The white dove zipped into his laboratory and smacked Corwin in the face in the middle of a very delicate operation.

The potion was reaching a volatile stage - precise amounts of wolfsbane had to be added at this moment, and no other, or the whole thing would be ruined. Worse, the results might be outright... catastrophic.

So, it probably wasn't for the best when a paper bird appeared, apparently out of nowhere, and caught him in the left cheek just as he was lowering the eyedropper.

He swore and snatched at it as it continued to beat on his face, dropping the glass vial as he did. The moment he got a good grip on the bird, it immediately turned into a piece of paper - some sort of messaging spell. The archmage, hunting him again, he feared.

Then a hissing, burbling sound drew his attention to the beaker on his workbench.

"Ah... feth."

He turned and dove, throwing up a mage shield as the beaker began to shake, froth, boil and bubble before finally shattering with a peal of thunder. Foam and liquid sprayed across the lab, shards of glass were propelled two inches into the wooden support beams of the basement, and a noise like a banshee shrieking skirled through the lab's confines for a solid minute before finally fading away into a dull whimper. Corwin peeked his head up from behind his makeshift cover, eyes wide.

"That... was incredible..." he muttered, wondering how he could reproduce the effects. Then, bemused, he finally managed to read the contents of the note.

He sat on the lab's floor for a minute, thinking, as his unseen servant began cleaning up the lab. He hadn't seen Tarna since the night after they'd finished work on the May Queen, when they'd had a disagreement on whether or not one of the 'Kissing Bandit's'... encounters... constituted a sexual assault or not. He'd felt yes, she'd felt that he was a prude... it hadn't gone well. He'd wondered how she was doing, but with the influx of orders, not to mention the... drama... a few nights ago that had him reinforcing his defenses and preparing new contingency plans, he hadn't had much of a chance to look her up for a cup of tea.

This seemed like a good occasion. He even had a client who lived pretty close by in the Market district, so he should be able to drop off the man's goods - he'd probably be sleeping, he worked the Night Watch - and then stop by Tarna's apartment.

Wait. She wasn't hitting on him.... was she? He frowned, looking at the note. No... no, Tarna had never demonstrated that strange, Rhydin custom of hurtling oneself at the nearest available member of the opposite - usually - gender. He shook his head and gained his feet, leaving the air sprite to do the difficult work of digging glass out of the walls and cleaning up the spilled potion.

Corwin stood in the street outside the shop, staring at the building with a thoughtful frown. He was unmindful of the chill breeze that stirred his mist gray robes around him, as well as the crowds that walked warily around the man and his ebon staff. People in Rhydin learned early on not to meddle in the affairs of wizards.

His gaze was beyond the merely mortal world, his natural magesight and his enchanted spectacles showing him the lines of Tarna's wards and enchantments etched like lines of fire through the old building before him. They were good spells - solid - not quite as powerful or comprehensive as the ones he'd been laying about his apartment lately, but then, Tarna probably hadn't been pissing off any elder archmagi lately, either.

He adjusted his spectacles and started for the apartment door, sparing a moment to peek at the empty shop. It didn't seem usual to see an abandoned storefront in this part of the market, right across from the popular Stitch. He wondered what kind of business had once occupied that place, and if there were more sinister reasons for its vacancy. If there were, he couldn't discern them through the window glass - the store was dusty, faded.

He made his way up the steps, a little weary. He hadn't been sleeping much lately, and his work was running him ragged - it had made sense, when he posted his flyer on the bulletin board, to list the Red Dragon as a meeting place. After all, he didn't particularly want people tramping through his house all the time, even assuming he could attract any sort of clientele in the somewhat hazardous West End.

Unfortunately, he hadn't considered the fact that not having a place for clients to pick up their finished goods meant that he usually had to drop them off when they were completed, and he was getting a little tired of either running all over town, or wasting his time and energy with low grade transport spells. He was a wizard, for crying out loud, top of his class at the Shadowkill Academy, not a glorified delivery boy.

He reached the top of the stairs and rapped lightly on the door with his staff. He felt a bit awkward about paying a call on the lady at her home like this, and a distinct part of him wondered at her motives. Were they friends? Was this a friendly visit? And didn't protocol demand that one bring a present, when visiting someone else's home? He wasn't a wine drinker, and didn't think Tarna was either - and anyway, wasn't that only for dinner invitations?

He took a deep breath and sought his center, forcing himself to calm down. He was, undoubtedly, overthinking the whole thing. As the door opened, he donned a friendly smile. The expression still felt a little strange on a face that had not many causes for smiles before he came to Rhydin, but he was learning.

"Lady serai D'velle," he replied courteously, dipping into a low bow that for once failed to trip him with his staff. His friendly smile returns as he straightens. "Tarna. It's good to see you again."

He steps by her and surveys the room with a quick glance that politely returns his eyes to her as rapidly as possible; it wouldn't do to gawk, although as always, he is intensely curious about everything around him. It was clear that she was doing pretty well for herself, and he was slightly surprised by how much that pleased him. Her position as the 'Maggie' with the May Queen must have suited her better than he'd thought.

"A blessing on this house, and all who dwell within." That was Corwin, remembering the proprieties. A wizard visiting another magic user's domain, even invited, should always be as quick as possible to declare his good intentions. It saved mistrust and grief in the long run.

If it weren't for his formal gray robes - like his title of "Master Magus," a symbol of his graduation from the Shadowkill Academy - he might feel a tad underdressed. As it is, he could wear practically nothing underneath (not that he would conceive of such a thing, of course) and still be suitable for any occasion from a night out at the tavern to a formal presentation at court.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," he says as she shuts the door. He glances around again for an umbrella stand or something similar in which he might rest his staff. "How have you been?"

He nods and sets his staff in the indicated place, waiting quietly until she returns with the tea and takes her own seat before he assumed his own. "I am also well, thank you for asking." He sips his tea and makes a wordless sound of pleasure. "This is quite good. From where does it come?"

He's not generally good at small talk, but he can discuss tea or shop talk all day - and he's reasonably sure she has something else in mind to discuss, something that drew her to invite him here, other than her missing the pleasure of his company.

It is. He nods in response, taking another sip of his tea, making a mental note to make further enquiries about this tea shop - it really is quite good.

He's aware that his manners can sometimes be... off-putting. Things rarely are as regimented in the real world as they were in the Academy, and he realizes that his etiquette is antiquated to most people.

He tilts his head to one side as he rests his cup back in its saucer. "You're planning to open your own shop? That sounds excellent." His smile would indicate that his feelings are genuine - not that he has any skill in dissemblance, anyway. "I'm sure it'll be a great success for you. I've gone into business for myself, as well; I started getting some inquiries after what we did with the May Queen." He lifts his cup and takes another sip.

He's pleased that she's heard of him; the more his reputation grows, after all, the more business will eventually come to him. It's also clear that her offer takes him by surprise, and he tilts his head to one side again as he considers it.

"I'm... a little surprised," he admits. "I thought we worked together on the May Queen rather well, and perhaps our abilities complement each other but - this seems rather sudden. He looks up at her, expression curious, and adjusts his glasses. "Why me? Business has been steady, but not so good that I could afford a shop - probably not even a partnership in one, not yet. It would be an unfair burden on you."

He considers her words, and nods again. "Your reasons are sensible," he says, and then grins, surprisingly boyish. "Of course." He's shown an absolute talent for sticking his foot in his mouth lately, and he's trying to avoid doing it even more - especially about a subject as serious as this. "I will have to think on this, but I hope to have an answer for you soon. And Tarna," His voice sobers, and he gives her a direct look. "Whatever decision I reach, please know how much I appreciate this offer, and how much I respect and admire you." His deep nod is the closest he can come to a bow while sitting without looking completely ridiculous. He lifts his mug and takes another sip, then sets cup and saucer down on the table.

"Thank you, I have eaten," he says with a slight smile. He had to re-enchant his ice box, expanding its internal dimensions; Niima had gone on something of a rampage the other night, cooking enough food to feed a small army. Even with a trio of pixies raiding his fridge, he had enough food left to feed him for a month - and feed him better than he'd eaten in his life, at that. "I would like to see the shop, though, see what might be done with it." He tilts his head to one side and gives her a faint smile. "If you're hungry, though we could put it off."

"But of course," he says, standing and gathering his staff. He precedes her through the door and down the steps, waits patiently as she locks up the apartment, and then unlocks the shop.

The shop is pretty large - he marvels again that it's remained unclaimed, evidently for some time. There is dust and cobwebs on most surfaces, shrouding the corners, but the floor is strangely clear. Wondering at that, Corwin leans over and rests his fingers against the floorboards... they're warm, and there's a faint draft along them. He glances over at the wall; dust has gathered against the baseboards in a little heap, blown there by the draft. Curious...

He straightens up and looks around the room again. There are shelves and display cases scattered helter-skelter all over the place, without rhyme or reason. A long counter runs the far wall, like a bar - maybe it had been a bar, at one point, certainly stranger things had happened. He wanders over, boots tapping lightly along the floorboards, and runs his fingers along it. Where the dust is disturbed, the surface is polished - rowan, he thinks, or possibly ash. Both have good magical properties. He nods, almost despite himself.

"Very nice," he says quietly. There's a door to a back storage room, currently ajar; he walks over and peers through. More shelves, a work bench, another door - probably the back door to the building - and a trapdoor in a corner, presumably leading to the basement. Kneeling again, he sees that the source of the draft would be the trapodoor's corner.

Still, there's a strange feeling to the air... not menacing, per se, but... sad, like the building has been soaked in sorrow for so long it's become steeped into the boards. Corwin straightens again, brow furled. Maybe not even sadness, really... something like regret, or melancholy... He shakes his head and looks over at Tarna curiously, gauging her reaction to the shop.

He nods, deep in thought, staring at the basement. "Something sad. Something that... lingers." He looks over at her, about to ask if she'd like to go back upstairs, and then shuts his mouth with a quick, rueful smile. Of course she wouldn't. He hadn't worked with Tarna very much - just that work on the May Queen's engines, really - but he knew she wasn't likely to back down, and that she could hold her own if things turned ugly.

He tightens his grip in his staff and makes a quick, flicking gesture at the trapdoor on the floor. As he'd expected, it was locked. The bolt draws back with a loud clack, exposing a dark hole and a ladder leading down. Another gesture produces a ball of light that bobbles obediently over to the hole and lowers itself in.

"Shall we?" he asks her with a slight smile.

"Pveatherffall." He murmurs quietly, and floats down to the cellar once she clears it, touching down lightly. He blinks and rests his staff across his shoulders, looking around the room curiously. "Hm... a toy shop? How curious, I would never have expected this..." It's a bit smaller than his workroom at the house, but not by much. He nods thoughtfully, then frowns as he look over at Tarna.

"Poor what?" he asks carefully, adjusting his spectacles. He can't quite figure out the web and flow of force through the workshop, but it seems particularly knotted around the cabinet in front of her.

He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, his staff held loose in his hands. He never got along well with necromancy, even in those required classes in school - while some courses he held in contempt (like divination) and some he just didn't feel were necessary (like healing), necromancy had been the only one that set his teeth on edge, felt like it stained his soul. The rituals and routines for raising, binding, and banishing spirits had been drilled into his head much like those concerning demons - a 'working wizard' had to have a wide library of knowledge in his head, after all - but he'd never been comfortable with either.

Great, he thinks wryly. Just what every prospective magic shop needs... its very own haunt.

"What do you feel we should do?" he asks Tarna quietly when she comes back to herself, after giving her a moment to get over the jitters. Empathic sensing was another thing he didn't specialize in - he had always favored the 'harder' magics of evocation, enchantment, transmutation - things that effected the very web and warp of reality. It was becoming clearer and clearer how his and Tarna's specialties complimented each other. "I don't feel her spirit, exactly... not like a vengeful ghost. But... it's obvious that there's something here, yes?" Despite the furnace in the corner, he suddenly has to tuck his robes in close to himself, for the room seems to grow colder.

He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it and nods. She's right, it's none of his concern - not unless he's willing to buy into the shop, and he's not sure of that, yet.

"If there's anyway that I can help," He says instead, and then smiles slightly and shrugs. "Well. You know how to reach me." He gives her a nod, looks around the workroom again, and heads for the street - disdaining the use of the ladder, he simply floats up into the shop proper.

He spares the shop one last look around, picturing it filled with magical things, people seeking solutions to their problems. People who come in hurting, afraid, upset, and who walk out happy again.

He kind of likes that.

He's humming mellowly as he hits the street, walking back to the WestEnd. It's a beautiful day in the City.

It took him a bit to make his reply, even once he'd made his decision. Grimalkin - the far too adorable kitten Niima had acquired for him as a companion - finds the usual 'messenger bird' form of note to be an entirely too entertaining target, and for a while the floor of his laboratory is littered with broken winged and savaged remains of parchment doves, cranes, and eagles. Eventually, though, he hit on the key - and so it is that a six inch tall, nine inch long paper tiger is waiting for Tarna when she leaves the shop one morning, pouncing her from above her door.

When she lays hand on it, it flattens out into the elegantly written missive, neat copperplate handwriting on cream colored paper.

My dear Lady D'Velle,

After much thought, I've chosen to accept your generous offer of a partnership. I apologize for my delay in replying, but I felt the matter must be given the full weight of attention it deserved.

I look forward to our future business endeavours, and with speaking with you concerning preparations for opening the shop.

I remain your obedient servant,

Corwin Shadowkill.