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When I first stepped into the office of Mr Pages months ago, I felt many things pertaining to my old life back on the Surface. The familiarity of the abundance of books, maps, records and old newspapers, the splattered ink that decorated its (his?) desk as a witness to the work it did, the knowledge hidden and public that had been carefully recorded onto every scrap of paper. It reminded me of the past: being hunched over a desk, perusing book after book after book in search of a single fact that would either confirm the verity of, or cast doubt on my mothers’ research.
Mr Pages itself (himself?) shares very little with what I came to know as familiar - starting from the name and its kin, and down to its speech and work methods - but for all the strangeness and alienage, I came to admire it for many reasons… though in truth, perhaps the oddity of it might have added to my inner passions. I had spent night upon night trying to cast its form out of my head, reject its voice resounding in my mind, even spent week after week at mass, praying that this madness should stop. Perhaps the lifetime of apathetic, skeptical faith affected my prayers, and perhaps no one listened at all. Whatever the case might have been, my enamoured state of being only seemed to grow by the day. Finally, having spent nearly three-quarters of a year in the Neath, having seen animals speak, squid-men emerge, and rocks move, I decided that perhaps, my interest was merely the first in the long, shocking line of changes that would come to pass in the London Beneath.
I still recall the day of Archie’s release, his overwhelming gratitude, and the burden that fell from my own soul, knowing the dreadful business is over with… and then, a new dread, in knowing I have time to, for once, steer my desires and my life in my own direction, and no matter how much I pondered of it, all directions seemed to steer me towards Mr Pages. The well-paying job, the unusual friendship we struck, and my own desperate affection all found a foothold in the Tower of the Bazaar.
It was on an unsuspecting afternoon that things changed. I brough the census forms into its office like I did most days, every day, in fact. The decision for the change did not come to me easily. It in fact, did not come to me as a decision at all. It was a moment between an employer who was too relaxed in its ignorance of human custom, and an employee who had, perhaps, showed too much enthusiasm, loved in secrecy for too long. It was not a decision but the steady way our eyes would grow closer and closer to catch the other pair looking. It was inevitable that when Pages would finally catch my eyes, it’d see everything I had hidden from it.
What I did not expect, however, was to see - or rather, sense - affection not entirely dissimilar to mine, in its own burning gaze. A friendship or affinity of sorts, perhaps not entirely as deep as mine - or at least, more properly hidden - but an affection nevertheless.
I had not averted my gaze, nor had it averted its own. Instead it had cocked its head, and I could not read whether there was smugness, affection, curiosity or something different altogether emanating from it. The little I glimpsed in its eyes for a moment had once again concealed itself. And yet, it had offered that my visits should not always, entirely be of business-like nature. That night I had slept little and thought vastly of its words, interpreting and reinterpreting them to my heart's content, one version always better than the last. As a person of logic, I tried to keep myself grounded in reality but its words gave my affection wings, and left little place for shame.
In spite of its friendly invitations, I took care to come prepared to talk about work, and as such always brought a census form - a handful, at the very least - with me. I decided I would not let the affection cloud my judgement nor my penchant for a job well done, and as far as I could tell, giving its quite odd word choices, Mr Pages had appreciated it in ways no normal human would be fond of: such as occasionally referring to me a ‘pet’ which would have infuriated me had it come from any other mouth! Alas, the language barrier is ever present. On the brighter side, I had quickly learned to translate the intention behind the words - something my lovely friend Griz, with a head too rational for her own good, could never quite grasp, and something that made all the difference in how my employee spoke to me.
Days passed since. Mr Pages is… friendly, I hope? I think? It is still hard to say what goes on in its head, or why it invited me in as a friend. Now, as I enter its office once again, I can only hope for something impossible to eventually happen, though I am aware it can’t happen without my direct intervention.
It greets me kindly as I come in, which is an irregularity in itself. The forms are briefly looked over, and Mr Pages gives me, as it usually does, a satisfactory payment, but once the official business has been done, we both resolve to allow our eyes to meet once again - both of us, seemingly, with some difficulty. Did it learn eye contact to mean something more, and is hesitant? Or does it simply not know? Perhaps, there is only one way to find out, and I finally dare to do, or rather say, something a little less regular, a little less friendly, and a little more caring.
“I’m glad to be here with you, every day.”
Inwardly, I instantly curse my words! My Pages is a man (man?) of quite straightforward approach and words, and it is likely to respond with something as simple as confirming I’ve been here nearly every day, for the very occasion of getting my work done. But it would appear my affection, coupled with the telling words, gives way to it finally addressing something of less obvious nature.
“Indeed? The sound of it makes one think you’ve enjoyed it superfluiciously.”
It does not move from where it stands, and I am the first to make the distance between us less of one. A single step suffices in making my face warm.
“If it is unbecoming, I expect you should tell me, as a person in your employ.”
Its eyes peer at me. Contemplating? Judging? Considering? My breath hitches in my chest at the overwhelming amount of possibilities.
“A person of your distinguishments is always of interest… for purposements of many kinds.” It pauses, and for a moment, I believe it is considering whether pursuing this is worth whatever trouble it may cause. But it seems to reach a positive conclusion. “Mind you brewing some of your herb choices? I am informed I should prepare ‘tea’ myself in presence of guests, but find it that your hands are more adequatously made for the job.”
I try not to smile too hard - I’ve often been told that an over-presence of eagerness is not becoming in courting but it’s quite difficult to keep my countanance straight when it so readily gives in to exploring our feelings. I might yet be something more in its eyes.
“I don’t mind.”
Putting a kettle on gives me something to do and a chance to calm down. I can scarcely believe I am about to have tea with it, let alone sit down to talk. “Will you share in it with me?”
It lets out a non-committal purr and finally agrees.
When the tea is done, I bring two cups - the smallest and biggest one I can find - to the coffee table, and scramble to move a stack of booklets and reports from it before laying down the tray. Its tea stands untouched, not that I mind - I briefly wonder if it can drink from the cup at all. Mr Pages gestures with its robed hand, and I gather that I should sit. Then it moves to stand directly opposite me.
It does not sit down. Both its size and its role in this room make me feel, for a brief moment, like I am making a terrible mistake. Yet, Mr Pages shows no malice when it asks about my family, myself.
“If I’m not mistaken, Griz must’ve told you of my past, up on the surface?”
“A clothier.” Pages briefly tries, and I nod.
“My father’s side of the family dressed people to high heaven and back.”
“Impossible! Surely we would have noticed if you had reached such heights.”
Sometimes it is hard to tell whether Mr Pages is joking with such exclamations - I had very soon after learned it has little to no sense of humour. At least, not of wordplay kind.
“What I had meant to say is that our clients were rich and powerful, and our clothes had made them so. I don’t wish to appear vain,” I grin to myself, because I could hardly be immodest about it, “but our clothes took a crucial part in some of the historical events.”
I keep talking of my family’s clientele, usually of the Royal kind, of what it took to satisfy such customers and their just as significant friends. Though I have a vague feeling that it’s not entirely interested in the topic, Mr Pages eyes bore into me like it’s the only thing worth observing in the world. After a while, I come up with the idea of further explaining the meaning of the clothes with humans, and when I’m done, Mr Pages is a little less quiet, and a little more confident in what it knows, occasionally even endeavouring to ask about the meaning of feathered hats and the lengths of gowns. Some of the questions are less innocent than others, not that it could know, and by the time I finish explaining some of those things, I’m properly red in the face.
I finally realise I have spoken at length, and once again remind myself it probably has little desire in knowing of such triffling human affairs. Goodness, how I must bore it!
“My apologies, such things are likely not in your interest!”
“They are not.” It admits, as I expect it to. “They are, however, yours.”
“... Meaning?”
Mr Pages seems surprised that I don’t understand. “If I’m to grasp all that you are, I need to be intimated with your flights of fancyment as much as with your skills. Words alone may prove sufficiental for a time. Lucubrating the meaning behind meaning, however… adds a richer array of tessera to the mosaic of your being.”
Its poetic boldness makes me just as forward.
“I am glad you wish to know me as much as I wish to know you.”
“It is of importance to know all about one whom I trust with a job like this.” Close enough to an actual sentiment, I think desperately! But then it speaks again: “I will venturate to add that not all in our employ are like you.”
I grin. “Pray tell, what am I like?”
“Uniquely sedulous. Hungrily inquisital.” Its eyes narrow. It seems to think how much it can say. “And should I allow myself the luxurement of giving you a note of personal nature… Delicious .”
The tea is hot in my throat, yet I shiver as if the word itself crawled down my spine with its many delectable sounds. I occupy my mouth with the cup, trying to conceal a grin.
“You spoke of your paternal influences. Have you gleaned any from the maternal side of your genealogy?”
I briefly wonder what it might think of the work my mother did.
“She was of… scholarly kind. It caused some rifts in the family.” A pause, before I admit: “Your office briefly reminded me of her own working quarters. Her research was not always in the interest of what you would consider an established scientific consensus. She studied the language of stars and their reach, the foreign, existing readables between the lines of facts, the holy and arcane all at once-” I stop myself short, once again fearing to make it bored but as it usually does, Mr Pages looks engrossed with my tellings, though this time for different reasons. I shake my head.
“That is all gone, now. Mine didn’t survive the Fall, not to my knowledge… and I make do with the skills I gleaned during my lifetime in their care.”
“You are likely to see them again, if they fell with the rest.”
I doubt the severity of such a catastrophe had kept them alive. I don’t allow myself the hope of it, not that Mr Pages could understand that. Perhaps it would be even better if they were dead rather than hating the world they live in, and I dread to think of them returning as Drownies.
“Wherever they are, I hope they are at peace.”
“Unlikely, if they yet live. If the Boatman took them, it’s up to them to embrace their own judgement.”
I’m not sure what to think of the words nor the implications, and I nod for the sake of ending the discussion. “Quite.”
“Your past is witness to your success here in the Ministry.” Mr Pages finally says. “It is lighter now to understand the richness of your character and the ardour of your work commitment.”
“... Thank you.” I’m not sure if I interpreted that correctly but it sounded like a compliment. “While we’re on the topic, I should notice I know very little of you and your kin.”
Mr Pages makes a guttural sound that doesn’t quite match the otherwise high intensity of its voice. “Perhaps the quarter hour of tea-consuming on the morrow will be an adequated time to tell you about it.”
I accept that as a sign it’s time for us to part. I put the tea down, and as I make for the door, it asks: “Was it to your liking?”
The tea, I wonder? Or… “All of this was.”
A hoarse sound emanates from behind the hood. It stirs every hair on my body.
“I will do my best to visit tomorrow.” I promise.
Mr Pages doesn’t say anything, for a moment. “Make it a plan. We have no patientance for tardiness.”
I leave the office, and realise I hardly took a breath at all during the last minute. The entire quarter-hour had felt like days in its presence and I briefly wonder whether I’m ill or under a spell to have thought of it so highly. But no one comments on my health nor deems me strange for the remainder of the day, and Horatia’s food tastes just as excellent as always. The gentile personage in me thinks on what I should wear or apply to make an impression next time, but I remember its words and think it would matter little to it if I came wearing a prisoner’s garb, as long as the ministry badge was in place! In so many ways, Mr Pages and its differences were a blessing, and one of the many reasons why the life in the Neath seemed good, better even - for tyrannical as the Masters seemed to some, they never much cared for social conduct, and left the citizens of London to direct it itself, which gave opportunity to downtrodden and different personalities to bloom where they couldn’t bloom before. The times down here are hard, unforgiving even… but when one knows where to look, it can be just as much of a blessing.
.
.
.
For several days, Mr Pages and I indulge in the cuppa after business is done, and very easily our afternoon tea becomes a habit. It never drinks its own but I soon come to the conclusion it prefers its scent to anything else, and bring a batch of my own next time. It does not compliment my choice but neither does it seem displeased with it. Another thing I notice is that its own cup never moves from where I set it, but when I come in the next day, it lies empty of its contents. In a fit of playful curiosity, I discreetly check for tea residue in the bin to see if it’s been throwing it away, only to realise it must’ve been drinking the tea only after I left. All this, coupled with my own, god forgive me, less than couth intentions, makes me wonder, day after day, what it would be like to feel its mouth on my own. Does it find it odd to drink before me? Does it look disfigured, too different for anyone to handle? I hope time will let me know.
As it had promised, Mr Pages tells me of its kin, but it seldom answers questions in a way I can truly understand. I believe it thinks I understand less than it might give me credit for. That being said, I commit to etching every single word of it to memory, and later put it down on paper in a frenzy - it is only then that I understand some of the things of its origin, its person, and its kin, that I couldn’t grasp before. The things I know! The things people would do to find out! The secrets this creature has accidentally imbued me with! Am I special or an outlet? Time will tell but regardless of it, Mr Pages accidentally makes itself more appealing to my tastes than ever.
When I bring it my latest census form, Mr Pages reads, and it does so slowly but even with its meticulous approach, I wonder what is taking so long. The reports of another devil always makes it take pause, and though I’m not that familiar with the conduct of devils, I can tell they are an eternal trouble, as it fits them. What I rbing today, however, has little to do with devils or any other characters of unsavoury disposition. If anything, the long time it takes to read makes me wonder if I was too relaxed in what I penned down in the reports, though I can think of no way to stuff them with more words, and embellishment is out of the question. Still, I wait patiently by its desk as Pages reads, and finally it passes a few pennies for a few simple reports - I didn’t expect any bigger payment for the young merchants I interviewed today, yet something about Mr Pages demeanour makes me worry. Has it deemed my work inadequate? The moment the coin is in my pocket, and the business is over, it stands up, eyes narrowing in what I sadly do not recognize as poorly concealed delight of any kind.
“A question.”
I nod.
“You have been bringing us materialments for months now. I recall days when the stackments on my desk were much higher.” Its eyes narrow even further but if it’s angry, the tone doesn’t betray it. “We were wondering if London has run out of citizens to conduct a conversational with. If so, the death count must have far exceeded our expectaments.”
Honestly, I’m surprised it hasn’t caught onto my scheme sooner. “It is not that! The truth is- I risk offending you and this job-” I start.
“There is always risk.” Mr Pages snaps, and for the first time, I sense impatience.
I finally decide to admit: “In trying to see you regularly, I may have… left some reports aside, to bring you on another day.”
“... So you have more of them? Many more of them?”
I meekly assure it that I do.
“You will bring them all in, tomorrow. No further delayments will be acceptacious.”
“I will do that.” I confirm, happy that this clearly glaring problem is something it so smoothly got over. Mr Pages though, clearing speaking from a business perspective, inquires further about it:
“What did you desire to achieve by delaying the reports coming into our possession? This will warrantee a fine, if not a thoroughal investigation. We do not find pleasurement in our employees plotting against our goal.”
“It is nothing of the sort!” I scoff, hate that I have to explain this so plainly: “I’ve allowed my feelings to cloud my judgement! I desired to visit you more often, to see you for no other reason than personal. That is why, and that is all.”
I can tell it finally understands the ridiculously personal place I’m coming from. Or at least, knows of it - I doubt it finds understanding for such triviality. Then again-
“Ah.” It simply says, and it takes me by surprise. I’m used to it chidding just about anything that pertains to matters of personal degree when work is involved, which can only mean - I hope it can only mean - it does, after all, show a smidgen of understanding for my little deception.
“Your welcoment here has already been established, business or not.” It notices.
“It was.” I agree.
“You had desired a… frequentious opportunity to enjoy my company.” It’s not exactly a question. I wonder if it’s gloating. I decide to go along, and show my confirmation with a small, interested smile. It continues: “Your eagerness is recognized. Though innocuous, let it not be an impendimentum to your work.”
“You have my word.”
“I don’t. Not yet.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
“Tea?” I ask.
“As is the custom.”
We make small talk of London. The majority of time, we spend pretending not to look. I did not know it enjoyed watching so much and honestly, neither did I: there is something particularly enjoyable about catching Mr Pages observing the hem of my clothes, and the abrupt way it snaps its head away from whatever thoughts it might have had.
“Until tomorrow.” I pause. “There are plenty of reports waiting.”
“Then you may come in the early hours of the afternoon.” Mr Pages says. “We shall see if you’re as helpful here as you are out there. I will endeavour to teach you what kind of information we require from the forms you collect.”
I feel flattered beyond belief that he’d try to trust me with such a task! A Master delegating its work to an employee, based on… on trust? On people skill? I have little idea on how I deserved this - or rather, why it thinks I am capable. I am capable, of course, that much I can confidently claim - but the reason why a Master would think I am escapes me. Their standards are, after all, different.
“I will not disappoint you.”
“That,” Mr Pages darkly concludes, “remains to be seen.”
It even sees it fitting to bid me farewell. On one hand, I count my good fortunes, having not been instantly dismissed or worse, fired. It had even seemed somewhat endeared by my desire to spend time with it. Of course, the beauty of our developing affection is slightly marred by the fact there are dozens - if not hundreds - of reports I have yet to turn in on the morrow.
… Perhaps I should ask it to borrow its wheelbarrow.
.
.
.
The work before us is enormous. When I fetch the last of the reports, its entire desk, and the coffee table are covered in thick stacks of paper. It looks distinctly pleased with the amount, if perhaps annoyed by and aware of how long this will take.
“We shall requisite more candles.” It says. “The work before us is vastuous.”
“I will fetch them as necessary. I brought a few of my own in the meantime.”
“Pragmatical.” It praises. “It shall do for the quarter of the day.”
Mr Pages sits at its desk, and I sit from the other side. It starts explaining the nature of gathering information. The details that make one more distinct than the last. The kind of a report to glean important romantic attachments from, and the kinds that remain ‘unfinished’, ‘potential’ or ‘doomed’ and so on. In addition to the things of romantic nature, it is important to note important mercantile routes, people to seek for specifics of any given inquiry, and people who are generally avoided. Mr Pages separates them in stacks, and occasionally gleans information from them into a document of its own, one I don’t get to see with my own eyes.
An hour passes before it allows me to do a few of them on my own, and that’s when it, too, finally gets to work. On occasion, it takes a report I have finished, and checks it itself. My heart skips a beat in terror every time, fearing it would deem me not suitable for this but it would appear I got the gist of its job well enough for it to let me work without any further involvement on its part. I take this as a hesitant sign of trust: if in nothing else, in my abilities.
When it starts writing, another thing altogether throws a spanner into my works. For the first time, I see its hands as it writes. Clawed, black fingers. Though I gleaned inhumanity as a part of its nature, it still catches me unprepared. I make no visible reaction, but the amount of staring I do goes unnoticed only by the grace of it getting so engrossed with its job. For a while, I look at its fingers more than I do any work, before I finally resolutely lower my eyes to the forms.
Hours pass us by. The sky is always dark here, but the waning of candles make it seem, for a moment, as if the Sun had truly just set.
“The candles are nearly gone.” I say. “I ought to fetch more.” I stand up, knowing where the supply closet is, but Mr Pages stops me. I look at it, a question in my eyes.
“... Better that I should do so.” It sounds… concerned? I go along with its suggestion. “Stay here, and do not attemptuate to put your fingers on anything.”
When it leaves, it locks the door behind itself. I try not to think of it as alarming. Instead, I instantly get the urge to disobey it, not for the sake of provocation but out of sheer curiosity. I look around the room but nothing comes instantly to mind. There are nothing but books and paper all over it, nothing that would signify something deeply personal. I do not dare rummaging through any of its possessions.
And then, I see it, and it’s kind of obvious. Close to its door hangs another one of its cloaks. No doubt, a substitute for when one needs cleaning or tailoring. It is clear that it is its own, judging by the number of splotches of various inks of the Neathbow at its hems.
The worst of me crawls out, and almost as if captivated, I stand up and approach it, rushing, knowing I don't have much time. What manner of a gentlefolk am I to stoop down to such a desperate degree for the pretence of someone’s affection? The question of my manners does not appear to me immediately however, so entirely engrossed with the possibility of having this, at least this, god forgive me, just the small experience of trying to appear closer . I reach out, and touch the massive sleeve, its texture coarse and simple. My father would have thought little of it at first, though I’m certain he’d be surprised to realise it was not cotton - it was in fact, no material I know. Simply foreign, or entirely alien? God knows. I trace my fingers down, almost as if half expecting for a hand to come out of it and take my own. And then-
Curses! I touch the viric - impossible green - ink of the sleeve. Viric, the colour made of or inspiring dreams - it’s hard to learn all these things in the Neath, and even harder to take them seriously. An insignificant amount, already dried, merely dust on my fingers - surely, it couldn’t possibly-
But it could. I am swept away by my own daydream of Mr Pages and suddenly the daydream is real, and its hand, the hand I’ve been starting insistently at for hours, finally reaches for my own. The amount of viric ink cannot sustain the daydream long: it is but a second, a fraction of a moment, but so indescribably real that it makes me gasp when the hand touches mine… but the sound of clicking, heavy steps echoes in the hallway and brings me back into a mildly concerning reality of being found out touching someones discarded clothes. I all but launch myself across the room, though I have plenty of time to make myself appear decent as Mr Pages unlocks the complicated lock on its door.
By the time it enters the room, I am going through the report. I make a point of not turning around, appearing interested in marking the report of ‘Woodstack’ as romantically inadequate.
Mr Pages wordlessly walks around the room, switching candles on the verge of dying with a fresh batch. It seldom starts doing so when it lets out a noise - by its agitated tone, I believe it to be a curse - and I hear a candle fall. Much like with tea, it appears to have yet to get used to handling objects so small in size.
“Ah, you shouldn’t bother!” I remark, as I swiftly stand up to get it. “Hand it over, don’t occupy yourself with such meaningless tasks. That’s what I’m here for.”
“... That is truthful, to a degree.”
It pushes a box into my hands, and moves past me.
“Ah! One forgets-”
It turns around, and from another sleeve, it produces a box of matches, freely offered on its wide, large hand. Not staring is impossible from so up close. My mind scrambles to make an excuse, to say something but Mr Pages thinks instead of me - or rather, perhaps it thought of this before - and it says:
“We were warned our forms might instil feardom. Does it frighten you?”
Blatant honesty, my mother used to say, is the most powerful weapon against insecurity.
“It rather entices me.”
“Ah.” It says, sounding… glad? “Is your enticementum of curious nature?”
“Among other things.”
“Denominate ‘other things.’”
“... There are matters of heart.”
“So we are in the same predicament. You are welcome to attenduate to them, for both our sakeness.”
I reach and merely touch its hand, when Mr Pages momentarily flinches. “Ah. Your hand must’ve become contactaceous with the ink. My desk, I’m afraid, is scattered with dreams and nightmares.” It briefly discards the rest of the smudge on its clothes. “I hope it didn’t alarm you. It usually makes for… visualments of occasionally insettling nature.”
I grow warm in the face but go along with its innocent assumption that its untidy desk is to blame. I briefly wonder what it sees when the ink touches its skin.
“It was nothing malevolent.” I clear my throat. A brief awkwardness ensues before Mr Pages remembers what we were doing, and once again lifts its large hand. In other circumstances, it would look as if it were inviting me to dance.
I let my hand sink into its own. The skin of the palm is warm, calloused where I know the pens lean into its skin. The touch screams scandal. The touch screams danger. The touch invigorates me. I wish I did not have to let go. But then again… why would I have to? I catch its gaze. Long fingers curl around my hand. Its fingers are harder, more sturdy than its palms. Its claws are dangerously close to puncturing my skin, or at least so it looks...
“Does this soothe you?”
“Allow me a moment to describe it.” For a brief while, I think. The complexity of what I feel is hard to express with words and yet…
“It soothes me the way a mighty ocean wave soothes a person on the shore. It is overwhelming, and a danger, and an exhilaration of a feeling. It is a sight to behold, and one wants to get enveloped in it as much as one wants to escape. At the end of the story, however… if one loves the sea,” I smile, “the wave is always a wondrous sight.”
I slide my hand out of its - or, rather, I attempt to. It holds my hand rather firmly.
“ Poetry .” It simply says, its voice uncharacteristically high. I blink in surprise.
“Pardon?”
“Your word maneouverments are pleasing to hear.”
“Dedicating them to you comes easy.”
Its grip softens, but it doesn’t let go. The other clawed hand rises to caress my face, and I momentarily fear injury... yet, by its own effort, they feel gentile, careful... caring.
“Bring more, if you’re able.” It asks.
“... I shall endeavor to do so.”
My hand slides out of his, and only then do I realise I’m already holding the matches in my palm. I go to light the candles. I can tell its eyes are following me around as I light them, one by one, saving the one at its desk for last. I can tell by the silence. It is only when I move to light those closer to it that the sound of scribbling ink and rustling paper once again takes over the room.
I sit back down, and together, we work in silence for a long, long time. The time for supper is past, and my back aches, and my eyes are lidded. Still, I persevere, until we both grab the very last form and mark them as is appropriate. It is close to midnight by the time the work has been completed.
“Good night, Mr Pages.” I greet it, and it bids me a calm night, and that I should rest well.
After a day like this, I am confident in saying that even if the sleep takes me easily, I will not feel very restful, knowing I get to see it again.
.
.
.
When I come into Mr Pages’ office again, it is quite late in the afternoon. We have both, it would appear, overslept, courtesy of yesterday's work.
“It’s good to see you.” I say as a way of greeting, as a way of referring to all that was the day before. As it usually does, Mr Pages understands it as a way of saying the business we had done is well - I wonder if the point will ever come when it doesn’t begin to talk business first when I visit.
“A morsel better than yesterday.” It agrees. “Your work is outstandingly useageable to us, and you have performed well. In light of this, you will not be fined for your… deceptable hoarding.”
I bow briefly as a token of gratitude. “Thank you. I consider the work important, and I shall continue to treat it as such from this point on.”
“It is doubtful that you should truly think so - you know but snippets of its purpose.”
“I do not need to know the purpose of it if I trust you.”
Mr Pages pauses. I wonder if it's sneering or being careful. “Trusting a Master is a dangerous endeavour.”
“But knowing that is half the game.”
Mr Pages seems mildly impressed. Then, just as suddenly, it averts its eyes, and falls quiet.
“... Is something the matter?”
“Nothing of consequence.” It curtly replies, and I know the conversation is over - it gets to work checking out the few reports I gathered, and pushes the coinage over to me. Perhaps not everyday can be a good day for tea. Goodness knows I had days where I required solitude and peace, so I take it that it is my sign to leave. Just as I touch the door knob, it calls out:
“Are you inclinated to stay for tea again?”
When I turn back to look at it, my smile speaks volumes. I move to the stove in the corner and, once again, present us with two cups of tea. Once again, it looms from the other side of the coffee table but I’ve learned to pay it little mind.
“Your sight is not as good as ours, but surely you have noticed.” Pages gestures its’ robed hand around. “Each Master has its own… penchantness. A curiousness. We noticed a similar pattern with Londoners and their habits of hoarding and collecting. What is yours?”
“Ah, well,” I blush, suddenly feeling ridiculous and much like a thief, “while I can’t ever claim to possess the vastness of knowledge you do, I do- I mean I did consider myself somewhat of a book collector.” It is partially a fib. I hardly strived to actively grow my collection… but any book I liked, I’ve kept, and there are very few I genuinely see the quality of. The embarrassing part that makes my blush so prominent it is that all of them are hopelessly romantic in nature - something I had not dared to tell Mr Pages for the reasonable fear of having them all confiscated and, even worse, being terminated for having concealed them. Mr Pages seems to sense some of my apprehension.
“We will keep the hopes that you have surrendered your possessionments to the Ministry.”
“Of course.” It is a blatant lie, but from what I can tell, it does not possess any great skill in telling the truth apart from fibs. I decidedly pull away from the subject: “I used to collect bird feathers! Unfortunately, that hobby had perished with the Fall…”
Mr Pages moves over the mention of my unfortunate predicament only to ask:
“What use of that?”
I shrug. “It is merely entertainment. Surely, the Masters must do something trivial for fun?”
Pages seems to think. “Indeed, we must.” It does not elaborate. Maybe it has few other hobbies other than collecting, organising and reading. Perhaps it’s just shy. Or perhaps, it’s none of my business. I helpfully continue to speak of myself.
“These days, I have a friend who teaches me how to collect secrets. Another that teaches me the pathways throughout the city London has become. Its streets move, curve and undulate in ways I have not ever seen on the Surface. It is… like a living, breathing thing.”
“... Life in London will have to succumb to drastic shifts. You’re wise to gather the knowledge where you’re able.”
“Some things, I miss. Some things, less so.” I look Mr Pages up and down, and opt for a simple, inviting smile. “Other novelties are quite welcome.”
It moves unusually - not a flinch, but perhaps a step never made. I gather it must be that, because in the next moment, it says: “Approach.”
It is not a command, though it cannot know that's what it made the word sound like. Rather, it’s a suggestion, borne out of both our desires, and out of clear purpose to have me make myself - and my own intentions - known. I step closer almost lazily. The last few inches it covers itself impatiently, peering down at me.
“Secrets.” I whisper. “Don’t you, technically, dabble in the same?”
“In a manner of speaking, it is truthism. Yet, knowing of such a thing, is a secret in itself.”
“It’s good that you trust me with keeping it.”
“Time tells all.” Mr Pages simply says.
“You have nothing to worry about. My lips are sealed.”
“We have not observated that to be truthful - how, mind you, can you speak, then?”
“I’m trying to say your secret is safe with me.”
“... One hoped you would offer to test it.”
To test what? I backtrack a little… my lips being sealed…? I grow flushed from the mere thought of the offer, of the possibility to ask for such a thing, of the fact it offered itself with such intentions! Or rather, offered me the opportunity to ask. I wonder why it doesn’t act on its own more often, and wonder if it tries to abstain from whatever is between us. Perhaps it realised the risks better than I do.
Nevertheless, I reward this little show of eagerness with a question I’ve been dying to ask for weeks.
“Would you mind if I- if we-” Goodness. One would have thought I was a snooty urchin rather than a grown gentlefolk with prior experiences. Still, I gather my wits. “I wish to kiss you.”
Mr Pages grows very still. “... Osculation will require some adaptility.”
I trustfully assume ‘osculation’ is something of kissing nature. “Us humans are known for that.”
It seems to think for a spell. “A chair should do. I will elevate you.”
I allow myself to be picked up. Though Mr Pages does it through its robes, I can feel the strength in the grip of its hands, in how easily I’m brought through the air. The chair is not quite enough to reach its full height, but it seems to be plenty enough for it. I stare breathlessly into its eyes - not once have we stood as close as we do now.
It reaches for my chin, raises my head, and says: “I am disfamiliar with your facial orifice. Expose it to me.”
I am startled only for so long. Feeling all kinds of silly, I open my mouth. Despite what I excpected, the way it studies my lips, my teeth, and even instructs to move my tongue, is anything but comical. It, in fact, causes something to stir in me. To be observed and studied so curiously, in a way so foreign and so uncouth…!
Mr Pages leans in.
When its lips touch mine, it is a feeling as alien as itself, layered and complex. Initially, neither of us truly understand what is happening. The touch is exploratory, intriguing, without commitment. But it would seem its brief study births rich fruits of pleasure. I inhale sharply when I feel what almost feels like definitive lips clasping over mine, even though it is short lived, and a legitimate shiver runs through me when I feel its sharp teeth, carefully manoeuvred so as not to hurt me. Its robes wrap around me, pull me closer, and I give into the embrace of strong arms. My feet all but leave the safe surface of the chair. Our breaths intermingle more commonly than our lips touch, both yearning to keep going but both still learning about the other.
“Your orifice is small, yet welcoming.” It says. Its breath is warm and… sharp in a way that is difficult to describe. It is hard to say what it is I feel but none of it is bad.
“I endeavour to make it such.” I whisper, half-joking.
“Keep it so. It brings pleasureness.”
The implication of all the possible things this could mean is lost on it - after all, it is only a kiss. But it stirs my passions all the same, and I pull it into a kiss of my own attempt. This time, my hungry lips explore its mouth, find out where the teeth are, take note of when and why its hands bunch up in my hair or on my clothes, and when they do! Goodness, who would have imagined the black, clawed hands to be capable of treating me so gently, cupping my face with such immaculate softness! It is all merely an exploration, a slow, humble start yet it leaves both of us with an appetite for more, more and more. A promise of things to come, and things we have yet to learn, perhaps. A promise of crossing boldly into an unknow territory.
When I bite onto its lip, I first think I might have hurt it. But Mr pages shrill utterance is, I find out soon, that of excitement, passion, yearning. I find it out because it take me from where I stand on the chair, effortlessly lifting me up, closer to its face, and from there I am able to slip my hands inside of its hood, touch the silky softness of its furred skin, its wide neck.
Perhaps it is at this point that we both realize we have quite satisfied the appetite for now, and not willing to push the bounderies of the utter unknown. Stealing the last of my kisses, Mr Pages puts me down, and after a minutes' time, whispering incomprehensible yet sweet sounding confessions, it helps me off the chair.
Before I go, I feel its massive hand on my shoulder.
“... Do not find it necessious to bring work with you every time.”
The smile I shoot at it is the sincerest one I remember ever making since London fell. My expression catches it entirely off guard, and for a while, I simply stand there, basking in its own confusion, and my own joy. Finally, I take its hand, and press a bold kiss into its palm. It is warm to the touch.
“I shall remember not to.”
With those words, I leave Mr Pages alone, and restless, much like he’s been making me feel every day.
.
.
.
My visits to Mr Pages steadily grow heated. We steadily grow closer.
For the reason of teasing it alone, I make sure to always bring work with me, suddenly aware that it can’t resist doing its due diligence before indulging anything else. Not that it would ever communicate such a thing… but I’ve learned a thing or two about yearning while I yearned myself. Every time the form is looked over, and coin given, and business concluded, Mr Pages makes it very clear that it wants me close. Usually, it is I who needs to approach, I who needs to ask. But as it lets go of its reservations, so does it let go of its pride - or what I can only assume is pride. I see no other reason for it to hold back, lest it was merely shy all this time. Then again, having known it for as long as I do, I’d wager it was a bit of both, but I’d be insane to mention it if it didn’t mention it first.
It tells me stories and I am able to reply to them. It becomes aware of how well I can understand it. Yet it still speaks to me. Confides. Whispers of things as if speaking any such thing aloud might tear the world from beneath our feet.
Some of the things, it claims, could.
I am without reservations in my feelings, and make it obvious with every word. Though I still make my words into poetry for its sake, no poetry of love or passionate affairs is required, no serenading or plain statement of my affection - it is in my eyes. In my smile. In the way I breathe and walk around it. It cannot express itself as well as I do with body language but we both manage expressing it in one certain way: in the things we choose to tell each other. We huddle together when the midnight hour comes, aware of its kin patrolling the halls, listening in. We whisper of impossible futures, cruel realities, and the unsafety of our trysts. We speak of its cousins, their envy and danger, and we speak of all that troubles and elevates us. We speak, and it’s all that matters, for the time being.
It is many fortnights later that, when I visit, for the first time since I’ve known it, Mr Pages throws all its patience out the window. As soon as I enter, it greets me courteously, accepts the forms, but for the time being, leaves them on the desk, and boldly steps towards me.
“Yes?”
It is the first time I’m the one seeking words from it. Mr Pages leanes closer to me. Something about its form forbids it to crouch, I think. It is perhaps unfair, but it makes its torture sweeter, in a way.
It takes my hand in its own. “We speak of the impossibilitance of our future. We however, also reflect the loveliness of the present.”
I listen carefully.
“I should like us to endeavour in making the present… lovescious.”
Its hand is gripping mine very tightly. I try to think about why it doesn't speak plainly. Then I come to remember that, Masters though they are, they are strangers in London, and entirely different from humans as it is. Perhaps, Mr Pages has been doing me a favour by not succumbing to its desires. Perhaps, I think to myself, there is a reason I'm always the first one to seek affection and intimacy from it. Perhaps, now is also one of those times. I bring my head up to look into its eyes.
“Lovelier and more pleasurable, I should hope.”
Mr Pages promises to make preparations - suitable for our ‘inconventional coupling’, as it calls it. It provides me with a letter of instructions, and the necessary coin. I do not ask, partially because I’ll read it myself but partially because I’d like to leave a little something to the imagination. When I try to read it, the only thing I understand superbly well - and that catches me quite by surprise - is the… positioning. It would seem we will be hanging upside down.
I get things ready that very day with Ferret, and throw in extra for their trouble. The poor fellow will not know what they made - goodness, even I don’t what I ordered - but they assure me they’ll deliver the ‘torture device’ to the Ministry first thing in the morning. For all intents and purposes, from what I read, it might as well be one, if one applies it in such a manner.
.
.
.
The contraption in the office of Mr Pages looks unwelcome to say the least. At first, anyway. I near the contraption, touch its many odd parts. I get an understanding of how it might work. It explains the sigils engraved into it. Comfort, control, lucidity - it prepared for all.
“When you’re preparated, we can begin.” It offers, stepping closer. I, for one, am more focused on the intricate build of the foreign thing. It is well made, without a doubt.
“You’re to strap me into this?”
“... Yes.”
Pages’ hands land on my shoulders. Its breath tickles my neck.
“You’ve taken everything into account?”
“You expressed trustfulness in me.” Pages’ breathes. I feel its robes against my back.
“I trust you. I’m just being careful.”
Pages’ lets out a noise of impatience. I turn to look at it. My face betrays everything I feel, and everything I desire.
The process of strapping me in is surprisingly simple. The addition of metal wings - for control, for equity - is a surprise in itself. For a moment, I feel like I might outmatch it in flight itself if I were tested. For a moment, I am something completely different. I can’t help a breathless giggle at the insanity of all this.
Mr Pages’ voice is very quiet…
“ Shush .”
It’s a simple instruction, gentle, soft, guiding… and arousing. The little reason that’s left in my mind cannot tell why silence is required… not right away.
I feel its hands. I had not expected it to understand the advantages of pre-intercourse preparations, but it would be one the many things I got wrong about its capabilities.
The rational thought abandons me when the claws mark their soft, ticklish path across my body. When its fingertips pause to study. To caress and pinch. To press into my ribs, crevices and dips, testing, searching, studying. It breathes deeply as it feasts its eyes, and I can see their glow, I can see the vast curiosity and eagerness that lies there.
"Pages..." I whisper, imploring. It seems to understand the meaning of my inquiry, because the touch stops, and much to my delight, Mr Pages disrobes. The everything of its alien appearance captivates me. The wings entrance me. This is no mere bat, that's for sure.
It latches onto the contraption, and we hang there, face to face, body to body, barely a hand away. So much of this is foreign. So much of it, I want. And once we begin, so much of it grows, quickly, to be known.
The strange claws, careful in their ministrations, serve well to bring me to the brink between pain and pleasure, to drag exactly where I need them to. The calloused fingers grip me, explore me, inquisitive, passionate, careful. From this position, with all these preparations, I can do much of the same. I am eager to find more, touch the appendages I had not had a chance to touch with humans, explore them. My mouth bites and forces its own open, and we test everything we got of our bodies on each other, slowly… at first.
The passions take over, the instinct rushes us both into frantic action. Its heart beats faster than mine, drumming in its chest as it brings to me aspects of pleasure I have not yet had a chance to experience. More than anything… intimacy. There is no bed here, nothing to recline on or move away to… only each other. When I tire, I sink into its soft fur-clad chest, let it continue its perusing how it desires. When I eagerly try something new, it lets me, opens up to me, begs and commands me without shame, and I eagerly follow its example. When I wish for it to kiss me, it spends long periods of time indulging me. Its experienced mouth at this point knows what to do, where to nibble and how to do so softly, be it my lips or elsewhere. When I ask what it can do, it shows me. When I ask what it wants, it tells me.
It becomes apparent why silence is appreciated. Though the sigils do much in keeping me comfortable, I assume it wants me to save my focus for the breathing, because we both find ourselves gasping for breath - me, a bit heavier too, with the position I am in. Perhaps being quiet comes naturally to it. To me, less so. Or perhaps I have always wanted to signal my previous partners - human partners - of my pleasure. Whatever the case, in its presence, I feel little need to voice my enjoyment. It can hear it in my breath, my heartbeat. It can sense and see all that it does to me. All that it means to me.
It whispers as it brings me to my limits. It whispers of longing and missing and loneliness. It whispers of me, in the finality of it all, of me as if I were a catalyst to something beyond dreaming.
It speaks of the present and of now, because it’s all we have. It takes and gets what it desires, gives and offers what it can, and fulfills my every whim as if it were the last chance we would ever have to do so, and we bring each other to heights so heavenly the Sun itself would envy us.
Hours later, it unlatches and helps me down. It is often an awkward moment that follows things like these, though ours is very brief - the moment it dismounts from the contraption, Pages seeks to robe itself, as if I had not just explored every single intricacy of its body. But as soon it does, it turns to me and, almost delicately, helps me dress. It is not the sort of behaviour I expected from it, and the thought immediately strikes me that, as a person endeavouring to read just about every written word in history, it must’ve come to some form of… education for itself, on mannerism of all kinds. Perhaps it even ventured to ask. Whatever the case might be, its gentle approach does not go unnoticed, yet I tell myself I better not get used to this sort of treatment but rather cherish it as a rarity. Knowing its pride, I know better than to ask of the sources it perused in trying to pleasure me.
When we’re proper and clean, Mr Pages finally casts aside its terrible pride, and it asks. “Was it to your taste? Did it cause your skin to bump and your spine to itch?”
“Could you not tell?”
“Pleasurement is one separate thing entirely.” It notes, impatiently. "The performace itself was adequateous."
I chuckle before finally giving it my answer. “It was more than I could have dreamed of.”
“Certainly not. Dreams have powers near-entirely inapplicable in this realment of existence.”
“I meant to say,” I interrupt, softly, “that it was wonderful. Everything I could have desired.” Once again, I take its hand into my own, kiss its palm.
“Then it is everything I desired just as much.”
Playfulness engulfs me.
“Are you going to attend the Festival of the Rose?”
“If you seek me, you shall find me there.” Mr Pages confirms.
“There is no one else I should like to seek. You’re all I need.”
“The choice is yours. Yet, strangely, monogamity seems to be a respect of a kind in London.”
“Not strictly so - rather, it depends on how people arrange it themselves.” I fall silent for a moment. “If it is not something you desire, I will understand.”
“It is something you desire.” Pages notices. “In that regard, it is an acceptious arrangement.”
“Then… I shall see you on the morrow.”
Mr Pages nods. Despite the loveliness of the evening - of everything - I can tell something bothers it. Perhaps it might tell me so tomorrow. Perhaps, there is something I have yet to know.
.
.
.
On the day of the Feast of the Rose, London, for once, looks alive. The fireworks in the sky of the Neath are quite possibly just as beautiful as the fireworks we had on the Surface. For once, something that was for the sake of the beauty above is just as for the sake of beauty below. Such a simple, abstract thing connecting the two worlds established a year ago. I wonder how Archie is doing, with his sweetheart above. I see Griz with Rachel briefly, and say hello to Harjit and Ferret when I pass them by. I see people upon people who have found love, duty and ambition in what was once a curse for us all, and now, a mere year later, a new way of living. Melancholy follows with everything that caused us to be here… and yet, there is hope born out of the fact we are succeeding, in one way or another.
With those thoughts in mind, seeing Mr Pages at the festival comes almost like a surprise, as I realise the depth of my investment into everything we are. I have not only come to terms with my role down here in the Ministry, not only have made friends and acquaintances, helped where I could - I did so many things and then, on top of everything, fell for one person who would all but chain me to my new life here below, no matter if it desired it or not. My heart is its own, and as I walk towards it, and see the recognition in its eyes of amberous glow, I know I will need to do and change a lot to keep this going, to keep it alive. I know because merely by looking at it, I can tell Mr Pages seems almost morose. When it leans down, for the first time since I’ve known it, it confides its deepest, darkest fear about everything that the two of us make.
“... We only have the present. For you, a lifetime. For us… for me…”
Its voice breaks. Its confidence, so mighty and grand, crumbles. It is not who it desires to be. It is not what it desires for me to see. For its sake, I avert my eyes, ponder. No words, no platitudes. It is not a being that wants to be comforted in such a manner - at the very least, I presume, not unless it asks to be. Instead, I take it by the hand, and climb a short wall by the river so I can embrace it, and allow it to embrace me back. The subtlety of my wordless comfort is not lost on it, and it holds me in its arms for a long time. Its rapid heartbeats - even quicker than usual - are the only indication of stress, and I wait until I can feel it calm in my arms.
It regards me after a while, the luminous eyes now sparkling, the morosity gone.
“ Delicious friend .”
I laugh. “That's how it started, if I recall right!”
“It’s not less of truthfulness now. So many other featurements have come to surface of your being, in addition.”
“In time, you will find more that there is to me. And I, to you.”
Mr Pages stands up straight but its hand holds mine. When it speaks, it is confident.
“In time, I will wear of you. You shall wear of me, as well. In time, death might part us. In time, something will.”
It doesn’t sound sad, and I know why. I grin.
“That’s alright.” I whisper. “Until then…”
Mr Pages leans closer, and before it kisses me, it speaks the simple truth. “Until then, there is present.”