The Rememdium Edificium

[Isobella]

Janessa would sit down with the letter, finally alone for a few minutes to steal the time to really read what had been written down. Green eyes would take each word, each swipe of the pen into careful consideration. Her brow would furrow some and she would shake her head. She didn't want the Doctor to go, but the idea that they would allow the Rememdium to be closed was certainly something she could not even consider.

Careful note was taken of all the directions, making her own set of notes from his letter of the things she would need to do to make sure they could keep the Hospital in running order. It was more responsibility than anyone had ever given her... and she felt somewhat overwhelmed by it all, but the cause she felt was worth more than any doubt she might have.

[Civet]

Bryce hadn't been certain how to take the news when David told him his plans to leave. He knew without a doubt that he couldn't run the place by himself, he wouldn't have any idea where to begin. A lot was riding on whether or not Janessa wanted to keep the Edificium running. If she did he would be more than happy to help her however he can. If not, the young man would be searching for a new job it seemed.

[Isobella]

The decision had officially been made. The Rememdium would stay open. Bryce, Janessa and Raziqa had all divided up their shifts. There were however many management tasks that the Doctor had always just taken care of that needed to be taken into consideration.

A long night and many glasses of wine later Janessa would attempt to tackle the problems they faced again. Being eldest and presumably most experienced she took a great part of this weight upon her own shoulders. The others would find her the next morning asleep in the doctor's chair with many of his books scattered around her, one open and on her lap that she had apparently fallen asleep reading.

[Rattrap]

The Rememdium Edificium hasn't seen Doctor David D'Rael traverse its halls in months. It isn't exactly an unusual occurrence this time of year; the Doctor is known (by a few, at least) to have duties elsewhere, namely the far northern Bolgardia from which David hails. The capital of which, a city unimaginatively the same, rests at the feet of the mountains from which the two prior political bodies' names were inspired - nestled in between them, in fact, surrounded by glacial cliffs that only allowed entrance into the city through narrow valleys that typically froze over in the winter months and were impassable. This is all on purpose, at least in the city's original design; Bolgardia was a war faring state, and its defensive potential was much more highly valued than its pragmatism.

Typically, David leaves some sort of official notice, but times can make such things moot; the Doc had no regular staff to speak of, and at the time of his departure, no regular government either. Still, the Rememdium Edificium has been left open, the care of which left to volunteers and other good Samaritans. Though writings of personal natures were taken with him, notes on everything from herbology to basic stitching were left for use in the Doc's office, including his own notes on Myrken Wood's flora and fauna and works from his peers, often gathered on absences such as this one.

For now, the Doc was out.

[Treadwell]

The fourth of September, A. R. 207, finds the rooms of the Rememdium alive with rumbled snoring. Aloisius Treadwell lies in bed, wearing a plaid pajama jumper of his own, sleeping, at last. He didn't get much rest last night--partly through not being permitted such thanks to that whack to his head; partly through simply not being able to sleep because of that whack to his head. The exhausted, spent, aching Councilor is certainly not going to be collecting taxes or making toys for a bit, it seems, although steps are, of course, likely being taken to heal the injury to his head.

Though, were he awake, he'd be demanding a visitor to grumble to about his current state and his aching head.

[ShadowRose]

Delivered by none, a letter would simply be waiting the Councilor when he awoke. The parchment was neat, the script impeccable and smelled delightedly of lillac--a scent that most oft accompanied its writer.

Dearest Aloisius,

I am distressed to say that I am unable to see you. It appears as if this culprit, "The Fox" as he calls himself--the one who placed you in this dreadful condition!--has spread slanderous lies about me. The Constabulary now sees fit to deny me access to you--not even to simply visit!

Tell them I am not a threat to you. Perhaps then, I can visit.

I long to see you.

Alessandra

[Treadwell]

Woken mid-snore by the entrance of an anxious Cambree Swinton, Treadwell soon learned of a letter left in a fold of his middle.

That letter was very soon read.

And judgement was passed.

"That doesn't make a bit of sense!"

Madame Swinton had left without finding out a good reason why this letter didn't make much sense to the slightly addled, dizzied, old man, but even through the headache and the swirling, spiralling vision, he thought.

The Constables had no reason to doubt Miss Demarest's honesty and presence, to his knowledge.

The Constables had every reason to doubt Reynard Volpone's honesty and presence.

Reynard Gaius Volpone was, for a thief, fairly honorable and straight-forward. His grudge was with Aloisius Horatio Treadwell. No others. In twenty years, he had made no attempts on other councilors or magistrates or similar officials in an attempt to get at Treadwell.

It was always a matter of going for the butterball's ripply throat, or, in the most recent case, the back of his shiny bald head.

The Fox was devious, the Fox was crafty, the Fox was cunning, and the Fox was vain. . . .

But the Fox wasn't stupid. He knew better than to drag others into this feud of blood, this longstanding, unforgivable breach of trust on Treadwell's part twenty years prior.

If the Constables had reason to doubt the lady's presence, then they certainly had good reason to, and that was that, as far as Aloisius Treadwell was concerned!

The letter ended up torn in half and tossed feebly into a wastebasket by the bed's nightstand table.

Aloisius Treadwell had no wish to see a woman he'd briefly thought he'd fallen head over heels for in a night of drunken lust--not if the town guards had reason to suspect something of what she's done.

The Fox clearly had no part in all this.

But what was the woman's goal, all the same?