London hums under Ismene's feet - a tired strain of underground carriages speeding along the rails, the sighs of everyday life, the chatter of tourists in their thousands of languages, the echos of the centuries and the bassline of thaumaturgy that strings it all together. London is not Ismene's - she grew up worlds away in the southern countryside - but she knows the city's pulse all the same, feels it reverberate in her bones as she walks down Little Newport Street, away from Ur Publishing and towards the headquarters of the Mage Association.
She wishes, deeply, that her business in London could be a pleasant errand - quiet manipulation over cups of tea at the Savoy, underhanded dealings in the Victoria and Albert, feeding the ducks at St James' Park - but no. Ismene is on her hands and knees, struggling to clean up the mess that her idiot lord has created in his quest to destroy the Holy Grail of Fuyuki. In the thing's annihilation, both her lord and Rin Tohsaka had fought against the Einzbern family and Mage Association and won - humiliating both groups in the process. Such a loss had meant the Mage Association needed to save face and fast, and so they began the process of issuing the harshest punishment they could: a sealing designation. One for Waver Velvet and one for Rin Tohsaka, with more to follow.
The only thing that Ismene had been grateful for was that she returned to England before Velvet or Tohsaka, so that the news from the various families the Archibalds called allies delivered the information to her first. It gave her two days to panic before picking Waver up from Heathrow - pacing wildly around the house, calling every contact she could for more information, even going so far as to contemplate where the paperwork for the designation might lie and if a break in could be feasible.
She might have seriously considered the last option if Waver's reaction to the designation hadn't been so unexpected. Rather than flail wildly and swear filth ridden rainbows at the Association, he had responded with a polite cough, then stared out the car window as Ismene drove them both away from Heathrow.
"Did you hear what I said, Velvet?" Ismene had snapped at the time, rolling down Waver's window to blast him with a sudden rush of air. "Or do I need to let more air in?"
"I heard you, I heard you!" he said, furiously mashing the automatic window button.. "Close these-!"
"I'm sorry, usually when the Mage Association decides to incarcerate a magus, there's more of a reaction!" Ismene continued, letting something that might be concern colour her voice.
"You act like we didn't expect this sort of retaliation," Waver had replied, his voice exhausted, half in dreams. "Really, the only thing I'm surprised at is that the thing hasn't gone through yet.."
Ismene had dropped the conversation then, having no more desire to hear her lord describe all of the calculations that had gone into planning his war. She could, if she wanted, be angry at him for not telling her to expect this outcome, but that would waste vital energy. So she had driven them both back to the Archibald family home in Icklesham, refusing to return Waver back to his home in Godalming, just in case it proved beyond Ismene's ability to convince the Association that her idiot lord was no threat at all.
Ismene knows that opening her family's home to beneficiaries in need of protection is simply a part of patronage. She also knows that Waver has proven the critics within her family right. In allowing a non-family member to take the title of El-Melloi, they have permitted themselves to be dragged into political matters that are not to the family's benefit, even if the notoriety of having a man who had brought the Association to its knees and was making it struggle to maintain a guise of dignity was nice - familiar, even. After all, they had had a similar reputation before, back when the ninth head of the family was still alive and ran the counties of Devon, East Sussex, Hampshire, Kent, Surrey and West Sussex. He had commanded the loyalty of the mages under his jurisdiction with a healthy fear of his craft, and well, perhaps there was something about the title of El-Melloi that produced such continuity.
The thought makes Ismene smile as she walks up Charing Cross Road, past the old bookstores whose comforting smells of musk filter out into the street, mixing with the drifting scent of the Thames and the nearby coffee shops. There are perfumes that strive to mimic such a scent, but to walk through all of it, wafting, is another experience entirely and one that Ismene delights in. It's a comfort, one that she revels in far more than her gardens back at home, where she was yelled at for daring to climb the neatly trimmed hedges and muddying the flower beds that had been carefully tended to.
She lets the memory of muddy chases through the backyard pass, refocusing her attention on the matter at hand. In theory, Ismene has taken all the precautions that she can to ensure designations will not come to pass -or at least, had done so once she had learned when the vote was to be cast. Like all other elements relating to the administration of magecraft, the date of the meeting of the Mages Council is secret - known only to those whose presence is absolutely necessary. Such secrecy had forced Ismene to spend five days trying to learn when the group would come to order. It had been sheer luck that the under-under-secretary for the Secretary of the Interior had contacted her, offering her the information for the right money.
Ismene met him in the Near East department of the British Museum the next day, muttering about how cliche of a place it was to hold a meeting. They were not Cold War spies, and Ismene had little desire to stare at old trinkets in cases. Still, Jonathan Mandrake had insisted on using the museum as their meeting point, and she had agreed.
He was standing in front of the Burney Relief when Ismene arrived, her heels clicking on the floor to announce her approach. "Mandrake," she had said in a crisp, precise voice, coming to stand to his right.
"Archibald." The smile he gave her showed no kindness, only the self-assured importance that only a low blooded mage could have. "Although I've told you to call me John how many times?"
"There are enough Johns in existence. Mandrake is at least somewhat unique," had been her clipped response as she evaluated his three piece suit and its ridiculous overcoat. "To the point then - the date for the sealing designation."
"Yes, that." Mandrake had said it lightly, eyes never leaving Ismene's face. "Tell me, Archibald, why are you and your family so content to throw your lot behind a rebel lord? You could find another man to easily replace him and not have to deal with all this trouble."
"That's none of your business. The information - who is it from?"
"Secretary Whitwell - so it will be accurate. The designation will be decided on three days from now - the sixteenth."
Three days had seemed like such a long time then, and she nearly said so, but Mandrake continued. "Also. There is a small contingent that stands behind El-Melloi and Tohsaka on the basis of morals - whatever that means in this case. Their argument is that it is wrong for the Association to take the action they intend to do - mostly because the Association has made a point of refusing to step until the Grail Wars until now. Everyone knows that they only did it because it was a chance to get under the Einzberns' skirts, and now it's backfired in a frankly hilarious fashion. The attempt to save face is shockingly pathetic, and really, no one wants the Association to look that bad."
"I see. You're very generous, Mandrake."
"I know." He smile had not been so much a smile as a way of demonstrating that he had teeth. Ismene paid it no mind. "But you know the cost of generosity, don't you?"
"I do," Issmene replied, hands resting in the pocket of her jeans. "Tell me - did Whitwell name any of those against the designation?"
"She did not. I only overheard her loudly complaining about the entire matter on the phone. She seems to think it all a waste of time and that there are more important individuals to give a sealing designation to. Using designations to police mages is ridiculous and perverts the honour of receiving one."
"Many magi would suggest that all designations are a form of policing, Mandrake," Ismene had observed dryly. "Your payment will be in your office mailbox this evening. Also?" she added, beginning to walk away. "I'd get rid of the coat. And probably the suit. You look like a child playing dress up in an outfit that poorly tailored."
At the time, jokes were appropriate. Ismene wishes that she could maintain the same levity she had then as she walks up Shaftesbury Avenue, pulling her coat closer around her. The winter's chill has not quite left, and the wind that winds through the streets is a gust rather than gentle breeze. It would be to Ismene's distaste if she was not used to the wind making it's way from the channel up to Icklesham, blowing in sudden clouds that could ruin a bright, sunny afternoon with no warning.
No warning. Now there was something to contemplate. What if the designation went through and the Enforcers leapt upon the family home immediately with no warning? What if Tohsaka and Velvet had to go on the run, what if the Association went after those who sided with those two? What if the Archibald crest was to be seized, what if Ismene herself had to go on the run - hiding, far away from her comfortable home and familiar island? What if the family was ruined because Velvet talked her into giving him her family's full support as vengeance for Kayneth and to let her make her own name as the tenth head of the family, what if, what if, what ifwhatifwhatif?
The cacophony could go on forever, and Ismene nearly lets it until she reminds herself of one thing: she is Ismene Archibald. She cannot fail. She has made the right allies. She has made the right bribes. God knows she has paid a few million pounds to make it so, and it was her own family members who opposed Velvet from the very beginning who helped her find the right people to ensure the designation won't come to pass.
She reflects on that as she walks up Bloomsbury Street. Her mother's cousin, Bryce - who had been against permitting Waver to take the title of lord back in 1999, when the family had voted on the decision - had done his own share of legwork, blackmailing everyone he could think of, calling allies who could vote at the council, keeping his ear close to the ground. It had been Bryce that encouraged Ismene to take the meeting with Mandrake, and once she had done so and called him with the results, he had encouraged her to go to Ur Publishing and pay off the lord of the Hawthorne family. He had added that she might take care to learn how the European lords would vote on the matter while she was there. After all, Kayneth had used the Hawthorne faily head to keep a close eye on the continent's politics, and Ismene would be a fool not to do the same.
So Ismene had gone from the British Museum to Little Newport Street, where the offices of Ur Publishing called home. The place would have been unnoticeable if it wasn't for the bright blue sign that hung out from one of the buildings, lavishly decorated with gold inlay. She climbed up the steps to the top floor the office occupied without a thought, nor paid any mind to the secretary that sat in the lobby before marching into the office of Amuhia Hawthorne. Upon walking in, the twenty seventh head of the family stood at a scrying glass, talking animatedly to the person on the other end of the conversation. Her incalculable number of thin, silver bracelets jangled, and Ismene couldn't tell what language was being used. Arabic, maybe.
"Usually polite families call ahead and give me a warning," Amuhia said, looking up when Ismene closed the door. It wasn't quite a slam, but the noise had gotten Amuhia's attention.
"You worked with Kayneth Archibald," Ismene had deadpanned in response, "You tell me if he ever did that."
"Ugh," Amuhia slumped, letting out a miserable sigh. "Man had a good brain and wrote like Paracelsus, but never understood that if I'm not picking up the phone, I'm busy. Hang on, this is rude-" She turned back to the scrying glass, said a few hurried words - definitely Arabic, Amuhia's maternal side must have come from the east and married into the very English Hawthornes - then covered it with a thick, purple velvet cloth so that Ismene could have her full attention. It had been more than enough time for Ismene to look around the room and breathe it all in - it's white walls, with black furniture that likely came from Ikea, bookcases of scrupulously organized papers and filing cabinets that were the same. There was no technology to be seen,save for a phone that sat on Amuhia's desk, and even then it looked as if it belonged back in the 1930s. It spoke of simplicity, but also of expense, because nothing that well designed was ever cheap. "Now," Amuhia had said, interrupting Ismene's observations. "If I'm correct, you're Ismene Archibald and your family needs yet another favour from mine. That'd be the twentieth on record."
"Twentieth?" Ismene repeated, surprised by both the amount of favours owed and the record keeping practices of the Hawthornes.
"Yes," Amuhia confirmed, striding back towards her desk. "In addition to many more that are off the books. If it makes you feel any better, most mages are in our debt some way or another."
"Not really, no," Ismene had admitted at the time, daring to let something honest pass from her lips. "Not when I know the price for the favour I'm about to ask is probably going to multiply the Archibald debt tenfold."
"Uh-huh," Amuhia said, standing at the window that looked over Little Newport Street. "Out with what you need."
"I need you to vote against the sealing designation on Lord El-Melloi II and Rin Tohsaka when the Association meets to make that final decision. That's three days from now, on the sixteenth;"
With Amuhia's back towards Ismene, she had been unable to gauge the older mage's reaction. Even now, in racking her memory, Ismene cannot think of even a single gesture that gave away Amuhia's true feelings on the request. She had only dryly replied, "You were right, you are increasing your debt tenfold," before adding, "I see little reason to disagree with the proposed punishment, really."
"And under any other circumstance, I might agree with you," Ismene had said at the time. "Raising a hand to the Association is despicable, but this perverts the true significance of a designation."
"Does it?" Amuhia asked. "A little third generation mage who took on the Einzbern heir as well as an entire squad of top tier magi and won doesn't strike you as something that should be preserved?"
"The only thing that does is prevent us from seeing the results of a fourth or fifth generation mage from the same line who might be even more impressive." That reply had a flare of temper in it, and Ismene sighs at the memory. Such a response could have been read as loyalty - for all she knows, it was.
"It might be an unfortunate loss, but I think it is more prudent to examine how he gained all this power despite low birth," Amuhia said. "I doubt he himself knows how he came across it." Thinking on the statement, Ismene recalls some of the data sheets she saw in Waver's office at Clock Tower. Something about first generation mage circuit output being increased. She could weep from the realization now, but at the time, the thought hadn't even occurred to her. She had instead stared at Amuhia in silence, prompting the other woman to give a graceful shrug.
"Fine," Amuhia had said pleasantly. "Let's set a price for your lord. First, I want all of El-Melloi I's papers, so that posthumous works can be published - the fucker still owes me a book. Second, a suitable sum - say £750,000, since your family can afford it. Third, you owe me three favours that may be called in at any time. Fourth - I believe that the Archibald still owns property in Ireland, correct? I want one-eighth of it, preferably down south. Now, the new two are conditional terms and assume that your boy will be spared the designation. My grandson is beginning at Clock Tower next year - I want assurance that he'll get in - his focus is alchemy. El-Melloi II will agree to admitting him to alchemical studies. He will also be my grandson's thesis adviser, when the time comes, and he will let the boy pass. If graduate studies are pursued, this favourable treatment will continue. Oh, and a supply of lavender from your mother's garden, delivered bi-weekly when it starts growing again. It makes the office smell wonderful."
"That's reasonable." The speed of the response was too fast - too agreeable, too willing. It made her a pushover, and it made her next words ring hollow. "I will be in those chambers watching. Break your word on this and you can consider every single debt the Archibald family owes yours declared null and void."
"Noted." Amuhia had smiled pleasantly, finally turning towards Ismene. Her left hand idly played with the rings on her right, absorbed in twisting them. "Mind, even if it comes to pass that your boy still does get the designation, I expect you to meet our terms."
"Yes, of course."
"Good." Amuhia's smile didn't fade at her next question. "You'll be wanting me to swing the votes of the entire Prague Association as well, correct?"
"Pardon?" Letting her face show it's utter shock and anger had been an even dumber thing to do than agree so readily to the price for Amuhia's vote.
"The only thing you bought was my vote," Amuhia had said. "I take it whatever informants you have didn't add that the Prague Association is unsure of how to vote here. Anyone defeating the Mage Association is worthy of the designation, but the Mage Association managed to bed the Einzbern before Prague, and as we all know, Prague should get to fuck the Einzbern first because the Einzbern are an alchemist family. It would be satisfying to humiliate Association by voting in favour of El-Melloi II nd Tohsaka, but that requires a few lords to take a stand and rally everyone else behind them." Her smile came back with those words, still pleasant. "If I recall though, the Archibalds have no friends in Prague."
"While it is true that we have no friends who participate in the Prague branch of things, I can say-" she had begun to say, only for Amuhia to be distracted by a warm glow from beneath her scrying glass. Ismene paused long enough for Amuhia to rush over and see who the call was from, only for her to look over at Ismene miserably.
"I don't want to do this to you," she said, pulling the cloth off the glass entirely. "But I absolutely have to take this call. Can you wait outside?"
"Take your time. I can see myself out."
The muttered thank you from Amuhia had allowed Ismene to it exit the office of Ur Publishing, giving her much needed time to think her way out of her situation. She had taken a few long, sobering breaths to right her mind, then walked over to the public phone booth at the end of the street. Once inside, Ismene dialed home and demand Waver be put on the phone. It was with no small amount of annoyance at his exhausted greeting of, "Yes, what?" that Ismene had decided to cut to the chase.
"What's your salary at Clock Tower, Velvet?"
It was all too easy to imagine Waver's face of complete scandal at the question, and the mental image coupled with his indignant response of, "Why would you ask that?!" nearly made Ismene laugh.
"Just tell me," she had said.
The sum muttered over the phone had been what Ismene expected. "Good. I may need you to set some aside for a few months to act as payment for-"
"-Ismene!-"
"-what's going on right now," Ismene steamrolled over Waver's horror at further corrupting mages with practiced ease. "I also need you to go into Kayneth's old office and find everything he's ever written. Journals, correspondences, observation notes, anything that's paper and has his handwriting on it."
"Fine. Anything else?"
"No. Ask mother to help find the office if you need it - I have to go. Oh, and let her know I'm staying at Bryce's here in London tonight."
"You're twenty five," Waver said. "Tell her yourself."
Ismene laughed at that- a kind laugh, not her usual derisive one. "Afraid I can't, the pay phone is telling me that I need to feed it more money and I'm out of change, Velvet."
"You're full of it-" Waver had begun to protest, only for the dial tone to respond. The conversation, at the time, had been enough to renew Ismene's confidence, sending her back up the steps and into the office of Ur Publishing, waiting for Amuhia to finish her phone call. Amuhia's head eventually poked out from behind the door to invite Ismene back in.
Once inside, Amuhia had flopped into the chair behind her desk - a rolling thing, whose bright green was the only colour permitted in the room - making the simple motion a dramatic gesture, coupled with an exhausted sigh. "I'm sorry for the interruption," she said. "Where were we?"
"I was about to offer you £2,500,000 for any bribes you need to make to the lords of the Prague Association, as well as make your own payment an even million and give you one-sixth of our land holdings in Ireland."
"That is all very kind," Amuhia agreed. "The alchemists may ask for physical goods as well."
"Then you will spend the £2,500,000 to include purchased items," Ismene said, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. "Should that sum not be enough, you will let me know and you will include precise calculations to demonstrate the need for additional money."
"And if they want something else?"
"Well then that is a problem, isn't it?"
"Very well, I will speak to the lords that I hold the trust of and ensure that they will vote against the sealing designation. I expect the appropriate checks and documents to be here on the morning of the sixteenth." Ismene had not known what to make of Amuhia's agreement to the proposal, only that this would be the twenty-first favour owed.
"I will be here at nine-thirty precisely," Ismene had said. "Unless you demand I be here earlier."
"Nine-thirty is fine. Until then."
It is a big bribe - one that Ismene had little control over beyond writing the check. As she turns onto Montague Place, towards the back entrance of the British Museum, she lets herself reflect on that fact. The chorus of what ifs do not return to her head, but the unease that it put in her head does, wedging itself in her brain as she approaches the back doors of the British Museum. She goes through the security check on autopilot, scarcely paying attention to the young mage checking her identification and not watching herself as she hurries down the first few steep steps that lead under the building - not that they actually go underneath the museum. Instead, they lead under the Malet Street Gardens and then northeast for a while longer through dimly lit corridors that the association built in the 1600s and decorated accordingly. The gold, silver and other precious metals, coupled with lovingly painted frescos depicting the great acts of the mages of old speak of richness long since gone, and contrast with the high ceilinged stone chamber that the corridor leads into. It's hard to say how far below ground they are, or how high the ceiling is - only that even the smallest pin could make an echo if dropped on the floor. The only decorations in the room are the gargoyles, whose eyes peer down at those within, forcing even the craftiest mage to speak the truth under their gaze. Ismene does not let herself be awed by them, or even acknowledge the fear they strike in her. She only climbs the stairs to the spectator's section and finds a seat.
From her perch, Ismene watches the many lords of the Mage Association trickle in - some wearing their robes, others in smart suits and a few others in jeans and t-shirts, laughing when their fellows give them dirty looks. She picks out the lords she knows - the ones that Bryce blackmailed and cajoled, the ones that she has seen at garden parties over the years, the ones that hold her family's fate in her hands -and when all of the seats below have filled in, she becomes still.
The ritual of the meetings of the council begins as it always does - opening remarks by the head of the Association, followed by a reading of the meeting's agenda and a few points of housekeeping. Ismene's heart pounds at every word, to the point where she is certain the entire chamber must hear it.
She tries to center herself, recalling her lord's calm at the entire situation When Ismene had returned from London the day after her meeting with Amuhia, Waver had been in the wing of the house that served as Kayneth's primary headquarters, dutifully going through the contents of the ninth head of the household's desk.
"Is this all you found?" Ismene had asked, traipsing in without knocking.
To his credit, Waver had not jumped from his spot on the floor, or even looked up as he flipped through a bunch of loose leaf papers. "There's a stack of journals in the library that Volumen Hydragyrum found. Those are all research related. These-" he indicated a stack of papers piled messily on the desk, "-are all personal. You'll want to go through them if you're going to let them fall into hands outside of the family."
"Just put the questionable ones in a pile and I'll look through them later," Ismene replied.
"Okay."
It had taken a moment for Ismene to gather the courage to ask the next question, but she had to ask it all the same. "Velvet?" she began, her voice without it's usual put-upon tone. "Have you thought about what you will do if this designation comes to pass?"
"Yes," Waver said, not bothering to pause in his speech as he stood up and dusted himself off "If that happens, you need to call me immediately so I can start running. Assuming that the Enforcers have to travel from London, I'll have a window of two hours to make my getaway. I will use Volumen Hydragyrum to cross the Channel into France and proceed to make my way towards Paris. Rin and I agreed that it would be better for us to be fugitives together, and where we go will be decided when and only when she has gotten out of Japan and I have left England. Tomorrow I'm planning on withdrawing the savings in my bank account and packing a bag so that I can just grab it and run. Rin is doing much the same."
"How are you two going to contact each other?"
"The earpieces we used during the war were charmed for long distance communication. We tested them out last night and found they still work.."
He had said it all so calmly, so matter-of-factly, it was hard to reconcile with the furious passion he had in fighting for the right to take apart the Grail. This picture of composed tranquility was the same Waver Velvet who had brought ten tons of water down on the head of the Mage Association in his fury and verbally eviscerated Jurgen Einzbern when the Einzbern heir had surrendered.
"You're really not scared?"
"No." It had been a simple response, and the look on Waver's face hinted at something deeper. Ismene had seen the same expression on his face once before, when they passed through Fuyuki after destroying all the ley lines so that the Grail could never return. Waver, covered in dirt, grime and dust, had stopped to examine his reflection in a broken shop window, as if he had just seen someone familiar. He had taken a long moment to stare at himself, then smiled as if a burden had been lifted from him. At the time, Ismene had thought nothing of it, but on seeing its' return, she had to wonder what she missed in that shop window and why it returned when they spoke of the designation.
"The vote happens in two days. One, if you don't count today. You should clear out that bank account now."
"I'll need to borrow the car."
"Fine," Ismene said, waving a hand dismissively. "Take the BMW - keys're in the kitchen. Also, Velvet?"
"Yes?"
"I won't be here when you wake up tomorrow - there's some other business I need to attend to.. Do me the favour of remembering to eat three times a day until the sixteenth, in case you really do need to run. Don't think I'm not aware of your tendency to skip meals when stressed - you barely ate for two weeks in Fuyuki."
"Do you want me to promise? Pinky swear and everything?" Waver had asked, heading towards the door.
"If that's what it takes."
"Then I promise," he said, in a way that sounded more like reluctant indulgence than anything else. "Oh, Ismene?"
"Yes?"
"You said you needed me to set aside a portion of my income. Tell me how much you were planning to take and I'll pay you before I leave."
"Little point in making you pay if this fails, Velvet. Go withdraw your bank account in its entirety and we can discuss this if we have to tomorrow."
Waver had left at that, taking his time in running the errand. Upon his return, his calm face remained, and Ismene imagines that it lingers now, still back home. For all she knows, he's probably sitting and talking with her mother over tea, as if the voting isn't happening at all. Or so she can hope, because as soon as the image enters her mind, a voice calls out: "Fourth to be listed: Rin Tohsaka and Waver Velvet, Lord El-Melloi II. The reason for giving them sealing designations is their respective abilities - Tohsaka for her output and skill in combat, Lord El-Melloi II for his talent despite low birth. Recently, they have lead an army of mages against the Association, demonstrating that, without a doubt, they are worthy of this honour However, my lords, if you are against them receiving a sealing designation, I ask you to stand now."
Ismene does not breath. Ismene does not blink. Ismene does not look anywhere but at those who are standing up, counting them frantically. Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two with more and more after they take a look around the chamber to observe the actions of others. From her seat, Ismene can only view three quarters of the room, and for the two-thirds majority to be overridden and prevent the designation from going through, she needs at least twenty more lords to vote against. Somewhere, she loses track of who she's counted, and so she tries to start again until the voice of the head of the Association interrupts her.
"One hundred and seven lords have voted against this designation," he announces, voice loud and firm. "Rin Tohsaka and Lord El-Melloi II will not receive a sealing designation. Fifth to be listed-"
The world goes silent after that and Ismene slumps back into her seat. She can't smile, not with a vote that close, but the wave of relief that washes over her is enough. Her family's lord remains. Her family's crest remains. All other matters are now irrelevant, and she can rest.
When lunch recess is called, Ismene leaves en masse with all of the other mages, then makes an immediate break for the Malet Street Gardens, dialing Rin on Waver's phone. Unsurprisingly, Rin answers on the first ring.
"Waver?"
"I stole his phone," Ismene says into the receiver, having found an isolated area of the park. "The meeting just let out for a break."
"And-?" Ismene can practically see Rin leaning in.
"One hundred and seven against."
Rin's relief is audible. "Good," she mutters, and it sounds like she might be choking back tears. "And a mage cannot be up for a sealing designation twice in their life, if I recall correctly."
"No," Ismene confirms. "No they cannot."
"Have you called Waver yet?"
"I'm telling him in person."
"Cruel," Rin says, and Ismene cannot say that Rin is wrong in the observation. "I'm going to go cancel my plane tickets then. Get home and tell him."
Under any other circumstances, Ismene would be offended at such an order, but she lets it slide. With the call to Rin over, Ismene leaves the park, only to realize that there is one other phonecall she needs to make. As it turns out, the Archibald homestead is number five on Waver's speed dial, and Ismene's mother answers immediately.
"They're both off the hook," Ismene says, walking in the general direction of the Tottenham Court Road tube station.
"I see," her mother replies. "And-?"
"Could you please have Waver waiting at the train station for me? I'll tell him then"
Ismene's mother gives a content hum as she says, "Yes, of course, dear. Well done. I'll see you when you get home."
The line goes dead before Ismene can so much as say thank you, and if she is to be honest, the praise makes her frown. There is little reason to congratulate someone on further corrupting an already corrupt and seedy system, and even less reason to do so when the matter is defending one's own family rather than genuinely protecting the Tohsakas or Velvets. And yet, the thanks that Rin gave was genuine, just like her mother's praise, and Waver's gratitude will doubtlessly be the same.
Ismene frowns at this as she heads down the escalator to get to the tube, permitting the observation to remain as she travels home. It is worth contemplating, worth letting her mind be occupied by it for the two hours it takes to travel from London back to Icklesham. Even in getting off the train and walking over to the family's Jaguar XJ, she does not discard the thought - only notes that she should find someone to speak about it later. Perhaps Velvet, after the designation is a distant memory. For the time being, she has to address him as he is now, sitting in the car's driver seat and looking at her expectantly.
"Good news," Ismene says, climbing into the car. "You're getting out of our house and going back to Godalming." She slams the door shut, then flashes Waver a triumphant look. "The Association decided you and Tohsaka weren't worth the honour of a sealing designation after all."
Ismene laughs as relief washes over Waver's face. His forehead comes to rest gently upon the steering wheel, and his smile would be infectious if Ismene wasn't already grinning. "How?" he manages to choke out, taking care to turn the car off lest he waste more gas.
"Never mind how. Picking up your shit is what I do, Velvet," Ismene says, her overjoyed face return to it's usual cold, poised state. "But you should keep the following in mind, Velvet. You will be on the Association's radar for some time. If you do something like this again, I likely will not be able to save you."
"Thank you," Waver says. There's nothing in the way he says it that suggests he'll take the gift lightly, but Ismene knows better. He will do something stupid again, probably with the Association still staring over his shoulder, and again, Ismene will have to leap to defend him.
Ismene shifts in her seat at the thought, forcing it aside, then glances out the rear window. "You're parked in a fire lane, Velvet. Either start driving home or at least move so you can work through your emotions in a place where we won't get a ticket."
At that, Waver revs the engine of the Jaguar again, taking no joy as it comes to life. "You called Rin and told her already, right?"
"Yes," Ismene replies, watching for oncoming traffic as Waver makes a right out of the parking lot. "The entire matter of the Holy Grail is settled, Velvet. It isn't coming back ."
"Good," Waver says softly, making the turn. "Very good."
Notes:
*This fic was originally posted on AO3 on 1 October 2012 and is mirrored here: /works/526061
*Please see the AO3 mirror for further notes and links that explain the references and citations in this fic.
*This fic is a part of the series If Not Alexander, then Diogenes, and is available on AO3 here: /series/23756