aungier | November 3, 1888: Morning Rounds

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November 3, 1888: Morning Rounds

Date: November 3
Time: Early morning to breakfast time
Location: All over the estate
Characters: Randolph Lyall (

professorwolf) [OPEN]

Every morning started out the same, generally, in a country manor house, unless there had been some major to-do the night before. There were servants to wake, meals to be begun, lists to write up for approval of the housekeeper and the Lady of the houose, and curtains to open to the dawn light, even if a student or guest happened to have fallen asleep in the room in question. It had happened before, particularly in the library, and often resulted in a rather rude awakening.

Lyall actually found those moments highly amusing, particularly in the case of the students asleep at their books or gadgets, though he'd never let on.

He was among those up earliest, mostly because he needed to make sure everything began smoothly, but in part because he did like seeing the house come alive. This morning was a bit harder to drag himself from bed than usual, and he blamed the humidity, which was already rising by dawn. He dressed and headed out on the morning routine to wake the parts of the house that the masters rarely if ever saw, and to get a start on the day.

Run into him in any part of the house with a problem, a question, a complaint at being woken by drawn curtains, or even just a good morning... if you're up that early.

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Catherine Saint Croix is frequently awake in the ghostly hours of the morning. She likes when the house is quiet, when everyone else has drifted off into dreams, lying prone and helpless in their beds. Sometimes, she goes for a morning walk out into the dewy gardens and beyond, but it's simply too wet today. Which is an incredible pity, because the house is more unbearable to her than usual, the feels like she suffocating, a sensation that will only worsen as the others awake and begin to breathe, poisoning the air further.

Her blonde hair is somewhat disheveled, curling in the humidity, and the braid down the side of her neck has done little to solve the issue.

"Mr. Lyall, can't something be done about this terrible dankness? Perhaps we should throw open the windows."

She is not troubled about asking the help to do their duties, but she sees no cause to be rude or cruel with them. She offers him an expression entreating sympathy, she knows he can be no more comfortable than her.

(( ooc; also, here are some superstitions about open windows that I found interesting ;) ))

"I'm afraid that opening windows will only let more of the damp in, madam Saint Croix," Lyall answers apologetically as he draws open one of the sets of curtains in that hallway, letting in light if not air. He is always a bit careful around the governess, as her rank in the house is not that much higher that his, but she doesn't seem to have any trouble expecting him to obey.

"Though if you do need fresh air," he offers, "I can find a room that will not be too damaged by a bit more moisture, for you to take a respite in."

She is a little too forward, it's true, but she doesn't mean any offense. She was given this job of governess as a favor to her family, not because she was well-practiced or well-qualified. Her only qualification is being raised in a family of comparable wealth and expectation. It leads her to behave as she has always done.

"Perhaps you're right," she sighs, looking around at the house. She hides her disdain, carefully, but she is thinking about how these places disgust her. These great big houses with their all their dark corners and lonely closets where kindlings of emotion gather and build into burning monstrosities.

Mary brushes a stray lock of hair off of her forehead, considering his offer of a quiet room.

"I would like that, very much. I wouldn't want any of the masters' work to be damaged."

Lyall considers his options for a beat, perhaps a hair longer than he usually would in this dismal weighty day, then suggests, "The windows can be opened a crack or two in your domain, I believe. And then you can make it comfortable for yourself, should you have lessons there today." There won't be lessons for hours yet, not with breakfast still to serve, but it won't hurt anything to let her sit in there until then. And his second option, the dining parlor, would result in her being in the way while the servants set up the meal.

"I can come open them for you myself," he adds, a concession to her comfort and his busy schedule.

"It would be such a relief if it would only rain," she comments, distracted by the thought in lieu of offering thanks. She dabs at her forehead impatiently.

"It's like he's trying to strangle us all."

"Knowing this part of the country, madam," Lyall comments lightly, "rain will not be long in coming." He leads the way towards the nearest stairs down. Curious as to what "he" she meant, he adds en route, "Though I do not necessarily believe there to be anyone in particular involved in the dampness. Weather is as it always is, and it can hardly be expected to be comfortable all the time."

He is a rational soul, at heart. He tends to focus on things with scientific explanations. The very idea that anyone-- even some absent deity-- affected the weather simply isn't considered.

"I don't know the country very well," she admits. She doesn't seem terribly abashed about it, however, merely follows after him up the stairs. "The swamps were very different. I miss the water and the elegant boats, sometimes."

The swamps had always called to her, a wild song all their own, a place drenched with muck that hid glimmering secrets and beautiful bayous. There were so many dead things lost at the bottom of the swamps, sucked in by the stagnating water, shredded by things with reptilian smiles and cold blood.

"But still terribly damp," she concedes with a faint smile. "It makes a lady's day so difficult," she motions to her curling hair. It's a joke, the vanity is quite affected.

The amused expression quiets, however, when he mentions that no one controls the weather, looking a little distant and slightly vexed. "There are many things that control the weather. Today I think it may be God, breathing down the backs of our necks."

Shirogane didn't know why he was having such a difficult time getting moving this morning, much moreso than usual. Perhaps it was the ever-present damp, or perhaps it was simply because he'd worn himself out with all the furniture-moving the day before. Whatever the reason, the footman was perhaps lingering in bed a bit longer than he should have. He would have done well to get himself moving before the head butler came through, but, alas, he wasn't quite so lucky.

His tardiness resulted in a polite tap on his door that morning, as Lyall made his way down the short servants' hall to rouse those not already up and about. "Good morning," he said through the door, though he didn't open it. Yet, anyway. That would come if Shirogane wasn't up by the time he made it back to this door on his way back up the hall....

Shirogane jumped at the knock and replied with a slurred grunting noise in the vague tone and cadence of a return "Good morning." He forced himself out of bed and scrambled to make himself look presentable, and really, he did so with an impressive amount of speed.

But that bed was still there, and he was still so tired. Even though he was now fully dressed, he could still lie down for a moment, couldn't he? Just another minute to see if he could shake off those last vestiges of drowsiness.

This probably was not the smartest thing he could have done.

Yep, a lack of Shirogane in the hallway ready to get to work, or even the sounds of the man behind the door getting ready, meant one thing: Lyall opened the door and stuck his head in. "Mister Oogami, you are late," he announced sternly, upon noticing which bed was still inhabited.

Shirogane jumped at the sound of Lyall's voice. He started to move, to get out of the bed, slowly at first until he realized that Lyall was actually looking at him this time. He scrambled to his feet and tried to smooth his slightly rumpled clothes so that he looked vaguely presentable.

"Ah..." Before he could properly apologize, he was caught up in a massive yawn. "I...uh...sorry. Sorry." Another man might have made an attempt to cover with some sort of excuse, say he wasn't feeling well, perhaps that he was exhausted from the work of the day before, but Shirogane made no attempt to do so. Excuses weren't his style. "It won't happen again."

Of course it would happen again. Lyall knew how things went, and he usually had to roust one or two servants or maids of a morning. But he accepted the comment for the moment. "I should hope not. Do you have another pair of trousers pressed? You've managed to wrinkle those beyond endurance." He wrinkled his nose and added, "And your cravat is hardly tied at all. Come here, let me fix it."

Yes, he did sometimes take his staff's wardrobe choices in hand himself. He had a reputation to maintain, and letting his underlings look less than put together simply would not do.

Trousers? Shirogane glanced back to the small wardrobe where he kept his effects. He tried to keep extras of everything, if only because one might never know what sort of emergency might spring up. "I believe so..." He would have turned to go retrieve them at that moment were Lyall not insisting upon fixing his cravat. Really, he felt that his getting the cravat looking that good while half asleep had to speak well for something; they'd never been of much importance in his life before. A man showing up in a gambling house with a poorly-done cravat often caused others to underestimate him, which was useful if the man with the sloppy cravat was planning on fleecing everyone else in the gambling house blind. Shirogane's purposeful sloppiness in that department had, unfortunately, become somewhat of an entrenched habit. He stepped forward to allow Lyall to fuss over it, privately thinking that if any piece of his wardrobe was most useless, the cravat was it.

The fussing didn't take long, at least. Lyall was a deft hand with a cravat. "There, that's better." He stepped back again to look him over, gave his jacket a little tweak, then finished: "See about the trousers and then check the bulletin board downstairs for anything the Masters might have requested during the night, would you? Everyone's going to be requested downstairs for morning chores once I roust the last of them."

Though Shirogane was among those last. He wouldn't have long to get down there and get himself in order.

Shirogane turned to retrieve a non-rumpled pair of trousers once Lyall seemed satisfied with everything else. "I'll be as fast as I can, sir." And he meant it; he was reacting with the appropriate amount of hustle. He'd been cheered a bit at Lyall's saying he had to rouse more of the servants; that meant he wasn't necessarily going to be the last one.

He'd be close, if he didn't hurry. Lyall watched for a beat to make sure he wasn't going to wind up back in bed-- while he understood the urge, on a dreary day like today, that didn't mean he was going to give into it himself-- before ducking his head back out.

He ducked his head back in a beat later to add, "Also, it looks like rain. So do wear sturdy shoes, in case you are asked to go outside in it." Coats, as always, were downstairs for those forced out into the mud, but shoes not so much.

"Don't worry, sir, I'll make sure to do that." In addition to fussing over his pants, Shirogane set himself about finding that pair of shoes.

"See that you do." Lyall ducked back out again, and, as the hall currently appeared to be empty, resorted to a trot to pick up speed and hopefully his own energy level. While he could discipline people for dragging, he couldn't necessarily blame them this morning....

((aaaand end there, too :) I need to tag into the new stuff XP ))

It was hardly unusual to find Kiritsugu in the kitchens in the early morning, presenting the staff with the freshest game. A strange feeling had come over him as he'd entered the house: all at once, a heaviness had settled on all his limbs, and he'd found it harder to move. Everything felt so hot and close, and he couldn't say why that was. He tended to prefer the out of doors, but the house wasn't usually so oppressive. It was puzzling, but as there was nothing he could do about it, he did his best to carry on as if he hadn't noticed.

Kiritsugu was rather more friendly with the kitchen staff than with most of the rest of the household, as he had a great deal of contact with them, and he was telling them a story about a recent hunt when the butler walked in. His expression as he turned to Lyall was pleasant enough, though he didn't regard him quite so warmly as he had the others assembled, moments ago. He nodded.

"Lyall."

"Mr. Emiya," Lyall replied as he padded into the kitchen, looking about to make sure everyone was there who needed to be. He didn't mind the moment of chatter; some of the staff were still working through it, after all, and the rest would get back to it soon enough-- like now that he was there.

"So did the wolf get away, or did you catch him?" he asked, voice light, as he glanced over that morning's offering of game. "Don't leave off the ending on my account."

"Ah no, Wolf was the dog's name. Hasn't been a wolf in Yorkshire in an age." He paused. "Though some say there are still a few in the Wolds, but I don't believe in fairy tales. No, as it turns out, the lieutenant's horse ran away with him, and he likely would have been carried off over a cliff, but Wolf chased after him and herded that horse away from the edge. Just as if it was a sheep. No one ever trained him to do that." Kiritsugu shook his head at the memory of the sight.

"The wily fox got away. I can't be upset when they do. You have to admire that much cunning, almost sending a man over a cliff." It wouldn't have been funny at all if the man had died, but Kiritsugu was able to find humor in the story as it stood.

"And how are you this morning, Lyall? Any requests for the house?"

"Serves me right for walking into the middle of a story and asking questions," Lyall said, shaking his head at himself and offering Kiritsugu a small smile. "I am perhaps glad for the fox, as well. A clever fellow like that deserves not to be killed for sport. Though it is good to hear the rider did not go over."

He finished his brief inspection of the meat. "I did hear Lady Valdemar suggest some quail, over dinner last night. It might be pleasant to surprise her with a dinner course of it tonight." Provided they all made it as late as dinner, anyhow. At this rate, if the entire staff and family felt this slow and tired, they might all turn in early. It did seem a pervasive malaise.

Ivan woke up early and snuck out of bed and out of the room in search of a bathroom, but then got lost in the house that is still foreign to him. It doesn't help that the day is thick and weighing down on the people in the house, which is also the reason why he didn't bother getting dressed yet, just padding around in his nightgown with still sleepy eyes, trying to locate either a bathroom or at least find his father's bedroom again, both of which have obviously failed at the point when he finds himself in the main hall.

And he really needs to go. Maybe... he peers down the stairs and wonders if he could sneak out and just use the woodlands beyond the house for it, but there are ...things in the hall down there, and they looks scary and he's not sure how to get past them. What if they take offense? And what if he can't open the door to the outsides? Maybe he could find the kitchen exit or something, but for that he'd have to find the exit...

Perhaps lucky for Ivan, the head butler was coming down the stairs into the main hall just then. He spied Ivan immediately, and didn't recognize him at once. He knew most of the children in the house, since most of them belonged to servants and, really, there weren't that many. But that one was unfamiliar.

"Are you lost, young man?" he asked as he reached the bottom, approaching with soft steps. Some on staff liked noisier shoes, but Lyall never did. He preferred not to be easily noticed.

Ivan almost jumps and just so manages to control his bladder. Wetting himself would be the worst in a new house like this. "Out." He's not quite sure what the butler just said, he didn't listen carefully enough to dissect the foreign words, but he gestures towards the door at the other end of the hall, hoping to make clear what he needs. Finding an actual toilet would be nice, too, but at this point all he wants is a hidden place outside where he can pass water.

"Out?" Lyall can't imagine what anyone would want with the out of doors. It is, after all, pouring rain. He frowns at Ivan, approaching quietly and attempting to look nonthreatening. "I think that might be a bad idea, lad. It is raining, after all. Is there somewhere else you need to find?"

What else might bring a little boy out of his room so early? Unless he was naturally an early riser. It hasn't occurred to him yet that Ivan might not understand him, either.

L often enjoyed his wife's presence, and it was true that she was accustomed to his late nights. Still, when they were apart and he was at home, he had the luxury of staying in the library or his study as late as he wished, without reproach, and without even the concern that she might be put out. The difference was that there was no one to notice or remark on where he'd passed the night or to advance the idea that he might, possibly, be working too much.

The morning found him curled up asleep in an armchair near the dregs of the fire in the library. He wore a belted dressing gown over the shirt and trousers from the lounge suit he'd worn the previous day, but had undone his collar when he'd changed into the dressing gown--after dinner, before settling into the chair. He had called for a pot of tea at some point. The tray, with its silver service, a china cup and saucer, and a plate with some remaining crumbs of pastry, rested on a table just at hand to the chair.

His position, tucked in on himself, limbs folded into his outer garment and head leaning against the wing of the chair, indicated that he had been chilled, but not chilled enough to wake up and find his way upstairs to bed.

It was impossible for him to know it, but if anything, he looked even younger than he did during the day.

Edited 2013-07-14 13:21 (UTC)

Lyall did recall that tea. He had even brought it up himself, just before he turned in, as well. Apparently no one had been by to collect it, and no one had thus noticed the Master still asleep there in what was likely a very uncomfortable position. It figured that he noticed that before he noticed the young-old man curled in the chair. But that came a beat after.

He had to consider for a moment whether to wake him in the usual way or be a bit more polite about it. It only took him a minute: the usual way, it was. He moved over to the windows and pulled them apart with a noisy rustle of heavy fabric and brass fittings, and a flood of murky light from the rainy day outside.

The noise and light all at once disturbed L's sleep in a way that Lyall's presence hadn't, and his eyes snapped open. He pressed the lids together once to clear them, looking briefly dazed, but after that, he focused on the house's most trusted servant.

"Is it morning already." It wasn't a question. He stretched his bare foot in the direction of the floor, where a pair of dark blue velvet slippers waited; they matched the dressing gown and were the first thing he'd kicked off when he'd slipped into the chair the night before.

"How are things below stairs? The new staff are settling in well?" The implication, whether or not there was someone they needed to watch, would be clear. Troublesome staff meant that the house couldn't run smoothly, and each of the men had a personal interest in ensuring that the house ran well--L relied on Lyall for it.

[Really tremendously inexcusably late. Sorry about that!]

Even if it wasn't a question, Lyall answered it anyway. "It is, sir." He fixed the curtains in place, open to let in what light they might on the dismal day, before turning to L and his tea tray, to collect the latter and address the former.

"They seem to be, for the most part. There are a few still learning how things work on a country manor--" Which there always would be, of course. Lyall had met plenty during his years before taking on this current position. "--but on the whole I am satisfied that we will run a smooth household."

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November 3, 1888: Morning Rounds

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