![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
oh where or where could my sanity to be...
Yet more boredom-induced snipfic. My work is mind-numbingly dull when there's no one in the store, okay?
To be in debt to the Marquis de Carabas is something most of London Below prefers to avoid. That so many are says something about the nature of London Below, one supposes.
Door had, of course, drawn on her father's unsettled account with the Marquis, when she enlisted him to protect her in the Islington Affair. She had, however, incurred a debt of her own to him--there are large favours, such as saving a person's life and then there are really large favours, such as saving a persons's life multiple times and, in the process of gathering information for the aforementioned, dying once or twice.
Door did not much like this state of affairs, but it was better than being dead. Or so she hoped.
Richard wasn't in a much better mood, the next time he saw Door, at her house--she built herself a new House with No Doors, unable to bear living in the one her grandfather and father had built and died in.
"Richard. What are you doing here?" Door asked warily.
Richard was, in many ways, her hero and her friend. She spent as much time with him as any. But Richard Mayhew, Warrior of London Below lived with the Marquis de Carabas and therefore a sudden appearance by him at home was a bit dodgy.
He rolled his eyes. "de Carabas has asked me to fetch you. He takes perverse pleasure in asking me to do errands for him that I can hardly say no to."
Door blinked. "You're to fetch me. What for?"
"I've no idea," Richard admitted. "Probably to open something."
Door glared at him. "Well, he'd hardly be calling in a favour to get me to lift a really heavy box, you idiot."
There were a few tense, silent moments, before Richard sighed. "Door, you know the Marquis. He doesn't tell anyone anything, even me. And I'm probably the closest thing he's had to a friend, ever."
There was more silence. Door felt a twinge of pity for Richard--he lived with the Marquis and was something like a friend to him and that was saddest of all in its own way.
"You could come live with me, you know. You don't have to stay with him," she said, offering him a way out.
He scrubbed at his face tiredly. "I know."
"But you won't," she said, sadly.
No, Richard thought to himself, I won't. And I don't know why.
"Let's go," he said, aloud.
To be in debt to the Marquis de Carabas is something most of London Below prefers to avoid. That so many are says something about the nature of London Below, one supposes.
Door had, of course, drawn on her father's unsettled account with the Marquis, when she enlisted him to protect her in the Islington Affair. She had, however, incurred a debt of her own to him--there are large favours, such as saving a person's life and then there are really large favours, such as saving a persons's life multiple times and, in the process of gathering information for the aforementioned, dying once or twice.
Door did not much like this state of affairs, but it was better than being dead. Or so she hoped.
Richard wasn't in a much better mood, the next time he saw Door, at her house--she built herself a new House with No Doors, unable to bear living in the one her grandfather and father had built and died in.
"Richard. What are you doing here?" Door asked warily.
Richard was, in many ways, her hero and her friend. She spent as much time with him as any. But Richard Mayhew, Warrior of London Below lived with the Marquis de Carabas and therefore a sudden appearance by him at home was a bit dodgy.
He rolled his eyes. "de Carabas has asked me to fetch you. He takes perverse pleasure in asking me to do errands for him that I can hardly say no to."
Door blinked. "You're to fetch me. What for?"
"I've no idea," Richard admitted. "Probably to open something."
Door glared at him. "Well, he'd hardly be calling in a favour to get me to lift a really heavy box, you idiot."
There were a few tense, silent moments, before Richard sighed. "Door, you know the Marquis. He doesn't tell anyone anything, even me. And I'm probably the closest thing he's had to a friend, ever."
There was more silence. Door felt a twinge of pity for Richard--he lived with the Marquis and was something like a friend to him and that was saddest of all in its own way.
"You could come live with me, you know. You don't have to stay with him," she said, offering him a way out.
He scrubbed at his face tiredly. "I know."
"But you won't," she said, sadly.
No, Richard thought to himself, I won't. And I don't know why.
"Let's go," he said, aloud.