathlessly quick. Leather-sheathed fingers poke delicately at Carlos' temples, at his cheeks, contorting his features in much the same way as the stranger's own expression contorts. "Bother, but I fear that further prodding will only serve to worsen your condition! To what forest has my Elf absconded with his medicines? Oh, but this is terrible, absolutely dreadful! I offer you my sincerest and most humble apologies, dear Sir! Can you stand?!"

The earnestness of his concern is very flattering. Still, it is not enough to spare him an unbelievably droll glare.

"Not with… you on top of me," the sullen Scientist rasps, in a tone so remarkably dry that it seems to suck moisture from the surrounding air. Literally. At least, that's the phenomenon Carlos chooses to blame for the current of static shocks presently using his veins as conduits. Sparks snap and crackle behind his eyes, inside his stomach, beneath every point of contact. "Do you mind…?"

"Oh. Oh! Yes!" the stranger chirps, shrill and eager as a chick. Birdbrained, too, apparently; it takes a moment, but then— as realization dawns across his face in pasty shades of puce— he scrambles both to correct himself, and to flee the perch of Carlos' pelvis. He appears mortified, now. Blushing, the young man stares at anything other than the Scientist he'd unwittingly molested, very pointedly Not Noticing the single eyebrow lifted in his direction. "I beg your pardon, goodness, I mean—no! No, I do not mind. And yes, I'll get up. That is, I got up. Which you are aware of, seeing as— Um. My sincerest apologies," he finishes feebly, features scarlet in his sheepishness. Though Carlos is the one who'd just become acquainted with the concrete, his inadvertent attacker looks as if he'd like to make best friends with it. He glances furtively at the brick wall of the adjacent alley, and Carlos can practically feel his desire to embrace it. With his forehead. Repeatedly.

But there is a time, and there is a place, and here and now is not it. In lieu of self-mutilation, the stranger extends a bejeweled hand, wordlessly offering to help his victim sit up. With some effort, Carlos manages to artlessly drop his palm atop the other's; he pretends not to hear the reverent gasp when he does so. Or feel a fizz of agreeable electricity. In fairness, most of his limbs feel like cushions for pins and needles. Lumps and bruises are beginning to form beneath torn sheaths of skin… When he breathes too deeply, an unwelcome sharpness digs into his lungs.

Hm. That can't be good.

"Er. Is there…" The young man before him hesitates, gracefully crouched. Poised. Such aplomb seems at odds with the shrill of his voice, Carlos observes, the thought striking him at nearly the same instant as it does the stranger. How embarrassing. Flustered for new reasons, now, in addition to the old, said stranger colors once more, touching his throat. Coughs delicately. Tries again, with less strain, "That is— oh, this is terribly presumptuous of me, but… Might I take you somewhere?"

He pauses, courteous, awaiting a response. Any sort of response. But Carlos, slack-jawed and gaping, is no longer listening. He is hearing, certainly— cleared of its anxious squeak, the other's voice ribbons at a lower, more pleasing frequency, one that cottons ringing ear and leaves a mind cozily fuzzy—but he isn't listening. Instead, he is feeling. And not feeling. The velvet baritone of the stranger's hypnotic lilt drains the anxiety out of the battered Scientist, sluiced humors spiraling down the hollow of his spine as if it were a drain. Adrenaline follows in kind, its ice turned to slush and flushed away. But without that, he's…

Suddenly Carlos is feeling… feeling a bit…

Something has coiled around his sleeve. The additional pressure registers distantly, as does the way that leverage hefts at him; there are two strangers looming above him, now, overlain against each other and different shades of insubstantial gray. That seems odd. The Scientist tries to blink, to clear his vision, but one of his lids stutters, stuck. That voice prattles on.

"Uh, not out, of course. My, that really would be presumptuous! Especially now, when you are in such a state. Which is not to say you no longer look presentable, of course! Merely that, well, after sustaining injuries, resting is of great benefit to the human body, so…"

That voice. Where had he…? Where—? Oh, something is niggling at him. Something is eating holes into Carlos' thoughts, nibbling away at the tissues of his brain as a maggot would a corpse. The mental image sticks with him—grave soil sloughing off of bone, flowers blooming from exposed marrow— and it makes his head spin. Everything spins, in smears and blurred lines: maypole garlands twirling around an immaterial focal point. His focus is groundless, yet sound. No—it is sound. As he is now, dreamily disconnected from both sense and senses, the sound of that voice fills him with…

"So. What I meant to say was that my driver is nearby, my Lord, and I would be more than willing to escort you wherever it is that y— Sir?!"

Carlos believes firmly in black and white. So it almost seems poetic, really, that the last thing to register before his world goes dark are the widest, palest eyes that he has ever seen.

X

"—nd you are quite sure that none of his teeth have been broken? Lost? Chipped?"

He wonders—vaguely, madly, and only for a moment—if he might be swimming.

"Marquis, Sir, as I have told you multiple times now, I am not a dentist. However, I can assure you with all manner of professional certainty that the only visible damage done to his cranial area was a rather large bump left upon the back of it. Though that does seem to have induced a concussion."

He feels like he is swimming, anyway. Somewhere deep, but warm. His thoughts are ripples across that mysterious pool, shallow and far-reaching and quick to fade to nothingness. His body—as he becomes aware of it, knees and toes and elbows and fingertips— is heavy. Supine. The Scientist wonders if he might be floating just-beneath the filmy surface, where voices are audible but distorted. He recognizes one, at least, wobbling high and low as waves of consciousness roll over him. There are bubbles in his ears, stretched excruciatingly large against the drums. Threatening to pop.

"Excellent. That is very good to hear."

The blackness is flowing in and away, ebbing like low tide. The sudden rush of its absence leaves Carlos feeling cold, oversensitive. But very much awake.

"I beg to differ, my Lord. A concussion is hardly—"

"Ah!" Carlos—with the groggy groan of a man battling oblivion— feels the teeth of previous discussion clench within his jaw, the whole of his body wincing as the dulcet tones of a nearby speaker abruptly become much less dulcet. Much more loud. With some effort, the Scientist manages to pry apart his gummy lashes, just in time to catch the stranger from before scooting himself, and the straight-backed chair he'd been sitting in, rather slovenly forward. The legs of the seat show some resistance against the hardwood floor; Carlos flinches again at the oaken squeal of it. "You're awake! Thank Heavens for that. And thank you, Doctor Thurgood," he adds, addressing the white swathed woman hovering behind him. "Your expertise is always appreciated. That will be sufficient for now."

Said woman—tall, with hawk-like features and an equable demeanor— gives a crisp nod of understanding, intelligent eyes flicking briefly between the two men. "Very good, Sir," she drawls. "I shall take my leave, then."

She's barely finished speaking before she moves to do exactly that. Said movement begins with one of the doctor's hands making a grab for the ribbon of her pinafore; it unravels with a hiss and a billow like steam as she and her skirts neatly twirl. The momentum of the spin has the apron sliding off her slender body, folding itself over the crook of her arm with a subtle snap of crisp laundry. With a fluidity that Carlos cannot help but envy, she simultaneously lobs a stethoscope and a clipboard into the mouth of a nearby medical bag. The latter angles itself in such a way that the top of the case closes behind it; she scoops the satchel up without missing a beat, and whisks out the door as Big Ben strikes five.

Carlos blinks. Wonders if he might still be dreaming. Opens his mouth to comment on the most ridiculously stylish exit he's ever witnessed… But instead hears himself observing, "This is my bedroom."

And indeed, it is. It's his townhouse bedroom. Not the master bedroom—the luxurious chamber of gold inlay and mahogany furnishings that, by every account, a Baron of his stature should be using as his sleeping quarters. No, it's the room that he prefers to use—smaller, simpler, with cream colored walls and a window seat overlooking the greater part of London's downtown. He is cradled by the indentation that his back had long-since worn into the mattress, covered by a blanket dotted in minute constellations of stains that he can name. There is a comfort in this discovery.

There is also fear, like the chill of ice melting down his back, because Carlos can think of no reason at all that the stranger before him should have known this. Any of this. Not where he lives, and certainly not where he sleeps. And how on earth had he charmed his way past the Baron's staff…?

The Marquis—yes, that's right, he'd heard the Doctor refer to him as such— at least has the good grace to look embarrassed. "Yes, well," he hedges, coughing daintily as he readjusts himself atop Carlos' wingchair. Carlos wishes he would stop fidgeting. It's difficult enough to focus as it is. "Please pardon the intrusion. It was ever so forward to invite myself in, I know, but… Personally, I loathe hospitals— simply cannot stand them—, and I suppose I suffered the assumption that you, too, would prefer to be taken home."

His long fingers slide and slat against one another, building shifting foundations of nervousness. Carlos watches the gem upon his pinkie gleam for a spell—a rusty burst of color that he cannot help thinking would be better suited to a brooch— before realizing dreamily that his only clear memory of this man is of his hands. Hand. The one that had reached for him. The shadow of the sun (and the aftermath of physical trauma) had fuzzed the edges of any other features he'd observed before…

With a bit of effort (and more than a bit of pain), Carlos twists his head to lookat his would-be aggressor. No, not to look— to see. Tact is too refined a tool for one as injured as the Scientist to be expected to employ; the Marquis blushes a splotchy magenta under the weight of such an obvious inspection. The faceted hue is a compliment to the milky expanse of his smooth, clear skin, but clashes garishly with the tanzanite of his cravat. His waistcoat is of a similar shade, a shimmery lilac emblazoned with silver; his trousers and tailcoats are a plum so deep they nearly look black. Carlos would be hard-pressed to say he'd ever seen someone so… violet before. The odd purple aura of his attire reflects oddly in his bespectacled eyes, and for a moment Carlos thinks they, too, might be some tint of lavender— but no. No, they are, in fact, so ghostly blue that the Baron would've had difficulty separating the irises from the whites had it not been for a clear perimeter of… a color. He squints, tipping his head as he tries to determine which. But at some angles, the pale band is aquamarine; others, sea foam green, or sunrise umber, or sweetpea pink. What strange effect is this? Not albinism, as he had presumed previously. Certainly not. But then what…?

"Fascinating…" Carlos hears himself mumble, craning his neck this way and that, trying to catch as many tinctures as he can. Forward and back and forward again, and it's only when the flesh around those wide, wide eyes starts to smolder a distracting shade of mauve that the Scientist realizes his nose is a hair away from touching the Marquis'. It is his turn to blush, then; he scrambles away as quickly as his pounding headache will allow. "Oh, er. M-my apologies," he grunts, horrified by his own absurdity. He's not particularly pleased with his awkward crab-walk, either.

The Marquis, ram-rod straight and temporarily petrified by his peer's proximity, responds with a wet choking noise. It sounds forgiving enough. Embarrassed enough. And there is some solace, Carlos imagines, in the overwhelming and thoroughly obvious sense of self-mortification that they seem to share. "Think… think nothing of it," the other eventually manages, forcing himself to relax—if but a fraction— against the velvet of the chair. The tips of his ears are blistering beneath the ash blonde of his tresses. Carlos can nearly feel the heat radiating off of them. Undoubtedly his guest can, as well, what with how he is rubbing at his cheeks, forehead. The Baron is kind enough to attribute a series of small squeaks to the leather of those gloves. "Such intensive scrutiny was undoubtedly the mark of Science being performed, correct? I am honored that a Scientist of your intellect and pedigree would consider me a subject worth observing."

"Oh, I am hardly—" No, wait. Wait a moment. The knee-jerk refutation is quick to collide with the wall of Carlos' frown, the wreckage of which is swept swiftly away. The settling dust—of assumptions and hypotheses— allow a few previous concerns to crawl back to the forefront of his mind. "How do you know that?" he queries, slinking warily into the down of stacked pillows. The stare he levels the Marquis is just this side of suspicious. "That I am a Scientist, I mean. I suppose I am a member of the gentry, but hardly worthy of note, let alone fame. It is not as if my profession or housing is common knowledge to the vast majority of London. And we have never before met, you and I. Not that I… remember, anyway," he trails off vaguely, kneading too at the crease in his brow. "So— so where might you have procured such knowledge, Sir?"

There is a thorn of accusation in the final demand, and the Marquis flinches at the prick of it. His young face—he could hardly be older than 20— looks all the more infantile in his upset. "Oh my. This whole ordeal reflects so poorly upon my person, doesn't it?" he bemoans, woeful, his every syllable languid with moroseness. A sigh falls from parted lips; a thumb and forefinger brace more firmly against his puckered temple. He adjusts once more, and Carlos finally notes the faintest echo of chimes… Belatedly, he spots the charms and chain of an ornamental fob, looped properly through the other's waistcoat but with no watch to hold it in place. Another strange detail about the very strange man. "You deserve answers to all of those questions, of course. Those questions, and many more. However, as much as it grieves me to risk your continued distrust, I am afraid that, at present, I can say no more to you than this: you and your military cemetery teeth are in grave danger, Carlos the Scientist."

"I… huh?" His military what?

The Marquis doesn't seem to hear his confusion. Or, if he does, he chalks it up to earlier concerns. "Let us speak in more detail soon, at some safer location," he continues simply, clambering to his feet with a sudden fleetness. With purpose, and import, like a man distracted. Carlos does see him throw a few surreptitious glances in the direction of the window, despite the evident pains he puts into being discreet; unfortunately, the avian cry that had come from beyond the glass does not help with matters of inconspicuousness. The Baron wonders dimly about the stone-set line of his guest's jaw, and the severity of his sidelong gaze. Though the look is not being directed at him— far from it; the Marquis is smiling cheerfully when he once more meets Carlos' eyes— the flicker of such an austere expression upon that face is enough to incite shivers. Then again, Carlos finds that the Marquis' grin incites the same. Full-bodied judders: the sort that somersault down a spine and settle heavily in the stomach. The dizzying kind. (His concussion must be severe, indeed.) "Once more, I beg your pardon for today's countless offenses. Once you are up to dick, I will, of course, make things up to you."

"You really needn't—" Carlos begins, almost frantic, as the thought of seeing this man— this apparent stalker—, again sets his heart racing. But the protest ends before it's properly begun; the Marquis, somewhere near the door, has turned and grinned, tipping a top hat that the Baron had previously failed to notice.

"Oh, but it is not about need, dear Carlos," he is swift to insist, in tendrils of honeyed words that twine thickly around him, around each other. Each syllable is warm and enveloping, like the cloak that Carlos had also somehow missed. Though, he could swear that his guest seems surprised by it, too, judging from the twitch of his nostrils. Or maybe not surprised. Maybe shocked, in that way that most are upon finding something they'd forgotten— and in their fist, of all places. But if this is meant to epitomize some eccentricity of character, the warning is short-lived; with a flick, the cape flares outward, blanketing the Marquis' slender shoulders with a grace that wipes all other observations from the Baron's mind. The trick (if that is what it is) makes him think of magicians. Magicians, upside down and staring. A painted face on bewitching cards. But— why? And where had— and, and how had— and did he just call him—? "No, it is most certainly not about need. It is about desire."

…Oh. For an instant, a beautiful instant, everything both around and inside of the Baron grinds to a stop. Carlos refuses to acknowledge the way that his mouth dries. Words, in kind, refuse to cooperate with his tongue. Oh.

"Well, then." Those dark leather gloves disappear for a moment within the folds of the wine-red cape; a heartbeat later, and they reemerge with a flick of the wrist. A whisper of aerodynamic parchment. In a gesture as nonchalantly extraordinary as that Doctor's departure, the Marquis sends an elongated calling card soaring and spinning with remarkable ease. It cuts through the air between them without resistance, only to land with an artful twirl upon the bed stand. One, two, three; it pirouettes to a tidy halt just before Carlos' hand, its ornate design reminiscent of stained glass and tarot.

Cecil Palmer, Marquis of Night Vale, loops of elegant calligraphy read. The Community Radio.

Carlos' head throbs.

"I shall anticipate the gift of yours when I have earned your trust," the Marquis— Cecil, Cecil, why is that name so familiar— purrs beside the jamb, his winking teeth somehow whiter than his eyes. It's disconcerting. All of this is so… "I do hope to see you presently."

The Baron can manage no more than a grunt. And then his guest is gone.

X

The world beyond the Scientist's painted door is an eclectic mess of bodies, noises, smells. Contained chaos. Carriages covered in salt-crusted paint clatter down the cobbled alleys, their spoke wheels turning in time to the rhythmic clop of horse hooves. Dresses susurrate, swallowtails sway. Fashionable heels and capped canes beat against the sidewalk, decorative spatterdashes both dashing and spattering the mist that rises in plumes from tarnished gutters. The burst tendrils of each hoary spray are quick to meld into the gray of the brisk air; high above, the smokestacks and chimneys of the Queen's empire belch similar blackness into the sky, as if to summon an early midnight. The rise and fall of a hundred different voices—canting high, dropping low, guttural and shrill and sweet and sour—only serve to further augment the illusion of witchcraft.

The collective drone melds in the shell of his ears, becoming a wordless, ceremonial chant. The daily rituals of London's humans.

One of whom is standing very, very close beside him.

"Impatience is dangerous, my bricky boy. Even salamanders will burn upon entering embers too quickly," Cecil says in way of greeting, his back to the streets and his hand still upon the glossy knob. The lightness of his tone hints at a rotting displeasure behind his mask of measured apathy; it is a style of poised pouting that his companion has had much experience dealing with. The Marquis' features may be carefully composed, but for all that the expression hides, he might as well have been openly sulking. "There was no need to have Angbjorn rush matters. I'd have taken my leave shortly, without you causing a fuss."

His protest is answered by a cynical snort. It communicates all that it needs to and more. Far more than is necessary, really. Cecil, justifiably affronted by the insult of it all, huffs in soft outrage and turns disbelieving eyes upon his associate, his features pinched in disbelief and hurt. Rude!Such rudeness would be enough to have any normal man seeing red. But then, the Marquis would have been seeing red, regardless: the one who looms upon his right is cloaked in swaths of Scout scarlet, dark as a stain of fresh blood. Beneath the shadow of a lifted hood, his flaming hair is equally similar in shade—and a near-perfect match for the burgundy flecks in his unblinking auburn eyes.

"You doubt my words?" Cecil laments, nearly as animated as his friend is deadpanned. "Young Master Harlan, your distrust wounds me in ways that little else can. After all we have together chased, all we have together suffered, I would have hoped you might realize how I prioritize our efforts, despite claims to the contrary. I do what I must for the sake of the chase. We are ever-busy! To humor distractions of any sort would put us at— at undue risk, not to mention… that… it got away, didn't it," the Marquis finishes lamely, guiltily, as Earl continues to stare. To do anything else would be superfluous, at this point. Or, worse still, would cause a reaction that might wear dull the edge of Earl's reasonable irritation. He has every right to be annoyed. He has every right to feel this way for at least a good hour.

But then Cecil's shame manifests upon his face, his martyred features doleful above the lip he ruefully bites. "Earl, oh— nothing is going right today, is it? I owe you my most heartfelt apologies, child. My error was uncharacteristically grievous. I thought— well, honestly, I've found it a bit… a bit difficult to think, lately, I just—" The Marquis scowls in response to his own failings, rubbing at his temple as if to massage thoughts back into their proper places. It does not appear to have the desired effect. Neither does palming his furrowed brow, or clenching his trembling fingers. Sensing the futility of it all, he drops his head, his hands, and his voice, all at once: "Blast! This is entirely my fault. My head is a mess. That is no excuse. I should have used—"

"No, Mister Palmer, you shouldn't have. You will wear yourself out," Earl interrupts, in a tone that leaves no room for discussion. There are a few gaps for frustrated sighs to sneak in, though.

"It has never switched victims mid-hunt before! If I had realized—That is, ever since I saw him, I suspected that… But…" Cecil hesitates, grimaces, on the verge of some great confession… Only to cut himself off with a dismissive shake of his head, searching for some other pronouncement to tie to the dangling end of his preceding thought. He finds it swaddled around his person, and eagerly brings Earl's attention to its drape. "But—but look! I did have the presence of mind to remember my cloak! I fastened the pins and everything. So, I— um… hmm. That is even less impressive said aloud than it'd been in my head," the shorter man admits, his askance glance touched by a flustered brand of embarrassment. "Curses. Well, if there will be no salvaging this situation, I can at least grant us another go. If you would, please, give me a moment. I might yet be able to locate it again…"

With a flail of lanky limbs, the Marquis begins to rifle about beneath the folds of his cape, elbows and forearms creating temporary tents in the heavy fabric. He mutters something inaudible. It does not sound particularly gentlemanly. Fortunately, three ticks of Earl's pocket watch mask the majority of any crude comments, and that time is all Cecil needs for his hunt to prove fruitful. Triumphant, he breaks free of his foppery's strictures, thrusting his palm into the cold of the afternoon. Beneath the gauzy rays of a weak winter sun, gloved fingers glisten as if dipped in spilt oil; puddled beneath those tendrils lie a collection of polished runes, carved from bloodstone and imbued with archaic symbols. The rust-splotched surfaces of the stones shine a wet, dark jade.

Cecil takes a deep breath. He moves to toss them.

"Psalmus David Dominus reget me et nihi—"

A callused hand falls heavily atop his smaller fist, curling around it and applying a pointed squeeze. Faintly startled, the Marquis glances back at the face beneath the lifted cowl; peeks, really, like a timid child searching out tells of forgiveness on the features of an irked parent. Earl, for his part, looks tired beneath his freckles. Not so much from any recent physical exertion, but from his flinty exterior being systematically worn, frayed to the exposed tips of his nerves. It is the emotional weariness known to all caretakers.

"Are you all right, Cecil?" Earl sighs, inwardly cursing himself, and adding that justified hour of irritation to the rest of the lost time he keeps mental tabs on. Once denoted, he allows his shoulders to sag; the left droops more fully when his companion lowers his arm to his side, but even then, Earl makes no move to remove his hand. Cecil makes no move to step out of the embrace. He does, however, cock his head, faintly confused.

"But of course. Whyever wouldn't I be? The headache is manageable, I assure you."

"I was referring more to the fact that you leapt out of a two-story building," Earl retorts evenly, and with only a hint of his earlier dryness. He lifts an eyebrow, as if to further prompt the Marquis' memory. And ah, yes, there we go: Cecil's malleable mouth—formerly pressed into a line of bewilderment— falls open with a hum of acknowledgement, followed by an airy laugh. He rolls his eyes at the other's concern. Earl, in turn, rolls his eyes at Cecil's nonchalance.

"Oh, please. As if something so trivial would hurt me," the Marquis scoffs, a sort of self-depreciating amusement quirking the edges of his smile. The hand that isn't full of runes wraps around to stroke the camber of his friend's forearm, wiry and strong beneath the fabric of his traveling cape. The affectionate touch brings them closer; Cecil's smile is wider than the distance between their bodies. "You needn't fret on my behalf, my possessive Elfin Knight."

That meager distance is filled by a squeak. If possible, the other's affectionate teasing adds a bit more red to the flame-colored Scout, warm fires struck and left to smolder atop the rounded tips of his ears. "In public, I would almost prefer quips inspired by my name," he half-heartedly grouses, extracting himself from his companion's hold. As it always does in the wake of a fluster, the British veneer of his voice gains an unseemly chink; Earl clears away the accent of his Scottish ancestors with a cough, leveling the innocuous Cecil a look. Cecil merely grins. Boyish. Rather asking to be smacked. Cheeky bastard. "Never mind. If you are well, my Lord, we should return to the base. Regroup. Exchange new information."

"New information?"

With as much elegance as it is possible to exude when hopping flat-footed off of a tiered step, Cecil chases the sweep of Earl's vibrant cloak; the taller man had been swift to spin away and start picking through the crowd in the wake of previous humiliation, and that is as good a cue to follow as any. The Marquis' graceful gait soon has him side by side with the loping Scout, despite an easier pace and shorter legs. But while his feet work fast, his aching mind is a touch slower. He ponders over what clue he may have missed until they turn the corner onto the thoroughfare, and Earl gestures with a tip of his head at the nearest newspaper boy. The near-skeletal child is perched atop a wooden crate and shouting above the bustling throng, his verbal pitches oddly tangible in the biting chill of an approaching twilight.

"Three o' the missing found dead in Epping! Another girl gone!" barks the boy, his tiny face masked by the pluming clouds of his breath. His right arm flails, holding aloft a folded tabloid; the headline, black and bold, is legible even from a distance. The Hansel and Gretel Murders. Beneath the banner, details about the most recent string of mysterious disappearances dot the page like a bread crumbs. "The corpses' jaws were broken n' their teeth taken!"

Cecil blinks. His expression is artfully bland as he regards the curious mob.

"Ah." That explains a good deal already.

"We've seen no changelings," Earl further elucidates, discretely sidestepping a gathering of morbid citizens. Their shoving elbows miss the Scout completely, but their rambunctiousness does manage to overwhelm his commentary: his voice is rendered wholly inaudible as those around him make excited outbursts, toss their shillings, and rustle procured papers. The furor is as deafening as it is irritating, but it is ultimately no matter; Earl continues speaking, and Cecil hears him. They are away from the racket soon enough. "The stolen peoples were returned. Returned dead, perhaps, but returned rather than replaced. That is not the way of Fairyfolk."

The Marquis nods his agreement at this, somber. Too somber. "The Young Master would know," he then intones, with an earnestness and gravity which makes it quite clear that Earl is being provoked. It is a familiar jest, and usually enough to comfort; today, Cecil's efforts are rewarded by no more than a sidelong stare. It is no use. Earl is worried—about the Marquis, about London—and no amount of banter will serve to reassure him. Well, it was worth a shot. The shorter man surrenders the cause for the present, prompting further details with a nod of genuine solemnity. The Scout complies.

"From what my boys have told me of the remains, all of the teeth have been rightly ripped from the victims' mouths, down to and including the roots. Even teeth that had yet to breach the gums were stolen, in certain cases. A tooth fairy would've been much more selective. More meticulous. Certainly more careful. Moreover, they'd have had no reason to violate their victim's tongue."

"So our perpetrator's pattern defies previous presumptions," Cecil murmurs to himself, pensive behind the crystal of his spectacles. He hums, a deep sound: it resonates through his chest and into the earth, until Earl swears he can feel the tenor of it oscillating up and through his legs. His ligaments vibrate like violin strings; his tendons sing. "It could be less than supernatural, then. A common criminal stealing teeth for the black market, for instance. They could be cutting out tongues on the slim chance that their victims make an escape, or refuse the comforts of death. Or it might be a young witch, hoping to plant curses. Or nab supper," he adds, droll, as they pass another seemingly faceless child selling dailies on the main street. 'Hansel and Gretel' indeed. Cecil tuts, unimpressed.

The Scout, meanwhile, suckles briefly at his own teeth, lips pursed and tongue set firmly against his cheek. He nods. Hesitates. "Those are both possible," he then hedges, flicking a cautious gaze in his companion's direction. The other's expression has since lost all of its juvenile mirth, giving him the air of a man far older than his appearance would suggest. Earl, by contrast, feels very young. Naïve, with skinned knees and frosting-caked fingers. But… "Mister Palmer. I know it is unlikely, and mean not to raise your hopes. However, when one takes into consideration this newest data… The increased chance of our target being of Catholic origins, coupled with its apparent focus… Well, there is the distinct possibility— That is, have you considered that it might also be—?"

"I have, thank you."

Earl falls immediately silent. He doesn't need his badge in circumnavigating emotionally sensitive topics to know when a subject should be abandoned. The pursed thinness of Cecil's mouth, the distant gleam in his pallid eyes, and the shadows drawing themselves over his impassive features are indicative enough. The weight of implication, both spoken and silent, hangs heavily between the pair for half of a city block...

"Either way," the Marquis finally adds—in a lighter tone, distractedly clattering his runes in the cup of his palm, "we should get to the bottom of this matter post-haste. Things are, as they say, starting to look… Grimm."

There is a stumbling beside him. Immediate and ungainly. The Marquis feels his lips slide into an unctuous smirk of unsuppressed delight as his companion trips himself out of line, nearly falling flat on his face. There we go. Amusement. Not willingly given, of course, but few victories are. Certainly not the sweetest victories, anyway. Cecil cackles, triumphant, dodging the dagger-sharp stare being thrown at his back.

"Please tell me that you did not just… God in Heaven, Cecil. No. No, you stop running. Get back here, you deserve to be cuffed for that—!"

X

Cecil Palmer, Marquis of Night Vale. The Community Radio.

Carlos scowls, the crevasses on his forehead deepening into canyons as he tilts the calling card backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. Backwards: beneath the gas-lamp lights of his laboratory, the ink darkens from mercury-silver to twilight-amethyst. Forwards: the calligraphy's sheen fades from twilight-amethyst to mercury-silver. Between backwards and forwards and forwards and backwards, it acknowledges every conceivable shade of violet, as well as a few that haven't been conceived, so far as Carlos can tell.

He is testing for that now, actually. Apparently. The conceivability of those colors. The experiment is characterized by a series of variegated beakers, set over steady blue flames and gently smoking in the back of the room. Well, most are smoking. One is making a low, tinny buzz that resonates at around C flat. At least, he assumes it's coming from the beaker. Oh, it doesn't matter. Or it does. He's not sure which anymore, as he's not entirely certain what he'd originally been testing. For that matter, he can't quite recall when he'd started doing tests at all. Just that, at one point or another, the Scientist had come back to himself and discovered that he was wearing goggles and gloves, and hunkered over a candle with a vial full of tattered paper in puce liquid.

It was around then that he figured elevens were in order. A late elevens. A very late elevens? He is not entirely certain of the time, in truth, having been focused on counting things other than hours.

Carlos chews his lips for a long minute, considering that which he had been counting. Despite earlier activities, he still has a small stack of calling cards— all of which, somehow, belong to the Marquis. They'd been cropping up in random nooks and crannies for the past three days. When interrogated, his housekeeper, Maureen, had sworn up and down that she has no knowledge of how they might have appeared in his scone basket, or his box of tumblers, or in the pocket of his dinner jacket. At one point, he'd even found a card jammed beneath the cork of a vial of sulfuric acid, half-corroded and oddly green in patches. The mist that had risen from the contaminated bottle had smelt strangely of rosemary… The stench of it made his skull ache. In a fuzzy sort of way.

Perhaps that was when he'd set up… whatever it is that is going on in the back of the room, now. He just—he can't quite put his finger on—

"Concussion," Carlos reminds himself in a grumble, trying to quell mounting frustration. He fans his excessive number of calling cards, repeating the facts of the matter like a sort of mantra: the ache is from the concussion. The hazy sense that he's forgotten something crucial is from the concussion. His inability to focus on his proper work is… probably from the concussion. Because those are the sorts of things that a concussion does to a person, correct? Correct, he confirms mentally. If somewhat desperately. The Baron sighs, scooping another cube of sugar into his tea. Perhaps he should call upon the services of Doctor Thurgood once more. Or his family's physician. Or…

Cecil Palmer, Marquis of Night Vale. The name rises, unbidden, like bubbles to the surface of his drink. Despite having a title of his own, Carlos knows little of England's gentry. Social science, despite technically being a science, has never held much interest for him. Human interactions are fascinating, but the hierarchies prescribed to the peoples involved have always struck him as a bit arbitrary and elitist. Not to mention antiquated. His circle of peers consists—or, well, consisted, before finding himself academically ostracized—primarily of other like-minded men: those whose focus tended more towards books and experiments, rather than galas, picnics, and gossip. It is a truth that has left him markedly out of the loop when it comes to societal affairs, which is something he had never much minded before… But when one wakes with questions and a sixth calling card beneath a goose-feather pillow, one cannot help but wish he had some clue as to what he is dealing with. As it is, Carlos had been forced to do proper research.

Or try to, anyway. But for all the venues he'd visited, he had not been able to uncover much. The Palmers were older money, well-to-do. Had left their home in the Colonies upon coming into their own nearly a century and a half ago, and chose to display their newfound wealth with the usual trappings. A manor, a townhouse, donations to the church… Fifty years ago, they opened a gentleman's club, too—presently named The Community Radio—in a convenient location near the Thames. But other than that, they proved a very private family. Next to no records existed of parties hosted or attended, marriages made, funerals arranged. Nothing public, anyway. And certainly nothing about a man named Cecil with eyes like Indian opals. Which, in his scientific opinion, Carlos feels is an unforgivable crime; there really should be some sort of article on that phenomenon. A doctor's study, an optician's note. Something. Anything.

Frankly, the fact that there is… well, suspiciously close to nothing on the Marquis and his brood plagues the Baron with a lingering unease. There is only ever nothing, he knows, when a person has something to hide.

And so, feeling bemused and defeated, the Scientist sits in his study, idly swirling honey into his drink. His silver spoon spins clockwise; he fingers the edge of a card, and considers making it to do the same. Drowns that sudden urge with a mouthful of Earl Grey, scrubbing once more at his puckered forehead. Ugh. The tea is too sweet. It is not sweet enough. He's hungry. He's trembling. His china is chattering. But it's the concussion. All of it is the concussion. The anxiety, the edginess, his inability to look at his experiments, much less focus on them... And there is nothing to do for concussions except to relax and rest. Relax, and rest, and definitely not seek out enigmas dressed in lilac who know where he lives, for God's sake, and had apparently figured out how to break in and scatter notes undetected. If Maureen is to be believed, anyway. And he does believe her.

So therein lies the rub, doesn't it? The Marquis is crazy. Beautiful, charismatic. Mad as a hatter. Potentially dangerous. As such, Carlos should be frightened, he knows. He should be furious. And really, he should be seeking out the constables, because honestly. He'd found a card in his underthings. But no. No, he is a Scientist, a man of reason. He is going to be reasonable. Rational. Mister Palmer had done nothing threatening—not purposefully, anyway— and to be blunt, Carlos' word is going to hold no water at the station. Baron or no, he is still… well. It's not worth his time. Besides, for as dependable as his mind has been lately, he'll likely wind up looking like the loony one. So, logically speaking, the best course of action would be for Carlos to put all of this out of his mind and focus on his work. He has piles of files to go through. Postulations he'd been pursuing. Superstitions he'd only half-debunked. His newest thesis to take notes for, a paper about…

…what had he been studying, again?

"Oh, bugger it all…"

With another heave of his shoulders and an expulsion of air—one that sends the scattered cards twirling erratically over the varnish of his desk— Carlos suckles a dab of honey from his littlest finger and surrenders to his own restlessness. After all, he is a Scientist… and every ounce of data indicates that he will be accomplishing very, very little today. Just as he'd accomplished yesterday, and the day before. In which case, there is no point in loitering at home and risking another half-cataleptic episode with potentially dangerous chemicals. Carlos cannot, will not, seek out enigmas dressed in lilac, but enigmas come in all sorts of colors.

Undoubtedly he can find some other shade to capture his attention.

X

Green. Green is lovely.

Hunkered deep in the warmth of his wool cloak, Carlos shivers and shudders and finally relaxes, his sour mood breaking like thawed ice over the Thames. The greengrocer's had been the perfect place to wander, he muses. The luster of imported fruits against the gray of the cityscape adds spots of brilliance to the drab of a late English winter; motley and multicolored, the fruits' dappled skin shines with a gemstone's gloss. Their colors are as bright as the first peeking blossoms in a springtide garden, and the overall effect is such that the Baron finds it difficult to stay grumpy. The fruits' sweetness, though yet untried, somehow manages to leave phantom tingles on his tongue… Reminiscent of the faux peppermint he can taste on each chilly breath. Not an hour past teatime, and he's already thinking of making a purchase. Something juicy, saccharine. Oh, but he did just eat…

Though close to the crates and carts on display, the Scientist makes certain to stand somewhat apart, careful to keep out of the way of the more serious shoppers and bargain hunters. Petticoats rustle, women chatter. Feet pick over slushy puddles as hands pick through vegetables; burlier gentlemen from some foreign land grunt native greetings to one another over fresh slabs of bleeding meat; children shriek and wail with pleasure as they rush past, bee-lining for the red door of the candy store on the opposite side of the street. One stumbles in the midst of his scampering, coming so close to Carlos that he can feel a bony shoulder graze against the small of his back. He starts, spinning in surprise; from this new angle, the Baron watches a handful of adults— both with and without little ones— gain interest in this new shop, as well: hungrily eyeing the sugary orange peels and mottled lollies on display.

Thinking on it, Carlos can't really blame them. The candies are exotic—tempting— and stimulate the palate in ways that produce does not. Like sin, he half-thinks, sardonic, remembering the words of a priest he'd exchanged recent pleasantries with. Unwholesome indulgences wrapped luxuriously in decorative paper and ribbons. Hardened globs of Satan spit, he called them. Spit and… other excrements. Depending on color and texture.

Which, if true, would actually be quite fascinating. Monumental for his current research. But it's not, of course it's not—it's just paranoia and propaganda—, and Carlos has never been a religious man, anyway. Besides, he fails to see the harm. Not in the occasional sweetie. If anything, this shop and those like it should be celebrated for the innovative advancements that they are. That they exemplify. Confectionary science as a subject, the technology necessary to mold each specimen, the fact that mankind has had enough leisure time to perfect the craft… It speaks volumes about the quality of life enjoyed here, and the overall superiority of the British Empire, God save it. Carlos can't bring himself to feel anything other than a deep admiration.

Well. Deep admiration and gnawing curiosity. The sort which borders the lines between demand and desire. The longer he stares at the store widow, lost in honeyed thoughts, the more enticing its stock becomes; Carlos cannot remember the last time he'd bought himself a sweet, and there are so many to choose from, here. Truffles in boxes and toffees in wax and licorice in braided strips… Spools of pearly candy floss that share counter space with caramel-coated apples on sturdy wooden pegs. Bricked fudge has been stacked high beside pillow-piles of marshmallows, and gigantic jars of jelly babies and winegums create delectable kaleidoscopes behind snowy panes of frosted glass. The world beyond the storefront seems to him a cloying dream: mahogany panels and rosy light fixtures create an inviting environment for anyone looking to escape the bitter winds. The promise of sweet fruit has faded on his tongue; the faux peppermint of the air is suddenly less like the herb and more like hard candy. His body shifts. The near-continuous tinkle of the bell on that red door is practically hypnotic. His feet—what is that by his feet?— shuffle, if slightly, in time to that bell; the patented leather of his heel bumps against a child's lost jawbreaker, previously dropped and forgotten on the walkway. The bell peals. A signal. A start. The crafted globe, lemon-yellow and vivid as a sun, rolls within the rutted orbit of the grating… Bumps into a nearby mate, blue as the moon, with another silvery chime. This second candy tumbles off, towards an emerald third, enchantingly similar to dominoes or interplanetary collisions and Carlos should really study them, follow them, just to see how long—

"A right shame, innit, Sir?"

The Scientist almost leaps out of his skin.

"Mister Peters!" he gasps, spinning quickly enough to give himself whiplash. And indeed, there is Mister Peters—John Peters, a local farmer. An old friend. A decade or three past middle-age and wearing clothes equally past their prime, John is a shorter gentleman— grizzled and gray— but with a warmth in his dark gaze that customers consistently call charming. Right now, there are crows' feet set beside those eyes, and a twisted frown between the bristly remains of whiskers on his cheeks.

"A right shame," he repeats, shaking his head and fingering his hat. He sighs, casting a pitying stare at the same shop. "I'm acquainted with th' owner of that establishment. A wee boy-o, barely a man, but smart as a whip. I hate t' see a fellow businessman suffering."

"'Suffering'?" There is a molasses-thick incredulity in Carlos' voice as he glances between the red door and the shabby stands, the mafficking throng and the thinning crowds. A gaggle of grinning girls giggle past, apples in their cheeks and on sticks in their hands. While the Scientist would never be so rude as to refute a man on something as trivial as this, he rather wonders if his friend had mixed up his facts. "I am afraid I shall have to take your word on that, Sir. I've heard nothing of bad business."

"No?" John rejoins, in a voice as deep and dark as chocolate. It is his turn to look doubtful now, head cocking as he turns more fully to face the Baron. He's arched a bushy eyebrow, his elastic lips stretched to the point of snapping; it gives the impression of severest scrutiny, and Carlos finds himself feeling a bit judged. "Is that not why you're here? That's your hobby, innit, my Lord? It seems you're always running about, lookin' into skilamalink matters. I'd've thought for sure you were here investigatin' the Hansel and Gretel murders."

"I beg your pardon?" Carlos blinks. He is bewildered and— he is starting to think, anyway— perhaps deserving of earlier disparage. "The what-and-what now?"

"The Hansel and Gretel murders!" John repeats—hisses, really, though with more fervor than before. His disbelief has been replaced by downright surprise. Grabbing Carlos' elbow, he pulls him (unnecessarily) further to the left, closer to the gaping maw of an alleyway before continuing the conversation. "If your Lordship will pardon my saying so, good God, man. Where've you been these past few days?"

A fair question. He wishes he had an answer for it. In lieu of that, Carlos opens his mouth, and half-considers confessing the truth: that he'd been ambushed by a man of higher station— nearly killed by said lunatic after he'd leapt from the second story of a building on Oxford. Knocked down, and out, and subsequently unable to focus his mind. Not on anything of import, anyway. The only thing now able to ground the Scientist's thoughts seem to be further musings on that inscrutable Marquis… Rather ironically, since the aforementioned Marquis literally grounding him is what had gotten the Baron into this predicament in the first place.

In the end, though, he doesn't say anything. John already appears to be suspecting madness; no need to confirm that diagnosis. Instead, Carlos shrugs helplessly. That communicates enough. Or, at least, serves well enough as a prompt: John shudders, grandfatherly features taking a grave turn as he continues.

"There's something foul running amok," the older man mutters, with a shake of his head that has nothing to do with denial. "It's been the front page of every paper. People've been kidnapped left and right, and the best that Scotland Yard an' its incompetent Sheriff can figure, the last place each person had been seen before disappearing had been th' sweets shops. Some have even just… up-n-vanished, apparently, leavin' nothing but a pile of wrappers or candied peels behind. It's terrible."

"Have any of the missing been found?" Carlos demands, pulled closer by the gravity of the tale. They're an inch from nose-to-nose, now; the mist of their whispers shielding them from the rest of London's downtown. Beyond that veil, streetlights flicker and pop into eerie existence. John looks uncomfortable.

"A few bodies've cropped up," he hedges, with one of those meaningful, askance glances that undercuts the difference between being 'missing' and being 'bodies.' "Tongues cut or pulled out. Teeth gone. Bellies full o' toffees. They've been showing up at the edge of Epping forest. People are cryin' witchcraft."

"When did it start?"

"Uh… Oh, Monday last, I think," the farmer nods, squinting into the distance as if that will help him see the past. Maybe it does; when he nods again, it is with far more certainty. "Yes, Monday last—I remember, because it all began the day after I got my picture taken. For an article. That's why I was checkin' the paper. There was supposed to be an article about London's best greengrocers. It must've been delayed, though, what with all of the… well." He clears his throat, trying not to look too disappointed. There's a time and a place, and to mourn a lack of attention due to something so dreadfully gristly would be the ultimate pettiness. Still, Carlos can sense his hurt pride; he offers a sympathetic smile in compensation.

"I'm sure they'll run that article just as soon as the culprit is topped," he reassures, giving his friend's shoulder a gentle, but bolstering clap. "Not that you need the publicity. It's already common knowledge that the best food comes from your farms."

John snorts. The sound of it—wet with phlegm— rattles loosely in his chest before vibrating down Carlos' arm. "Ha. Unless you preferred candied oranges to real ones," he drawls, not bothering to hide the gripe in his tone. But despite the embittering sarcasm, his wizened expression is one of gratitude. He pats the Scientist's arm in return, fingers rough and grimy with dirt, before hobbling a step backwards. It's enough to break the spell of mystery. The air clears; they rejoin the city in twilight. "No matter, no matter. Well, then, Sir. Is there anythin' I can be helpin' you with today, besides the macabre?"

The older man looks hopeful, if mildly expectant. Carlos hasn't the heart to disappoint him, whatever his cravings might happen to be. Besides, taking into account all that he's just heard, visiting the candy shop would hardly be his wisest idea. He realizes as much. Consciously, anyway. But the concussion must still be warping his faculties, because it doesn't make him want to go any less.

Still. John is a friend. He focuses on that.

"Oh, um. Have you any plums?" the Baron asks, trying not to sound as sheepish as he feels. He assumes he must succeed by the way that John's face lights up; Carlos' own grin becomes more genuine as the farmer enthusiastically rubs his soil-stained hands, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. Despite his years, he can be quite the sprightly thing when given the proper motivation.

"Sir, the plums I have. You just wait right here. The ripest lot are in my cart, just over in that alley. I shan't be a mo'."

"Right, then," Carlos calls—unnecessarily, awkwardly— as he watches John toddle off towards the indicated side street. Judging solely by his stride, it will take a trifle longer than the promised moment, but not much. It hardly matters, either way; the Scientist is in no rush, and is perfectly content to savor the sudden lull, the butterscotch warmth of a good deed done. It is just as satisfying, the Scientist thinks, as an actual caramel would have been. He grins, glad to know that he'd brought his friend this small pleasure.

"My, my. What big teeth you have."

The flash of those teeth vanish in an instant, along with the rest of Carlos' smile. He spins—beset now by whiplash and déjà vu— to find that he is no longer alone. Again. Where John had so recently stood, there is now a red-cloaked stranger: tall, lean, and freckled, with a shock of ginger hair slovenly brushed over the right half of his face. The slant of his head suggests aloofness, but the Baron can sense a biting acumen from the cut of his stare. His limbs are mere suggestions, completely invisible beneath the sweep of his heavy cape. His eyes are shadowed. Auburn, bordering on scarlet. Carlos is struck by an immediate wariness—feet braced, mind on edge—due both to the shrewdness that the man exudes in rose-thorn waves, and the gut-knotting knowledge that he could have anything under that mantle. Any weapon in his hands. It's worrisome, to say the least.

Though, as it happens, what lurks behind the cloak proves itself a bigger concern.

"Sir Scientist! How completely serendipitous and not at all foreseen!"

With all the self-control and subtly of an over-wound jack-in-the-box, Mister Palmer—the lilac enigma, though today dressed in mauve— springs abruptly into view, odd eyes shining and smile so impossibly broad it looks just short of painful. His entrance has Carlos jumping in kind. He is starting to worry more for his nerves than his abused head. "Just marvelous! Absolutely corking! Look at you! Still with your perfect hair and impeccable style and— oh, and your gorgeous teeth, that's excellent, excellent. I was worried, you see. About your teeth. About you!"

The Baron, with the desperation of a man cornered, darts a glance between the Marquis and his stoic companion. The redhead is looking towards the sky, mouth moving as if muttering some inaudible prayer for strength. His entreaty ends with an elbow jammed nippily backwards, catching the shorter gentleman in the middle; Mister Palmer squeaks, startled, but then seems to remember the importance of breathing.

Carlos chances a wavering smile when the other begins to calm. "H-hello, my Lord."

It is a mistake. A grave one. The sound the young man makes has the other two cringing and, quite possibly, nearby glass shattering. He wonders if he'd have heard a telltale tinkle, could he still hear.

"Oh, no, please, that will never do!" the Marquis cries, torn between crawling over and around the ginger's broad shoulder. For his part, said ginger tolerates the abuse like any mother might: with great abundance of affection and an abiding sort of patience, even whilst exasperated beyond all possible measure. "Cecil, just Cecil, I don't amount to a tosser, really. Worthy of no respect whatsoever! Not like you, a Scientist. A Scientist! Speaking of, you know, I have been thinking. I know so little about science—never been my area of expertise, there's a bit of a clash— but, well, the times are changing, and what smatterings I've heard on the subject have been absolutely fascinating… In any case, my associates and I, we would, I believe, greatly benefit from any morsels of wisdom you might be willing to feed our yearning minds, and—"

"Mister Palmer." The cloaked man throws a long glance backwards, his expression as flat and dry as desert earth. Carlos pities his eardrums and their proximity to the Marquis'… noises. "Was this night's holy sermon not the most stirring yet? Why, I cannot but hope that someday, I too might speak the words of Proverbs 29:20 with the same clout and piousness as the Father."

The change in Cecil is instantaneous: idyllically gay one moment, stone-faced the next. In a display of utter mortification, the Marquis droops like a flower, wilted and wan. Well, wilted at least; he is too ashen by nature to lose any more color. Instead, he gains it, buds unfurling and blossoms bursting upon his cheeks in petal-patches. His features blend, chameleon-like, with the burgundy cloth of his companion's cape; he chokes, horrified. The ring on his finger winks as his hands clutch timidly at ruby fabric. And rather than the Good Book which had previously been referenced, Carlos finds himself thinking of penny-dreadfuls— of the parrots that perch on the shoulders of pirates in tales of sea-bound adventure. Cecil can certainly be as shrill as such a bird, in any case. Though, in his defense, his conversational abilities are a touch more sophisticated; he can do more than whistle and click and make demands for crackers.

"Your piety is of great service as it is, and a gentle reminder to us all," the Marquis is saying now, with the pained expression of a man who would rather pretend that the quantifiable past was not a thing that had ever happened. Catholic of him indeed. "I, too, shall endeavor to hold that homily close to my heart. Or any other errant body part, as is deemed necessary. But while we are on the subject of such waywardness, I will confess to your confidence that I fear I have completely lost my head. I feel I must have. And wherever it went, it took my manners along as escort; I most humbly beg everyone's pardons, for I have only now realized that you two have yet to be formerly introduced! That will not stand!"

His voice cants hideously high once more, a sudden upswing that ends in a squawk; this time, a simple stare and quoted passage are not enough to make clear mounting displeasures. The redhead gives the whole of his shoulder a brusque shake, dislodging another string of redundant sounds. He also dislodges the Marquis himself, who trips backwards—then forwards— before coming to a graceful halt between the two men. Whatever the jostle had knocked loose (or back into place) seems to have done the trick, though: Cecil is, abruptly, holding himself with all of the import and elegance one would expect from a man of his stature.

"Lovely Carlos," the Marquis then purrs, each susurrating syllable unspooling, ribboning, from the loom of his lips in ethereal bolts of enunciated velvet. The warmth of the woven words rub against the Baron's ears, looping amorously around his limbs… And Carlos is disconcerted to realize that he is now the one pinking, and not as much from indignation as would be preferred. "Before you stands the Earl of Harlan, my oldest friend, best-loved and most loyal. Earl, dear, you remember Carlos, of course."

"Of course," Earl agrees, in a drone that insinuates far more than Carlos is privy to know. Though common sense (and a quick comparison of bodily dimensions) seems inclined to suggest that it wasn't Cecil who carried him back to his townhouse the other day, meaning that—

The Baron is yanked from a half-formed hypothesis by calloused fingers ensnaring his own. He thinks immediately of hunter's traps. He doesn't remember extending his hand. It's possible that he hadn't. But if this Earl of Harlan has been an acquaintance of the Marquis' for as long as has been claimed, than he is undoubtedly well-versed in dealing with nutcases; he likely just made a grab when it'd become clear that Carlos had lost himself in his own musings. Some modicum of decorum, some attempt at civility, etc. The Scientist's flush darkens at his own rudeness. He clears his throat. Tries to keep his palm from sweating. Fails spectacularly. Presses on. "A pleasure, my Lord Harlan, surely."

"Earl will do," the redhead retorts, tactlessly blunt, while giving their twined hands a single, brisk shake. Literally, just that: then he lets go as if scorched. It seems a bit discourteous, all in all; standoffish at least, ill-mannered at worst. Particularly the request to refer to him by title, when Cecil had been so forward about—

"Earl is also his name," the Marquis chirps, seemingly without reason. He beams, sunshine and posies. Earl's steady stare slides from Cecil to Carlos, and Carlos gets the distinct impression that Cecil saying this has given something away. Some presumption or rudeness that he'd been meant to keep locked in his head. The anxiety of it all has the Baron's bowels liquidizing. Earl blinks. Slowly. Carlos feels he is being appraised again, and is somehow failing.

Cecil, oblivious— and apparently out of whatever meager restraint he'd been in possession of— returns to prattling. "I have enjoyed the very high honor of working alongside Earl and his esteemed organization, the Eternal Scouts, for many years now. He is the absolute best in the business, don't let him tell you otherwise—" The Baron's gaze flicks up and over, briefly meeting that of the man in question; he physically swallows back the urge to comment on how certain he is that Earl would never dispute this claim, "—and I am quite confident that you would find us both perfectly agreeable compatriots. It seems such a waste that we are not working together now, as our fields align so neatly. Oh, my Good Man, I have been simply itching to talk to you about it, just dying, but you've yet to call upon me, despite my most fervent hopes and occasional reminders."

A touch of disappointment pollutes his airy tone, its lightness dyed some shade darker by a single, rippling droplet of black ink. A brow furrows; Carlos feels guilt settle upon him like some summoned beast. But wait, no— No, he has no reason to feel that way! Not when… Wait. Wait just one moment. Reminders?

"I— what?" Carlos flounders, increasingly incensed, as his fingers flex and bend in some fruitless effort to grasp the situation. Cecil watches him struggle innocently. Earl, unchanging, (and perhaps unblinking) stares at the Baron as if he is some kind of threat. "You are the one who's been…? But how have—? One of those cards was in my— and what do you mean, 'our fields'? What could you possibly know of my work?!"

"Oh, a good deal, I should think," Cecil returns dreamily, either completely unaware of or wholly unperturbed by the Scientist's palpable anger. It's impossible to tell which. And it hardly matters, in the end. "You have made quite the name for yourself down at the Community Radio! Did you not know of your own fame? Why, some of the members are still discussing your most recent paper. The one about electricity, and its debatable capacity for reanimation. I am afraid it mostly went over my head, but… You really should come visit, sometime. It would be such a treat! F-for my patrons, I mean."

He flutters his eyelashes winningly. Carlos can think of no way to respond to that. Which, as it happens, is just as well, because any retort he might have made would've been swallowed an instant later by a raw, unholy shrieking.

"Dear God—?!"

All three men stiffen, heads snapping towards the sound. The alley. A murder of crows scream litanies in reply, black feathers scattering as the flock rises into the oncoming gloom. Cecil and Earl are off before the final note of the human howl has faded from the wind. But the instant the voice registers, Carlos is not two footsteps behind.

John.

"What the hell was that—?!"

Clattering heels skid to the precipice of a hellish silence as the three men round the narrow corner, Carlos' head-heart-lungs aching within the fragile cage of his body. Terror locks his knees, distends his pupils. A sharp intake of breath catches in his throat and it, too, tastes of peppermint. Peppermint candy. The air tastes of putrid, half-digested candy. The stench of it wafts, rot-sweet and nauseating, from beneath a blanket of shadows… But Carlos can see, at the edge of the darkness cast by a grime-slimed wall, an oozing line of scarlet. Vibrant. Slow. Like the caramelized sugar spooned over apples, it leaks with the languid thickness of liquidized amber into the grating and gutters.

Something bumps against the Baron's feet. He nearly yowls, but—

"S-saints preserve us, Lord have mercy…"

John. It's John. John, on his back and in the midst of a breakdown, violently cowering as he tries and fails to crawl up to the mouth of the lane— to scramble away from the gorge of this nightmare — but his limbs keep crumpling beneath him like those of a baby foal. He's sobbing, hyperventilating. His shirtsleeves are caked in what looks like (but can't be) molasses. "Oh. Oh—! T-thought I saw… in the corner! Went to—t-to see, and then…! But it was…! Poor child, poor child…!" he wheezes, teeth chattering together like chimes in a gale.

And then a righteous wind begins to blow.

"Earl."

The name—though directed at no one but the man in red— is enough to quiet all else. John's gasps, Carlos' thoughts. Even the streetlights fizzle and snap with less static as Cecil steps softly forward, the flint of his features igniting sparks in his eyes. Those sparks leap, augmenting existing flames: beside him, Earl is nodding, sharing in some secret understanding. He fans the mysterious pyre with a billow of woolen ruby, turning. Crouching. His palms are placed meaningfully upon John, and he says something that Carlos cannot hear. Doesn't try to hear. Can't be bothered to hear, really, because the Marquis— he is quickly realizing— is a subject who refuses to be ignored.

Without caution or concern, Cecil enters the dim of the alley. The final rays of a brumous sunset catch on his spectacles in starry bursts, lingering in twinkles near the corners of his eyes. His dark cape flutters; patent boots click against the cobbles like a macabre metronome. Fallen plums, bruised and partly crushed, litter his path, their veined and quivering innards pushing through the ruptures in their skin. Carlos thinks morbidly of organs. Broken skulls. He might not be wrong to do so. Near the center of the juicy mess, a cloth which had once been draped dotingly over an upturned bushel has been claimed by the ground. The soft of it is caked in mud, hiding suspicious bulges. The Marquis kneels beside a line of moldering barrels, pinching one dirtied corner between his gloved fingers.

"In manibus portabunt te ne forte offendas ad lapidem pedem tuum," he breathes, in that same deeply resonant voice, before flipping back the blanket.

"Oh—!"

Carlos is immediately grateful that he hadn't eaten anything after elevens. The acerbic sting of rising bile in his esophagus is quite enough to deal with. "Oh," he moans again around the burn. A hand lifts to hide his mouth, but he cannot bring himself to do anything about his eyes. "Oh…"

A girl. One of the girls—one of the giggling girls, vaguely noticed as she skipped her way home. A child with bushy raven ringlets and a periwinkle ribbon, no doubt chosen by her mother to match the color of her peacoat. The buttons gleam, reflective and silvery; they haven't yet lost the gloss of the shop. She must have been proud of it. Her friends, perhaps, envious… And maybe that is why they left her behind, why they went on without her, and here she is, left alone to play with roaches and earthworms: legs askew and arms spread as one of her glassy eyes pierce the sky above, mutely asking why. Round, brown, wondering. Betrayed.

The other orb can see nothing, demand nothing— due less in part to death, and more to the wooden stake rammed clean through the center of its socket. No, not a stake… It is the peg from her earlier treat, gummy with globs of caramel. The stringy residue sticks in cobweb fibers and gossamer filaments to the waning apples of her cheeks, adding crystals to her flesh and trapping flies upon her chin. But those sallow blotches are not the only withered fruits to have so altered her features.

With a queasy dread, the Scientist follows the trail of the girl's seeping fluids. A viscid, buttery liquid is still leaching, spurting glutinous pearls from the torn film of her eye. The oil of those tears accumulates in the crevices of her open orifices: moistens the coagulated blood that has caramelized in crusted layers within her ear, her nostrils, the elastic corners of her mouth. Her distended, broken mouth. And there's the third apple— the glazed one— stuffed unceremoniously into the abyss of her gullet, as if she were a Christmas pig.

"Eve would sympathize," Cecil comments with a cluck of his tongue. He is a silhouette, now, from Carlos' perspective: the sort that one might see painted onto the stained glass of a cathedral's rose window, hands folded and gaze downcast. The curl of his lashes catch in the haloing streetlight; the feathery tips smolder, outlined by silver. But despite his angelic appearance and the sober press of his palms, he is offering no prayers. Rather, he seems to be performing some perverted ritual of his own. Slowly, deliberately, he pulls apart his slender hands: wider and wider, wider and wider, until only the tips his thumb, index, and ring fingers still touch. The others flair around the circular maw he's created, like delicate stalactites decorating the entrance of a cave. The gem on his smallest finger shimmers as Cecil peers through the hole that he has created. A hum. He tastes the air, shifts; the hollow shifts in kind. Index, thumb, and pinkies share a gentle kiss as the world around them crumbles, ring fingers collapsing and the middles forming a cross. He gazes deeply into this gap, as well, scrutinizing the corpse at some angle that the Scientist can neither fathom nor appreciate.

"…blue," he says after a moment. Decided, certain. And yes, one thing is very certain: this man is insane. Completely off his rocker, and really, he's practically defiling the dead, on top of it. Mocking the pitiable fate of this child, sassing about like this. What has blue to do with anything? Does he assume his company blind? It's quite apparent the color of her bow, her jacket. Her body, as she loses her warmth. There is no time for this Marquis' idiocy—they need a constable, this girl's parents. A hospital. Anything, anyone else.

The Baron moves to say this—to do something about this— when Cecil, with unexpected speed, grasps the corking fruit by the base of its waxy stem and yanks. The answering squelch is enough to curdle skin, addle minds; Carlos' thoughts become as warped as current visions of fresh caramel, distended and unable to support their own weight. His stomach turns; sugary strands stretch. Possessive, the tacky tendrils cling to both the spoiled sweet and lifeless child, binding her face like some bizarre toffee muzzle. Its tenacity is a source of mild exasperation, it seems. The Marquis gives another brisk tug, arm bent awkwardly behind him. Viscous strings snap into lopsided, sagging pockets, shining with spittle and other dark solutions.

"Lord in Heaven…" Carlos chokes, hardly recognizing the words as his own. Somewhere near his shins, John squeals, half-mad himself.

"This is the devil's work—!"

"Oh, but that seems a touch unlikely, don't you think?"

The apple has been extracted. Broken bands of candy coating have folded back upon themselves, framing the rusty ring of the child's mouth. The rip of it looks like an injury in itself. A mutation, almost. The congealed syrup has formed flaps like peeled flesh, like shriveled petals of a jungle blossom. Carlos recalls, unbidden, his conservatory's Venus fly traps and illustrations he's seen of corpse flowers— of things that eat and are eaten. She could be either. Inanimate and putrefying, she still manages to look hungry. Empty. Her jaw, since unhinged, remains unnaturally stretched: black as the void of midnight. The stump of her tongue clogs the back of her throat; her gums are a tattered mess of gristly pink and burgundy chunks.

Cecil is standing, willowy and smooth. Indifferent. He tosses the bloody fruit into the shadows of the backstreet, clapping an invisible mess from his palms. Beneath the steady of his unwavering gaze, the cadaver carries on silently shrieking. He continues, "It may be the work of a devil, certainly. But the devil? Doubtful. Surely one such as he could find better uses of his time."

"And, one would hope, he might employ more finesse than is displayed here," Earl adds with… well, with what Carlos can only assume is meant to be humor. The Marquis is chuckling anyway, shooting a sly half-smile towards his kneeling companion. Like the girl's buttons, his teeth flash in the glow of the rising moon.

"Well, that goes without saying, my dear."

This… This is... Carlos is beginning to wonder if this is all some grand illusion. Some joke or dream. Preferably the latter, that he might wake in his bed and simply have one more thing to pin on his concussion. Because the alternative to that—to recognize this tasteless display of nonchalance and desecration as some contortion of reality— is almost too much to bear, at present. A girl is dead. Mutilated. One of his oldest friends is going into shock. And all the while, two members of the gentry's upper echelons are making light of the situation with jokes about the devil. Religiously inclined or not, the Baron knows certain lines are not to be crossed. Yet, what this pair is saying, doing… Claiming. This—all of this…

"Right. Blue, was it?"

At some point between the start of Carlos' mental thread and its total unraveling, Earl had risen to his feet, giving John a bolstering pat. Cecil, meanwhile, had again used the mantel to cover the young corpse—gingerly, meticulously, as if wrapping a precious gift—before trotting back to his keeper's side. And John, shivering something terrible, had been bound in a spare sheet from the back of his cart, as if that might keep the chill of terror at bay. It doesn't. But there is no helping that.

"Blue," the Marquis quietly confirms, with a graveled gravitas that would suggest this color is of the utmost importance. Earl seems to feel this is the case, anyway; he nods—once at Cecil, and once towards the sky. Why he does this Carlos cannot be sure (though he can hardly be sure of anything, anymore), but for a fleeting instant, he thinks he sees some flitting shade… Like a bird, circling above. It's gone an instant later. "There are traces. No more than that. Little else can be done, at present."

"You're quite sure?" The one in red darts a sidelong glance towards the farmer. He looks concerned.

"It is gone. For the time being, at least."

"Indeed. Well, then," Earl decrees, turning his full attention back towards the Marquis. The latter looks a touch alarmed, privy to some otherwise-unseen glint in that piercing auburn stare, "if that is so, we should return to the base. You need to rest."

In the deepening darkness of the early March night, his cloak undulates like deep waters— a drowning sort of black. It quenches the fire of before, the flame of his hair, the furnace of his stare; his presence is reduced to little more than the tide that tries to pull Cecil away. The Marquis, for his part, splutters beneath the waves of it, attempting vainly to turn against the current. Carlos can just make out the flail of his limbs beneath the shadow of the taller man.

"Earl, whatever are you doing?" Cecil gasps, scandalized, twisting this way and that as he is pushed towards the main road. It is a useless endeavor; Earl handles him with an ease bordering on omnipotence. The Baron is an only child, but he imagines that this must be what having an older brother looks like. He is, rather suddenly, thankful for his lack of siblings. "Earl! Why, I cannot but protest! You are embarrassing me most heinously— this is the very height of offence! I am not some child you can march off to bed!"

"I see no reason why not. You act a child in all other aspects."

"But science, little Elf!" Cecil whines. There is the telling scrape of dragged feet. "The esteemed Baron Carlos is here! Think of all the questions we might ask him— uninterrupted, now that we have finished with the tedious distraction of work! Think of all the queries he may pose in turn, that we alone could answer! Ours is but a budding friendship… We have yet to see it blossom!"

"And it shall all come up roses in good time, I am sure," the redhead drawls, his hands still firmly braced atop his companion's bony shoulders. Carlos can no longer see what expression Earl wears—wouldn't have been able to, even should he turn around—but he can hear the lolling echo of rolling eyes in the cadence of the curt rejoinder. The Scientist recognizes that he is adamantly abhorred, though he has no idea what might have culled such feelings. Objectively, he shouldn't care. Objectively, he should be the one affecting an aura of revulsion, of loathing and distrust, because a little girl had just been murdered and these bastards seem to have already forgotten. Their flippancy makes his stomach twist, his skin crawl. And yet, even in light of this, Carlos finds that he does care. He cares very, very much. Due less in part to any cloistered desire for an alliance, however, and more with the gnawing suspicion that things—that people— this man dislikes tend to meet fates even more gruesome than this child's.

The Baron shrinks a bit, despite the challenging glower he wears, when he feels a ruddy stare flick back upon his person. Shrewd. Contemptuous. It strikes him, bizarrely, as nearly identical to and yet drastically different from the gazes of his academic peers. The scorn is the same, this much is easily observable—but where the other Scientists loathe Carlos for being so Unmistakably Wrong, this so-called Scout's irritation seems to stem from… Well, from what Carlos somehow suspects is a completely opposite source. "The honorable Baron has been told where he might go, should he wish to further make your acquaintance, my Lord. This is hardly the time or place to address any of his questions."

"But I too have—!"

"As for yours, they can no doubt be answered by a trip to the library."

Night is descending. The indigo swath of it settles, heavy and wet, still seeping the dark dyes of space. The liquescent ether of dusk gathers beneath Carlos' fixed feet, collecting in puddles and pools. It floods the ground, it gums the grates. Shallow at first, murky as a mire, but steadily rising to submerge the town: first the corners, then the doors, then their jambs and roofs. Like the Thames after a heavy rain, twilight swamps the city in shades of violet, awnings drenched and carriages soaked and clothing clotted in the wake of leached fluids. Carlos feels like he might be sinking. It's difficult to stay sensible. He needs to—

He needs—

"Wait."

The command—weedy and strangled though it might have been—is enough to bring the Earl and the Marquis to an abrupt stop. Their feet, their bickering; they are, in that instant, so still that Carlos half-wonders if they have already become one with the night. Specters, appearing and vanishing at will. But no— no, if he squints, the Scientist can just make out the burgundy hem of a cloak, tickling the nebulous halo of light crowning the nearest lantern. The fabric wavers like an opera curtain. Something is beginning. The man beneath it is motionless, but expectant—poised for act one. In his clutch, another waits, too.

"I do have— Can you answer just one question for me?" Carlos asks. Begs, in truth, should he choose to acknowledge the crack of desperation that nearly splits his voice in two. He tries not to, though. He tries not to acknowledge a number of things about the present moment: the muted keens from John, the blooming stench of the cadaver, his palpitating heart… "It's not about— It isn't… Just. Please, my Lords. One question."

The pair does not respond. But then, neither do they continue on their way. The Baron supposes it is encouragement enough, and with a staccato wheeze, hears himself—irrationally, foolishly—demand:

"What's one and one?"

A snort. The scarlet cloak susurrates with amusement. Through the gloom, something else rumbles; plates part the earth, thunder the sky, and the toll of this rich chuckle rends the air itself into ribbons: rippling sheaves of sound that spiral as broad streamers around and around the cage of Carlos' chest. They weave through bony slats. They bind with sinews and muscles. They become like the wires of marionettes, and he can feel their hold upon him, feel them as acutely and absently as if they've always been. Feel them, and cannot move. Cannot blink. Cannot look away when something meets his gaze through the opaque drape of darkness, mirror-smooth and reflective. The twin pricks of it, nova-bright and angled and pallid, gleam with the same flameless fire as burnished gemstones.

"Why, it's elevens, isn't it?" he then hears Cecil return. Cheerfully. Casually. "Goodness me. Your concussion must be worse than we feared. Do take care of yourself, Sir Scientist."

For a moment, Carlos fears that he's choked. That the bubble of his gasp had caught in his throat, gained substance, killed him. But then, just as suddenly, he realizes he's simply stopped breathing. He could again, if he wanted. He does want. He doesn't. Because— because. Because elevens. Elevens? Eleven. It's a stupid, skewed answer and he needs to breathe, yes, but he also needs to laugh, to cackle, because he should not have expected anything else. The ludicrousness of it all froths like a poison, foamy and acidic in his gullet; he clenches his teeth against it, clenches his fist to steady himself.

Crunch.

And for once, the Baron isn't surprised by the cut of heavy paper in his palm. It's a calling card, he knows. A calling card, inadvertently crushed, that definitely had not been there moments prior. Cecil Palmer, its bent face will read, in stylish swirls of impossible ink. Marquis of Night Vale.

"Good night, dear Carlos. Good night."

The Community Radio, was it…?

XXX

Psalmus David Dominus reget me (etc): An interrupted beginning to Psalm 23.

In manibus portabunt te ne forte offendas ad lapidem pedem tuum: "They will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone." Psalm 91:12.

Proverbs 29:20: Do you see a man who is hasty in his words? There is more hope for a fool than for him. (In other words, STFU Cecil.)