Had a bunny scramble against my brain. This is going to be a short one, I think. Just a few parts. Roughly Regency inspired, loosely based on Beauty and the Beast, and in general probably a bit mad. This will probably be a slow project in addition to short. I thought about using this premise for Naruto's Gaara and Sakura but I always thought of the Beast as having a truly sensitive core and I think it fits Soul and Maka's personality types much better.

Disclaimer: I don't own Soul Eater or its cast of characters! Alas!

The chill that ran through Maka's bones was not entirely the fault of the early winter frost, but the way it blew up her long skirts made her wish she resided in a warmer climate. She'd read of deserts where heat made people hallucinate, and that sounded preferable to feeling like your bones were aching from the inside out. The ghoulish door in front of her seemed positively medieval with depressing religious scenes playing out on the thick dark wood. She clasped the knocker and gave it her all before pulling off her leather gloves and picking up her travelling bag once more. Carriage horses stomped and huffed behind her, their noises punctuated by a sharp wind.

It seemed like the richer someone was, the more invisible their household staff seemed to be. Maka was trying to make sense of the fact that, other than the doorman who was presumably behind the door that had seemingly opened on its own in front of her, no one else was there in the main entry hall. For the massive scale of the place, it was nearly dust free and entirely spotless, even with ornate tables and embellished decorative vases that surely needed a detailed dusting regime to keep it from looking discolored. Keen green eyes stuck a number on everything she spotted, and Maka sighed and wondered if there would ever be a time again she could simply appreciate beauty without analyzing it.

"Ms. Albarn, we're delighted you could be spared by your family. Yours is a name that resonates when the topic of appraisal comes up." Hair such a light blond it might have been mistaken for white and an easy demeanor were the two things that stuck out about this man who descended gracefully from the staircase across the room. Maka noted the fine quality of his clothes and the gold chain of his pocket watch—clearly this was the client and not the help.

"I'm sure it's my mother that deserves the praise, not I." The bag she had been holding was wearing at the frigid joints in her hand but she held on doggedly. Taking a deep breath she forced herself not to feel tired or nervous. "My father told me the assignment could take some time, and I've arrived with the appropriate luggage Mr…?"

"Call me Wes, Ms. Albarn, but I see by that stern expression that you might prefer Mr. Evans."

There was a winking quality to his raspberry eyes that Maka wasn't sure she liked. It was as if he were amused by her and her sensible travelling outfit, or her hair in a prim bun and topped with a two seasons too late hat. Maka knew she was pursing her lips like a disapproving chaperone, but everything about him was rubbing her wrong. He reminded her of her father too much by half.

Action was the only thing she could think about that calmed her. "Thank you Mr. Evans, if someone can see me first to my temporary living quarters and then to your library I will set up my materials."

"Ms. Albarn, your father sent ahead a letter that you would be likely to overexert yourself upon arrival. I'll have your bags brought from the carriage to your quarters, but I and my family insist you rest. The library will be there tomorrow, and in the same state it resides in today."

Maka was not her father, and this was not a vacation. Naturally he would try to convince the rich clients to pamper his precious flower of a daughter, but Maka hated playing at helpless femininity. There was work to be done, and a library wasn't going to catalogue and evaluate itself.

Wes checked his watch, gold and silver wrought with fine details and worth more than she made in a year, and continued to smile in her direction. "Once you've had a moment to refresh yourself there is some supper, if you feel inclined. The family, such as we are, ate earlier."

He extended a hand towards her, long fingers soft and elegant but with peculiar calluses. Rather than link her arm into his, Maka placed the handle of her bag in his hand and watched with unguarded amusement as he misjudged the weight of it and nearly toppled forward. Once he regained his feet he gave her one of those curious stares that reminded her of how people looked at her in the city back home. The familiarity felt good, the dawning respect even better.

"Lead the way, Mr. Evans."

The same black magic that opened doors and dusted shelves seemed to have also carried her bags and drawn her a bath before she had reached her rooms in some obscurely named wing of this massive residence. Mr. Evans had taken so long with his casual stroll and impromptu tour, that she was unsurprised her bags had beat her to the room. Even with a warm bath in front of her and a plush bed to her right, Maka couldn't shake the chill of the uncanny. Her life would feel normal once she started her work. Books were always comforting.

A quick rinse off and Maka was in a sensible burgundy winter dress and ready to eat something. Naturally energetic, it was hard to think of going to sleep when she had spent the day anticipating arriving here (as moderately coerced as the arrangement had been thanks to her father's bad planning). The name Evans was ubiquitous with money and talent, but they also had an air of mystery due to the fact that they didn't frequent high society so much as grace it with their condescension when they felt the desire to do so. Connections to multiple royal families, by way of marriage to cousins to the throne, gave them lines to all sorts of titles while not actually holding any. It was a way of life totally foreign to Maka, who believed respect was earned and had fought long and hard to be marked as a rising star in her profession.

"Let's find this dining room," she mumbled to herself, and straightened her shoulders to stride through her doorway and into the empty hallway. As she moved she tied her hair into a quick bun and amended that 'empty' wasn't the best way to describe the spaces she moved through—plush carpets, fancy paintings, and random art objects were strewn around in such a tasteful fashion that no doubt someone had been paid to curate and arrange the items over time.

It made no sense to be disdainful of having so much money you had to have other people look after your things when she was going to be paid for cataloguing and pricing out the no doubt extensive Evans family library. Having quickly succeeded in getting her mind right and pulling a good mood out of what had been some dark thoughts, Maka marched confidently down the hallway despite having no idea where she was going. Channeling an obnoxious friend of hers, she figured wherever she ended up was exactly where she was supposed to be.

When Maka would think back on it later, her steps guided themselves mostly due to desire to combat the oppressive silence of the house than anything else. At first it was just the hint of noise which bloomed into full-fledged cacophony once she took a staircase down to the main level and wandered back into the other arm of this side of the house that she suspected contained family rooms.

Clearly it was someone playing the piano, but it wasn't the stately clipped staccato notes she was accustomed to hearing from people or even the flowing rustic tunes they played at dances. Thinking of dances took her down a mental corridor as she recalled the last one she had attended to keep her father in check lest he compromise some pretty young thing and further make Maka's life a living social hell. No, the person at the piano sounded as if they were losing their mind and expressing it musically. It was as compelling to her in that way that drew people when there was a carriage accident or a street fight. This aural madness was primal and charismatic.

The door was cracked open to the music room, which Maka took as an implicit invitation. On the other side of the room with a shock of messy white hair and hunched shoulders, the mysterious musician wasn't Wes Evans so Maka knew at the very least there were three people in this mansion including herself. His fingers flew over the keyboard, sour notes mixing the with beautiful in such a way that Maka couldn't have told you if it was art or not. She had no training in apprising this.

Once the music ceased and the oppressive silence was back to complement the muted lamplight in the room, the hunched shoulders of the musician straightened out when Maka gave a polite cough to announce her presence. A furious aristocratic face that looked enough like Wes Evans that they had to be related whipped round, baring a sharp grimace.

"Get the hell out."

Rude. "I was trying to find my way to the dining room. I'm the appraiser you hired to catalogue your library this winter. My name is Maka Albarn." Maka wasn't used to being instantly disliked and she found the feeling unpleasant. It was one thing to be judged for your actions and presentation and another to merely be judged for existing.

"Great. It's back the way you came, through the entryway, huge door second from the left." When Maka didn't move he added a slightly sarcastic. "Farewell."

Placing her hands on her hips Maka fought the urge to tell this man a thing or two about common courtesy, reminding herself that this wasn't her house or her family. Her family had its own terrible quirks, if she was going to be cuttingly honest, but at least her father had taught her how to be hospitable.

Gritting her teeth against the scold she wanted to administer, she tried to part with some grace. "Thank you for the directions. I hope when we meet next the circumstances will allow for more time to introduce ourselves." Or possibly at least introduce Maka's fist to his sneer. "For what it's worth, I thought your music was incredible." Even if his company sucked.

The surprise on his face as she whirled around on a heeled boot to stomp towards a cold dinner smoothed his features out considerably, making him less grotesque. He might even be handsome, despite those wicked teeth and devilishly red eyes. No wrinkles so he might even be her peer, rather than a man who had earned his white hair from long years and rough living. Then again if rough living affected your hair then fate and fairness should have struck her father bald ages ago.

"I didn't come here to make friends." Maka reminded herself, but she knew herself too well to think that she'd be able to leave the cranky pianist to his own devices if he also lived here. "It's just a job, be a professional. What would your mother do?" Invoking her mother usually focused her well, but a voice in the back of her head told her that her mama had her own deep running faults. Anyone who thought they could marry Spirit Albarn had to be more than a little unstable, or at the very least have unrealistic life expectations.