September 1969

In retrospect, Marigold Ashford should have known better than to trust that "just a little work party" with one of the executives would be anything but innocent.

Alexander had even warned her of what would happen, just before boarding the plane to begin the long journey to Rockfort Island. "Keep Spencer on your side, but be careful. That business in London last year might have bought you some space, but the instant they realize you're useful, that won't matter. You'll have wolves at your door. Except for this time, it'll be the older, smarter ones who will be in it for power. They won't give a damn if everyone thinks you're sterile. Are you sure you can deal with it?"

She had fidgetted, despite holding herself steady. "I'll have to." She had sighed. Only her father and brother knew that her body had regenerated from that previous damage since her exposure to the virus last fall, in Africa.

For all anyone else knew, she had failed to take the preventive medication against local malaria strains and had met with the consequences of neglect. It was a story that painted her a witless dilettante. For now, it would have to do. Their father had intended to reveal the truth to Lord Spencer once the man responsible for the incident, Doctor James Marcus, was safely secured in America.

And then, their father had died. They had become isolated.

Alexander had refused to let the point go. "I mean it. This isn't a group that gives ground to weakness. Once they realize there's a stake in the company connected to us-"

"They'll aim for me, instead of you, since you'll be out of reach, and I look like a soft target. I know, Alex."

While Alexander was facing his own disgrace and exile, Marigold seemed to flourish. Most of the old families in Western Europe had been struggling to maintain their lands and lifestyles for generations now; rebuilding after the war had only deepened the gulf. The right investment could turn it all around for them, and they were hungry for just the right opportunity. Exploratory inquiries were left with Poppy at the flat; a lunch invitation with the young Lady Ashford became one of the hottest tickets in town.

One by one, the executive team in the London office began to realize what Marigold had been doing during those long lunch appointments when the calls started streaming in. The lead financier for the team, doing a double-take when a new client told them this new company was the hot new tip around town. A week later, another client spotted Marigold in the hallway and called her jovially into the meeting, ignoring the incredulous look from the account manager while thanking her for making time to meet for lunch the month before.

When Spencer called the office to congratulate them on getting buy-in from a Swiss hedge fund, they had all looked at each other around the conference table, panicked. No one knew the name of the investor; they couldn't take the credit if they wanted to. As if on cue, Marigold had appeared in the doorway with a cup of coffee. "Élan got back to you? I thought he was coming in next week to close that deal."

Spencer was still on the line, holding his tongue. He had called her last week (doting 'uncle' that he was), to check in; she had requested that he personally accept a call from a bigger fish she had lined up. He'd obliged, after warning that this shouldn't become a habit.

The executive on the line had paled. "Ah…Élan…" Fishing for a name. Floundering.

"Oberlin. Bit of a long shot, but it sounds like he came through?" Marigold looked back at them, wide-eyed. In truth, she had put off two meetings with his daughter due to her "packed schedule". When news that other, smaller investors were buying in had circled back around to her father, she had called again all but begging (as much as a woman of her station was wont to do) for a meeting. The elder Oberlin's interest was piqued, so she did her one better - she arranged the call directly to Lord Spencer himself.

The executive swallowed, found his tongue. "…next week?"

"I've put it on the schedule. I do work here," she said, in her sweetest voice.

Spencer might have snickered on the other end of the line.

After that call, Marigold Ashford's lunch dates were treated as sacrosanct leads. A hungrier junior executive, Maxwell Grenwald, was all but dragged back to his desk by the collar by his supervisor when he attempted to tail Marigold out the door one day to scope out the new lead. "Don't interfere." The older man warned the wounded young man. "All of her leads have panned out gold when she's left to her own devices. They always end up here. All you'll manage to do is annoy her to the point where she decides to stop helping."

Grenwald, who had been far more occupied with Miss Ashford's legs than her business acumen prior to Spencer's call, scowled, but complied with the order.

It didn't make sense, he thought. The woman had been persona non grata less than a year ago in London society. Everyone knew it; everyone who mattered. Had she some hidden talent that overcame such a blow, or did pity for her broken family wipe the slate clean?

Grenwald mused over the matter for the rest of the afternoon while half-heartedly making cold calls. London society was shifting away from the old ways. The Ashford estate was a lucrative prize, and it was being run by a moderately clever girl with a nose for networking; nearly all on her own, given the even worse rumours about her brother.

Well. A diamond in the rough was still a diamond. If no one else had the nerve to pluck it up, he'd help himself.

Just a little work party.

Of course. Of course, someone would test the waters as soon as she showed that the Ashford name was still viable in practice.

It had seemed safe enough- she had only committed to staying for an hour. Mostly the younger among them; her mentor's secretary had been the one to pass the invitation along. One of the younger executives, with a name which evoked sea monsters and feast halls, was holding at his richly appointed London house. Marigold recalled that this one was one of the gogglers at the earlier meeting. He had been paying keen attention to her movements since that day.

After hours, he seemed nervous but puffed up. Grenwald insisted on keeping her attention as soon as she arrived.

She was so bored after the first few minutes that she might never have noticed what he had done to the drink placed in her hand, about ten minutes later. She looked up to see another smiling young man, with his date looking at her curiously. "Here," he said. "Sorry, my cousin tends to go on when he's nervous." Grenwald glared at him, saying nothing. "He tells me that you've become a bit of a local celebrity, recently."

Marigold blinked. "Hmmm." She took a sip- vodka soda, with a generous twist of lime and syrup. Grenwald's gaze seemed to sharpen. He looked at the other man. "Ah, introductions. My cousin Alastair, and his fiancée. Alastair may be joining the company in the next quarter."

"Gemma," the other woman, a petite brunette, offered her own name.

"Charmed." She took another sip. "I'm afraid I'm poor company this evening. It's been a long day, and I get fatigued quite easily these days."

Gemma hmmed and nodded. "Terrible affliction. I hear they did some wonderful things with DDT after the war to wipe out much of it. Leave it to the Americans to ruin that for everyone," she said with a bored roll of her eyes. She took a swig of her own drink and made a face. "Scotch. I hate scotch."

"I don't," Marigold offered, with a quirk of a brow. Laughing they made the trade. Gemma tried it and affected a sated glow. "Ahhh, much better, thanks." Her fiancee tensed, looking to Grenwald. Grenwald himself blanched slightly. "I think I might be getting a touch peaky in this crowd. We have billiards in the library near the back. Ms. Ashford, would you care to take a short break?"

Marigold, who had noticed the elevated heart rates of both men, studied them both. Either they had something mildly interesting to say, or they were about to do something monumentally stupid. Either way, she'd come to London to take her place in the company. She'd need to convince those running it, and working at all levels, to work with her, sooner or later.

The billiards game in the quiet back library room went on at a stilted, nervous pace. Marigold hadn't been a stranger to drinking prior to her condition settling in, but hadn't tried it since. A pleasant buzz sank into her for a few moments, then departed soon after she finished her scotch.

Gemma, on the other hand, was out cold. She'd only had the one drink, but….

Wait. No.

She had traded for Marigold's drink. And now Gemma was out cold, and the two men were nervously glancing back at them every few moments.

No.

She should have just stayed in tonight, but she'd wanted to celebrate for once. Not go wild, just…go out. Be acknowledged for her work. And now…

Cold rage pooled in her chest, though she fought to keep her expression soft and blandly pleasant. This was exactly what had happened the year before, except she had been in Gemma's position. It hadn't mattered that she'd been incapacitated. What had mattered was the result. The infection. The emergency surgery before dropping out of society mere months after debuting into it.

And they were doing it to assert dominance. Control. There was very likely a camera stashed away somewhere in this very room. Why else would this happen now, of all times, after showing up half the office?

And on top of it all, she was getting a damned headache.

She glanced at Gemma. Poor dear, she was drooling a bit. There had been a bit more in that drink than mere vodka, then.

Plastering on a glazed smile, Marigold spoke up in an unsteady voice. "Who's winning?"

The two men startled, then Maxwell stammered, "Oh…Alastair is." He was sweating, visibly.

"Hmmm." Marigold made to get up, then affected a loss of balance, falling back into the loveseat. "Goodness. I did need a bit of a rest, didn't I?"

The tension seemed to flow out of the two men. Like they were getting away with something.

Marigold leaned forward again, rising to her feet. She took three wobbling steps, stopping to lean against the billiards table. "So strange. I really thought I could handle my liquor." She turned wide eyes up to Grenwald, who had stepped forward to 'catch' her.

She yelped, and looked up at Grenwald's grip tightened. Marigold looked up at him. "I bit my tongue." She felt a small trickle of blood leak from the corner of her mouth. Grenwald tipper her chin back and grimaced. "Ah, you really did."

Marigold glanced at Grenwald's cousin. Likely roped in as an accomplice. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Is Gemma, alright?" She asked him in what she hoped was a sweet tone. Alastair blinked, and started moving towards the couch. "I'll check on her." He shot a dark look towards his cousin, who smirked back. Well, then.

"What's wrong with my head.." She murmured. Grenwald licked his licks, eyes darkening. Somewhere behind her, the other man was gently calling Gemma's name, then asserting that she was asleep with what sounded like relief.

Marigold's hand snaked up to grasp Grenwald's tie, and pulled his head down towards hers. Taken off-guard, he froze against her mouth, then snickered. "Oh, eager for it, aren't you?" He tried to pull back - she really was bleeding, and from the look on his face, he could taste it. Her hands slid further upward, curling around his neck. "I don't think so," she breathed, letting the malice seep into her voice. She pulled him back down to her mouth and bit hard into the soft lower lip.

Grenwald tried to scream and push her away, but she held fast. Marigold's grip had been steadily tightening around the sides of his neck, slowing the blood flow to his head. What should have been a scream came out as a strangled yelp, before he started to slide to the floor.

Alastair, the cousin, had been tending to his fiancee when he heard his cousin yelp. He had turned back to a sinister sight: the other man slumping to the floor, and Marigold turning towards him. The cold anger in her eyes was clear, sober. She crossed back across the room - those three steps before wresting him up from the loveseat. "What did I drink." It wasn't a question.

"I…" Had she done that to Maxwell? Up close, he could see blood trickling from her lips. The woman made no attempt to wipe it away. Fantastic associations bubbled up, unbidden. Demon, vampira, fae bargain. Rationality was for anywhere but this suddenly too-small room. "Please, I…I don't know. Maxwell has a pharmaceutical friend who…I…" Alastair's mouth was dry.

"Ah…" This creature with Ashford features breathed. "You know, my brother warned me about boys like you." She smiled. Alastair's heart could have stopped in terror at that smile.

"It's really a shame that he never got around to warning any of you about me." She brought her face closer to Alastair's.

He blacked out.

For all he knew, that was a mercy.

The two cousins both woke at the same time. They were all crammed together on the loveseat, Gemma snoring softly into Alastair's shoulder. The sounds of the party were gone.

"I sent your guests home," a soft voice seated across the room informed them. Marigold Ashford sat in a comfortable leather chair, watching then. Calm. Almost clinical. she was passing an empty whiskey tumbler between her hands. "Told them you'd had a bad batch or something. Someone had to watch you. Can't be too careful in this business, after all." Her hands stilled. "There's always someone looking to cut you down if you aren't careful."

On the billiards table, a camera lay smashed into pieces.

Grenwald reacted first, with a shout of indignation. He tried to rise.

"Stop," Marigold said, watching him evenly. He blinked, but sank back, eyes unfocused.

She watched then for a moment, contemplative. "You know, I really didn't think anyone would be so stupid to try that, but, well," she shrugged. "Truth over facts, I suppose. The first lie always wins. Really, though." She sighed, looking at the smashed camera. "This was brazen, even for you. Did anyone put you up to it? Speak."

Grenwald found himself speaking, no matter how much he tried to dam up the words. "N-no. I just…" he swallowed. It was getting harder to focus. "Not..fair. Came in and swept up all of it.."

"Ah. I stole the glory, and you decided to steal something back, yes. To make it fair." The last few words were acid, etched into ice. Grenwald wince, whimpered. Her lip curled. "Pathetic."

Alastair asked quietly, "What's happening?"

Marigold switched that viper's gaze to him. "That's about what I was supposed to be saying at this point in the evening, wasn't it? Except your poor Gemma got caught up as collateral." She gave him a chilling smile. "I imagine it was such a relief to realize that she wouldn't see what you were helping him do."

They fell silent. They had nothing to say to that, so she continued. "Did you ever hear the story of how Rasputin was murdered?" Numbly, they shook their heads. Marigold brightened, the picture of a hostess telling a good story. She clapped her hands together. "Oh, but it's such an interesting tale!"

She leaned forward, every inch the girl telling tales around the campfire. "Rasputin, being a famed mystic, was reputed to have the Russian czar and czarina under his spell, so the princes of the realm hatched a plan. They lured the mad monk down to one of their homes, by requesting that he meet and bless the wife of one of their number. Rasputin arrived, and ate, and drank, as was his custom. And he drank. And the princes began to panic, because the poison, laced throughout all of this feast wasn't working." The room was dim. Marigold's eyes seemed to gleam at them with a contained feral instinct.

"After a while, they began to panic. One of them found a gun, and shot Rasputin point-blank. And still, he managed to run. He wasn't a small man. He'd managed to push his way through, almost all the way to the gates, screaming bloody murder to the city around him before they finally thought to put a bullet through his head."

She looked at the glass again. "I wonder if I should feel more grateful. I really had no means of testing my response to toxins since all of this kicked off. But the fact of the matter is, you tried to drug me." The cousins both began shaking. The fear was beginning to overwhelm them both. "So now I'm forced to decide what to do with you."

With practiced grace, Marigold rose to her feet. "Let's see if we can get your priorities straightened out, then."

It was mid-morning the next day, a Saturday, before the three young people woke with a collective start. Grenwald looked pale and haggard, although Alastair and Gemma seemed peaceful.

"Did we overdo it at the party?" Gemma asked in a daze. "Oh, I hope I didn't make a fool of myself." Alastair looked at her fondly. He really had to stop getting roped into his cousin's antics. They were getting too old for this sort of nonsense - old enough that it could have real consequences. There were much better things to work for right in front of him.

Grenwald, for his part, had stood up to inspect something on the billiards table. A small drop of blood, on the table. One of the balls looked scuffed and scratched like it had been used to break something, but he couldn't see what could have been broken. The table itself was neat as a pin.

Looking down, there were a few more drops of dried blood on the floor. His lip throbbed. He paid it no mind.

The previous evening was so blurry. What had happened?

Alastair's voice piped up behind him. "You alright there?"

Grenwald hesitated, then said, "…fine. I think I blacked out yesterday."

"Join the club," Gemma chimed in. "On the other hand, I think that pretty girl from your office left before you did anything stupid."

There was that feeling again. That deep sense of dread. What a stupid, dangerous plan that had been. How lucky he was, that it never came to fruition.

He touched his throbbing lip without thinking. "Yes," he said, voice hollow. "Lucky."

December 1969

A crisp, white card landed on Marigold's desk. She looked up to see Alastair looking at her from the other side, sheepish and smiling. He had, in fact, started at the office a week before Hallowe'en, vaguely recalling their initial introductions, but very little else. Still, he had been eager to impress. He'd already proven a capable ally when working on building the incoming accounts into blossoming investors.

She'd have to tell Alexander what she'd done. Still, having this one close at hand had been helpful. It was important to keep an eye on both him and his cousin after what she had done. Knowing, and understanding the effects would inform her what she could risk in the future.

She looked down at the card, with its light floral stationary. She smiled up at him. "You and Gemma set a date, then?"

"Next June. We'll send the rest out after Christmas, but given that you're heading home…" he trailed off awkwardly. No one had said anything, but everyone knew that this was the first Christmas she'd be spending without family.

She offered a wan smile. "I appreciated the thought - that was kind of you."

Alastair offered an awkward smile back. "It's the very least we could do. Ah!" He set a gift bag on her desk. "Early Christmas gift before everyone clears out. I'm not sure you'll like it, but Gemma insisted you would." He shrugged and stepped away, fidgeting as a shadow passed over his face. The effect was only momentary, and he beamed at her. "Anyhow, Happy Christmas!" He turned and left without another word.

"Happy Christmas," She called after him.

The fading light of the afternoon passed quickly, as the last day before the Christmas break wound down. Marigold worked through the paperwork necessary to hold things over. Poppy would be by with the driver to help her bring the rest back with her. To the flat, and tomorrow morning, home. What was left of home, anyhow.

Four fifty-five brought a timid knock at her door. "Enter," She called. Maxwell Grenwald stepped into the room.

He had lost weight over the past few months. His skin had taken on a sickly pallor, and he struggled to raise his eyes to meet hers. Marigold might have pitied him. A few months of watching him descend into nightmares had given him a visage of walking death. As angry as she had been…perhaps it was time to learn her lesson and move along. "Oh dear, Maxwell, you're looking dreadful. Are you coming down with something?"

He looked at Marigold Ashford with hollow eyes. "That might be the case. I'm not sure London agrees with me anymore."

"Hmmm." Marigold nodded along. "I did hear that you put in for a transfer to the new Paris facility. I'm sure you'll be missed."

Grenwald looked at her with uncertain eyes. "Not you, though." Deep down, he knew. Not in a way he could articulate, or even look at directly. But sometimes…his nightmares showed him things.

Marigold leaned forward and smiled. This time it was a sharp thing, devoid of goodwill. "I think you'll sleep better if I have no reason to see you again. I'll admit, though -our acquaintance has been most instructive. Would you agree?"

Grenwald's eyes widened, then dulled once again. Marigold suspected that he'd never lose that hunted look.

He fled.

Marigold leaned back in her chair, contemplating the empty doorway. Yes: she'd have to be much more careful after that. At least she had an idea of how it worked now. She and Alexander would have much to discuss when they spoke next, over the holiday season.

Should she ever visit the Arklay facility in America, she was going to have fun with this.