Mr. Stevens, as he introduced himself, is the very height of Butler Precision. Respectful. Even-voiced. It was he who met you at the Keep's main entrance, and showed you the way through the ancient halls. These stone walls. You know they hold the stories of ages. You have been in one or two in your day, have you not? "Lord Fraser," comes the smooth ease of Mr. Stevens' anglicized accent, "will attend you in the sitting room..." He moves up the stairs of a turret. "Is there anything I can get for you, father? Tea, perhaps, to thaw the chill..." Pausing upon the second landing, Mr. Stevens turns to you. Even as he opens a large and heavy oaken door. "Please..." Deference to you, not only as guest of the manor but as a Man of God.
     Within, the warmth of a finely appointed sitting room. As big as a hall in most other homes, is it not? Comfort calls. Luxury is the language spoken there. Above, hanging upon one of the walls, is a very large portrait. But there is not, as yet, anyone sitting within. "Lord Fraser will be with you momentarily," Mr. Stevens says, his smooth voice carrying again. Otherwise, he waits upon your leisure. And your answer regarding the tea.

     He was a quiet man, driven up by a hired car. Getting out alone, the priest looked a bit fit, as if he manages a bit of time to keep himself fit. Nothing special. With him came a cloth brown bag with a handle. Following in silence, his hazel-green eyes looked left and right, his light brown hair picked up by the early evening breeze. Someone placed a call to him, and how can he not respond? Scotland's a long way from St. Clement's in the Marais, but this call was not from normal channels.
     "Merci," the priest responds, demure in his voice, as if he could disappear if you were not looking at him. Perhaps in his early thirties, his hand touched the wall as he walked behind Mr. Stevens, a light motion upon the place. Brown pants and shirt mark him as remarkable, right along with his faintly frayed black coat. Brown shoes are sturdy, as he expected such a season as to need them. "Tea would be nice," he murmurs, his English slurred with franosyllables, and he passes Mr. Stevens, a wisp upon the world.
     As he entered the sitting room, his soft bag was shifted to his left hand. Worn in the world, it is, having seen more miles than any bag should. The portrait is examined, he small compared to the canvas and the height where it is placed. There's a nod for the impending arrival of this Lord Fraser, and after a polite smile that seems to border on humility, the man's eyes return to the painting of the Lord of the Manor.

     A nod. Precise. "Of course, father..." Such deference. Mr. Stevens closes the heavy oaken door and returns to the turret. You are alone now. For a time. A few moments. Here... there are secrets between the stones. You know the story beneath the story. You, who have lived lifetimes, understand the necessity of guises. But you also know that names given are seldom true. There is always a layer beneath the layer one hears so readily. The chamber is comfortable. Well appointed. Luxurious. The painting up above... it has the cast of something forever liquid about it. Real, to the point of surreal. As if the horse might at any moment take that pear. As if the warrior may at any moment glance up and notice you...
     There is a noise from within this part of the tower. Coming from the direction of the double doors. Something like footsteps. How well do you hear, priest? You can hear the voice of the Almighty? Can you hear the approaching steps of William Plantagenet? Called Fraser. Pinpricks of electricity. The approach of someone. The air feels it. Do you? One of the double doors opens...
     Through it, comes the very lord. That painting made actual at last. Languid the stride that carries him. The countenance of an angel. The bearing of a king. He is clothed in black leather and in silk. Crimson, that, which picks up the rubies in the cross he wears, visible, where the shirt is parted at the start of his chest. In his hands, a chalice of smoked glass, almost amber. Around a finger, a golden ring. "I hope I have not kept you waiting long, father..." comes the French. Baritone, as languid as his stride. Colored by his native Langue d'Oc.

     The painting takes his attention, not simply the style, but also the man within. The symbols, he is familiar with. Royal. His mind picks through his history books, retrieving a house and a few details. But what can he know, really? The priest smiles for that, then turns about as he hears feet, and even moreso feels someone approaching. But it is strong, whatever it is. Not the simple noticing of a pending arrival, but the feel of someone extending and making himself known. Hand reaches up and brushes his hair from his eyes. Look shocked not, Darius Sauviet. Yet that fails. The man who enters is the spitting image of the antiquated scene now behind him, and Darius is most familiar with Time.
     "Monsieur Fraser," he nods, voice soft and calm, "...non, I've not been so long, oui?" his own tongue more of the Loire sort, clearly much later than your own. Modern French spoken impeccably so. "Merci..." his shoulders half-twist to where Stevens was, "...your man was kind to see to me." Credit and gratitude where it is due.

     Not so tall as you, he is perhaps more the height of your absent lover, but not so well defined. Mortal in all ways, a priest of the Jesuit mindset, said to be of the most devout and discreet habit. But your associate...they assured you that their associate's associate's associate was firm in their suggestion, and that Father Sauviet would be able to handle any...situations. Such is the benefit of your connections. Any more about the man was not said, save a general discussion of his education and service to the Archdioceses of Paris and Lyon, and the Vatican itself, despite his tender age. A bit of a recluse, he serves in a harsh part of the Marais in Paris, in St. Clement's church -- poor, but with a lovely building from the 15th century. With a Ph.D. in Theology from the Sorbonne, no less. He has seen his time in the church ranks from the tender age of six.
     "You have a lovely home," Darius smiles and says with clear interest and respect. He has not spent much time in the Anglicized world. "Thank you for...the invitation, Sir."

     The French from his mouth is modern -- of course -- and of Loire, his own region. With the way he speaks and the natural inflection, his place of birth cannot be mistook. Not by one with a versed ear. But there is something of the Langue d'Oc -- his true native tongue -- which colors the French he speaks. Oddly hanging vowels. As if stuck, by habit, before one of the 'shifts'. William smiles easily, and there is almost an incandescence about him as he does so. Not so much that a sudden halo appeared above his head, but there is an easy warmth about those features. "Merci," William murmurs. "And Mr. Stevens... they will appoint you with warm tea? Winter has landed hard here..." There is a grin for that and then his hand gestures for you to take a seat. "Please...I trust your journey was a pleasant one? I have not been to Paris in a while... " William pauses just as...

     Steps sound from the tower stairway. The arrival of the tea? The oaken door is opened, and past it a young serving woman, smartly dressed, and the self-same Mr. Stevens. A word or two of Gaelic passes between the servants and the young woman enters as Mr. Stevens holds the heavy door for her. "Sir, do you care for anything from the kitchens?" That said in Lord Fraser's direction. The young woman almost curtsies to the Lord and his priestly guest. The serving is exquisite. Old World, this. And there are freshly made Scottish shortbread teacakes. "And you, father?" Mr. Stevens seconds. This as the young girl moves to leave. Tea and cakes left behind on one of the tables near to where you and the Lord shall soon sit, yes?

     "Oh," Darius smiles, taking the changes to fish an envelope from his pocket, "...the tea is fine," he nods, dusting off and pulling out his English again. "T..thank you." -nk is a hard thing to say. A bob of his head and he moves to one of the seat, setting his suitcase down beside him. He does slip into the seat, setting the packet across his lap as he looks at the tea and the shortbread.

     There is a shake of his head -- that is all the reply that Mr. Stevens has from Lord Fraser. And the butler and the maid take their leave. So, too, does all use of English. French falls from his lips so naturally. With a southern cadence that carries in it the sun of the Loire. The indigo eyes are brilliant. From them, blue-violet resplendent. And a warmth. Congenial. Polite. And, you may notice, deferent. William settles in the chair across from you. Though his frame is large -- so it should be for a knight of his era, non? -- he seems to find comfort immediately. Sitting forward, he pours a cup full of the tea for you. There is sugar and fresh cream at your disposal. But he does not pour a cup for himself. Not yet.
     "It is not often I have a chance to speak to someone from Home," comes the languid baritone of William's voice. Meaning France of course. Indigo flickers as his gaze moves to the envelope you hold. The packet. William settles back. Elbows resting upon the arms of the chair, his fingers steepling in between. "I am certain you have been briefed as to my request... or..." He pauses, smiling. Sensuality and congeniality combined. The sensuality is, however, natural. Not put upon for some benefit of yours. Or as some odd flirtation with a man of the cloth. It is... because He is. "Have you not?"

     "Oui, a little," Darius says honestly, not quite sure in full. "Ah, for you, Lord Fraser," he suddenly remembers, sitting at the edge of the seat to hand you the packet. His French comes from him like falling lace. He is a young man of your native land. The language pours from him like sweet wine...he could bespeak anything and it will sound beautiful and make him more handsome in the same moment. The tongue always does that.
     Wrapped in a blue ribbon, the packet contains several envelopes. "You will see a letter from Monsignor Alermante of St. Clement," he nods, "...he leads us at our church. I think there is a letter from Bishop Montremayor of Notre Dame and the archbishop's chantry." A swallow, a bit of nerves to show that he is who he says he is. "There are letters from the Regnant of St. Isidore...where I was ordained by the Brothers."

     The way you speak. This was noticed. With a slight smile, the incline of his head. But not in some flirtation. You are a man of God, and he is not so much a sinner as to flirt with a spokesman of the Almighty. His future spokesman at that. His demeanor is casually regal.. but regal nonetheless. Perhaps it is the beard that makes it so. Ah, not just this. It is in everything. Every slight motion. An intensity. He speaks with his speaks with his hands. His eyes. Passionate. Expressive. Even with his future priest. He leans in and takes the packet as you hold it forth. "Merci..." And he listens to your spoken references with upraised brows. And dark eyes that hold much interest. "I own the property of Chinon," William murmurs, continuing even as he unties the packet. "It has a private chapel, Chapel du St. Michel...but it has no attending priest." He pauses, indigo eyes lifting and settling on you. "I have no attending priest." There follows a slight smile. "Your references are impressive..." he softly speaks.
     "You may be wondering what sort of ....modern man wishes to have his...own priest..." A raven brow lifts. He wonders. Do you wonder? "Are his sins that dear, or is he that vain..." The grin is quiet, but it is there. "It is not a matter of vanity... but in my ...position... there is no ... more certain way that I keep an open dialogue with God..." He waits for you to speak, his eyes moving back to the envelopes. The first one he opens: Notre Dame. He cannot resist it.

     There comes a smile, but it is recognition of your humor. Darius shakes his head negatively, "I didn't know about Chinon...it is beautiful. My family...was from near Chinon. Argentuil-vien-Narveroux?" Perhaps you know of the small village. He smiles to think of the valley and this that you have in common. "Nor did I know that Chinon had a Lord...to need a priest for her walls. Does not Father Leroux of St. Avigny see to the town of Chinon? St. Avigny..." he tries to think of the other churches in Chinon, the town, "...St. Euride..."

     The letter from Notre Dame is simple, as follows...
     January 21.
     To whom it is required,
     Please accept Father Sauviet into your reception. Of Our Knowledge, he is a fine servant of God, in the tradition of St. Ignatius himself. Father Sauviet has served the ministry at Notre Dame with faithful diligence, a prime example of the Brotherhood and the priesthood at large. Along with liturgical services, Father Sauviet was placed into Sacristy service, tending to the communion of some of our infirm, who could not leave their homes. We were saddened that he was redeployed to St. Clement's in the Marais, but we were glad for his time, his gift to the Cathedral and her congregation, his learning, and his devotion to the Mother and his vows.
     In God's Love,
     Gregory Monsignor Alermante
     Staff Rector
     Cathedrale de Notre Dame du Reims
     Ille du Cite, Paris, France
     Stamped with Imprimitur.

     "Merci," Darius suddenly says in the silence as you read, "...about...my references." A smile and as he waits, Darius looks over to retrieve the cup of tea, finally.

     His voice comes slowly as he reads. His eyes flickering in their constant motion. They are rich in tone. "Ah...oui... Argentuil-vien-Narveroux... exceptional grapes..." A smile pulls more at one corner than the other. A slim but warm smile. "A lovely village... I have been there. It is amazing the small treasures that the Loire holds in its grasp..." William lifts his gaze from the letter and considers you for a moment. Even as his hands fold the first letter in the packet. It is set beside him in the chair -- held between the fabric of the chair and his leather. "Chinon has not had a lord for very long..." he says with a smile. "Not living constantly in it. It has needed much work..." And when he means long, he means the last century or so. "I have been able to stay in parts of it while other parts were being restored. It is very lovely. The village too..."
     There is a pause upon Father Leroux. "Oui," so begins the next fluent roll of French from him as he opens the next letter. "Father Leroux does good work for Chinon. But I require a certain..." How to say this? "...flexibility?" he tries. William lifts one raven brow, his beautiful countenance open in expression. He inclines his head slightly. "...than a priest tied to a parish. There are times, I will need to ... speak to God... and will not be in the Loire..." A small grin. "Such as now..."
     Indigo eyes tend down to the paper now in his hands. "It is an old world matter, for a lord to ...require the services of a ...private councilor. A ...Confessioner. Though all may be equal in the eyes of the Lord, on earth... there are some for whom the details of their lives ...their sins... real or imagined... require... special care." Dark eyes turn to you. "You seem to be... uniquely prepared for such a challenge..." You studied the painting of the knight. A crusader. You see the man's face living here before you. Nothing of the Truth is said. Certainly... a Jesuit of merit can read between the lines...

     There comes a solemn nod as traces of the past are brought to his mind again. Yes, that is how it was. He, too, recalls, but that is kept to himself. "I understand," the young man offers politely, hazel-green eyes focusing your direction. Something about you...it brushes at the nape of his shorn neck. It draws his eyes back to you, despite his attempts to focus on his Duty and Vows. "I...will say, Lord Fraser, that I am not sure of all the duties, you need. Here, I think of the more mundane ones. You wish travel...do you mind, Sir, if I return occasionally to France to see about those there that I have ministered?" He would hate to leave them. "They are...very dear to me...and they need someone to see to them."

     The second letter, much less formal than Montremayor's from Notre Dame, reads...
     January 29th. Marian Year.
     From Bishop Montremayor, Notre Dame:
     I am both ached and pleased to present to you Brother Darius Sauviet, OSJ, Ph.D. A long standing part of the St. Clement's parish, Father Sauviet has tended our worshippers with the care that the Risen Christ has taught us. We have been blessed to have Father Sauviet with us for the last four years in official capacity, although while at his early duties at the Cathedral, he found time for St. Clement's as his home. We needed him...we are especially short-staffed in the 17th Arondissment, and his devotion beyond what was needed at Notre Dame was directed to our starved parish. When finished in the City, he came to us officially, and has served Christ with merit. In addition to liturgical services, Darius -- I call him so as he is indeed, our friend -- saw especially to the poor and those who needed a special hand when there was none. He found time to work as our second in catechism to the children of the Marais as well. When we have had our most difficult time, Darius has never failed in his love for others, and allowing his love for the Mother and her Son direct outwards to those who ache for God's rejuvenation.
     I am happy to recommend to the highest order Brother Darius...and know that we are lucky that he is among us.
     Yours in Christ,
     Bishop Montremayor, Rector, Notre Dame, Paris
     Stamped with imprimitur.

     More tea is drunk as he watches you read. Darius' eyes waver and he tries to stave it off with a glance to the fireplace in the sitting room, giving you silence as he waits for final acceptances.

     "Oh, of course, Father..." His voice is a smooth hush. Baritone. A warmth filling it. "I will not need you to be in my constant company. Certainly, when I am in Chinon you are welcome to stay. Chapel du St. Radegonde is at your disposal, as the private residences of the former chaplain..." His smiles is broader, warmer when he looks to you again. "As to the duties... I more need a ... trusted Man of God to hear Confessions, serve as counselor when counsel is requested. To dish out penance..." The look is both contrite and somewhat humorous, "...when it is needed." His regard becomes serious again. "It is difficult in this day and age to find a ... confidante... for information... This is of a more personal nature, this request."
     William settles back again, and he sets the other letter aside. The others, however, are not opened. "I see no reason that you cannot remain in France much if not most of the year. I will be here... at least half the year, and Chinon for the other half of the year. I am thinking I would be able to send you a notification..." A small smile. "For when you may be needed...outside of France."
     His hands spread. "I like what I hear and what I have read. I feel you would... suit me well. It seems I could not find a better voice to carry my words to God than you. But, have you any questions ... are there more details you wish?" William grins and gestures to your cup. "More tea?" He does study you. But it is not so heavy-handed. It is subtle but it is constant. There is warmth. He seems genuinely pleased with what he sees in you. "I do understand your... love of our shared home. It has been... many years since I have lived in France regularly...."

     "I miss France when I am away," Darius confides, smiling as he nods for more tea. "Merci," he says softly. Then, "I believe I understand what you ask, Lord Fraser," the title slipping easily from him, "...and," he shakes his head, "...you are very generous...concerning Chinon. But, when I am fortunate enough to be there, I like to stay in the church," he murmurs, "...it is...what I am used to, if that is well with you. And thank you...for accepting my letters."
     He exhales, brows arching, "I have few questions now, but I am certain that when I am in quiet again, I will come upon them," he smiles sheepishly, biting his bottom lip as he nods. "Honestly, though, Lord Fraser, I..." he looks serious now as topic turns to his relationship with God, "I am...only a priest," if you were expecting so much more. "I am..no different than my brethren. I have no..." his brow furrows, "...special time with the Father or his forgiving Son. I know, like you, that my prayers are heard by God, and he chooses how he wishes to affect me, my heart, my life. Know," he smiles, "...that if you speak too, he still listens."
     The Modern Church. Darius does not disdain your needs, but expresses simply the present doctrine as well. "Maybe together, he will listen better to us both, hmm? It will be...a dialogue...between the Three of us." Savior included.

     That brings a smile. And for a flickering moment, dark eyes lift to the painting. To the crusader there. To the Son of Henry there. But it was only a glance. His gaze resettles on you, his fingers interlacing. God listen to a Plantagenet? "You may only be a priest, Father Sauviet," how your name sounds from his lips. "... but it is closer to God than I. Lord ... or no." He chuckles. "Ah...maybe especially for this reason, oui?" His eyes erupt with color when he smiles and when he laughs. Beauty that redoubles. "While my prayers may be heard by God..." and he doesn't count that as a certainty -- only as a hope. "...I cannot confess... to anyone else. I... want someone to answer to..." A pause, and he becomes serious again. "To speak to... about those matters closeted in the soul from all others. Even those... most loved..."
     William leans in, and he takes your cup, filling it with tea again. Steam rises, the scent of tea with it. There is also, if you notice, something of cinnamon lingering around him. "While you may not be anymore raised in God's estimation from your brethren, you are devoted in ways... this sinner," meaning himself, "is not. The priest as mediator..." He grins again. "Or diplomat."
     Your cup is full again, and William resettles. His arms draped against the arms of the chair. "Trust me... I shall speak. And I shall answer whatever other questions you may have... after retreat or no."
     William smiles warmly. He is quiet for a few more moments, and his expression turns serious again. "I know you are a man... for whom duty is paramount... your duty to your calling, your faith. From all I have heard from references, and seen evidenced here. I have faith in you, Father Sauviet," comes the languid murmur, French slow from his mouth but warm. "And in the confidence with which you shall handle this task." A pause. "It is... confidence... the ability to keep it. The ability to treasure what discourse with the Trinity we shall have... that is paramount to me. I... look forward to our dialogues..." William looks to you, inclining his head. "Father Sauviet... you are welcome to stay here in Strathfayr... and we should arrange how best to reach you in the future...yes? When I have need..."

     He nods dutifully, smiling at the returned cup. "Merci," to everything, he offers softly. "Well, shall we think of it, Lord Fraser, that we shall walk this part of the Walk together? God," he acknowledges, "...has given me the sacrament of penance, a grace to bestow, and in God's Love, it is always ready to be given to any who ask." He grins, "I do not know much of myself as diplomat or mediator," humility there, "...but I am always ready to speak with the Savior with those who wish Him," smile turning somber. "I hope we learn much together..."

     There is an intake of breath, and the smile is tempered by the seriousness of this. "Oui... we shall walk this together..." comes the languid murmur. "It is my desire... to move forward in this life and not merely to tread upon... well-worn paths..." William smiles then and with the following exhale, business is concluded. "I am ... honored to be able to walk the road with one... so well-regarded." He packs the letters. "And so, let us turn to more pleasant discourse. I have not been to France all year... how is she?"

     He grins. "Such a question, as if I am one to answer," Darius murmurs before sipping his tea. "I guess," his French blithely dances along, "...she is fine. Beautiful," he smiles, knowing you understand that. "They are saying it will be a vintage year in Epernay..." champagne district.

     William settles back with a bit of a sigh. There is longing there, to be sure. But he shall be there soon enough. Soon enough. "I am anxious to tend my own vineyards more closely. There is nothing quite like being able to walk outside one's home," he calls a castle so large as Chinon 'home'? "... pick plums off the tree, grapes off the vine and be surrounded by such. I am looking forward to the spring..." Lips curl in a grin. "Not merely because it is...as it is in the Highlands this time of year." William chuckles and laughter dances likewise in his eyes, in the star-filled brightness of them.
     "I shall have to inquire of Epernay...a vintage year in champagne should not go by without my notice of it." William interlaces his hands against his silk-covered stomach. "Ah, where are my manners... have you had dinner, Father Sauviet?"

     "I...ah..." he smiles with a tilt of his head, "...have not, Lord Fraser, but I am fine for now," Darius lifts his cup in acknowledgment. "Thank you, however." Eyes slip to the man upon the wall again. He is not so disingenuine as to not mention the similarities, but also, privacy is something very close to God. "A very remarkable likeness," he motions at the painting. There's a pause, then, "The treatment is quite...you..." he murmurs softly. "Appropriate, it seems, to put you...in such dress for the portrait. The painter should be commended upon your features...very lifelike."

     A grin is held in the gaze, but lives more subtle upon his lips. Amazing likeness indeed. You shall soon know why. "Merci," he murmurs. "And the painter thanks you likewise..." A pause. "It seemed... fitting at the time..." A month ago. A lifetime ago. William lifts his dark gaze to the painting. Dark hair moves away from his eyes. He gives it a lingering consideration. "It is me..." he finishes in a murmur. And then he returns his attention to you. "You have an interest in art, Father Sauviet.... having spent much time in Paris, I could not imagine you would not..."

     "How can I not?" Darius smiles, returning to you. "But, I have...never moved in any art circles," he grins, "...religious art...and walking through the Louvre...it is all I know."

     "Religious art... enamels... the art of the Renaissance...these are my favorites. You will visit Chinon... and you will see other works of such themes. It will be my pleasure to open the galleries for you..." William leans in and finally pours himself a cup of tea. Cream added. And then... much sugar. Seven spoonfuls. A holy number. "But with Louvre at your beck-and-call... you do not want for masterpieces, hmm?" William sits back, taking his tea with him.

     Another blushing smile, Darius shaking his head, "No matter the Louvre, I will be happy to see the works you describe. I believe God rests in art," he grins, looking into his own cup. Less sugar for him. At least you're healthy for sweets. "So, if you allow me to see your home and the works inside, I would be most grateful. It is like seeing more of the Father's creations and gifts," he finishes, taking another sip of his cup. He blinks slowly, licking his lip before taking a follow-up taste.

     "Ah... there is reverence in it. Oui. I believe it is a... way of communicating with that creative power. Is it not true that God Himself is an artist... how could art not contain divinity in every brushstroke. No matter the representation created..." he adds. William smiles warmly, "You are welcome to see my home, of course... Chinon now has a tower... devoted to galleries. Even as it has a tower devoted to prayer and confessions..." He grins at that. And he takes a sip of the tea. Perfection. Well. Earthly perfection. Another sip is taken. "I have had the chapel restored... the confessionals are ready..." The smile becomes a grin. "It needs only someone to guide it in its usage..." He lifts his cup to you.

     "Well," Darius says graciously, looking a little droopy after travel, "...the wonderful thing about confession, is that it can happen anywhere. So can absolution. But, if you wish a booth, that is also fine, too, Lord Fraser. Though," he swallows a bit of tea, "...I thought you wished a personal priest, not so much one for the castle?" just to clarify.

     William chuckles quietly. "You are not mistaken, Father Sauviet... that is ...what I wish." He inclines his head, studying you. "You have had a long day, a longer night. We should speak tomorrow... on absolution..." He is serious upon the utterance of that last word. And he rises. "For now, let me show you to your chamber... I shall have Mr. Stevens make certain all is prepared..."

     There's a nod. Darius will not object. "Merci again, Lord Fraser," he nods, setting his tea down upon the tray again. "It has been a long day." He smiles and places hands upon his knees. "I hope...it is alright if I look around before matins? Unless you wish to join me at matins or before?"

     Matins. He makes the mental remembrance and calculation and then smiles. "The morning shall be your own. I shall have Mr. Stevens show you the grounds when you are ready. I shall join you... before vespers... " Before the early evening mass. "That will allow you to settle... rest from the journey... get acclimated to winter proper. If you have any need at all, Mr. Stevens shall be happy to tend to, or have one of the house tend to you..." William sets the cup aside and looks to you. "Oui?" To make certain all is agreeable. Not as though he needs to ask for permission. But it seems polite to ask.

     Darius nods, a bit confused but speaking it not. As you wish. "Thank you again, Lord Fraser," he smiles, "...you are very generous." With the he rises, "I will look to seeing you at vespers, then. I am looking forward to seeing more of this place and your kind staff." Standing, Darius bends to pick up his cloth suitcase, a throwback to earlier last century. "Until then, Lord Fraser, good evening to you. God Bless."

     "And you." That is the echo in mass, is it not. May the Lord bless you and keep you. And you. William smiles and moves to the door with you. He opens the door for you and soon after... Mr. Stevens can be seen from below...coming up the staircase. "Ah... Mr. Stevens.." William says suddenly in English, heavily commanded by his Aquitaine accent, "...just the man I wanted to see. Could you please take our guest to his chambers and see to it that he has whatever he may need on the morrow..." He looks to Father Sauviet. "Bon soir..."

     "Bon soir, Lord Fraser." Darius grins and nods, the smile perched upon his lips expectant. This will be a grand new assignment. After his valediction, Darius steps out into the corridor and follows Stevens dutifully to his new chambers, eyes lifting and looking at all he passes.

Posted by rowan at January 23, 2000 09:56 PM