undergrounds | The Maiden Anointed [semi-closed] [majorly backdated to March 1]

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The Maiden Anointed [semi-closed] [majorly backdated to March 1]

"For five years, I have been the Maiden of Witches," Katherine Terrance, the former holder of the title, said with a soft smile. There might even have been some pride in it, though she was trying to hide that. After all, no one was supposed to be pleased that someone from Circle Midnight had been meant for this position. "Now, the time has come to step down and let another take my place."

Beside her stood Abigail Widdowson, dressed in a modest white dress that made her look remarkably more pale, almost like she was dressed for her own burial. The impression wasn't lost on her, either.

They were deep in Daybreak territory, overlooking the Thames from Wandsworth. The building was meant for ceremonies like this and large gatherings of a group of covens. Now, it was for this, with all witches invited to witness the making of a new Maiden, as she was to serve both Circles. To stand for all of them.

"I was told when I took the role that I would know when the time had come to step down, and I was told that I would know who to hand this mantle to. You are never given more than you can bear, the Maiden before me said. Now, I pass those words on to you."

Abigail knelt down on a pale blue pillow and bowed her head politely.

"I ask three questions of you," Katherine said with all due solemnity.

"I will answer," replied Abigail.

"Will you serve as the Maiden of Circle Midnight?"

"I shall."

"Will you serve as the Maiden of Circle Daybreak?"

"I shall."

"Will you serve as the Maiden of all Witches?"

"I shall."

"Then let it be known, that you, Abigail Widdowson, stand as Maiden of Witches. Part of the trinity that holds together all our sisters: the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. From this day on, you are an example to us all. And you will be watched."

Katherine picked up a small silver urn and poured a few drops of the scented oil onto Abigail's forehead. She bowed her head, then, and rose of her own power. Katherine offered no hand, and Abigail sought none. She stood straight, took a deep breath, then nodded to Katherine. The former Maiden responded by bowing her head to kiss the spot on Abigail's head where the oil was placed before she stepped away. Then, Abigail took the few steps down from the dais.

Under her own volition, she'd have scurried away. But she had cause to mingle. So, she would.

(Open to all witches!)

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Gilbert Norrell does not want to be here.

Gilbert Norrell does not want to be here because this ceremony, in his mind, represents a defeat of sorts. He had felt so in control, so at the top of his game until recently. Finally becoming High Priest, finally achieving a position on the Night Council! The recognition he deserves!

Yet now he can feel it all beginning to slide. It only makes him want to grip on harder.

Abigail has made her attempts to be polite, but he knows they are not truly friends. He knows they disagree and that, whatever assurances Coward gave him, she would be rid of him. She has her own priorities and they do not align with his. Had it been his own choice he might even have attended, much the same as Abigail would have fled, yet he has elections coming up and it would be wise to show willing. To be present. To smile, even if it is forced.

So he stands and watches as Abigail is anointed Maiden, tries to ignoring the curling knot of resentment and steps forward to congratulate her once she comes near.

She may be Maiden now, but he is still a member of the Night Council and she is not. He will hold on to that.

"Mister Norrell. Thank you for coming."

She says it with as much sweetness and sincerity as she can truly muster. It might well sound a little lacking and more than a bit unsure, but it's offered nonetheless and offered willingly. She offers her hands to take one or both of his, as appropriate.

She's watched Katherine, after all, and that's how she always does it. So, she will try to adopt the mannerism.

He looks faintly uncomfortable as she offers him her hands. By and large witch communities are an entirely feminine thing of late, and Gilbert Norrell is a man not comfortable enough with himself to handle such things easily. That, and the gesture -- and sweetness -- is not something he at all associates with Abigail Widdowson.

They are both playing a part now, he supposes. How things can change!

"Miss Widdowson," he says simply in answer, and takes her hands for a half second to clasp. He was tempted not to -- he dislikes all this touching! -- but felt oddly conspicuous doing so. "Congratulations on your appointment."

That is the thing to say, he thinks, even if one is not pleased by it. Childermass would tell him to say it.

"Thank you," she replies with a gracious bow of her head. After all, she has a part to play as well, and she can almost feel Unthank watching her. In fact, she even tries to steal a glance around, expecting to see--

What? He might not have even been able to come. There might be wards to keep any and all who aren't witches away. But she can almost feel his hand on her shoulder.

Which sends a chill rushing down her spine the moment she thinks it. For all Unthank is a protector, she knows something of the sinister side, too. After all, even after Sir Roderick, the house's bloody history didn't stop. Not until that sort of thing went well out fo fashion. Which was far too long.

"I hope to serve all aspects of our community to the best of my abilities."

He picks up on her faint unease, finding himself glancing around slightly for what she might be looking for a moment before offering her a thin (and now slightly distracted smile).

Norrell himself is already prone to paranoia, she has just accidentally prickled his.

"I am sure it will be an interesting time for both Circles," he adds. "There will be much to discuss."

Which they have already begun, uncomfortably.

"'May you live in interesting times,' the curse goes, I believe," Abigail replies with a faint smile.

And they have both, now, lived to fulfill just that. Because she feels this is the sort of situation that saying always applies to. Times of great change, for good and ill. Dangerous for them both. But they don't need to be enemies.

...Or so she'll keep telling herself.

"We just must make sure to discuss it. All of us."

"Of course," Norrell allows, "although the next few months will be busy. The elections, you understand."

Which in truth will keep him busy, but also offer a surprisingly good excuse if he needs to dodge a meeting with Abigail should she prove too much of an irritation. It's a given that he will defend his seat at this point, but he hasn't forgotten how she snooped around the Night Council headquarters. Her lunches. Abigail herself may end up a threat to him in this election if he hasn't careful.

"Of course. I would wish you well, naturally, but as I and my Circle have no say, I'm afraid it would be worth nothing."

Not that she'd vote for him. And, perhaps, her smile says it. But it's still a remark. A reminder that she has no power here, and she will admit it. Because she wants it. Wants that voice.

And she will find a way to be heard.

Perhaps Abigail underestimates herself in that. To Norrell she is still a threat, for Norrell's reputation is everything. If Abigail chose to be spiteful she could well make his campaign difficult even without the power of a vote.

He matches her smile, if a little forced.

"You represent both Circles now," he reminds her, "and one of those Circles does have a vote."

A point she had not considered, but it is true. She is as much between the Circles as Sylvia is. Which does give her a vote. Perhaps. That depends entirely on what loopholes Mother still has in store.

"You make an excellent point, sir. That will take some getting used to for us all, I think."

Norrell nods fractionally, agreeing if a little unhappily.

"You have taken a position where people look to you, Miss Widdowson. Where they will listen. Remember that, and remember there will be consequences always for everyone -- in the short term and the long. You speak for more than just your own coven now, and what you do will affect everyone."

"Of that I am painfully aware."

And it tastes bitter in her mouth, like truth serum forced down her throat all over again. But now isn't the time for such thoughts.

"I will make my decision carefully. That, I can promise."

Oh. Hell no. Not today, no no no. But of course he would have been here. He was the High Priest of Daybreak, so Norrell was going to be here. Right when Nancy was at her physical weakest. She's far from the sultry woman who'd walked into his office many months ago, and further still from the girl who'd cried over her mother's wand. Injured, weak, by the time she finds herself remotely near Norrell, the magic keeping her bruises from showing is fading.

But it's clear she can't avoid him, and honestly, part of her wants to see the reaction. And to lord over how her dear friend was now officially the maiden. Much to his obvious chagrin. At least, she assumes he is- given how much he hated dark magic...

"Mr. Norrell," she says, holding her chin up despite her visible injuries. "Isn't the new Maiden just lovely?" She has no idea what information Norrell has on her, from his spies.

Norrell is all prepared to say something faintly snide about how lovely she looks, or perhaps a veiled comment about her leanings, when he glances sideways at the speaker. Then does a double take of sort, frowning at her properly this time to take in her appearance. The girl -- he does recognise her, but good lord.

"What on earth happened to you?" he prompts.

That was not the reaction she was expecting from him.

However, she was not disappointed by it, not in the least. The tinniest smile spread across her battered features. "Far cry from the girl you had bent over your desk, yeah?" Okay, so Nancy had done it herself, to get closer to him, and to give Childermass a good view. But the point stood. Gosh, how would everyone react to hearing that his manservant had hired him a prostitute?

That would be a very fun experiment one day, if need-be. Until then...

"Not that it's any of your business or anything. I hit an ice patch on some stairs." So she'd been telling everyone. She would not let him think he was proving his point about the fae.

"A patch of ice on some stairs!" he echoes, the mild disbelief clear on his face. Then again, what with the way she had dressed before perhaps she had been wearing particularly ludicrous footwear. He jogs an eyebrow, looks away from her again. The comment about his desk he is choosing to ignore. "You would do well to be more careful. Such clumsiness may cost you more dearly next time."

She might break her neck, he thinks absently.

He's going to be that way? Fine. Nancy narrows her eyes- quite a feat considering how swollen they are.

"So I would." She'd been wearing trainers when she'd showed up at Fagin's. So, you're a jerk for assuming. Jerk. "But the weather's getting warmer so I don't think I'll have that problem in the meantime." She was under Eames' protection. That's what mattered.

"Oh, but not by much! Only recently I was woken by thunder, and then by sleet bouncing off my windows! Sleet! No, I do not trust how changeable this weather is at all. I would not be surprised if we were hit by flash flooding again!"

He shakes his head, as if in general expressing disappointment at the state of British spring weather. Any general euphemisms about the weather getting better are entirely lost on him.

"I have had to bring some of my roses inside. With this weather I think it is entirely too early for them. A hit of frost and they will not do well at all!"

Funny how conversations could go from fascinating to absolutely boring. She looked around absentmindedly for a glass of champagne or something to hold her attention. No such luck, good or bad.

"Still won't have me tripping on ice," she told him, then: "I didn't know you were a gardener." She really did not care, but it was an interesting thought. "Or do you have Childermass do it all?" Greasy git.

"Childermass? Childermass is not a gardener!" Norrell exclaims, as if this thought is surprising and confusing entirely. "Childermass handles the gardener! It was on his advice that we moved the roses."

Of course he has a gardener, and of course he does not handle the gardener directly. Perish the thought!

Nancy blinks.

"I didn't mean to offend," which is a complete lie. "Not all of us have the luxury of being raised with gardeners and manservents."

"It is no wonder, when London is so expensive -- and everything is so small besides!"

Entirely the reason why nobody has gardeners or manservants, you see, London being expensive. The fact that people often don't even have gardens is entirely beside the point!

"I grew up in a large enough space. Just no gardens, or gardeners." Or money. Mind you, she grew up in a space. The Den wasn't exactly something you could call a house.

"The house I bought in Mayfair is very small," Norrell carries on, as if Nancy is simply an audience for his complaints now, "and the cost unaccountable. I barely have space enough for a third of my books! Do people in London not keep libraries? I have scarcely enough for what I need. Have you had those seen to?"

Her injuries. He hasn't forgotten, he just likes to talk a lot.

"Of course- what with all of your confiscated books." You're still an asshole, Norrell. But she gives you credit for letting her take her ring and fancy stick. But that's not much credit, considering you're an asshole. A very creepy one who made her want to rinse her skin off with acid.

"I don't know, sir. It must be a true burden on you." She needed something to drink.

Nancy held up her wrist so that he could see the brace. "I have." Not that he actually cares. "I've been in the hospital." She still has her bracelets on, unfortunately. Part of the breaking out thing.

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