Merlin, was hayfever ever the bother. Dora was having to wear an extra layer of powder to cover the redness in her nose, and she was sneezing even as the evening set in. She was about to leave for one of her final home appointments- an elderly witch had requested a visit at home due to her health. Dora had taken the visit slip, tucked it safely in the low neckline of her robe and had thrown the green powder onto the fire. The ash made her nose tickle and sneeze several times as she gave the address, before she appeared again in a darkened parlour.
 
A quick glance out the window confirmed this was Wellingtonshire. The woman had written not to expect any servants to be expecting guests at that hour, and that she would be abed with her nurse when she arrived. As she had expected, the hall she let herself into was free of any waiting footmen, and so the blonde witch made her way up the stairs and followed the directions she had read on the note.
 
Reaching the door, she didn’t pause to knock (apparently the woman was quite particular about preventing hand-marks on her door) and instead opened the door, stepped inside without looking and shut the door, before finally turning around.
 
“Oh.” Dora managed.

The day had been dull. Work was tedious, the muggy weather showed no sign of breaking into a thunderstorm or the promise of real sunshine and, worst of all, Griselda was away with her ludicrous husband so there was no distraction to be had other than the odd bit of psychological torture to inflict on Jemima who, irritatingly, was still at work. Which left him with the Wellingtonshire house to himself, his parents being blessedly in the country for the month, and Enoch, despite having the option to do anything he pleased, was quite at a loss.

He could visit the Painted Lady of course. The whores were always more than welcoming and whilst their conversation was far from engaging at least it was easy and they usually agreed with him: he rather suspected the few occasions when they didn’t were to simply rouse his interest rather than any intelligence of their own but it was better than the mindless chatter of debutantes.

Idly lounging in his bedroom with a cut-glass full of whiskey in his hand – his father’s, not that he couldn’t afford it himself of course – he heard a noise in the hallway that immediately put him on alert. Pulling his wand from the leg holster he kept it in for work Enoch levelled it on the door and sank into the low, evening shadows of the room. It was probably Jemima back early. She deserved the hex he had planned. It would serve her right for opening his door without knocking-

It wasn’t Jemima.

It was a rather attractive blonde. Had he ordered her and forgotten? Or was she a friend of one of his sisters?

“Oh indeed,” he replied, lowering his wand but not holstering it just yet. Blondes were not to be trusted in general. “I don’t believe I have had the pleasure?”

On the list of things she could have walked in on- and it was an extensive one, for the witch had quite the imagination- a wizard with his wand drawn in the least euphemistic sense was far from the worst thing imaginable. It was quite a handsome one too, so some god somewhere was evidently smiling on her.

Dora observed as he lowered his wand, wondering if he raised it again if she would have chance to remove her own from her cleavage. Probably not, so she hoped the man’s temper was as good as his looks. “I don’t believe I have either.” She replied coyly. “Though I feel it is safe to assume that you are not, in fact, the dowager Mrs Jenkins.” Unless her advert had been totally misinterpreted and she’d been called her for some far less savoury purposes by the man’s meddling grandmother. Were Grandmothers in the habit of scouring the classifieds to find their relatives some company?

With a twitch of his lips Enoch took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving the girl just in case she tried something, though being unarmed as she was he was confident he had the advantage. It was also his house so anything he might do would be perfectly justified – she was the intruder after all and a man was perfectly entitled to defend his own home, especially when he happened to be an especially well trained man.

“Never heard of her,” he replied, getting to his feet and sauntering towards the young woman casually, casting his eyes over her quickly to ensure she was not dangerous and enjoying the view very much as he did. Though it was uncommon in their part of town Enoch had heard plenty of stories about the warren that was Bartonburg and that people often found themselves in the wrong place as a result of floo or misleading doors – if he absolutely had to be inconvenienced with such a thing at least the intruder was pleasant on the eye.

“Dowager’s are not my speciality.”

“Oh,” Dora replied lightly, raising her chin as the man sauntered over, not missing his eyes looking her up and down.

Madam Jenkins could wait for a little while, she decided, upon getting a better look at the man. He was rather tall to say the least, but didn’t appear like he was about to do anything dangerous. “That would infer that you do indeed have a speciality, sir.” She said, tone totally innocent despite her suspicions.

She didn’t seem unduly perturbed to be in his house without invitation and despite clinging onto his reservations about how far to extend his trust Enoch was certainly intrigued. Precious few women looked him in the eye properly and even less matched his conversation without being compelled to do so with coinage.

“I have many,” he replied drily, raising his wand, but not as a threat, more a reminder of the potential for it. “Interrogation amongst them. You still have not given me your name.”

“How intriguing.” She replied, glancing only briefly at his raised wand. “Apollodora Vablatsky.” Dora added, hoping her surname would be introduction enough.

Dora took half a step towards the man rather boldly. If he wanted her dead, she would be already, and if there’s one thing she knew about rich people, it was that they tended to prefer their carpets un-bloodstained. “Given your penchant for the truth, then, how do I know you are not some rogue who has done away with Madam Jenkins and has been lying in wait?” She asked lightly, making it quite obvious she didn’t believe that at all.

Young women in Enoch’s circle demurred and preened so much that the bold, blatant flirting from this particular specimen was quite the breath of fresh air. He knew he oughtn’t to find it appealing – generally speaking the only other women he knew that were so free with their words were paid whores and this girl clearly was not one of those.

At least, not in the traditional sense. He had heard her name before, both the surname through word of mouth and forename through his sister, and he knew precisely what she was peddling. It wasn’t his commodity of choice but it certainly suggested things about Miss Vablatsky’s character that gave Enoch a pleasant awakening in his trousers.

“You must simply trust in my good name Miss Vablatsky,” he replied, finally lowering his wand, feeling that its presence in the current moment was unnecessary. “We Rosiers are known for many things and only being slightly roguish is amongst them.”

Her family on the other hand he had doubts about. Seeing was a woolly subject and he was yet to be convinced. He was willing to have a closer look if this was what a seer looked like. Perhaps he could arrange a private session?

A Rosier, Dora mentally noted. A good, sound, wealthy name, but not one of those one thought of in the same sentence as Dark Arts, or politics, and all the better for her. She wasn’t averse to publicity, but if she was going to cause a media ruckus by bedding the minister’s uncle or brother in law, she at least wanted a chance to order some new dresses first. And she was far too pretty to end her days a corpse in a canal for having opened her legs to the wrong person.

The name, evidently, though, came with a handsome enough face, and a demeanor that didn’t suggest the man was some shrinking violet. “Slightly?” She echoed sweetly. “I don’t know if I ought, as a lady, to be alarmed- or disappointed not to have found a fully fledged one.” Dora tilted her head questioningly, with a half-smile.

The only indication of Enoch’s amusement was the twitching of his jaw but he was certainly more entertained by this one than he had been by the majority of the dull debutantes that had been paraded in front of him over the years. A rogue would have sent them running with just as much fervour as if they had been told old Mr Dippet was on the hunt for another bride and they were the chosen one.

But it was not so much that as her lack of reaction to his surname that intrigued him. She knew who they were – everybody did without doubt – but she continued on as though stumbling into his bedroom was no more an incident than it would have been to find herself in the chambers of a nobody and that boded well for her keeping her mouth shut afterwards. Yes, he certainly liked this one.

“I do so hate to disappoint a young lady. Should I beg your forgiveness or pour you a drink in recompense?” He asked, gesturing to the fine collection of decanters that decorated his sideboard.

Dora skillfully quirked an eyebrow, an expression as seemingly unpracticed as it actually was, testament to many hours spent productively in front of her own reflection. “Begging is so seldom becoming to a man.” She replied. The blonde took half a step forward, tantalisingly close to the man, before side-stepping and sweeping around him towards the decanters, making sure her skirts brushed against his legs as she did so, allowing herself a small smile.

The man was evidently wealthy- she could have landed in far worse homes. He was entertaining also- not tediously bashful, which would have been only amusing for a little while. “And you’re making such a fine impression, it would be a shame to ruin it, no?”

A drink it was then. Hopefully if she had enough then the tantalising rustle of her skirt would give way to something far more satisfying that crinoline and silk. It was a tactic that usually worked with the various ladies of the night he entertained but this was a different creature altogether: not quite a lady of course, and likely not above selling her talents to the highest bidder, but less of a surety for satisfaction.

“Quite right,” he concurred with a raise of his eyebrow, reaching for the decanter and pouring liberally, eyes flicking up to the young woman and pleased to see she didn’t seem perturbed by the measure. “Though in my estimation there is very little that cannot be improved upon by the introduction of whiskey and I am not too proud to include my ability to make an impression amongst them.”

The measures were generous, and had Dora not been certain she could hold her liquor she might have been alarmed. “What refreshing honesty.” She replied brightly, watching the man intently. “It does rather delightfully heighten sensations, does it not?”

The blonde took one of the glasses and raised it to the man. “To surprises.” She toasted.

Returning the toast and inclining his head politely Enoch took a sip of his drink and contemplated the quite pleasing – and telling – fact that she had not yet left, and if this was the sort of young woman who was quite at ease taking a drink with a man, utterly unchaperoned, and in his bedroom to boot, then she also undoubtedly knew the thoughts that were foremost in his mind. She would have to be dense not to know.

“Pleasant ones I hope?”