Marcellus is Laurent's "son". Dasius was part of Laurent's first wave of grief in the 1450s, and Marcellus was part of the second in the early 1960s. Starting this one on a sort of tentative basis, may become possible stand alone third novel. Who knows. We'll see what happens. Will work on it concurrently with TMWY for now. This one is very modern. Takes place in or around the late 1980s to early 1990s, a decade or so before Laurent's death and should take us up to his demise in 2003. Hopefully this will shed light on the characters in a "new" way (Take It With You and Take Me With You were actually departures for me). We'll see.

image of Dasius and Marcellus drawn in... 2007?

Untitled for Now.
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Someone had made a mistake.

"Daniel," Dasius' eyes flashed, his voice rising, uncharacteristically upset.

"It was not my affair, sir."

"David then."

"I am afraid that David was in charge of that account, sir. Yes."

Daniel March, the accountant, and David Murchison, the lawyer, shuffled uncomfortably. I watched, trying not to show any emotion, a tall blond ornament in the room.

"I don't know what happened, sir. I am sure that if we consult my contacts at the bank-"

"Then go consult them, David," Dasius said quickly, "I want to have this all in order by this evening."

I began to pick at the scabs behind my ear and Dasius grabbed my hand impersonally, "Go downstairs." I didn't question him, had learned to resist it.

I walked out of the heavy doors, looking back once to see Dasius lean back against the solid wooden desk, about to hold forth to his worldly entourage. I was glad not to bear witness. It was none of my business. I circled round the hallway to the staircase and descended, picking the twin scabs and scowling. I did want my check. No money in the bank, no check.

My "father", classical portrait of the petit that he is was standing at the bottom near the railing, hands clasped behind his back formally.

"You're early," I said.

"Stop picking at yourself. Are you an urchin?"

"No," I kicked the fringe of the long hall rug to straighten it out with the rounded point of my platform heel.

"What are these shoes?"

"They were a gift."

He made some sort of disapproving noise.

I shrugged it off.

"Where is Dasius? Stop picking."

I dropped my hand to my side and sighed, "Upstairs with the accountant and the lawyer."

"You sound upset."

"You're bothering me."

"I see," his lips thinned with annoyance.

The silence stretched out.

"Laurent, my love," David Murchison. Daniel March was following him, descending the stairs much more discreetly.

"David," said my father, "I trust you've gotten this mess worked out."

"Oh it will be soon, sir. Don't you worry at all."

"Where is Dasius?"

"He has retired to his private rooms, sir. I apologize. Daniel and I have been instructed to accompany you and your son to dinner in his absence."

Laurent's face darkened, "That won't be necessary, David. Thank you for your consideration."

"I must insist on it unfortunately, sir. He was very effusive on the point."

The tightened mouth had not relaxed. Laurent inclined his head slightly in my direction, "Well the three of us then. I should hope that Marcellus would not be made to accompany us tonight. I trust that is an acceptable conclusion for your employer as well."

You prissy little b***h.
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I slammed the double doors behind me. Dasius looked up from his surgical instruments, picking apart some sort of dead animal at the stainless steel table. His favorite, most relaxing task. He pushed his hair back from his forehead, regarding me.

"I see you got excluded from dinner."

I strode across the room and knocked the scalpel out of his left hand.

He looked at me, gave a little annoyed intake of breath through his nose, set down the delicate mirror he had been holding in his right hand.

I dropped into the leather recliner in the corner, the most comfortable chair in the house, hidden from the general public in the private room.

"Are you going to sulk?"

"I hate him."

"I'm sorry."

"You don't even want to see me. You tried to get rid of me for the evening."

"Didn't work, did it?" he said.

I crossed my arms.

"It was Dan's idea," he said, a slight smokiness to his accent creeping in over his English, "Does that make it better for you?"

"I want to go to bed with you."

"It is impossible."

"You want to dissect things," I said, glowering.

"It's true. There will be many things to go over tonight and I should like to relax before all of that. Entertain yourself."