It's been a long day in the gritty heat of London, and Darby, while still dressed and coifed impeccably if severely, is still looking a little washed out from the summer streets. She makes her way back now, journal open as she reads through her notes from the afternoon's research, winding through the crowds without looking up as only a practiced reader can. Now that she's done purposefully observing them, the Muggles hold little interest for her. The only time she does look up is to check a landmark to get her bearings and adjust accordingly.
     Finally, she makes her way back to the hidden entrance to the Alley, snapping the journal shut with one hand while the other draws her wand out from its hiding spot. She doesn't venture forth into the Muggle realm often, but the Ravenclaw mind still remembers the proper sequence to unlock the passthrough. Or so she assumes, anyway.

     The air has been relatively cool with the passage of evening, a nice change from the heat of the day - but now the air abruptly seems to heat up again. Sticky, humid, the air holds an oily quality to it as the bricks - well, act like any other brick wall in any other alley in Muggle London. They fail to budge in the slightest.

     Darby lets out a thoughtful little 'hmph' as she runs her hand back over her hair, smoothing some of the strands that have frizzed their way free of the tight french braid she wears. The change in temperature isn't noticed consciously, though on a subconscious level the uncomfortableness helps contribute to her frustration. She steps back to stare at the wall a moment before stepping right back up again with more resolve. Again she repeats the sequence, this time muttering the steps to herself under her breath, as if to confirm that she's gotten it right.

     If anything, the heat becomes more intense - more searing, almost as if out in the desert, save for the accompanying humidity. The wall continues not to open up, however, and there is a strange, salt-like, sooty smell.

     As small beads of perspiration spring to her brow, the heat finally becomes a conscious concern of Darby's, though far from the foremost one. No, that remains the bricks. "What the dickens?" she asks aloud, turning about in a slow circle, as if expecting either to find herself in the wrong place or to find someone will an ill-conceived sense of humour lurking near by to yell out with a Gotcha!

     No, it still looks like London. It in fact looks very much like the right alley. But no one is lurking nearby; no one even seems interested. But then there is a faint cracking sound...

     Darby smoothes a hand over her hair again, as the sudden heat and humidity tax the abilities of the braid to hold her usually tame hair in check. It's a self-conscious gesture, as if she still thinks she's being watched, but an absent one as well, and as the cracking sound sinks in, she leaves off in mid-gesture, hand remaining still on her head for a long moment before dropping back to her side. "Hullo?" she finally resorts to calling out, first to the area at large and then to the wall specifically.

     The cracking sound comes from very close by - too close. But it's not from the wall. And there seems still to be noone nearby... though the heat now begins slowly to abate.

     Darby takes a half-step backwards up the alley, looking first up at the sky and then side-to-side, searching for the source of the cracking, though not looking too certain that she really wants to know. Her hand tightens around her wand, though it remains at her side for the moment, while her other arm now hugs her journal to her chest like the security blanket it's come to be.

     The tightening of the hand around the wand reveals the cracking sound's source all too well; there is a narrow and widening crack in the base of the wand, which now splits slowly apart. Useless.

     "Ouch!" Darby exclaims, more in shock than pain as she suddenly realizes what's happening to her wand. Her hand opens quickly, letting gravity claim the wand's remaining pieces as they slide from her palm to the ground, leaving only a small sliver behind. Which is just as well, since concentrating on getting it out of her palm distracts her from panicking about her situation for a few moments. Then abruptly, as she gets it free, her circumstances sink in and she drops into a crouch to pick up the pieces, trying to fit them back together a few times before throwing them aside in frustration and anger. "Oh brilliant, Darby. Now what?" she mutters to herself, straightening back up and dusting her hands off on her skirt.

     There are no signs of life - if there is someone actively working against Darby in this, they're very well hidden.

     With a great deal less hope and determination, Darby approaches the wall again, trying in vain to find some chink or opening with her fingers, destroying a neat and prim manicure in the process. Finally, she gives up, heaving a sigh and turning to lean back against the wall, even almost slouching in her despair. Absently, she kicks back against it, arms crossing over her chest as she tries to collect her wits.

     "You shouldn't hang round in alleyways, lady." It's a male voice - a young man, with pale hair and tawny eyes, dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the collar a bit open. "It's not safe - for men or women, but especially for young girls like yourself."

     Darby starts a little at the sound of the voice, having lost herself utterly in her thoughts. For a long moment the young man just gets a blank stare, and just as he's likely to think her a foreigner who doesn't speak the language - or an escaped mental patient - Darby gives her head a little shake, trying to gather her thoughts. "Oh, ah, yes. Right. I ... suppose I'm just a little, well, stuck at the moment." She casts a glance back over her shoulder at the wall, then looks back to him, testing to see if he understands the significance.

     "Stuck? Got your shoe caught in a grate? Or is this more of a philosophical thing?" An eyebrow goes up, and he settles against the bricks, folding his arms. "You shouldn't stay here too much longer, though. Once it gets dark, well..."

     "No, it's literal, but not quite so immediately physical. Never mind," Darby replies with a sigh and a shake of her head. "It's difficult, if not impossible to explain." At his warning, her expression becomes a little more guarded and she casts a look past him down the alley. "This isn't the best neighborhood of London, is it," she asks rhetorically with a sinking sort of comprehension.

     "No, not really. Not too much happens here," the young man admits, "but things do happen. There've been a rash of disappearances, more than a few murders, and - well, crimes which aren't terribly polite to mention. You look like a well-off girl; I wouldn't want to shock you."

     "I've imagination enough," Darby replies a little defensively, neither confirming nor denying her class status. Her arms tighten a little more over her chest as she sets her jaw, looking around again. "So I can't stay here, and apparently I can't get home...," she murmurs to herself, though loud enough for him to hear if not entirely clearly. "Well, this is a fine how do you do." As much as she tries to keep tone and demeanor light, there's a creeping edge of panic beginning to make its way in.

     "Well, if you're in trouble, I can take you to a safehouse for the night, but whatever's keeping you from going home, it's probably better not to worry about it - swallowing your pride and making up is better, unless they beat you or the like," the young man says sagely, rolling his shoulders in a shrug as he turns away. "But I can't stay. I've got other places to be, you know."

     "It isn't that I won't, it's that I can't," Darby clarifies with an edge of frustration, though it's not really directed at the young man. "Stuck, as I said. Between a rock and a hard place, I suppose. I don't know if that qualifies as trouble, but I'll admit that I'm at a bit of a loss." The panic comes and then fades as her tone takes on an ironic sort of detachment. "But please, don't let me keep you. I'll ... figure something out, I imagine." She turns away as well, to face the wall again and study it closely. "Preferably before dark," she adds under her breath, though Ravenclaw practicality insists that the threatening breakdown wait for a more opportune moment.

     "I can take you to the shelter, if you want," the young man offers, "but then I've really got to be on my way. Time and Fate wait for no man - though I hear it waits for some women, but I'm not one." He smirks faintly. "You look like one of their lot, really - well. Except for being English."

     Darby turns slowly back towards him, gaze flickering over his form. "You know, I'm really not of the mind for riddles," she states, not unkindly but just matter-of-fact. "One of whose lot? And what's my being English got to do with anything?" She rests a hand on the wall now, palm flat against it, and some of her proud stature slips away, shoulders slouching ever so slightly. "I'm sorry, but it's been a long day. I appreciate the offer, but I'm not from ... around here. And I'd really rather just figure out how to get home."

     "Oh, never mind." The young man waves a hand. "I just thought you were Venetian. You could be, you know. I've got - well, not friends, exactly. But there are people I know there, and - well, you look a bit like some of them. Remind me a bit of one or two of them."

     Darby studies her palm where the sliver had gone in, though she looks up at that. "Venetian?" She blinks and then shrugs, before explaining slowly, a little guardedly, "Well, my ... parents met there. Or so the story goes. But I'm sure it can't have anything to do with these people that you know. I've never been there myself."

     "Venetian. From Venice. Your parents ... met there." One eyebrow raises quizzically. "And, of course, your parents met by some startling, astounding series of coincidences that made for a hell of a story in the retelling, didn't they."

     Darby raises an eyebrow in return, looking almost suspicious at this interest in her parents, although after a moment, she shrugs it off. "I wouldn't know. Father doesn't like to talk of it. I only know because of this." She reaches up to her neck, pulling a silver locket free from where it hangs inside her shirt. "It's engraved," she adds in explanation, flipping it over to show the tiny, precise script, though she doesn't seem to expect him to bother reading it.

     However, the young man does indeed lean forward with a curious look in his amber eyes. "Yes?"

     Again, his interest catches her off-guard and Darby gives him a slow blink before looking down at the locket. "Oh, well, it just says 'Venice' and there's a date, about twenty years ago. I found it in a drawer when I was eight and when I asked my father about it, he admitted he gave it to my mother when they met. He finally let me have it to get me to stop asking questions." She shrugs, letting it drop again, although this time on the outside of her shirt. "Though I'm not sure why I'm telling you all of this," she admits.

     "Because you're shellshocked and don't have any real answers, and I'm a take-charge sort of fellow and it's easier than trying to focus on the fact that you haven't got anywhere else to go," the young man says easily. "I'd recommend going to Venice, myself - it's a nice city, even if it's got its own problems."

     "You're also rather blunt," Darby points out levelly, eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise at his sizing up of the situation. "But I suppose you're more or less correct." His suggestion takes her somewhat aback, though the surprises are coming so often right now it's hard to tell one from the other. "Venice? That's a bit of a jump, isn't it? And anyway, I haven't any money. None that will work, anyway. And it seems as if my usual methods of transportation are ... unavailable at the moment." There's another glance towards the brick wall.

     "Honesty is the best policy, or so they say - though they don't say what it's the best policy for." The young man smiles slightly. "There are plenty of ways to move around in the world, you know. Come on. Whether or not you have money, you really can't stay here." He beckons out of the hallway.

     "Yes, but who are they?" Darby asks rhetorically as she peels herself somewhat reluctantly away from the wall, the last link to her home. "And yes, I am aware of a few of the more esoteric of them, but they're not currently at my disposal." She tucks the locket back inside her shirt as she moves a little ways down the alley.

     "Who is anyone? If they aren't out to kill you or otherwise do you harm, what difference does it make? I'm not out to get you; frankly, you don't have anything I need, and I wouldn't - well, sorry; there's no gentle way to say this, but if you're who and what I think you are, noone could pay me well enough to kill you." The young man grimaces, mouth twisting with a wry, bitterly amused expression. "Learn as you go. That's how we survive, you know. You don't have to take my advice or my help, but I prefer to pay my debts when I get an opportunity, rather than incurring new ones."

     "Who and what do you think I am?" Darby asks, looking over at him sidelong. "And better yet, why would anyone pay you to kill me? You're not an acquaintance of my stepmother, are you?" No, she's not serious, but then, she's not wholly joking either. "As for taking your advice and/or help, I'm not sure how much choice I do have in the matter. It seems the least risky of available options, anyway. Though I've no idea what debt you believe yourself to be paying. If you truly aren't looking to lead me astray, it seems to me that it will be I who owes you." She shrugs and then gestures for him to lead the way.

     "I don't know, but I'm thinking you'll find the answers - or some answers - in Venice," the young man says promptly, turning to begin padding away down the alley. "I could maybe arrange for a safe place for you here in England, but it wouldn't be ... well ... as useful. You'd be better off well out of things here - things are heating up here, anyway." He glances back with a slightly feral smile, moving out of the alleyway. "I can put you on a boat, or a plane, or there's the train. What do you prefer? Plane's fastest."

     "Things are heating up," Darby agrees a little darkly. "Though I doubt you could mean it in the same sense that I do. But I suppose it couldn't hurt to go seek some answers." She follows along behind him, her own stance once again almost regal. "I've never flown before. By plane," she appends after a momentary pause for thought. "But I imagine faster is better in this. I'm not sure how long I have until this sorts itself out, but eventually someone is bound to miss me and come looking." She doesn't sound entirely convinced of that, however.

     "Better to leave as little trace as possible. I can cover your tracks - I'm good at it. Let's get moving." He leads the way out of the alleyway, lifting a hand and waving a cab over. "Good timing, mate," he says to the man behind the wheel. "Two for Heathrow - actually, one for Heathrow. Here's the money and tip up front, get her there in time, will y'? I'll meet you at the terminal," he adds, turning his amber gaze onto Darby. "You just wait for me - ask anyone in uniform for the main terminal."

     "I'm not sure if that's reassuring or not," Darby replies, as to covering her tracks, but there's really not much time to worry about it, is there? The cab is eyed warily, like the foreign structure that it is. "I- What? Oh, all right," she replies, about as flustered as she gets as he turns to her, her own brown eyes opening wider. "I'm really not from around here though. But I suppose it can't be that difficult, can it? Main terminal." At some point doing that, she stopped talking to him and started talking to herself. "So I just ... get in, then," she says, and it's open to debate as to whom she's talking to now.

     "You get in," the young man agrees, holding the door open for Darby, "and I'll see you there. Go on, now." He waits until she climbs in, then shuts the door, stepping back - and he seems to just ... disappear into the shadows as if swallowed up whole. The cab driver notices nothing, gunning the engine once the door's closed.

     Darby nods as he confirms her guess, clambering into the cab with thinly veiled uncertainty. "Right. At the main terminal." She sits primly back in her seat, taking a discerning look around at the interior. "I really hope this isn't a practical joke," she notes to herself, grabbing hold of the handle on the door as it's shut, her grip tightening as the the engine is gunned. The disappearing act is noticed by the occupant of the backseat, though her reaction is lost a little in her general fluster.

     The cab weaves through traffic, showing Darby a completely different side to Muggle London; that of the neon carnival of Picadilly Circus as it goes round at medium to high speed, finally heading off onto the freeway and heading out of London proper. The cab driver seems fine with not starting a conversation; the radio is on, playing a melancholy song about a woman who left her man waiting for her at a lonely roadside tavern.

     Her other hand joins the first on the handle, knuckles going a little white as Darby tries to get used to this inelegant form of Muggle transportation. Just wait until she experiences airport security. It's impossible to fully stamp out her curiosity, even in the midst of all of this, and as such the scenery is all observed if not deeply processed but rather filed away for thinking about later. "Excuse me. Is it much further?" she asks politely after a space of time, grip a little looser although still with both hands on the strap on the door.

     "About another twenty minutes, miss." The cabbie just keeps on driving. "Mebbe thirty - don't you worry, you won't miss your plane. It's all paid for."

     "I ... was only curious," Darby replies a little stiltedly as she tries to settle back in the seat but still can't quite keep from looking like she's got a steel rod in place of a spine. "Thank you," she adds after a moment, polite but dismissive in the absent manner of one used to dealing with servants and the like.

     The taxi does eventually arrive at the airport, pulling up to one of the terminals and politely waiting. "Sent your luggage on ahead, miss?" He doesn't ask as if genuinely interested. He does come around to open the door, though, as if to set Darby's fears more or less at ease. Young women traveling by themselves...

     Darby eyes the airport warily but curiously through the window of the cab, not moving to step out until the door is open for her. "Oh, ah, yes, it's been ... taken care of, thank you," she answers absently as to her luggage. Standing on the curb, she straightens her skirt and blouse and then runs a hand over her hair again, trying to regain some of her dignity. "Good evening," she dismisses the cab driver, already looking around for a man or woman in uniform.

     The cabbie pulls away, and there are plenty of people in uniform; porters, police officers, stewards and stewardesses heading to their flights...
Darby draws in a deep breath, straightening up to the utmost of her height, before she approaches the nearest person in uniform, doing her best to seem as if she knows what she's doing here and isn't completely out of her element. And pretending that all of the urban legends she's heard about Muggles aren't playing through the back of her mind. "Excuse me. Where might I find the main terminal?"

     "Through the glass doors to your right, miss, and follow the blue lines on the floor - they'll lead to the right to the main gates. Mind, you'll need your ticket out and your ID to get past," the man says as he continues past her. "Have a safe flight." How helpful?

     "Er, right. Of course. Thank you," Darby replies, rubbing at her forehead a moment before, with a shake of her head, she moves to follow the directions. Empty handed, of course, but she'll go as far as she can, anyway. There to wait and hope and pray that the young man actually does make good on his end of things.

     Indeed, he's somehow beat Darby to the airport, standing to one side, leaning nonchalantly up against the airport wall. He straightens and moves towards Darby when he sees her, moving up to her and slinging an arm around her shoulders. "Act glad to see me," he murmurs, "if you value either of our lives." More loudly he says, "So about ready for your flight, doll?"

     "What?" Darby replies eloquently, right back to being surprised. She casts a quick look about, side to side, and then forces her lips into something approximating a smile. "What are you talking about?" she asks in a lower voice, through clenched teeth. "Oh, er, yes, of course. Though I don't have my ... ticket?" she replies as naturally as she can manage.

     "Right here," the young man says casually, holding out a paper folder for Darby to take. "Ticket, and you forgot your clutch, baby, when you left this morning." He smirks. "Not that I blame you, after last night." He steers Darby towards a line of people waiting, then pulls her to one side, partially behind some large potted plants. "Wouldn't want you to go without a proper send-off, though." He lifts one of her arms - he's surprisingly strong - to his shoulder, leaning in as if about to kiss her.

     "Stop being a silly git," he murmurs sotto voce. "There are people watching and it needs to look realistic. In the clutch're money and identification papers - for the time being, you're Marianne Casey. Remember it. There's also a card in Italian for you to give to a taxi driver at the airport outside Venice - he'll take you where you need to go."

     Darby takes the ticket as it's offered, looking down at it briefly, then back at him, eyebrows lifting slightly at the mention of last night, though she doesn't comment. She doesn't exactly fight him off as he pulls her behind the plants, though she takes advantage of the shelter to give him a bewildered and almost annoyed look. "I am not trying to be a silly git. But you somehow failed to mention the need for this subterfuge, you realize," she replies in a stage whisper, even as she forces herself back into that fake smiling. "Marianne Casey. Got it. I suppose asking questions right now would just lead to further frustration?"

     "I mentioned it when I realized it," the young man answers lightly, in the same undertone. He relaxes his stance slightly. "And yes, I'm afraid it would. Just take it as read I've got enemies, and I'd rather they not land on you instead of me. I'd rather they not land on me either, mind, but you just go to -" He takes back the folder for a moment, flipping it open. "Gate C-14 and ask anyone if you have trouble finding it. There's a rather nice if quickly done picture ID in the clutch, that and passport - best I could rustle up on such short notice, don't ask what I had to do to get it. Now you'd best be off so you don't miss the plane - try to look as if you're going to miss me dreadfully."

     "Will I ever see you again?" Darby asks, looking down at the folder as he flips it open. "The rest I just ... won't ask. For now, at least. Thank you for your help, in any case." She looks back up, considering his instruction, before she lifts her hand from where it still sits on his shoulder and brushes his cheek almost experimentally. This causes her to blush and she looks almost annoyed at herself for that as she looks back down, reaching to take the folder and clutch.

     "Eh. You might. Might not. Not up to me, is it?" He quirks a faint smile up to one side, then shrugs. "Sorry, lady, but I couldn't tell you; I don't see the future, I don't even control it. All I do is run with the big dogs. You'd better get going, though. You haven't much time." He takes a step back, smirking as he raises his voice. "Ta then, doll. Thanks for a night I won't forget soon."

     "The name's Darby," she replies quietly, shrugging a shoulder. "When it's not Marianne, anyway. I ... rather hope I do see you again. Anyway, good luck with, well, whatever it is you need luck with. And thank you again." As he steps back, she moves out from behind the potted plant, giving him a tight smile, which, in her reluctance to part ways with the first friendly face she's found, probably doesn't do too bad a job in keeping up the act. "Goodbye then. And, ah, you're welcome. Though I do wish you wouldn't advertise it so, dear." She lifts her eyebrows slightly before shrugging and turning slowly away to go in search of her gate.

     "Isn't luck that I need, though I won't say no to that." He maintains the same light tone as before. "I've a thousand names, girl, and it's best you not know any of them. The more you know, the more you could be killed for, and I'm short on friends right now. Good luck." He turns away, waving a bit with a hearty laugh as he begins walking quickly away. He rounds a corner - and appears to be gone.

     Darby pauses to watch him go for a moment, before turning to continue on her guess as to the right way. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire," she murmurs to herself, looking about warily as she tries to figure out the layout of the airport. Once she's fairly certain she knows where her gate is, there's a definite clip to her step to get away from any lurking assassins.

Posted by rowan at June 17, 2005 12:03 PM