Artemisia and Bartholomew split, their paths leading them in opposite directions on the singular path of fate. The Forces watch in mirthful wonder as the tale unfolds thus;

[h3]Artemisia and Co[/h3]

Old Abbott gives only a passing glance towards the Littlings as they head into the back after his granddaughter. His business at the bar was too important to leave completely unattended, so the group proceeds unmolested by the disgruntled and aging boggart as he goes about meticulously stacking bottles in their appropriate homes on the tall shelves.

Which means Artemisia finds herself in a new whirlwind altogether.

Elizabeth, running around the kitchen in an absolute fit. Her apron was stained. Her fingers burnt. Food and sauces sent atumble and into disarray. Something foamy was frothing out of a lidded pot and sizzling on a stovetop.

"That absolute-- I can't believe-- If he wasn't so damnably-- Gah!-- He's just looking for easy blame!"

She slams a large crate of vegetation goods against a countertop before realizing someone had come in on her tantrum. She points a finger at them.

"I'm gonna go out there and solve this myself. Don't even try to stop me. That D'arcy is going to get the wrong Little, mark my words, because I'm sure as spit that I've been 'earing some nasty sounds in the night. Sounds no Boggart'd make."

And quick as that, she's tying her hair up and pulling her apron off, taking a few moments to shut the stove off and wash up in a deep sink.

[h3]Bartholomew[/h3]

Bartholomew does not have difficulty finding his destination. Indeed, there is already a crowd moving in the direction he susses to be his own; his arrival at the Great Imperial Army Garrison reveals it to be metaphorically besieged. An angry mob, to be succinct, stands between him and the building. Indeed, it stands between the company of D'arcy and the safety of the garrison as well. As Bartholomew approaches, a matter of sheer convenience-- or perhaps, Fate-- occurs.

D'arcy pushes forth, his soldiery with him, and as he clears a path towards the garrison through the crowd his squad split away to keep the path clear. The crowd is split, but for a brief period it would be simple for Bartholomew to pursue D'arcy through the clearing into the garrison's entrance. Shouts and yells from the crowd rain, and tensions grow.

"I'm telling you, it's not a Sluagh!"

"Who else would nick a mouse from the Hearth?" A retorting roar erupts.

"Lieutenant, what leads do you have?" A nimble Sprite of the Sylph variety, a thin woman, squeezes before D'arcy with a notepad and pen in hand- only to be struck with D'arcy's withering glare. She sheepishly sinks back into the crowd when guided by a soldier to clear the path. A stone strikes off a guard's helmet, and pistols are drawn. The crowds shrink back from the path and pistols are lowered; reason holds, for now.

Within the building, D'arcy permits himself a moment of nerves. Should Bartholomew have followed him in, he witnesses the young lieutenant running a hand through his hair as he drops at last onto his feet and rests his wings as he steps to the side to peer out through the shuttered windows of the garrison.

"I need to solve this. Now." He murmurs, checking a pocket watch. "Before a war is on my hands."