Welcome to Gaia! ::

It's kind of them to keep him here. Too kind, really - he can't understand what's driven them to it, especially not as long as they have. Not because he doesn't comprehend the situation, of course. He works, and they in turn put a roof over his head and food on his table. It's hardly glamorous, but it's dry, and warm, even if it is only a room beside a stall in a barn. He likes the horses, and he likes his job. He likes it even more when he remembers standing on the docks at sunrise, shoulder to shoulder with throngs of men, some more like him than others, all waiting to be plucked from the crowd and allowed to work.

Aidan might even dare to admit he was one of their 'favored' men, honest and strong-backed as he is. That is really their only requirement, anyway; he moved their cargo, never pausing nor breathing a word of complaint to anyone, and for it they put coin in his hand at the end of the day. The work was hard, and the pay was meager, but he would have been glad to go on doing it until he'd withered so far they no longer called on him.

And yet here he is, brought by some twist in fate he no better understands than he remembers. He doesn't even realize they keep him here, in the stables because he does enough work for two for half the pay, nor would he venture to guess it. Maybe they keep him for that, too - he's not a curious fellow, and would sooner keep his nose to himself than wonder why it is they can afford themselves (and him) these luxuries. To him, they are only the Ramseys. Or more appropriately, the sir and lady of the house, and whether they are important officials, or possess well-respected wealth, the Ramseys they will stay. He doesn't wonder one way or the other, even as he departs with a pat on Mister Ramsey's favorite stallion's velvet muzzle.

This departure is one of those luxuries; something he never would have known back on the docks, working sunrise til sunset, one day after another. He's just walking for the sake of walking as he sets off down the path to London proper, though one probably couldn't guess it just by looking. He doesn't have the air of one ready for a stroll through town - thanks in no small part to a lack of coat and hat, making obvious his unfashionably long hair and dusty slacks. It doesn't seem to bother him though; he moves with an air of purpose, despite his aimlessness, and doesn't quite look out of place among the more socially conformist crowd.

That's not to say as much for everyone though, and not everyone out has such peaceable intentions as he. Aidan is no stranger to the lower ilk; they're so widely common here, one can easily trip over one if only he's not careful, even in the broad light of day. But he is always careful, and little would surprise him - nothing, perhaps.

Nothing except this, and this he had not been expecting. He turns suddenly, drawing the attention of a near passerby, who fixes him with some measure of puzzled confusion. "What do you want?" he demands from what seems like no one in particular. His voice is young and smooth, with the cold edge of one unused to proper conversation. Silence answers him, but one can spot his violet eyes roving through the gathered crowd, trying to pluck out the source of footfalls echoing behind him.

There was someone following Aidan, besides the boy: two someones, in fact, both in black attire generally work by the lower realms of the middle-class: decent, servicable uniforms that were nevertheless second-rate. One, a larger, heavy-set man, looked quite intimidating but was perhaps the stolid and slow type. The smaller adult looked nervous as a rabbit cornered by a wolf; he was scrawny and thin and completely unathletic, someone who should have been pushing papers as a clerk rather than be part of a police force. His nervous eyes darted to and fro down the street as they walked toward the stableboy, gesturing.

"No need to be alarmed; if you'll just come with us, sir, to get something sorted out down at the constable's office - just a bit of a minor problem, we won't trouble you long - " he wheezed, as the larger man reached out to put a hand on Aidan's shoulder in an attempt to effectively trap him from simply striding off.

The rabbity one stares at him, obviously not really expecting to have this kind of trouble. "Oh -" he fumbles in the recesses of make-believe, which he doesn't look like he had much of to begin with. "Er ... ah ... as I said, the constable believes you can help us with our inquiries ... er ... matter of post - most importance, I mean." He looks rather desperate.

The larger man frowns, brows furrowing together; clearly not amused at Aidan's attempt to ward him off. He grunts at the rabbit one, suspiciously. "Masper told us to - " He lets off with a yelp as the thin man kicks him, inexpertly, in the shin.

Mort, meanwhile, has come up behind the two older gentlemen, quite unnoticed. "'ere, gov, ain't you those posh blocks who works fer Mr. Masper?" His street-cadence is wickedly accurate; put some rags on him and scuff him up a bit more, and he could easily have passed for one of the hundreds of London homeless children.

The thin man swerves around alarmed, nervously looking around for the little street urchin; when he sees the child, his expression melts into relief, but only for a moment. "Mort! Your parents aren't about, are they?" For some reason, this makes him even more nervous than before, and his little rabbity eyes dart back and forth up the street again.

"Why?" The little arrogant thing asks. "And what're you doing with Aidan? He's our stableboy, not yers. Did he murder someone?" The boy brightens up at this thought. Or maybe he was really a pirate in disguise; he looks at Aidan with more curiousity than he's shown the other up until this point.

"Huh, that's just what I would say if'n I was one," the child mutters to Aidan, but it's a cheerful mutter. "Keep 'em guessing, see? You'd make a pretty good pirate, but not much of a murderer," he says, eyeing the stableboy up. "Too tiny," he adds, as if completely unaware of his own, smaller stature. "Don't suppose you got a cutlass anywhere?"

The rabbity man sighed, looking frazzled. "I suppose Mort - er, young Master Ramsey can come, too. We'd hardly let Mr. Ramsey's son come to any harm ... er ... what is your name, boy?"

The boy brightens considerably at that; apparently, he's not allowed to go wherever they may be going often, if at all, and he immediately looks to the older boy for support, cutting in once again on the conversation. "Come on, Aidan, I've never gotten past the second gate before! They tossed me out and sent me home with a very impressive note last time, and Da was quite furious." He gives William a quizzical look, and adds: "But why's Mr. Masper want - "

"So's he can help us with our inquiries," the thickset man rumbles, eyeing up Aidan with another frown. Evidentally, he wasn't the sort to smile often. Not very comforting.

"That's right," squeaks the thin man. "We just want a little bit of help. I'm afraid we had a bit of a problem earlier ... well, it'll all become clear when we get there. You've done nothing wrong, despite what the rather bloodthirsty young master might think." Here, he gives a specific glare to Mort.

William looks relieved, and nods to the larger man, who grunts noncommitally and leads the way, lumbering off in front of them. As if eager to please, now that Aidan's agreed to come, the man takes out a handkerchief and wipes his brow. "I apologize ... er, neither me nor my companion generally do this sort of work, but we're slightly short-staffed at the moment." He seems unnerved by the stableboy's lack of conversation, and appears to be trying to make up for it by talking. "I'm William More, a secretary for my employer, and my silent friend up there is Robert Harrington, a ... er, well, bodygaurd of sorts, I guess you'd say. And you've already met our young master Ramsey, of course."

Mort happily trots along; this excursion was better than he hoped for, clearly, and much better than being stuck in with tutors or even wandering the docks.

The odd little group walks several blocks, toward the center of the city, and to an impressive-looking mansion slightly off to the side. Robert nods to the guards on duty past the first gate, both who give Aidan unfriendly looks, and Mort half-amused, half-exhasperated ones. News like Mort gets around quickly. The boy gives them a winning, sweet smile, and trots off ahead to interogate Robert, with very limited success. He's here because he's invited, for once.

They duck through another set of gates, and another set of guards, these with the more common expression of guards anywhere: By default, their expressions seem to say, you're dead; it's just my patience with you that's holding me back from getting you there. William gives them his nervous, twitchy smile and the group is allowed through. One of the guards breaks off to lead them around the front gardens and to a side-door, while Mort soaks up the area with his eyes, not saying much; potentially remember routes for later entrance. They come into a cool, spacious hall, where Robert allows Mort to go ahead through a door that opens into a gallery (the boy's exclamations of 'Wow!' can be heard every now and again) and William takes the obvious chance when Mort's attention is elsewhere to try to pull Aidan aside, and usher him through another door.

"Just through there," he motions, nervous again, down the hall. "Our, er ... employer will see you in his study."

The study is large, but sparsely furnished: a plain, large mahogany wood desk sits in the center, with chairs both in front of and behind it. There's a huge grandfather clock nearby, which ticks the time away, and a wastepaper basket that seems completely devoid of anything next to the desk.

A man is standing near the window, hands folded in back. He's much older than Aidan: faint whisps of white show through the dark, raven-black hair. The man is thin, but not tall; more middle-height, and definitely somewhat over middle-age. He has bristling, thick eyebrows and a sharp, almost beaked nose that makes him look like a hawk. His clothes, although well-tailored and clearly high-class, are nevertheless practical and also drab, making him almost disappear in the dim-lit room. Instead of the customary black, it's a very nondescript gray.

The man doesn't turn until the boy has entered the room, and even then, he doesn't do so immediately. Only after a good full five minutes - long enough for Aidan to get uncomfortable, if he was the sort to do that - does the man turn, raising a single eyebrow at the boy's appearance.

"Assuming that you have not wandered in here looking for the privy - it's down the hall and to the left, if you are - I believe I am correct in guessing that you are the one Mr. More and Mr. Harrington brought in, Mr. ... ?" He pauses.

The sardonic eyebrow doesn't raise any further, so he can probably assume this is a suitable response. "Mr. ... Aidan, then. I am Lord Thomas Masper." The voice is calm and level, and he takes a seat at the desk, surveying the stableboy over thin, spindly fingers that rest upon the wood.

"Tell me, Mr. Aidan, do you believe in magic?"