Legerdemain Chapter 9
Feb. 6th, 2011 12:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
foolish_m0rtalGenre: Fantasy, Steampunk, Alternate History
Rating: PG- some swears. Ladies cover your sensitive ears.
Summary: In 1800s London-Aldwych, stage magic always comes second to the scientific and engineering advancements that are quickly becoming the new marvel of the age. But Charles East (The Enchanting East, Monday-Saturday at 1:30PM, half-price on Sundays at 4PM) stumbles upon other magic that is practiced by an altogether other sort of Londonite. And sometimes when you pull a rabbit out of a hat, there is no place to put him back.
Notes: Wahaha, I LIVE. Extra long chapter to keep you till next time. I'm really excited I'm finally getting to the good chapters. I feel like this chapter was more dialogue-heavy, so I feel like I'm cheating all of you quantity-wise. :( Sorry.
I've been hopelessly distracted by other stories I'm writing in this universe, mainly Notes of an Antiquary and Castling, my first one-shot foray into airship fiction. Exciting and scary! It's In Progress right now. *excited wiggle* See Gunpowder Plots about Charles's background at Titus Salt if you're interested. You get to see Charles from another POV, which was neat for me.
Finally, AWESOME LINKS ARE AWESOME: Awesome steampunk superheroes are awesome. Awesome article about Victorian stage magic is awesome. Awesome Victorian mystery video game I have not actually played is awesome. (Okay, that last one's just there for wtfs)
Look up, look back down. Awesome new escape artist Legerdemain icon is awesome.
“That’s it, we’re done for tonight, boys.”
There was scattered clapping and some tired cheers among the mech-techs, and Charles just stood with his hands on his knees, panting for breath. Something like the child of the Great Smog had hit London-Aldwych at the beginning of the week, and though it hadn’t been nearly as deadly or prolonged, many of the regular mech-techs on the crew that lived close to the factories were still away recovering.
Charles’s show had of course been right in the middle of the uproar so it had been cancelled, and he had volunteered for the wrap-up crew since he needed the money and didn’t have much else to do without a show anyway. Reed the floor manager had been overjoyed and pressed him into something Charles would not have objected to calling indentured labour. Henry had abandoned him to go up to Manchester and spend time with his mother’s family. Margaret had stolen Henry’s teapot and disappeared for the week because many of the girls on her night shift were too sick to work, and she would have to work late every day till they recovered. Charles did not envy her.
The wrap-up crew was currently dismantling everything that had been set up for the week and putting up whatever they would need for the shows next week. They certainly wouldn’t draw in much of a crowd now, especially not the upper-class, who usually rented the balconies and posh pricey seats. In the time of the Great Smog, people who could afford it had left London-Aldwych for the country when the smog started causing deaths and illness, which was perhaps why Charles and his family had moved up to their summer home in Derbyshire when he was young.
Of course they were just experiencing a small smog now, but people had withdrawn all the same, and the shows for the week had been cancelled because there was still an old silly superstition that the worst of the smog accumulated in large closed areas like theatres and arenas. Even Lillie Bridge had shut down all its upcoming events until further notice.
Charles could feel the sweat trickling down his back, so he unbuttoned the coverall halfway, shrugged out of the top portion, and used the sleeves to tie it to his waist. His shirt inside was soaked with sweat so he rolled up the sleeves and unbuttoned the collar. He felt indecent for a moment, but mech-techs had a reputation for indecency, and he had to admit he was a great deal more comfortable like this.
“Not bad, East,” Reed said, thumping him on the back and getting grease all over it. “You could do alright coming over to our side.”
Charles managed a laugh. “Come off it, Reed. You’re just saying that because no one wants to come in and run the shows next week.”
Reed grinned back. “Of course. But you could still do alright-”
There was a loud crash in the wings and then a strange clicking sound like a hundred crabs waving their claws. They both turned to find some kind of machine with far too many legs fighting with three mech-techs, who were attempting to subdue it.
“Oy!” one of them shouted. “Help me with this buggy machine over here!”
“You see?”Reed asked beatifically, and Charles spared him a glare before grabbing his toolbox and running to the wings. “What is this supposed to be?” he shouted, ducking under a wildly flailing leg to get at the control panel.
“Don’t know,” the mech-tech shouted back. “Something they stowed away for the Puccini opera next week.”
“Madam Butterfly, I think,” the other mech-tech said, giving the machine a mighty shove. He hissed and surreptitiously rubbed his shoulder when it barely yielded.
“Ooh, very nice,” the third mech-tech added as he fought with a leg. “It would do very well in the love duet at the end of act one-”
“-Not helpful,” the other two mech-techs snapped back, and Charles hid a smile as he wrenched open the control panel and manually shut off the engine. The machine stopped and suddenly sagged. The three mech-techs scrambled to support it and then gently eased it to the floor. The third mech-tech kicked it for good measure.
“How did you get the control panel open so fast, new man?” one of them panted, rubbing at a shallow cut on his face. “Is that tool even legal?”
“Er…” Charles shoved it back into his toolbox. “Yes. As far as you know.”
The mech-tech grinned at him. “Corky.”
Charles wasn’t used to being paid at the end of every job. The money from his stage shows was usually processed all together, and Eichmann took his own cut before distributing whatever was left to Henry, who managed it after that. It was almost more rewarding to be a mech-tech and feel the comfortable weight of money in his pocket at the end of the day, reminding him what he’d done and for how long. It could have been dreadfully easy, Charles thought, to measure his workday with the weight of his pockets.
One of the mech-techs put an arm around his shoulders and dragged him over as they all trooped out of the side entrance. “Where are you going, new man?”
“Home,” Charles replied, mystified.
“Hah,” the mech-tech said and turned to spit on the side of the street. “Home, he says. Come on, we just got paid- we’re going out to the pub.”
“Er,” said Charles, who was still hoarding all the money he could after buying the Sterling engine off Finley and realised there were disadvantages to being paid flat out.
“Oh, come on,” another wheedled. “We always go over to the Reverie where Briggs’s mech-techs drink so we can start a proper fight in the evening after everyone’s drunk far too much.”
And Charles burst out laughing, because he was suddenly reminded of the time Hall had started a fight in the pub with the president of a rival Mechanics Club and had got all of them thrown out. The thought made him feel reckless. “Do you? Well then, why not?”
It was a mistake. They were heading down the street past Briggs’s theatre when a young well-to-do woman came out of one of the shops, and all the mech-techs turned around to whistle at her. The woman gave them a long-suffering look, and Charles tried to smile back at her innocently. She lifted her eyebrows at him reproachfully and then turned to walk up the steps to the theatre.
“Aunt Georgiana,” she called out in complaint. Charles followed her gaze up the steps and froze, because Fletcher was coming out of the theatre with a middle-aged woman with a great quantity of dark hair that had been pulled back into a sleek bun. And Charles should have guessed Briggs was closing early just like Eichmann.
“Whoring Ruthie,” Charles swore and tried to turn away, but it was too late and Fletcher had spotted him.
“East,” Fletcher said smiling, and waved him over. Charles pretended not to hear.
“Oy, isn’t that Briggs’s magician?” one of the mech-techs said. “We could rough him up a bit.”
Charles snorted. “No no, that’s alright.”
“East!” Fletcher said again, and now the other two women were looking at him too.
“Go on, we’ll wait for you at the Reverie,” Reed said and started off before Charles could say another word. So he had no choice but to go reluctantly up the steps, suddenly aware of his sweaty hair and grease-stained coveralls.
“Working?” Fletcher asked as he came closer.
Charles discreetly wiped the back of his neck with the collar of his coverall. “Yes. Some of the mech-techs are ill, so I volunteered to be on wrap-up crew.”
“That’s good of you.”
Charles grinned. “I need the money- I’m no saint.”
Fletcher grinned back for half a second before reigning it in and looking sober. “Ah, I’m being rude.” He turned and gestured politely. “This is Cora Edwards and her…ah-”
Chaperone, Charles supplied dourly.
“-aunt, Georgina Edwards. They’re here to see London-Aldwych. This is a friend of mine, Charles East.”
Charles ducked his head, and the two women returned the gesture imperiously. He could feel their critical eyes prickling into his forehead. “I’ve er…” he jerked his head, his hands in his pockets. “I’ve got to meet the mech-techs at the Reverie.”
“Ah,” Georgiana remarked disapprovingly. “The pub.”
Charles opened his mouth and then shut it, feeling his shoulders hunching instinctively and his ears turning red. His right ear hummed with phantom pain, and he remembered once when he was eight and his mother had twisted it and marched him to his room because she had caught him scuffling with some of his older cousins.
“But Mother, they started it!” he’d cried.
“It doesn’t matter who started,” she had said frostily. “Straighten your back, chin up. It never matters who starts it- just that you win.”
Charles felt his back snap straight automatically just from remembering her voice. “Before I forget,” he said angrily. “Fletcher, I have some ideas for the engine once we’re finished repairing it.”
“Oh good,” Fletcher said absently, perhaps not understanding how Georgiana sounded to Charles. “Come back in the evening. I should be in the workshop- just ask for me at the delivery entrance. I think I’ve found something we can use.” He turned to smile at the two women. “East was at Titus Salt Academical after they shut down Keating- er, mechanical engineer, were you?”
“Yes,” Charles said and could have kissed Fletcher then because Georgiana and her niece had the most wonderful shocked expressions on their faces. “I knew a few of Fletcher’s old classmates.”
“Christopher Young- do you know him?” Cora asked suddenly.
“Young,” Charles repeated. “Oh, I remember him from the Maudslay Mechanics Club. Decent fellow, Young.”
“He’s, ah…he’s a mutual acquaintance,” Fletcher said, and Cora smiled at him.
Charles did his best not to look at both of them. “Right, so I’ll see you then, shall I?” he said hurriedly.
He snapped forward involuntarily into the bow his mother had made him learn to greet the German technological minister, who had been invited to Mondales for a reception celebrating Charles’s graduation from Titus Salt. He had been quite an interesting old man, and Charles had spent the better part of the evening talking with him.
Fletcher was staring at him too when he straightened up, but Charles couldn’t stop now. “Mrs. Edwards, Miss Edwards,” he said. “I hope you enjoy London-Aldwych.”
And then he was shooting down the street cursing himself for rising so easily to Georgiania’s taunts. And Fletcher would ask, of course Fletcher would ask because no one who lived on this side of the city had such pretty manners, and Charles was sure his accent had slipped for just a moment. But his mother would have approved, by Ruthie she would have laughed and said ‘well done, Charlie.’
She hadn’t approved of many things; he had disappointed her so much in so many ways. She had expected him to apply to Pevensey University to Maudslay and had been appalled when he’d shown her his acceptance to Titus Salt with all the ‘rabble,’ as she had put it. But he didn’t want to go to Maudslay- engineering was a gentleman’s degree there, a fine amusing hobby for any genteel educated man certainly, but with none of the practicality of Salt. The Maudslay Mechanics Club was the closest any of those students got to laboratory work, to building things with their hands and feeling them thrum like a living creature. God, Charles loved that.
His shoulders hunched slightly again, and he forced them down. His mother had always told him he skulked too much like a little shadow.
“You blend in too much,” she had criticised him once after a party for his birthday. “Don’t slouch like that, Charlie. I know Minister Broad’s daughter snubbed you when you asked her to dance- and what exactly did you do about that?”
“Nothing,” Charles had mumbled, because he hadn’t really cared.
“Nothing!” his mother had hissed. “And what did nothing get you, hm? The next time someone talks to you like that, you ask her. You ask if she knows who you are.”
“Do you know who I used to be, Mrs. Edwards,” Charles muttered and threw open the doors of the Reverie.
“Making a dramatic entrance, East?” Reed asked, and suddenly Charles was shrinking back to his own height.
“Er,” Charles said and hesitated. Maybe he should have just gone home and then waited for Fletcher to finish- and suddenly he was angry. He knew he didn’t know Fletcher well enough to merit getting angry over his putative romance with Cora Edwards, but it wasn’t fair that women could meet him whenever they wished while Charles had to skulk around in bookshops waiting to run into him.
He emptied the contents of his pockets and slammed it onto the table. “Next round is on me.”
“Good man!” the mech-tech beside him said and punched his shoulder.
“Evening,” Charles managed and slumped against the dirty workshop table. He put his head down and didn’t care about the sawdust that would find its way into his hair. Briggs’s workshops were very similar to Eichmann’s – the same ubiquitous sawdust, the same scrap mechanical parts crammed into any free corner. Eichmann had more space, but Briggs’s rooms were much brighter. Charles wondered how Briggs paid for all of it.
“East?” Fletcher asked and turned towards him. Charles hmmed and shook his head like a dog flopping water out of its ears. It cleared his head – Ruthie, he didn’t want to look like this in front of Fletcher. “East, are you alright?”
“Might have had a bit…too much t’drink, sorry.” Charles admitted and rubbed at his face. Reed had been impressed with him, but Charles was regretting it already. “I’ll…I’ll be alright. You said you had something we could use for the project.”
“Hmm? Ah, yes.” Fletcher went to the pile of scrap parts at the end of his workbench. His workbench was far too clean for someone who regularly made disappearing doors and kettle-boiling top hats for his shows. “I thought- forgive me, the engine is a very fine piece of machinery, but I was thinking we could use it in some grander scheme.”
“I’ve been thinking about that as well,” Charles admitted. “I just haven’t been able to find anything useful for it, so…so it seems pointless working on the engine for nothing.” He smirked, and it felt too wide on his face. “And if I wanted pointless projects with no appl’cations whatsoever, I would have become a math- a math’matician.”
Fletcher’s mouth turned down in silent amusement. “I would hit you if I didn’t think you would fall over.”
“How very kind,” Charles muttered. He reached over and tapped the pile of scrap material unsteadily. “What is this s’pposed t’be?”
“It’s a framework,” Fletcher said slowly, staring at him meaningfully. “I thought…the engine would fit nicely in the middle.”
“Oh.” Charles blinked and looked at the pile again. “Oh, a heat source framework. Oh, that’s brilliant- wher’did you find this? And this…this is where the engine would sit, I see. Oh, Ruthie, a Notti’gham fuel tank, oh.” He ran his hands over it. “We’ll have to clea- clean out all the residue of course- why is it so large? It’s meant for a motor car.” He turned to Fletcher. “It’s meant for a motor car, isn’t it?”
Fletcher looked mildly embarrassed. “If…If you’d like, I think it would be interesting work.”
“Yes!” Charles burst out. “Yes, of course. A motor car! It’s very…” He struggled for a moment. “It’s very…er, yes. A motor car.”
Fletcher stared at him and then burst out laughing. It sounded nice. “How much did you drink exactly?”
“I’m sure you don’t want to know,” Charles said firmly. “And…I can’t remember.” He rubbed his eyes again. “Mrs. Edwards wa s’right about me, I’m afraid.”
“Right about what?” Fletcher asked, his eyebrows coming together.
“That I’m a disrep’table grease-class drunk,” Charles said. He wasn’t sure why he was telling Fletcher all this.
“She said no such thing,” Fletcher said indignantly.
Charles laughed once, humourlessly. “She implied it very strong…strongly. You missed it, of course.”
“I’ve missed a great deal of things,” Fletcher said stiffly, and oh Ruthie, Charles had made him angry. He shouldn’t have brought up Mrs. Edwards at all. “What exactly was that business with the bowing and the formality? I haven’t noticed it before. I should have – you’re right, I’ve missed everything, haven’t I? And your accent changes when you’re drunk. I’m sure you haven’t noticed it, but it does. You sound almost like- you sound…” He stopped. “Who are you?” he asked finally.
“No one,” Charles replied, and it stung because it was the truth. He leaned against the workbench and folded his arms tightly. “I...I was the second son of an influn…tial family in Aldwych.” Fletcher drew in a sharp breath. “Yes,” Charles agreed. “Very influen…yes. They have a great deal of sway in politics and the running of the government.”
“What do you mean, a great deal?” Fletcher asked quietly, as if they were discussing confidential information. Charles supposed they were.
“I’m related to the Magnuses,” he said reluctantly. “And the Maybournes and the Norch’sters.” He sighed. “And they can…prune off whoever they wish. Whoever they feel is…unsuitable for family respon…responsibili- duties.”
“Unsuitable?” Fletcher asked bemusedly. “How so?”
“I don’t know,” Charles said gloomily. “I…I didn’t go to Pevensey engineern’k like they wanted, and I worked for a common firm when they wanted me in the Royal Engineers. I was a…a thwarter. I was too unpredictable for them.”
“You don’t seem the thwarting type,” Fletcher said. “I think you’re rather agreeable.”
Charles snorted outright. “You didn’t know me when I was younger.”
“I think I would have liked to,” Fletcher replied thoughtfully. “You…you sound unhappy now.”
“I’m happy,” Charles protested. “I never liked my family, really. I never…got on with them – I was their own prod’gal son.”
Fletcher smiled at that for a brief moment. “You aren’t happy, you’re content,” he disagreed, looking sober again. “And I think you haven’t decided whether that’s enough for you.”
“How do you know that?” Charles demanded. “How can you say something…something like that?”
Fletcher shrugged, and for the first time, his expression was weary. “Because I’m trying to decide the same thing.”
Charles stared at him. “Oh.” He swallowed and tried again. “Where is your family, then?”
A corner of Fletcher’s mouth crooked up, and he shook his head. “No, it’s nothing to do with that. There aren’t very many left of us now, so I suppose we don’t see the point of fighting.” He fidgeted with the sleeve of his coat and cleared his throat. “My family is old. A long time ago our name wasn’t Fletcher, it was Fiachra.”
“You’re an’stors are Irish?” Charles asked, looking at him sceptically.
“Half,” Fletcher admitted, inspecting the pile of sawdust on his workbench with great interest. “The other half is Roman.”
“You mean Italian.”
“Hm?” Fletcher looked up. “No, Roman.”
“Huh, Roman,” Charles said hazily and rubbed his eyes again. “Should we build…a chariot instead, then?”
Fletcher looked surprised and laughed again; Charles noticed with a touch of pride that he was getting better at making him laugh. “That’s it, I believe I’m obligated to see you home, East,” he said and caught Charles’s elbow as he began to slide sideways. “A forgotten number of drinks apparently don’t agree with you.”
“Here we are,” Fletcher said and tried to open Charles’s door. He had an arm around Charles to keep him from falling over and was struggling with turning the knob while trying to keep him upright. “Er, it seems to be...” He tried again. “Are you sure this is the right door?”
“You have to…kick it,” Charles said and demonstrated. “Ouch,” he muttered, but Fletcher got the door open anyway and barrelled into the room through sheer momentum.
“There would be lovely,” Charles said, and Fletcher eased him into one of the two wingback chairs that together made up his sitting room in the corner. “Sit down,” Charles continued and waved a hand at the other chair. “I would offer you tea, but…the kitchen is…nearly closed, and…I won’t be the first.”
“Yes, your Mrs. Taylor seems very formidable,” Fletcher agreed. He wheeled around inspecting the room. “I like your flat. It’s very cosy. And your workbench is terribly interesting – that’s a beautiful toggle-key switchboard.” He eyed Charles’s poster collection tacked up to the wall and raised his eyebrows. “Is that her idea of decor?”
“Oh no,” Charles said, feeling embarrassed now. It was terribly strange having Fletcher here in his flat; he seemed out of place somehow. Or maybe the flat seemed out of place around him. “I…I like collecting them. It’s…silly, but-”
“Not at all,” Fletcher interrupted. “I like them. I remember that one from the war – the Pro Scientia one.”
“Yes. I like that one best,” Charles replied faintly. He closed his eyes and remembered the space between the mechanics’ hands. Don’t you dare, it seemed to say, and suddenly the poster wasn’t about war. Only it was, but a completely different one that didn’t have any business being plastered all over posts and walls and signboards. It made him feel ill.
“Are you feeling better?” Fletcher asked kindly, and Charles was mortified, because of course Fletcher wanted to go home.
“Yes,” he said quickly, opening his eyes. “Yes yes, I’m sorry – you must be tired. I’m sorry I had you bring me here.”
“I volunteered, if your memory goes back that far,” Fletcher said teasingly. “And I’m glad to rest my feet for a bit – I did quite a lot of walking today with Miss Edwards around London-Aldwych.”
“Ah,” Charles said dispiritedly, because of course Fletcher would want to talk about that. “Did she like it?”
“Yes. She liked the old Aldwych buildings especially.” Fletcher shrugged. “I’m indifferent to them, myself, but it was good to see her again. Miss Edwards and I are old friends.”
“I see,” Charles said into the wing of his chair.
“Though I’m not sure why she brought her niece.”
Charles’s head suddenly jerked up in a way that made him feel even more ill, but he turned over to stare at Fletcher. “What? You mean Mrs. Edwards-”
“Miss Edwards,” Fletcher corrected. “She’s not married.”
“But…” Charles protested, still confused. “What do you call the other Miss Edwards?”
“Which other Miss Edwards?” Fletcher asked, now looking confused too.
“Cora Edwards.”
“Who? Ah yes, the niece. Well, my business was with her aunt, so I suppose she didn’t see any reason to speak to me.” Fletcher shrugged. “So luckily it worked in my favour.”
“Yes. How do you know Miss Edwards? Georgiana Edwards?” Charles asked, suddenly feeling solicitous and cheerful now that lovely polite Cora Edwards had been dismissed out of hand.
“I met her in Paris through a mutual friend when she was on holiday,” Fletcher replied.
“Paris?” Charles asked in surprise. “You were in Paris?”
“Yes, for two years before I started working for Dactley. I miss Paris,” Fletcher said softly. “I was happy in Paris. I had a tiny flat with barely enough room for a bed, and I lived above a cafe that was always much too noisy after dark, but I was happy. I had friends there, work that I enjoyed.”
“Where did you work?” Charles asked blearily.
“Hmm? Oh, I had a job working with researchers through my university. More math checking- you would be surprised how important that is. Or perhaps you wouldn’t.”
“No,” Charles said, attempting a smile, but it felt off as if it were sliding off. “Once one of our machines in the Mechanics Club fried itself from the inside out because we…we had forgotten to convert our motor’s rotational speed into German units. This was before Marks joined – my God, he was brilliant, Marks was. I remember…” He smiled sheepishly. “I think some days I miss university like you must miss Paris.”
“Then you must miss university a great deal,” Fletcher said warmly.
“I suppose you miss university a bit too,” Charles replied.
“Not particularly,” Fletcher admitted. “I was never very good in school apart from my mathematics classes. Though I do miss Abbey Park.”
“Abbey Park?” Charles asked, frowning. “But that’s in Leicester. I thought Keating was in Leeds.”
“Hmm?” Fletcher said distractedly and looked up from his shoes. “Ah, so it is. My mistake.”
“You do miss a great deal, don’t you?” Charles asked comfortably.
“More than I realise,” Fletcher agreed, looking relieved, and that was odd. That was terribly odd, but Charles was too tired to think about it.
He yawned and toed off his shoes, kicking himself in the ankles a few times before succeeding. “I think I might go to sleep now.”
“Are you going to be alright?” Fletcher asked, looking concerned.
Charles took a moment to enjoy that. “Mm? Yes, thank you.”
“Shall I come in the morning to see if you’re still alive?” Fletcher asked, his mouth wavering in its almost-smile.
“I think I can crawl to work somehow,” Charles said drily even though yes, yes he wanted Fletcher to come back, and then perhaps they could have breakfast- “But thank you.”
Mrs. Taylor would give him hell about coming in late with a dubious stranger tomorrow, and he would probably have a terrible headache and have to endure another day of mech-techs shouting at him and barking mad eight-legged machines and thin foul-smelling soup for dinner. But Fletcher liked his poster collection and missed Paris and didn’t give a damn about Cora Edwards or who Charles was supposed to be. He decided it was worth it.
End chapter notes: I know I’m mucking about far too much with British history and cramming too many anachronisms into Charles’s Victorian Age (or rather, the Scientific Age since there is no Queen Victoria here) but at least by my rationale, his world mechanised quite early and all at once, so the Great Smog would have come earlier. Any good student of English history who’s reading this is probably having a good laugh at this story/wants to punch me.
So I changed the title of the chapter, which was originally titled "A Brief Smog" except I read it while proofreading as "A Brief Snog" and laughed to myself like an immature little three-year old for about a minute.
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no subject
Date: 2011-02-06 02:03 pm (UTC)..going to bookmark this to read tomorrow :)
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Date: 2011-02-07 08:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 06:56 pm (UTC)Fletcher is intersting and has secrets of his own I think.
I'm no historian and read this as it's own world :)
What don't you like about it?
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Date: 2011-02-07 07:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 10:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 10:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-08 07:07 am (UTC)I'll have another read later today :)
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Date: 2011-02-08 07:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-08 01:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-08 02:47 pm (UTC)