Chapter Text
Any given social is tedious, even when it’s being thrown by Josephine Bradley. Cecil Palmer greatly prefers salons or other, smaller gatherings, or nights at the theatre. But he sighs, takes a flute of champagne from a nearby server. He promised Mrs. Bradley that he’d at least look like he was having a good time.
It’s the 1890s and the desert town of Night Vale isn’t exactly the social centre of the world, but nobody has told Mrs Bradley. As far as she’s concerned, they’re only as far from Paris as Versailles. Her estate certainly has that palatial air, with the vaulted ceiling and the several chandeliers made of the famed Night Vale crystal, the translucent purple rock that has attracted the rich and the prospective nouveau riche. Cecil is of the former, and so of course, he has mild disdain for the latter.
“Mr. Palmer, you don’t have a head for that much champagne,” Josephine says.
“This is my first drink of the evening, Missus Josie,” Cecil says with his most innocent smile. “Remind me why you invited me, when all I ever do is drink your impeccably chosen alcohol?”
“Terrible boy,” she snaps, slapping Cecil’s forearm with her fan. “And what are you wearing? You look a disaster.”
Cecil frowns, looking down at his purple waistcoat (with the burgundy brocade and gold thread embroidery!) and paisley cravat. He doesn’t have mirrors, but he does have an indispensable tailor, who understands and caters to his taste.
“Mrs. Bradley, I have dressed suitably for your awful little affair,” he finally says.
“Well speaking of awful little affairs, Cecil, Mr. Harlan has returned from whatever adventures he was undertaking on some mountain range in the Far East,” Josephine says. Cecil, who was attempting to finish his champagne, nearly snorts it out his nose and looks up. “Ah-hah, I thought there was something going on between you two.”
Cecil pre-emptively downs his drink.
“Is he going to be here?”
“No,” Josephine scoffs. “You know how I feel about explorers. And mountains. Now, I must go and meet some of my other guests. Don’t do anything too silly.”
And she leaves in a rustle of perfume and taffeta. Cecil sighs, and wanders aimlessly around the hall, the hand not clutching his cane wrapped around the stem of a newly replenished flute of champagne. People are dancing to the small band, and everyone looks perfectly lovely and vapid. They ignore Cecil, or try to at the very least. It’s a bit hard to ignore someone whose history is so very shameful.
If it weren’t for the fact that Josephine Bradley throws unforgettable fêtes, her eccentric view of what constitutes polite company would not be tolerated. Cecil knows this, and that’s why he makes a point to come to every single one of Josephine’s parties; they’re the only ones he gets invited to these days.
“Dr. Palmer?” someone asks in a quiet British accent. Cecil looks behind him, and falls in love instantly.
The gentleman has dark skin and a good tailor. His chin speaks volumes about his strength of character, and his dark curly hair, though cruelly constrained in a queue, is perfect.
“Only a doctor of letters, I’m afraid,” Cecil finally says with a smile that’s probably too wide. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. You are…?”
“Carlos St. Mark,” he says, and smiles. Cecil’s heart starts palpitating oddly. “I don’t believe it stands for much on this side of the Atlantic, but I’m an earl, if we must stand on ceremony. I prefer Doctor anyway.”
“Cecil Palmer,” Cecil says, and extends a hand for Carlos to shake “And I have never stood on ceremony in my life. I feel like calling you Earl-Doctor St. Mark may be a stretch.”
His handshake is firm and full of conviction. Cecil has never been a part of such a resilient handshake, and is reluctant to let the moment pass, even after the requisite amount of time a handshake should last.
“I’ve read your papers, Mr. Palmer,” Carlos says, finally extricating his hand from Cecil’s grip. “Or at least some of them. What I have read is interesting, if utterly unscientific. I wasn’t sure whether I should have absorbed them as informative or as a diversion.”
“Well, I feel if my readers can learn a little while being entertained, then I have succeeded,” Cecil says. Carlos looks surprised.
“Then you truly believe all that you have written?” he asks. “Er… angels which behave like cobbler’s elves? Some kind of cloud which rains dead animals on those unfortunate enough to be underneath? People who turn into trees, like something out of Ovid?”
“I would never put to paper something which I did not believe in my heart,” Cecil says, straightening as much as he can, though the leg is starting to pain him.
“I beg your pardon. I’ve offended you,” Carlos says. “I was advised that this is a subject you’ve been called on to discuss often, if unwillingly.”
“Indeed,” Cecil says. “In the lower classes, I wouldn’t have been tolerated as eccentric in such an unbearable matter.”
“No, but is the alternative preferable?” Carlos says. “I’ve visited Bedlam. It is a horror.”
“Asylums are not just for the lower-class, Doctor,” Cecil says with a taut smile, “though we may call them retreats.”
Whatever Carlos is going to say after that, and Cecil hopes he hasn’t scared away the dashing doctor, is interrupted by the arrival of another guest, announced as Mr. George Irving. The minute Cecil sees him, he feels a need to act the gracious host.
If acting the gracious host means taking out that eldritch shadow form before it starts to feed on Mrs. Bradley’s human guests.
How could ‘George Irving’ or whatever it likes to be called outside of its translucent disguise even muster the audacity to come here looking like that? Demons are hopeless at fashion sense, this is an irrefutable fact, but soft leather riding boots in 1891? Nearly unforgivable. Also, those eyes are entirely too green, even to a layman, and that wig looks taxidermed. Being in polite company, Cecil doesn’t expect that anyone will comment on that hideous threadbare coif, or how very 4rth of Thermidor it is, but this isn’t a costume party, for Heaven’s sake!
“Excuse me,” he says, regretfully striding away from Carlos and reaching into his jacket’s pocket for the small book he carries with him always. He doesn’t look back at Carlos because he is reddening most spectacularly and is sure that his sexual deviance probably rolled off of him like waves.
He’ll be sure to be less Achillean around Carlos next time. If ever there is a next time.
George Irving seems confused about what one does at a social. He has cottoned on to the alcohol, though, and is drinking when Cecil finally reaches him.
“Mr. Irving!” he says. “Welcome to Night Vale! May I show you the gardens? Under the moon, the magnolias look resplendent.”
George Irving seems relieved at the prospect, but Cecil sees the underlying hunger. Cecil leads him to the terrace, hand touching his elbow in ways that are likely going to make people talk.
The gardens are lovely in the moonlight, though George Irving is in no mood to appreciate it. He lets out an unearthly howl that is too high for Cecil to really hear, but loud enough for him to feel in his bones, and he sheds his skin with a flourish. Underneath is something unforgettable but unseeable at the same time. Cecil averts his eyes, ducks into a lighter spot of the garden to read a passage from his book.
It’s a small tome in a language that Cecil does not understand, but it’s not what is written which has power. It is Cecil’s voice, which drops to a low and persuasive pitch as he begins to intone what is written. The demon keens, and swipes its claws in Cecil’s general direction. Cecil dodges, but not fast enough; the demon has hit him squarely in the bad leg. With a cry he falls, his spell interrupted and white lights popping behind his eyes.
“Foolish, petulant child. Why would you think that I could be defeated by a single cripple when I have come this far? Who do you think you are?” it yells in a voice like scraping metal. Cecil tries to sit up, look for the book which was knocked from his hands. The pain is immense and he can’t feel his leg beneath the knee. Stupid he thinks, tries not to acknowledge that this is how he dies.
And then someone else starts intoning in oaky tones that sound new but familiar. He looks up, galvanized, and sees Carlos standing, reading from the book Cecil dropped. Soon, the demon starts smoking and melting simultaneously. A smell like burned sugar sears Cecil’s nose, and as he coughs from the pungent odour, the demon becomes totally incorporeal.
Cecil grimaces at the tar-like mess on the ground. His leg still hurts, but at least he can feel and move his toes now.
“What in the name of God was that?” Carlos asks, holding a handkerchief to his mouth. “And what did I just do?”
“Carlos! I mean Doctor St. Mark,” Cecil stutters. “Um. I would explain, except you say that you’ve read my writings. So I don’t think any such preamble is necessary.”
There is a long moment of silence which is filled by Carlos staring at Cecil, and then at what’s left of George Irving, and then back at Cecil. His mouth opens and closes a couple of times.
“I must apologize, sir,” he finally says a bit faintly, and holds out a hand to help Cecil up. “I have discredited you.”
“Not at all,” Cecil says, and takes Carlos’ hand. It is just as warm and strong as it was five minutes ago. Honestly very steady grip for someone who just performed their first exorcism. “You merely called my writings utterly unscientific, which they are. I have no desire for the dry discourse that one finds in journals of learning. We should depart the terrace, before people start getting notions.”
He adds this last part with a thinly veiled resentment. If Carlos notices, he doesn’t let it show.
“Are you all right?” he asks. “That… thing, it seemed to pain you badly.”
“They’re attracted to my injury,” Cecil frowns, grips his cane tightly. “Demons, whenever they can, try to latch on to weakness, physical or mental, to avoid being dispatched.”
“You dispatch them?” Carlos says, and smiles a bit. “What a relief. The way people talk, you’re made out to be some kind of Satanist.”
Cecil smiles too.
“The Satanist sodomite with a limp,” he says, “I’m practically Richard the Third.”
Carlos actually laughs, which makes Cecil’s insides warm a little.
“I like you. America hasn’t been kind to me so far,” Carlos says, and they return to the party.
Cecil is about to ask Carlos about how America has been unkind, when Mrs. Bradley makes a beeline to Cecil as they return to the party.
“Where is Mr. Irving,” she says bluntly.
“He wasn’t who he said he was,” Cecil says, “My apologies. The residue will be gone in maybe a half hour.”
“Terrible boy. I presume that Doctor St. Mark is now cognizant of your abilities?” Mrs. Bradley sighs. “And I bet you couldn’t help but show off.”
“You know me so well, Mrs. Bradley!” Cecil says with a smile, turns to Carlos, who looks like he’s just truly registered what happened. “Doctor, can I get you some champagne?”
“I could emancipate you from your reputation with a word of corroboration, and you’re offering me a drink?” Carlos says incredulously. “I just saw something… I don’t know what I saw. But it was real. It wasn’t a figment of your imagination.”
“Don’t talk that way,” Cecil says sweetly, giving Carlos a glass of champagne from nowhere. “People will think you’re mad. Say nothing, and drink to forget.”
He watches Carlos, as that old Night Vale crystal glitters and cast reflections all around the ballroom and in his new flute of champagne. Someone with that strong a chin will want to understand more than he’ll want to forget. And that’s equal parts promising and fearful.