ms. illeshazy

Éva Jozsefa Illésházy

Sat 05:05AM EST
Sunday: lazy day. The bright warm sky is interrupted now and against by fast-moving banks of thunderstorms, spring-rain, cloudbursts, followed by a blooming dappled sky. Éva spent the morning as she spends every Sunday morning: reading the New York Times in bed, with cappuccino and chocolate croissant from François' Pastry Shoppe, across Levitt Street of St. Mary's, listening to NPR.

At 1 p.m., she served brunch to a small group of friends on her wide back balcony: a rosemary/sausage/egg/asiago strada, crisp waffles and bacon, mimosas, and for dessert a flourless chocolate cake, tiny and decadent and rich, topped with a ring of the strawberries she picked up at the Burlington fruit stand, or those self-same strawberries in whole, farm-fresh cream. The last hours of the afternoon, she potted plants, proud red geraniums with green spikes for height and trailing vinca for effect flanking the door leading to the stairs leading to her spacious second-story flat in the old Victorian house, then filled the windowboxes with impatiens and alyssum and, by the kitchen, basil and chives and oregano and sage and lemon verbena and chocolate mint, for tea.

Éva doesn't work on Sunday. Éva doesn't think about work on Sunday, if she can possibly avoid it. It is the one day a week that is wholly hers, and so she cooks and gardens and walks and sees her friends, or just spends a long day perusing every inch of the Times, down to reviews of new galleries or installations she will never get to see.

By evening, the dishes are done and the potting soil swept from the stoop and half the paper has migrated from the bedroom to the living room. The television is turned to the Home and Garden network, but muted. She's half-way through Taylor Branch's endless biography of Lyndon Johnson, and rarely glances up. On the coffee table before her, her usual nightcap: a single glass of red wine.

Éva Jozsefa Illésházy

Sat 05:05AM EST
Sunday: lazy day. The bright warm sky is interrupted now and against by fast-moving banks of thunderstorms, spring-rain, cloudbursts, followed by a blooming dappled sky. Éva spent the morning as she spends every Sunday morning: reading the New York Times in bed, with cappuccino and chocolate croissant from François' Pastry Shoppe, across Levitt Street of St. Mary's, listening to NPR.

At 1 p.m., she served brunch to a small group of friends on her wide back balcony: a rosemary/sausage/egg/asiago strada, crisp waffles and bacon, mimosas, and for dessert a flourless chocolate cake, tiny and decadent and rich, topped with a ring of the strawberries she picked up at the Burlington fruit stand, or those self-same strawberries in whole, farm-fresh cream. The last hours of the afternoon, she potted plants, proud red geraniums with green spikes for height and trailing vinca for effect flanking the door leading to the stairs leading to her spacious second-story flat in the old Victorian house, then filled the windowboxes with impatiens and alyssum and, by the kitchen, basil and chives and oregano and sage and lemon verbena and chocolate mint, for tea.

Éva doesn't work on Sunday. Éva doesn't think about work on Sunday, if she can possibly avoid it. It is the one day a week that is wholly hers, and so she cooks and gardens and walks and sees her friends, or just spends a long day perusing every inch of the Times, down to reviews of new galleries or installations she will never get to see.

By evening, the dishes are done and the potting soil swept from the stoop and half the paper has migrated from the bedroom to the living room. The television is turned to the Home and Garden network, but muted. She's half-way through Taylor Branch's endless biography of Lyndon Johnson, and rarely glances up. On the coffee table before her, her usual nightcap: a single glass of red wine.

Santiago

Sat 05:11AM EST
A knock on the door.

He promised he'd knock next time. He is, if nothing else, a man (beast) who keeps his promises. A peek through the peephole reveals him in the slanting light of the single bulb in the hallway. Outside, the dusk is still fading. His hands are in his pockets, relaxed, his shirt buttoned and not too terribly wrinkled, all things considered. He looks off down the hall at some unknown point that catches his attention. He seems, for the moment, almost normal.

The illusion fades when the door opens. It's the rage, perhaps, which seethes under the skin of even this most quiet of Fenrirs. Or perhaps it's just the penetrating, direct, unsettling gaze, black and steady above the smile.

"Ms. Illeshazy." Somehow 'kinwoman' has become 'Ms. Illeshazy'. "May I come in?"

Éva Jozsefa Illésházy

Sat 05:20AM EST
She is still for a moment, framed by the door. Sunday, Sunday evening, and she is not dressed in her professional armor. No, she is dressed casually: whine cotton yoga pants with a drawstring waist, rolled at the cuffs to hang loose around her calves, and a loose sleeveless cotton shirt, black. Dark hair is pulled up and away from her face, cinched into a thick, sagging ponytail.

A moment, she is still. Then: "Come in," spoken as she steps back from the door to allow him entrance. Another moment as she closes the door behind him, clicking two of the many locks home, habitual action, that. Turning, she passes behind him and into the open living room proper, where she stands, still and watchful. "What can I do for you?"

What should she call him, exactly?

"Oh, and have a seat. Can I..." after thought, this whole line of questions and offers. "...get you anything?"

Santiago

Sat 05:29AM EST
"I'm not staying long." This is a relief, probably. This is also a polite declining of the offered seat, the offered 'anything'. He remains standing just inside the door. The slanting evening light bolsters the interior lighting. He looks around the space once, a glance in passing, no more, as though he were scanning his surroundings in for private comparison to the last he was here.

Minus a body, it is very much unchanged.

His regard returns to her. Out here he smiles less, snaps straight to the point more. Ironically, she's out of her professional armor and in her home, making at least an attempt to play the hostess. The attempt is shorn through easily; it's down to business again.

"Would you have any sort of access to public records? Any information on who owns a tract a land, a group of buildings?"

Éva Jozsefa Illésházy

Sat 05:39AM EST
Minus a body, it is unchanged: hardwood floors and old, cheap Persian rugs, worn almost to the threads but soft and warm as sin beneath her feet. Warm wood, soft canvases, and a room filled with bookshelves, half of which are recent purchases, the others, well, must be remnants of student days, of the concrete block and brick variety. The paper is spread across the couch and coffee table, but otherwise the living room is tidy as a picture postcard.

She stops, mid-step, half-way around the low, overstuffed couch and turns to face him. "Anyone can find that. The various county assessors' offices maintain property rolls that list the owner, any liens or judgments against the property, easements or zoning restrictions." Lightly - defensively, perhaps - her arms across, mid-torso. She smiles then, and though the expression is starched and a bit self-deprecating, it is not exactly warm. "In short: yes. What do you need to know?"


Santiago

Sat 05:44AM EST
"Anyone can find the records, true. But I've got a hunch that they might've hidden their tracks a little better than that."

He comes a few steps into the room. He takes a seat after all, waiting until he's settled to explain. "There's a complex of sorts in the Pine Barrens, not too far from the town of Manahawkin. Word has it Endron supposedly has some of their drilling equipment stashed there.

"But there've been some strange wyrmcreatures in the Barrens these days. 'Normal' wolves that can take the warform. I think they came out of the complex. There's some talk of a Neuro Lab sharing the premises with Endron. I figure this lab might have something to do with the wolves, because Gaia cetainly didn't make them like this.

"I'd like to know who's staked out there. Who owns those buildings, and who owns the land they're sitting on. What the link is between the companies, if they're both there." A shrug, and a wan smile. "Find out as much as you can about the complex. And find out how long they've been there if you can."

Éva Jozsefa Illésházy

Sat 05:53AM EST
"I'll need precise coordinates for the land. Property law isn't my specialty, but - " a mild shrug punctuates the statement. She turns and skims through one of the bookcases, sinks into a crouch, and soon pulls out a thick bound volume. Straightening, she turns around again, now leafing through the pages. "I can do traces on the holding corporations, if any." She glances up, and pauses her rapid skim of the pages, holding her place with her index finger. "Manahawkin, did you say?"

Receiving his nod of confirmation, she puts the book down in front of him, open to a detailed series of maps around Manahawkin: topographical, land use, population density, and last, a street map so detailed that almost every address is shown, covering 6 pages, at least, even for such a small town. "Can you give me a more precise location?"

Santiago

Sat 05:57AM EST
He pores over the map for a moment. It's equally hard to find locations on a map too broad, or too detailed. Finally he circles an area with his finger in one of the insets.

"Right here."

Éva Jozsefa Illésházy

Sat 06:05AM EST
She sits on the very edge of the couch and leans over, tracing from the area he circled to the edge of the map.

Latitude.
Longitude.
...and page number, to be safe.

Satisfied, she retrieves a pencil and notepad from a small basket beneath the coffee table and writes down the coordinates. "I should have the information to you by Tuesday evening. Wednesday evening, at the latest," she says, though in truth she will have it by Monday. It's an important lesson: never promise more than you can give. Always deliver more than you promised.

Santiago

Sat 06:11AM EST
While she writes down the coordinates and page number, he carefully folds the fold-out map back into the book. Then he closes the volume with a thump. Leaning forward, he sets it on the coffee table. There, too, it thumps down - a venerable tome of property knowledge. You expect a cloud of dust to rise.

A beat. Then Santiago rises smoothly. "Thank you, kinwoman." He never failed to thank her for her efforts. Whether that's patronization or genuine gratitude, she's probably yet to decide. Either way, he's already turning to go. "I can stop by to pick it up. Save you the drive out, if you like."

Éva Jozsefa Illésházy

Sat 06:24AM EST
"You're welcome." Like so many things, the response is automatic and crisp. To the uneducated ear, there is even a smile in her voice. Like many things, the smile is deceptive and professional, necessary in her line of work. Necessary in both her lines of work. She doesn't pause to consider whether his thanks are genuine or patronizing. Or, rather, if she thinks them genuine, she must know that they are tainted, on some level, by patronization, condescension. That they must be so tainted, because he is what he is, and she is what she is, and never the twain shall meet.

She follows him to the door, and pauses at the threshold. Another smile, flying at half-mast, just a twist of her mouth, really. "Normally," undoing the locks, swinging open the door for him. "I would accept the offer, but I don't know when I'll have it ready. Better for me to make one trip than for you to waste two."

She steps back, giving him room to leave. "If there's anything else -" It's unspoken, but clear even without the invitation: she knows her place within the hierarchy, the bare minimum of her duty to the full-blooded members of the Nation fighting their endless war. " - let me know. Goodnight - " The last word hangs in the air a moment. She is not sure what to call him, what title, what name, whether she should call him anything at all. Her hand is curved around the wooden edge of the door, and in lieu of his name, she repeats herself, more firmly this time: "Goodnight."

And the door clicks closed.