Hot for Teacher?


Masked Bandit, Keira, grace_icon.jpg

Summary: The teacher meets pupils?

Date: January 11, 1884

Hot for Teacher?


Keira steps into the school house, carrying a few books in her arms, and a bag over her shoulder, her attention seemingly distracted.

The masked man is seated on one of the desk tops, the shotgun negligently pointed at the door. On his crossed leg, a book lies open which he appears to be reading. Incongruously, the book is 'The Iliad', by Homer.
The door opens, and the muzzle of the gun twitches towards the figure."it is Sunday," the cool voice comes from behind the mask," I did not expect to find anyone here."

Keira looks up at the voice, nearly dropping the books onto the floor and she takes a few surprised steps back, "was jus..gittin me books, an droppin some off." she eyes the gun, curiously, worry quickly overcoming the young woman, "I'm tha school teacher, was there..somethin I could 'elp ye with?"

The hammer is let down slowly, and the gun's muzzle points away as the man uncoils himself from the desk. Behind the eyeslits of his mask, the cold blue eyes glitter as he holds up the book, revealing the title, "I had stopped by because I heard you had this on your shelves." he says, quietly, "And, wishful of reading it, took advantage of a fine day to do so."

Keira seems to relax a little as the gun is no longer pointed at her, and she takes a few more steps into the room, looking curiously at the book and she nods, "aye, tis a good book. Don let me..stop ye of enjoying yerself, I'll jus drop these off an be on my way..aye?"

The corners of the flour sack twitch, as the man circles the desks, and he gives his head a shake, "I am afraid I cannot let you do that," he says, with a note of genuine regret in his cool voice, "You might, perhaps, mention that I was here, and there would be..trouble. I do so detest trouble."
The corners of the sack twitch again, as though the man were laughing silently, "I have no desire to harm you, so if you would be so kind as to just have a seat?"

Keira frowns a little, but nods, what choice does she have, "well..if ye..insist that I stay.." she slowly swollows, "I best put on some tea." she takes a few steps towards the fire, "thirsty. Me name is Keira..if ye are wishin ta know."

He touches a finger to the narrow brim of his hat, gravely replying, "And a pleasure to have met you, Ma'am", the cold eyes glitter again, "You may call me," he hesitates, looking at the book in his hand, then says, with a chuckle, "Achille", pronounced in the French manner, as AhSheel.
"And how did such a woman as yourself escape my attentions for so long?" he inquired, leaning agaisnt the door as she made tea. "Not that I have had much cause to find a schoolmarm."

Keira pours the boiling water into two tea cups, and adds some tea leaves, in case he also wants a cup. "kent say." she returns to the desk, sitting down, placing a cup of tea before him. Scared or not, she seems to have good manners, even if she's being kept somewhere against her will. "don go out much, cept 'ere." she adds some milk and sugar to her tea and then carefully sips from imt, "nice ta meet ye too."

A shudder seemed to pass over him, though whether it was of mirth, fear or illness, one could not say. But, he reaches for the tea offered with his left hand, taking it almost delicately. "You would be," he tells her wryly, "Perhaps the only person who finds it 'nice to meet me.'"
Taking an appreciative smell of the aroma, he takes a small sip, before settign the cup down, "An airy bouquet, with overtones of tannin and spice. Nice, but rather light for my taste."

Keira nods to that, "sorry, boot all I 'ave ta offer." she crosses one leg over the other, gazing curiously again at the book, "if ye are welcome to borrow tha book and jus bring it back when ye are finished. I wouldn mind."

He inclines his head graciously at her apology, and shakes it at her offer, "I would not wish to deprive your class of such a treasure," he admits, "And I fear that my life often leads to an ill end for books." He lays the volume on her desk with reverence, and steps back, regarding her with those cold, calculating eyes, "Schoolteachers do not get paid overmuch, do they?" he asks.

Keira shakes her head to the question, "nae, boot tis enough ta git by." she watches him, curiously, watching his every move, "why do ye ask?" she carefully sips the tea again, shifting a little in her seat.

He hooks the shotgun in the crook of his arm, innocuous, yet ready for use. The gloved hand dips into his coat, as he moves lithely around the corner of her desk, approaching to loom over her.The hand emerges in a fist, which he holds out, mere inches from her pert nose.
"I would not wish it said," he says in a cool silky voice, "That I did not mind my civic duties." A short bark of laughter, and he opens his hand, a ten dollar gold piece glinting against the glove. 'Take it, it is for you, and little enough for what you must endure."

Keira blinks in surprise, "thank…ye.." she mutters and with a shaking hand, she dips her fingers into his hand and withdraws the coin, slowly, "wha..more must I endure." she asks, curiously, trying to meet his gaze with her own.

The low, quiet chuckle again, and he asks, "What do you fear you must endure?", the question direct, confident, but spoken with amusement. "Do you fear that I will ravish you, and leave you here to lie in dishonored ignomy?"

Keira shakes her head, putting the coin on the table, her hands falling away again, "nae, I don fear tha." she cocks her head to one side, "ye..'ave not treated me badly, so I don fear ye."

"I assure you, I have no such intention. I merely wished to see what you might say to such a query." He steps back away, glancing out of the window, before turning back, "What I meant by what you must endure is the presence of so many children from so many backgrounds. Surely it is not easy."
Keira nods to that, picking up her tea again, once again carefully sipping it, "aye, isn't a easy job, boot necessary." she smiles a little, the smile making her eyes sparkline for a moment, "never 'ad children of me own. Husband died before we could, so this is tha..way I git out me mothering instints.."

He reaches out, the back of his fingers /just/ touching the curls along her forehead, before withdrawing and he says, "I grieve for your loss, and hope only that it was not caused by any of my actions." He regards her with a solemnity, and says, "You should be able to find another man, you are still quite beautiful, though your gown does you little credit."

Keira jumps only slightly at his touch, "nae, was sickness tha took 'im, an thank ye.." she however shakes her head, "I'm not really..lookin..fer anyone. If anyone shows me interest..great." she looks down at her dress, "well, per'aps I ken afford ta bye somethin a bit..nicer."

His look lingers a bit longer, then he steps away, moving for the door, "If you would be so kind as to tarry here for a bit, I shall leave you to your affairs." he pauses at the door, and turns back to the teacher, "And, if I might suggest..visit the dressmaker when you find a moment. It will be taken care of."

Keira lowers her head a little to him, her fingers staying wrapped around the tea cup, "aye. Ave a nice day…Achille." her head dips a little to him and she offers him a small, genuine smile.

A dip of his head, a tip of his hat, and the bandit was gone, out the door and fading into the shadows.

Later that same afternoon:

Johnson Clothiers

The main room has been leveled by fire and wind, dress goods scattered and scorched. A faint smell of death and decay linger, emanating from the private quarters, the remains of which lie crumbled over the back room, itself sunk into the foundation.
Grace arrives from Division St.

From the dark, deep shadows came a noise, "CLICK CLIIICK", the ratcheting sound of a steel hammer cocking. And then the voice, cool, measured and cultured, "I will thank you to keep your hands where I might see them, and your voice low."

Grace pauses in the middle of the room at the sound of the cocked hammer. She's holding a toolbox in one gloved hand, and likely had come to do a little bit of cleaning up.
Eyebrows arch. "How can I help ye, sir?" she asks in a lilting voice as cold as her unseen assailants.

He fades out of the shadows, easing back on the hammer, "Forgive my precaustions," he says, dipping his head slightly, "One never knows how someone might react."
The cold eyes glitter in the dimmed light, "You are, I presume, the new seamstress?"

Grace's eyes are not glittering. They are snapping angrily. "I am. An' I'll not give ye my deed nor a discount," she says, chin lifted and shoulders squared. "How can I help ye?"

He begins to chuckle, softly, causing the mask to twitch with mirth. Then, he says, with the laughter still in his tone, "I assure you, Madam, that you hold not the slightest interest for me, save this. Your skill with a needle and thread."
Something cold, glittering arcs, winking between them, and a metallic tinkle rings from her feet as the twenty dollar gold piece spins there briefly.

With that, the little Irish spitfire relaxes. It seems that she won't be accosted, robbed, or otherwise troubled, and that's good enough for her. "Aye?" She glances at the denomination of the coin and arches an eyebrow. "What fabrics for which articals?" She's still calm, seeming otherwise to be content merely to stand there.

Again, the cool voice speaks, the cold eyes fixed on the diminuative seamstress. "I will confess that I do not know," he admits, perhaps a bit ruefully. "But, you will have a woman, much with your coloring, approaching you soon, and you are to give her whatever she desires."
He gestures at the coin with the shotgun's muzzle, "Should that not be enough, leave a the schoolhouse.." the corners of the sacking around his chin twitch, "and I will ensure you recieve your full due."

Something in that speech seems to set Grace off. Down goes the toolbox with an annoyed bang. Tiny fists punch into hips in the classic pose of the angry female, and her face contorts in to obvious irritation. "D'ye mean tae tell me tha' ye pointed a gun in me face so ye could -pay fer a woman's DRESS-?!" she snaps in exasperation. Hands fly into the air in a dramatic gesture of resignation.
"Aye, fine, but get yerself out, an' next time, leave tha blasted gun behind!" she scolds, finger shaking at the man shamelessly. "Sweet Jaysus, save me from men like ye," she mutters to the sky, the perfect martyr.

Her outburst must have amused the visitor, for he too chuckled again, moving past her closely. But, as he passed, his hand snaked out, catching her wrist and pulling her close. Putting his masked mouth close to her ear, he says, "Mind, my dear, what you say and do, for I am not always so patient. Indeed, you might care to inquire what happened to the last seamstress who annoyed me."
The front of the sacking brushes her cheek, then he steps away, releasing her wrist, "I do hope to have the honor of working with you again," his tone and manner faintly mocking, as he made his way to the door.

For a moment, Grace looks ready to whale on the masked man. But when he lets her go, she drops her free hand. "Ye burned her, didn' ye?" she says without being able to restrain herself. But she dismisses the man haughtily, as if to signal that she doesn't care what she just said. "Be gone wit ye, begorrah, or I canna start me work."

With that, she scoops up the toolbox and the coin and marches off into the shadows to salvage.


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