olden times for Tommy

[oohforeshadowing]

The great country pile isn't their speed, really.

Double had their lovely house in London, bought and paid for by their adoptive father - a High Fae of some high regard, who'd been fretting about their lands and accounts falling into strangers' hands when he passed on. It was a heartrending story, of course, and Double was...well, positively delighted to be anything the old man wanted them to be. For the right price.

Shapeshifters have long since had a bad reputation for sliding into the upper echelons this way. They hadn't been in penury to begin with, by any means, but 'lovely house in London' money and 'vast estates with mining wealth and hundreds of rate-paying tenants' money is not the same by some order of magnitude.

The old man died peacefully in his bed, well over a century old, and left the manor house and everything that went with it to their sole heir. Who is going to sell it all, eventually, but it feels tasteless not to even let their 'father's' body grow cold.

They move in after the last of their furniture has been transported, and lets the housekeeper give them the tour. They cut quite the figure: long blond hair pinned up in curls, a jacket and blouse tailored tightly to a corseted waist, the snug high-waisted breeches favoured by most males. Their tail is the most exposed part of them and the woman they're following keeps eyeing it like she's not sure if it's obscene or not.

"...show you the stables, your grace," she says, as she walks ahead to the outbuildings.

"Ah. I suppose we ought."

Comments

[oohforeshadowing]

Their tail slides back to their side of the buggy - giving his leg a quick squeeze on the way - and they affect innocence.

"Oh, at worst I'll be the silly, indulgent householder who treats their human servants like pampered pets. Embarrassing, perhaps, but not shameful. I'm sure you've encountered the type."

[bleak_midwinter]

"I don't know that I'm quite the picture of a pampered pet," he says, with a laugh, and a knocking of his knee to theirs.

"But I've met the type, indeed. They visit the estate often enough."

[oohforeshadowing]

"They do. I wish Papa had warned me how insufferable some of our neighbours are," they sigh. "Demetrius will not stop sending me letters bleating about coal pits being a 'scar on the landscape'."

Demetrius is the patriarch of a Fae household, powerfully magical, and their neighbour to the west as fast as landownership goes. He's absolutely the type of supernatural who doesn't care for humans harnessing the means to increase their own power.

[bleak_midwinter]

"Fortunately, it's not his land, is it? Have you spoken to any experts about it - had anything drawn up to mine the stuff?"

[oohforeshadowing]

"A few. The surveys are done, now, and there's a few companies who'd take a contract to open a shaft on the southern corner of the estate. I might have some proposals in writing by the time we get home."

They're intensely disinterested in the process of getting all this arranged, but they have to at least pretend otherwise to these contractors lest they try to take advantage.

[bleak_midwinter]

Which is exactly his thinking. "You're new to the area, and young-looking, and an heir to so much money. Do you have someone you trust to assess the proposals with you?"

[oohforeshadowing]

"Mr Lancer seems reasonably confident that he can lend a hand." The household steward is older and seems well-informed, and good with numbers in particular. He's also compensated well for his work. Double can't think of any real reason he'd be in cahoots with a mining concern.

They glance over at Tommy.

"Why, did you have someone in mind?"

[bleak_midwinter]

He shakes his head, not giving any sign of disappointment. "Mr Lancer will do. He's loyal to the household and the estate. Just - know I've a head for numbers and know enough people here to lend a hand if you need it."

[oohforeshadowing]

It's not as if Double hadn't already guessed exactly who Tommy might have nominated, and their smile is sharp and quick.

"You're quite a mystery, Mr Shelby. You were raised in the city - educated there too, no doubt, and now here you are with your head for numbers and your incidental interest in racing. Very curious."

[bleak_midwinter]

"Ah." He glances at them with a smile, but the road us winding and he needs to keep his eyes ahead if they want to stay upright.

"Any theories on me, then?"

[oohforeshadowing]

Their smile becomes softer now, more thoughtful; they're pleased to be invited into the game.

"How absurd would you like me to be? Perhaps you were born to some family of the better sort, the kind of new wealth emerging in the cities, and were raised and schooled to take over the family business - but no, your heart belonged to the steeplechase, where you became a highly celebrated jockey known at all corners of the nation. But alas! Such fame and fortune attracts wickedness, and your life was threatened by a Fae rival, deeply offended to be embarrassed by a human of such skill.

"Rather than disgrace your good name by throwing a race, you faked your own death and fled your home - a new name, a new face, and expertly forged references to enter my father's employ. Not that he was a man to be taken in, of course, but he saw the good in you and allowed you to live the lie in peace."

They flutter their eyelashes at him.

[bleak_midwinter]

He keeps a straight face throughout most of the story, but when they flutter their eyelashes he can't help but laugh. He briefly squeezes their knee before taking up the reins again.

"My God, you're almost completely right - what uncanny instincts you have, Your Grace. Part if your supernatural gifts? Mindreading unprepared humans? How immoral."

[oohforeshadowing]

"Oh, but you know shifters so well! How can we possibly mimic another's body unless we truly know their minds?"

They chuckle, shaking their head.

"...Your secrets are your own, Mr Shelby. Though I do suspect it wasn't entirely by choice that you left your family behind."

But they're not asking. And they're obviously not judging.

[bleak_midwinter]

"You're right," he tells them, with a wistful little smile.

"It wasn't entirely by choice. I might one day tell you, even - until then that's between me, my faraway family and a dead man."

[oohforeshadowing]

Double hums their assent. They can wait. It's no fun to learn about a mysterious character without it feeling earned, after all - either on the stage or in real life.

The weather is overcast and threatening for most of the journey, but by some miracle it's still dry when they arrive at the Clarence Hotel. They're met by a young man in coattails who efficiently has the buggy and horses despatched to the care of their own stablemaster, and then accompanies them both into a very small room which - on the touch of the man's fingers to a series of Fae sigils - begins to ascend. Such devices aren't in common use, but it's nothing Double hasn't experienced before.

[bleak_midwinter]

Tommy, on the other hand, had no idea such a thing even existed. He stiffens up immediately when the box starts moving, and though he doesn't quite reach out for them he's clearly not in his element.

"Is it - taking us up to the room? Fucking hell."

[oohforeshadowing]

If their host is at all surprised by Tommy's language, he has the sense not to show it.

"Our ascending rooms allow us to offer the finest views and quietest spaces to our most distinguished guests, without expecting them to climb so many stairs," he says instead. "It's proven quite a boon."

They're on the fifth floor, it turns out, in a suite offering them a view across a pleasant green surrounding the cathedral. The porter deposits their modest luggage, graciously accepts a few coins from Double and then disappears back out into the hall.

It's a beautiful space. A low couch and armchair around a fireplace, a desk for writing, a small dining table - a door to one side, leading into the bedroom. Double gratefully collapses onto the couch, stretching their legs and tail.

"A few minutes not to be moving," they pronounce. "Our appointment with the coachmaker isn't for a short while."

[bleak_midwinter]

He bites down on the curse after the first one, even coloring a little- way to let your nature show, Shelby. He keeps his hands off the bags, at least aware of that part of the etiquette, and only relaxes when they're left alone.

"Your father never liked to magically amend the house too much. Apologies for the, ah."

They know. Behaving like a pleb.

[oohforeshadowing]

"No apology necessary, darling."

Their tail snakes out to loop around his wrist, tugging him a little closer.

"Besides, human technology will catch up soon enough, no doubt."

They privately think the Fae and other magic users have collectively shot themselves in the foot by not sharing their magic more widely. Doing so could have kept the humans complacent, and reluctant to innovate. Instead, they've long since kept most of their talents to themselves.

[bleak_midwinter]

He lets himself be tugged, standing next to them, close enough to run his hand through their hair.

"I hope you don't mind if I say I hope so."

[oohforeshadowing]

They purr at the touch, more cat than chameleon, and tilt their head into it.

"I don't. I'm rather looking forward to the Fae and their ilk having a little more meaningful competition."

[bleak_midwinter]

"There are tonnes of pamphlets around these days, if you know where to look. People calling for a new kind of society. One where Fae don't hold all the power, where humans get a fighting chance to compete."

Although this human, right now, is just stroking their hair some more.

"What do you think of that?"

[oohforeshadowing]

Their eyes have fallen closed under Tommy's petting, but they open again now, at a lazy half-mast.

"I think that I'd like to know how literally we're talking about a fighting chance."

Competition is fine. Civil war is...tricky.

[bleak_midwinter]

He smiles down at them and strokes their hair away from their forehead.

"Not quite so literally, Your Grace. But a shot at equality won't be accepted so easily, will it? They'd fight us for it. Those of us working on this."

[oohforeshadowing]

Their eyes open fully, now, gaze meeting his.

"Yes, darling. They will."

The Fae and their ilk can't simply pack up and return to the Old Realms, even if they wanted to. Humans are generally given to believe that the supernatural caste are colonisers, that a few centuries ago they spilled out of their own thriving plane to capture new land, new resources, and to take advantage of these lesser beings. The truth is....less palatable.

A smile plays at the corner of their mouth.

"Is this your way of telling me that I have rebellion formenting in my own stables?"